Work Text:
John doesn’t usually do this.
It’s just gone 2 p.m. on a gloomy January Thursday, and he’s having one of the best post-lunch kips he's had in years. The stuffiness in Conference Room 6 was just enough to send him blissfully floating between waking and sleeping, finally reaching that sweet spot where he's almost dreaming but not quite yet.
He isn’t opposed to medical conferences, per se. If anything, he welcomes a chance to escape the chaos of Baker Street once a year for an overnight break and a king-sized bed all to himself. He is a professional, after all, and having spent the better part of the last decade doing mostly locum work, he welcomes the opportunity to keep up with the latest developments in his field. He always makes a point to sign up for the January sessions so he can get it over with earlier in the year, keeping the rest of the year wide open for anything unexpected—a common occurrence when one juggles a toddler and the world’s only Consulting Detective.
So no, he doesn’t mind being herded from one beige-and-brown conference room to another. He regally handles the awkward, mandatory social mixers with the same circle of people who’ve been attending along with him over the past decade or so; wasn’t even insulted when one of the organizers suggested he join the ‘Later Career’ session this year, because—well, what’s the point in denying it?
Any other year, he wouldn't mind any of that, but this year, he had to drag himself away as he left for Manchester. All three of them—Sherlock, Rosie, and himself—had come down with something during New Year's that knocked them for a feverish loop. They were lucky enough to be cared for by the always-angelic Mrs Hudson, who, even as she pushes eighty, still has the immune system of a Navy SEAL. John was the first to be back on his feet, right before he had to leave for the conference. Sherlock sounded well enough later that evening. Rosie’s fever finally broke earlier this morning, judging by Sherlock’s texts.
So if this year John had found it hard to leave his two favorite people behind—poorly and frowning such as they were—he really couldn't be blamed. And if he had some sleep to catch up on, well, that’s just what he’ll do.
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” a woman’s voice blares through the speakers, giving John a rude awakening as he jumps in his chair. "Could I have your attention, please? I’m afraid Prof. Gillespie is quite ill and will not be on hand to give her session."
An expectant hum permeates the room.
“Those of you who still need to badge in for one more session can pick any of the upcoming ones and badge in directly without pre-registration.”
The expectant hum gives way to a disappointed murmur. Still slightly disoriented, John looks around the room.
“We were, however, lucky to call in an unplanned speaker right at the last minute we think many of you will be very excited about,” the woman continues. “For those interested in Advances in Epidemiology in Primary Care, we’ve obtained MIT’s very own Prof. Simon Armstrong-Jones.”
John’s head whips around. Did she just say…
“His session just started at conference room 210A,” the woman says. “You can still catch it if you hurry up.”
Well, shit, is all he manages before being herded out of yet another grubby conference room.
“In or out?”
“Sorry?” John whispers awkwardly roughly thirty seconds into his futile game of hide and seek through Conference Room 210A’s faux-wooden doors.
“Are you coming in or not?” the usher whispers in admonition.
“Oh, no, I—” he starts, not before being shoved into the room rather unkindly by a group of hurried young female doctors. It appears that Simon—that is, Prof. Armstrong-Jones—has quite a following.
"Don't forget to check in!" the usher tells them, shutting the French doors behind them, and just like that John stands glued to the floor across from the man speaking from the podium. The man whose very existence, every once in a blue moon, keeps John up at night.
Simon. The Simon. Five times in one night Simon.
Bloody hell.
“...with the emergence of Tox21 and ES21 approaches, the committee anticipates new connections between biomarkers…”
Simon is tall and boyish, speaks rather softly despite absolutely dominating the room with a sparkle in his eyes.
“And while standard methods are needed to describe the data that have been generated...”
He's the only person in Sherlock’s past the detective had ever mentioned; spoke his name during that fateful night almost four years ago. Sherlock had promised that Simon wasn’t important; water under the bridge. That John shouldn’t bother wondering about him. He never once mentioned him again, and John hadn’t thought of it (him). Not really, for a couple of years. Then, one Christmas Eve, they got roped into helping Mrs. Holmes clear out the heaps of books Sherlock had been storing at his parents’ house.
Distracted, John pulled a random book out of a pile, blowing the dust off the front cover.
