Chapter Text
Christmas Dinner is the most awkward to date.
Not even when Sherlock was freshly out of rehab the first time around did his parents acted so- weird. Like they’re not quite sure what to do with him, how to address him or even if they should be talking to him. Sherlock never thought the day would come when he had to admit he even missed Mummy’s fussing over him and his brother.
He packs his bags that same night, determined to go back to London and forget all about this wretched affair. A part of him had wanted to run after John and demand an explanation, but the most logical side of him had argued it was a lost battle. Whatever John’s reasons for his abrupt departure were, they didn’t matter anymore. His choice had been made and Sherlock is not about to beg for something, no matter how much he wants it.
He lays in bed, staring at the ceiling and hoping for sleep to take him, although he has no delusions he’ll get any peaceful sleep tonight. He’s always had trouble sleeping, actually, but with what has just happened- god, just thinking about it-
In the morning, he’ll go back to his flat and forget this ever happened. He’ll avoid Mycroft like the plague (not a difficult feat, considering he does it already), won’t answer any of Mummy’s calls (no need for more awkwardness, really) and he’ll most definitely won’t think ever again of John Watson.
He wishes he could simply delete the man, but that task seems out of his abilities.
But he’ll survive.
He always does.
A traitorous, ridiculous part of him keeps on hoping John will show up at his flat at some point, to apologize and explain. Whenever the bell rings, his treacherous heart skips a beat, disappointment sitting heavy on his chest whenever the one ringing turns to be a client with a boring case. He wishes for a distraction, but even the criminal world seems to be on vacation.
By New Year he’s practically pulling his hair off. Lestrade has forbidden him from getting anywhere close to the Yard, claiming he’s been insufferable and that he won’t stand for Sherlock terrorizing his subordinates just because and even sweet and reliable Molly has became fed up with him, banning him from the morgue until he's done with behaving like an annoyed toddler.
Sherlock sighs, resting his head against the back of the sofa, thinking. There’s, of course, one thing that could make him forget momentarily his heartbreak, but if he starts doing drugs again, Mycroft will decide it’s time to start having him followed again and he really wants nothing to do with his brother.
As he ponders his options, he’s barely aware of his phone ringing. Since the damn thing won’t stop, he finally picks it up, glaring annoyedly at nothing in particular. “Yes?” he snaps, feeling more than a tad frustrated with everything.
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes?” Sherlock grunts and the voice on the other side carries on. “I’m Dr. Stanford, from St. Bartholomew's Hospital. I’m calling about your brother, Mr. Mycroft Holmes.”
Sherlock hums, not particularly interested. Mycroft being on the hospital is not something terribly worrisome, or at least he doesn’t think so. If it was, it wouldn’t be a doctor the one calling him, but Mycroft’s PA. The doctor seems to hesitate, apparently unnerved by the lack of appropriate reaction. “Your brother has been shot, Mr. Holmes. It was a minor injury, actually-”
“Good,” Sherlock says, relieved despite himself. He might have his issues with his brother, but he does care for him, even if he doesn’t want to. “Is that all?”
The doctor splutters and Sherlock rolls his eyes. People are so weird sometimes. “No, not really. You can visit-”
“No, I don’t think I will.”
A sigh. “There’s another thing your brother said I should mention to you and while I- we’re not supposed to tell anyone other than direct family members about patients’ state, but your brother insisted and he’s quite-” a pause and Sherlock rolls his eyes. Won’t he just get to the damn point? “Anyway. He said I should let you know that Dr. Watson has also been shot and-”
Sherlock’s heart stops in his chest, suddenly feeling sick. “What- how- is he alright?”
Dr. Stanford hesitates once more and Sherlock springs out of his seat, grabbing his coat and exiting the flat without really noticing what he’s doing. “He’s stable now, although he was badly hurt,” the doctor is saying. “He was shot on the chest, the bullet barely missed his heart and we-”
“I’m on my way,” Sherlock announces as the stops a cab. The doctor attempts to say something then, but Sherlock has already hung up, only one thought occupying his mind:
He needs to see John.
Bullying his way into John’s room turns out to be a little more complicated than Sherlock thought, but eventually his brother appears out of thin air (quite conveniently and Sherlock must admit that he does have his uses, when he’s not determined to annoy him) and he’s the one to get them access to John’s room. Sherlock would have prefered to be on his own, but he supposes making his brother mad right now could be quite counterproductive.
