Chapter Text
That night, Sherlock stares up at the ceiling of his room - the spare room. He's waiting for even the faintest cry from Rosie's bedroom, because it's preferable to thinking about the craving currently running through his body. The craving for what he knows is not good for him, but what his body cries out for just the same.
Boredom is a difficult thing to parse. And he's just dedicated himself to waiting for John in whatever way he wishes.
Will he ever stop from committing to useless vows in John's direction?
"Don't." Mary holds a hand up to forestall him. "Don't make any more vows. You made your last already, remember?"
He really should have listened to Mary. Except, last time he listened to Mary, it all went wrong. Well, that was the Mary in his head. This, at least, is the Mary of his memory. Before she died. And the reason he doesn't listen to this is because, at the time, it always feels like he's helping.
It doesn't feel like helping anyone right now, despite his best intentions.
No cry comes from Rosie's room. She's sleeping like a baby, which is fitting Sherlock supposes. Still it does nothing to mitigate his current situation. John, too, seems to be sleeping smoothly. An adequate night's rest for everyone in the Watson residence except for Sherlock.
He's almost considering resorting to calling on Mycroft of all people.
And then, blessedly, a new line of thought strikes his mind. When John realised that Sherlock had PTSD. As much as Sherlock believed that John was being dramatic by calling it that, he has got to admit that the symptoms for Post Traumatic Stress Disorder fit rather uncomfortably with what he has experienced. Sherlock never told John what he needed then. John somehow managed to figure it out. Another one of John's positive quirks.
But the shoe is on Sherlock's foot now. And he realises that he may not be able to depend upon the man drowning in grief and whatsoever knew what else to be able to instruct Sherlock on what he needs now.
There is waiting, as Sherlock has committed to doing. But there is also watching. And watching is something that Sherlock is incredibly well versed at doing.
Without waiting another moment, Sherlock has both feet out of bed and is padding softly down the hall. He pauses outside of Rosie's room. But, even this close he can only hear silence, which convinces him once and for all that she is well tonight. Onwards to the bathroom, then.
A man's bathroom can tell of many ills. Combined with Sherlock's already innate knowledge of John Watson, he believes that this deep dive will give all the missing pieces of information he requires.
He's expecting to find sleeping tablets at the very least. That would easily explain why he did not wake when Rosie was restless the night before. Perhaps he will find an anti-depressant. Obviously there is John's mild pain medication for the war injury that really doesn't trouble him as much as it ought. But, beyond that, Sherlock finds nothing that he wouldn't expect any any man's medicine cabinet.
Beside John's bed, then. That is the obvious answer. Of course, John is sleeping right now. Any further investigation must wait until the morning.
Unless...
If Sherlock is right about John's probable sleeping medication, then he will simply sleep through Sherlock's search and be no wiser in the morning. Sherlock, by contrast, will be a good deal more wise to the situation he finds himself dealing with. It's a good plan. A very good plan.
He realises too late that he has let his frenetic thoughts take over to his investigation's detriment. That isn't like him. Yet he can't argue, as the bedside light turns on and John stares down at him, that he has rather cocked this all up.
"Sherlock?" John squints as though he can't make sense of Sherlock kneeling there in front of his bedside table, rifling through the three drawers there. "What... what are you doing?"
He's waking up quickly, Sherlock thinks. And yet his own thoughts have never seemed to move more slow.
"Go back to sleep, John," he says impatiently. He just wants to go back to looking, to finding what it is he is looking for. He's close, surely. He knows it, feels it.
"No," John says, and it's a good deal less patient than even Sherlock sounded. "I will not go back to sleep while you are rummaging for God's knows what in my drawers. What are you even looking for?"
Sherlock knows better than to answer that. But no satisfying lie comes to mind. He can't very well say that he was interested in John's under things. What would John think of him then? Likely, the truth will be less shocking than whatever John's currently thinking.
"I didn't want to bother you with this," Sherlock starts.
John just scoffs. "Clearly. Since you chose the middle of the night to wake me up by going through my things."