It was a worn out copy of E.M Forster's Maurice, with an actual ex-libris inside: ‘From the library of Simon Armstrong-Jones’. A priceless first edition, the first page bore a painstakingly handwritten dedication:
‘When love flies it is remembered not as love but as something else. -Forever yours, Si.’
John stared at the words for what felt like an eternity, his insides turning cold, turning even colder when he finally lifted his eyes only to be met with a knowing smirk from Mycroft.
If he were a better man—a braver man—he would have let it go right there and then. Sherlock insisted there was no point, didn’t he? But John was not a better man, nor was he a brave one, and during a rare break from patients at the surgery a week later, he put his best online research skills to the test. A few Google searches and a quick pass through Facebook, and there it was.
Simon Armstrong-Jones—yes, those Armstrong-Jones’, as in Princess Maragaret’s huband’s relatives—was born with a silver spoon in his mouth, bearing an uncanny resemblance to his royal relative. A slim, athletic man slightly taller than Sherlock, with a heart-shaped face and brooding blue eyes. Not classically handsome, but—well, John could certainly see the appeal. He moved to America for a postdoctoral fellowship in Microbiology at MIT. The youngest ever professor in his faculty, he'd made a name for himself and married a blonde, blue-eyed theoretical physicist a short time before Sherlock and John met at Barts.
An American.
And a woman.
Ancient Facebook photos told the story of a thoroughly normal life as an academic: hiking trips in California, skiing in Vermont, faculty Christmas parties, a Foo Fighters concert. Then came the wedding photos, followed by the honeymoon (full-moon parties in Thailand), followed by more camping trips and other couples’ weddings. At some point, a noticeable baby bump shows up in the stream of pictures. Tired but bright eyed, the couple welcomed a chubby, pink-cheeked baby boy, Alfie, while John was busy grieving Sherlock in the spring of 2012.
Did Simon know about Sherlock’s death? Did he grieve for him, too? Think about Sherlock late at night, between feedings and nappy changes?
And then… and then. Messages of condolence began to pop up on Simon’s Facebook wall, and no more baby photos. No more photos at all, for a very long time. A short obituary told John everything he needed to know. Simon’s wife died in a hit-and-run.
Before today, in John’s mind’s eye, Simon was a greying widower raising his only son somewhere deep in the suburbs of Boston… and yet, here he is in the flesh, smiling and charismatic with two visible dimples and an accent that lies somewhere between Sherlock’s cut-glass, public-school inflection and a valiant but losing attempt at ‘Bostonian’.
From John’s place at the back of the conference room, Simon is far too real for comfort.
Here’s the thing.
Back then, sitting and scrolling through Simon’s social media, John had set out to hate him, to sneer at the man who had won Sherlock’s heart so easily and all to himself long before John ever did. But he couldn’t. It wasn’t only their shared fate of single-father widowhood. Even if John wanted to hate Simon, he had very little to go on.
When Sherlock spoke of him, he’d barely used any adjectives at all; Sherlock was looking for a quick shag in the loos. Instead, for nine long months, Simon had housed him. Simon had fed him. Simon had introduced him to his friends.
Then Simon left for America.
The whole thing sounded so very factual, clinical, coming from Sherlock’s mouth. No mention of love, or hate, or heartache. Nothing about longing, about missing, about a painful breakup. Sherlock made it sound as though it never happened at all.
But it did happen. Sherlock had clearly mattered, judging by that dedication John had found in the pages of a dusty book. ‘When love flies’ implies the existence of love, after all; ‘Forever yours’ implies belonging, surely. Mycroft certainly knew, based on his cruel, taunting smirk. And to dedicate ‘Maurice’, of all books…. Was Simon coming to terms with his own sexuality in the presence of a young, incandescent Sherlock Holmes back then, shining bright like a million suns?
John could certainly relate to that.
The sounds of clapping and chairs being dragged bring him back to reality. John has been daydreaming all throughout the lecture. Among the moving crowd, he glances toward the podium, where Simon is surrounded by his colleagues, shaking hands and answering questions.
“Coming?” A woman’s voice comes from behind.