John is asleep, completely oblivious to his concerned visitors. And Mycroft does look concerned, even if most people wouldn’t notice. Sherlock attempts not to, but seeing his brother worried about someone else is quite unusual and so he can’t tear his eyes apart.
“He’s out of danger now,” Mycroft informs him, leaning back on his seat and flinching a bit as his injured shoulder makes contact with the too hard surface. “The doctor thinks he should be ready to leave in a couple of days.”
Sherlock doesn’t answer, eyes fixed firmly on the sleeping figure. Mycroft sighs once more, before turning to stare at nothing in particular, apparently lost in his own thoughts. “When he recovers- you might want to repeat your offer.”
Sherlock arches an eyebrow and Mycroft shrugs non committedly. “I actually wanted to send him to watch over you when he started working for me, but between his own ideas of what’s morally wrong and the little… issue with the girlfriend-”
“Ex-girlfriend,” John murmurs sleepily, peering at them through half closed eyelids. “I mean, the relationship was quite done for when she attempted to kill my boss, but now that she has put a bullet through me, I’m guessing getting back together is completely out of the question.”
Sherlock frowns, piecing these new bits of information together, finally solving the puzzle of the association between his brother and John Watson. Mycroft smiles indulgently, standing up with yet another flinch that makes Sherlock feel bad for him, if only momentarily.
“I’ll leave you alone, then,” he says, patting the younger Holmes’ shoulder awkwardly. “You’ve got much to discuss, yes?” and without waiting for the answer he’s out of the room, absentmindedly rubbing his injured shoulder, probably doing himself no favours but Sherlock has bigger concerns.
“Your ex-girlfriend wanted to kill my brother,” Sherlock says right away and John sighs dramatically.
“Your manners haven’t improved, I see.” John attempts to sit up and Sherlock decides to help after watching him struggling for a bit. “If you must know- yes. I met Mary shortly after I started working for Mycroft. In retrospective, everything was timed too perfectly and I should have noticed there was something not quite right with that, but-” he shrugs, smiling self deprecatingly. “I was lonely.”
Sherlock nods, thoughtfully. “Loneliness is a bad advisor,” he comments after a while. “It’s easy to convince oneself that anyone showing you kindness is the right one for you.”
John sighs, looking sad. “I know I shouldn’t have left like that but- Mycroft received a call letting him know Mary had escaped custody and well… it wasn’t safe to stay with your parents.”
He does understand, but it doesn’t mean he wasn’t hurt by John’s cold goodbye. Still- “I suppose we could start over,” he comments off handedly, trying not to look too eager. “Now that you’re no longer working for my brother-”
“What?”
“You’ve just been shot, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock replies calmly, although he’s a nervous wreck in the inside. If John says no once more- “You can not continue working as my brother’s security, at least not right now and the British Government is not eager to keep incapacitated members in their payroll.”
John makes a face, but doesn’t comment, gesturing for him to carry on. “So, now that you're jobless and homeless, you might want to reconsider my offer of moving in with me.”
“Wow. You really know how to woo a guy, don’t you? A real casanova.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It’s a simple question, John, will you move in with me or not?”
John seems to consider this for a beat. “You know it’s crazy, don’t you? I mean, we barely know each other-”
“I assure you I’m not hired assassin. I’ve got no ulterior motives other than to get you in bed.”
John’s eyes are open very wide and Sherlock is regretting his false bravado. But he’s just too bad at this whole flirting-thing and so he thought a direct approach might be for the best.
Judging by John’s smug smile, he thinks he’s onto something.
“Is that so?” John says, having recovered from his surprise. He’s smiling predatorily now and Sherlock can feel warmth quickly spreading all over his body. “Well, provided your brother approves, I’m in.”
“Why does Mycroft have anything to do with you moving in with me? It’s none of his business.”
John rolls his eyes good naturedly. “Well, evidence shows that neither of you know how to keep your noses out of the other’s business,” Sherlock might blush a bit at this, but refuses to acknowledge it. “Besides, after our… departure from your parents home he said that once we were out of this whole mess, I should make up to you asap or no one, not even you, would be able to find my body. So I’m guessing… he’s a bit protective of you.”
Sherlock pouts. “I’m not a child,” he murmurs, annoyed. “I don’t need my big brother watching over me.”
John chuckles, patting the space next to him on the bed. “Well, in any case… I think you should come here so I can start making it up to you.”
Sherlock’s smile is bright as the sun. Things worked out well enough, he supposes.
And while the mystery of his brother and his new friend is solved, it seems to him that the mystery that John Watson is, is still far from over.