Sherlock guiltily looks towards the clock on the bedside table that says it's some time after 3am, and remembers that John has to get up early for work in less than four hours.
"Uh," he says dumbly.
"Just tell me," John says wearily. "So we can both get back to sleep, hm?"
Sherlock doesn't think that sleep is a real likelihood for him tonight, but he doesn't offer that information. "I was looking for your medication," he says, standing up so that he will not be reduced to having the rest of this conversation on his knees. Besides, he's seen how it's easier for him to be taken seriously when he is standing up straight and looking directly in the eye of the person he's talking to.
For some reason, this doesn't seem to work for him when John's the one staring back. "Medication?" he asks, one eyebrow slowly raising.
"Yep," Sherlock says, popping the 'p' sound as though that's all there is to it.
John stares at him a while longer, and Sherlock has to restrain himself from shifting on his feet under the weight of that gaze. No, he can do this. He can stand strong against just John staring at him. He's faced so much worse and hardly even blinked. This doesn't test his resolve. Whatever John is trying won't do a thing to sway him--
"I suspected you were under the influence of sleeping tablets, or an anti-depressant at the very least." The words rush out of Sherlock before he can stop them, and he's revealing everything as he might have had he waited till the morning rather than using this thin excuse to investigate something that wasn't a case in order to stop his mind thinking about heroin.
Which, of course, is exactly what he's thinking of again now.
Stupid.
"Sherlock..." John says, and there's sadness and sympathy in his voice so that Sherlock wonders whether he said that last part aloud.
But, no, there would be a good deal of worry in John's eyes if he'd spoken of heroin. And there's no evidence of that as John shakes his head.
"I'm not taking anything." He says this as he rests back against his headboard.
"You're... not?"
Another sigh. "Sherlock..."
"But you did not wake when Rosie fussed last night," Sherlock pointed out, realising how flimsy this proof is even as he's supplying it.
"Probably because you had already calmed her before I noticed it," John said.
Sherlock begins to shake his head, when he realises that this is pointless to argue. Grudgingly, he gives a shrug and says nothing else.
John's still looking at him.
Sherlock realises that he doesn't like it when John looks at him without saying anything. It's not something that's come up a great deal before this. John has an opinion on everything. When he's not sharing his opinions with Sherlock directly, he's writing down every detail in that damned blog of his. Sherlock has never had to wonder what John is thinking or feeling.
Not before this. It's a very disconcerting experience. And it brings out more words from Sherlock than he's used to saying.
"When you said I had PTSD," Sherlock finds himself saying, "you told me I was going to be okay. That you were going to make sure of it."
There's a furrow between John's eyebrows as Sherlock reminds him of this. "You remember that? I mean, it sounds like something I would say."
"You said exactly that," Sherlock told him, because he wouldn't remember it if it hadn't happened exactly that way. "More to the point... nobody else has ever before, or since, said something of that nature to me. You said it without pity, and I say this to you now in the same way: You are going to be okay. I am going to make sure of it."
For the first time, something warm and almost soft touches John's expression. Still, he doesn't speak immediately. Sherlock finds that almost infuriating. Here he is, speaking out openly in the hopes that it will garner as much openness in return, and John still keeps his opinions to himself.
"I must say," Sherlock adds. "I quite dislike this new habit you've developed of keeping your words to yourself."
This seems to surprise out a bark of laughter. "Oh? And here I thought you thought I talked to me."
"I did," Sherlock grumbled. "But now I find I... rather miss it."
"Hm," is all John says, which only makes Sherlock miss it more.
He sniffs. "Have you started seeing a new counsellor since..." Since. Sherlock determined that he would not bring up Eurus, and yet here is he, bringing her up again for a second time in 12 hours. Has she infiltrated their lives so successfully even outside of her little game? Sherlock doesn't wish to forget her again, but he had rather thought he might be able to relegate her away from his life with John.
No such luck, apparently.
John presses his lips together and looks away, out towards the closed window of his room. Which is currently closed in by a curtain, so Sherlock knows for certain that it isn't a view or strange noise that has taken John's attention.