“Sorry?” He turns around, finding a friendly face—Anne, one of the January circuit regulars. They’ve shared countless hurried lunches together through the years in one crappy hotel after another. Bad breath notwithstanding, she’s not a bad egg, not at all.
“Only the final mixer left, then we’re free,” Anne says. “You coming?”
“Afraid not,” he says, eyes still drawn to Simon’s lanky form. “Rosie's not feeling well.”
"Poor dear." Anne smiles sympathetically. “Are you going up there?”
“Oh, no, of course not.” John scoffs. “Just… tired. You know how it is.”
He’d thought about it. Spent the better part of the last hour considering it. But even when he casts aside Sherlock’s (justified) tantrum if he actually did, what could he possibly say?
Hi, I’m John Watson. Great talk. Oh, by the way, I’m the guy your ex is currently shagging, thought I’d introduce myself.
He can’t say that.
Hi, I’m John Watson and if I get the slightest idea you broke Sherlock’s heart I’ll break you into a hundred little pieces.
Can’t do that either, unless he’d like to attract some very unwelcome attention.
I’m so glad you left him.
Jesus fucking Christ.
I don’t know what happened between the two of you, but he’s mine and I’m his now, even though it took us traveling to hell and back to get there. He’s the worst and best thing that ever happened to me. He’s at our home now with my daughter, our daughter, and if I had to guess I’d say they’re taking an afternoon nap together on the sofa even though I keep begging him not to because she’s far too old for that.
He loves her. He loves me.
He’s my home.
He can’t say any of these things; they’re nobody's business but Sherlock’s and his, and they’ve got nothing to prove.
“I’m off, then.” Anne smiles as she packs her things. “Better leave now before traffic hits.”
“Hmm.”
“Till next time, then,” she says. “You should just go up there and thank him.”
“What?”
“You’re staring,” she stage-whispers. “Just go.”
“No, I—” He scoffs and turns to look at her, meeting a knowing wink. “Bye.”
Blimey, he thinks, checking his watch. Anne’s right, best to leave if he ever wishes to make it back home before Rosie’s bedtime. He checks his pocket for his wallet and keys, then nods a silent goodbye to Remy from Liverpool. It’s then that he sends one last glance at the podium. He’s met with a pair of blue, knowing eyes and a deep, tight-lipped nod. It’s barely a short second of recognition, to which John has no time to reciprocate before Simon’s attention is averted back to one of the conference organizers.
It finally dawns on him, during his long train ride home, that he’s not the only one who's been Googling.
He dumps his duffel bag at the entryway and sighs, breaking the silence inside 221b. There is barely any light in the sitting room, and Mrs. Hudson is away for the evening. He reads the events of the last couple of days by looking around the flat as an archeologist would an ancient dig site: dried up apple slices in a small plastic plate are the remnants of a Peppa Pig marathon. Smears of hand paint indicate Mrs. Hudson was here earlier, probably when Sherlock took a well-deserved break in his Mind Palace.
There are small sighs emanating from his old room through the baby monitor as Rosie sleeps soundly in her small bed. She went down hard and fast and earlier than usual, Sherlock had reported by text. Just as well, John thinks, although he had missed her welcome at the door.
Scents of mint and sandalwood shampoo lead John to find Sherlock shirtless in the loo, following his usual evening routine. Brushing, moisturizing, flossing. John kicks off his shoes as he heaves himself on their bed and watches him through the adjacent door. They greet each other wordlessly, exchanging knowing glances. Sherlock's pajama pants dangle carelessly around his waist, and John finds himself drawn to his bare back like a moth to a flame. Sherlock hums happily in response as John's nose makes contact with the dip in his upper back, nuzzling and sniffing his familiar, grounding scent.
“Not another Grisham, I hope,” Sherlock murmurs, his keen eyes immediately spotting the reason for John’s unplanned shopping trip on his way home thrown haphazardly on their bed.
“No,” John chuckles affectionately. “‘Maurice’.”
“‘Maurice’?” Sherlock’s brow flies so high up in the air it might never come back down. “Is this some sort of late-in-life sexual identity crisis? Because that ship sailed a long time ago.”
“They say it’s a classic,” John says. “Didn’t you like it?”
“Never read it.” Sherlock shrugs, fastening his watch as he does. “Hardly my style.”