It occurs to him that this would possibly be a strange conversation between two other men. That most men didn't seem particularly interested in talking about their emotion. He and John had not been particularly interested in talking about their emotions. But then Sherlock had had PTSD, just like John had PTSD, and Magnusson and held them at gun point and Mary had died and Eurus had virtually kidnapped them both, and that wasn't even a full accounting.
For all that, it was only when the two men began seeing counsellors in the same building, and John started managing Sherlock's new medication, that such conversations became possible between them.
But apparently that was another thing to have gone when John decided to cut down his emotions and the number of words he chose to speak. Sherlock can deny it no further. There is a part of John that is still furious with him. It doesn't matter that John has allowed Sherlock to effectively move in with him. That he trusts Sherlock around his daughter. That the two of them hired a damned nanny for Rosie together.
John is still furious with him.
"John," Sherlock starts again. His voice breaks, and he doesn't let that stop him. These are important words, and he needs to say them. "I can't deal with this... distance between us."
There are so many reasons for that distance. Sherlock wouldn't be able to stop if he started making the lists. Remembering what John had said to him once only served to show how far they had moved away from that time.
John still isn't saying anything.
Sherlock's throat feels raw to him as he says, "You told me you don't blame me for Mary's death." Even that felt like from a previous time. Eurus hadn't even come back into his life yet, not that he'd known, anyway. "The Woman - Irene Adler - distracted me from it in the moment. Had that not happened, I might have noticed sooner. You want not to blame me for Mary's death. It would make things simpler if you didn't. So that's the way you've decided to move forward. Except... you can't, can you?"
Slowly, John turned to face him, leaving the curtains behind. For the first time in far too long, there is emotion behind John's eyes as he looks at Sherlock. Sherlock swallows a gasp at it. He doesn't know how to name all of the emotions he sees there, but he does know he can see unshed tears sitting in John's eyes.
Sherlock decides to hold his tongue. He has said enough.
John heaves several deep breaths. He hums softly, then louder. Blinks several times. Sherlock watches it all intently, almost afraid to look away. He can't miss anything. Not this time. This is the second time they've had this conversation, and Sherlock isn't foolish enough to think there will be a third chance after this.
One of the tears seeps over John's cheek, falling and disappearing into the bedding that's still covering John's lower half. "Hmm," he says, obviously trying hard to push past the emotions Sherlock has forced to the surface with his words. "Hmm, you never can leave something alone, can you, Sherlock?"
"It's not in my nature, no," Sherlock says softly, calmly, watchful.
There's anger in John's eyes now, Sherlock recognises that. It's all too similar to the expression that was in his friend's eyes before he beat Sherlock bad enough to end up in the hospital. Sherlock shifts his weight imperceptibly, then has to consider whether, if John makes a move, he will make the decision to decant the room at speed or remain here in the pursuit of this honest conversation.
"So you really want to have this conversation," John says, nodding his head almost as though it's a nervous tick rather than something he's decided to do.
"Not especially," Sherlock admits honestly. "I only know you can't continue this way without it."
"You know, do you?" John asks, and there's a world of hurt and indignation behind those words. "Of course. Sherlock knows everything. That's the story, isn't it? That's the mythology around you."
John's gesturing with his hands as he speaks but, thankfully, hasn't made a move to leave the bed. Sherlock wonders if John's as aware of his decision to stay in the bed as Sherlock is. Impossible. Sherlock has never been so aware of another person.
"And yet," John continues. "Sherlock doesn't know everything. Hm? He doesn't know he has a sister who will potentially turn my Rosie into an orphan. And he's completely taken by surprise when my wife takes a bullet meant for him. How does that happen, Sherlock?"
"I don't know." Sherlock's lips are numb and he barely moves them to form the words. Usually, an admission of not knowing something, much less knowing so little as John accuses, would get his back up. It would be difficult, at the very least. But he's watching the man he loves fall apart in front of him, and nothing is more difficult than that.
"You don't know." John's hands slam down on the bed to either side of him. "Well, what good is all that knowledge then, hmm?"
"You're annoyed that I don't know everything," Sherlock says.
"I bloody well am!" John answers, raising his voice, and Sherlock almost darts his head towards the hallway, almost expecting to hear Rosie cry, woken up by the sound of her father's yelling. Almost. John seems to realise the same thing as well for, when he talks again, it's in a much more moderated volume. Thankfully, Rosie doesn't utter a sound. Not that he can hear, anyway. "You spent all this time building a myth, and then, when it really counts? I mean, when it really, really counts? Nothing."
"I didn't build a myth," Sherlock utters. "I'm just a man, John. No different to you."
John scoffs at that almost before the sentence is out.
"I mean it," Sherlock says, his voice deep with emotion. This is a horridly difficult conversation, and it's not one he's prepared for beforehand, and it might also just be the most important conversation of his life. "You're a doctor. The smarts and knowledge required to gain that qualification is not to be underestimated. My skills are just a different sort."
John continues to stare at him. His hands stay still, and he doesn't speak immediately, nor make any further derogative noises in the back of his throat. Sherlock holds his breath. Is this it, he wonders. Has John decided to abandon the conversation so easily? Was he choosing, just now, to return to that emotionless state? A place where he hardly speaks to Sherlock any longer?
Sherlock doesn't know that he's strong enough to live with that.
He opens his mouth, nothing further planned to say than John's name.
But he doesn't have to. Because John finally speaks. "You loved Mary. My wife. You loved her."
The words take the bottom out of Sherlock's stomach, because he never expected them. Not because he didn't expect John knew something of Sherlock's regard for his wife. But because these words sound almost like an accusation. As though it was another angle from which John continues to blame Sherlock for her death.
But he isn't going to lie to John either. "Yes," he says. "I loved her. She was my friend."
John narrows his eyes. "You didn't think that I, your other friend and her husband, deserved to know about this?"
Sherlock shook his head minutely. "I thought you knew."
"Bollocks!"
"All right." Sherlock regathers himself. "I thought you understood my regard for Mary, that you saw how I fought to bring you both together again after you found out who she was. I wouldn't have done that for someone I didn't care about."
"I thought you cared about me," John groused. "That you did it out of care for me."
"I did," Sherlock says. He extends his hands. "One can do something for two reasons."
"Did you do anything with her?" John asks, and Sherlock frowns at the sudden change of conversational direction. John sighs impatiently. "That year before Christmas. I know you were sneaking out to see her."
"I wasn't sneaking--!"
"Going out, whatever. You weren't working with Lestrade. Weren't getting high. You don't have many friends, Sherlock."
"All right, yes," Sherlock admits harshly. It's not like it's a secret. It never was. "I saw her."
"And?"
"We talked," Sherlock says, sounding his most droll. Of all the ridiculous accusations John could make of him. "About you, mostly."
John's expression was flat as he looked Sherlock up and down. No doubt trying to figure out if he could trust his words.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You've genuinely thought this of me? Of her? All this time?"
Something seemed to drain out of John's features at those questions. A small amount of the anger, perhaps. Sherlock wasn't sure he was a bigger fan of the resignation that slumped his shoulders as it seemed to replace the other emotion. "No. I guess not. No."
Sherlocks eyes were still narrow as he gazed at John, trying to understand. He didn't want to talk of love, not in this conversation. But now that John had brought the matter out. "I loved Mary. You were married to her. It never seemed... pertinent to bring up anything further. I've been very content with my place in your lives. Until recently."
"After she died," John finished for him, seeming to seek something in his gaze.
"After you blamed me, and cut me out," Sherlock corrected him. He lifted a hand before John could object. "You told me to wait for you. You may not remember that, but I do. I said to myself last night I would leave you to deal with this in the best way you saw fit. You need this right now. Very well. But I wanted to make sure you knew in your own mind what you were working with. That we both did."
Sherlock feels as though something very heavy he'd been carrying had been somewhat lifted with those last sentences. He feels like he can breathe easier. Maybe he's actually managed to help after all, instead of simply continuing to wait. Maybe it was not medications he was looking for in John's room tonight but, rather, this very conversation.