“Never?”
“Never,” Sherlock says, and John falls silent. So much for his clever plan to get Sherlock to open up.
“John?”
“I, em.” John clears his throat. “I saw Simon today. He was a guest speaker. A last-minute fill in.”
The room fall strangely silent. “Oh?”
“Don’t worry,” he says. “I didn’t do anything embarrassing.”
Sherlock stands frozen, staring unseeing at him through the mirror.
“He seems nice, really. Brilliant, too. The Americans are treating him well, I think.” John feigns an approving smile, but Sherlock remains frightfully silent. “Was he nice? You know, to you, back then?”
“John…”
“Have you been in touch since he left?” John asks. “I think he… he’s been through quite a lot.”
“No.” Sherlock shakes his head. “Of course not.”
“Sherlock, it’s OK, it’s just…” John hesitates. “I’m just… curious, I guess. Not in a bad way. I mean, you’ve met my girlfriends, and Mary—”
“And Sholto—”
“And Sholto.” John nods tightly. How can this be so difficult, after all these years, all they’ve been through? “We can… we can talk about this stuff, yeah? It doesn’t take anything away from us.”
Sherlock stares down the sink, looking downright defeated.
John runs a comforting hand over the length of his back. “Sherlock?”
“Yes?”
“Did you love him?” John asks, trying as best he can not to flinch at the mere idea.
“I….” A full body sigh and a long stretch of silence later, Sherlock speaks. “I suppose I… liked the idea of him back then, for a while. ”
“I know what you mean.” John nods encouragingly, just barely. “I think that’s how I felt about Mary. It happens, Sherlock. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“I know there isn’t,” Sherlock says.
“Did he break your heart?” John asks quietly. “Was he… unkind to you?”
“No…” Sherlock shakes his head. “No, he didn’t. It wasn’t like that.”
John hates begging, but he really needs to know. Really, really. “What happened, then?” he asks.
“I told you that he left for America when I went into rehab.” Sherlock blinks slowly, avoiding John’s eyes. “He was the one who told Mycroft about my… spiraling.”
John’s brow perks involuntarily. That’ll certainly do it, he thinks.
“Right before the end I…” Sherlock huffs nervously. “I hit rock bottom, and I went back to… Looking for shags and hits in loos.”
Oh. “Oh.”
Poor bloody Simon.
“And the money… It wasn’t my money,” Sherlock says hesitantly, searching for John’s eyes through the mirror again. “He had so much of it I assumed he wouldn’t notice.”
“Right,” John murmurs.“Right.” As he glances back up at Sherlock, he discovers the man staring at him intently, as if awaiting the judgment of a one-man court. “So really... it was you who broke his heart.”
No, he definitely doesn’t hate Simon. If anything, he finds himself feeling a strange urge to buy the bloke a pint of beer in sympathy.
Sherlock breathes in and out. “I’m not proud of it. Any of it.”
“Christ,” John scoffs sorrowfully, tightening his embrace of Sherlock’s waifish torso. “Didn’t think you were.”
With the deepest sigh of relief, a sigh John would bet has Simon’s name written all over it and that Sherlock must have been holding inside all these years, Sherlock turns into John’s embrace. John scans Sherlock’s face lovingly, and much to his relief, finds Sherlock doing much the same.
“What?” John murmurs.
“I told you not to bother yourself over him.”
John nods. “You did.”
“He’s Simon.” Sherlock shrugs. “Just Simon. You’re…”
“I’m what?”
“You’re John.”
For one exceptional, stretching second, John’s chest expands with an overwhelming sense of love. Just like life flashed before his eyes moments before he nearly died in Afghanistan, his life with Sherlock—every single moment of pain, of love, of hurt and joy—flashes before his eyes now, and he knows, down to his core, that it was all worth it.
Sherlock always was, and always will, be worth it.
“Tell you what,” he manages somehow.
“What?” Sherlock asks, dipping his head in for a deep, longing kiss that sends a chill up John’s spine (among other places).
“I,” John hums, giving as good as he gets and—never one to miss a good opportunity when it literally falls in his lap—arranges Sherlock’s arse neatly by the edge of the sink and slides himself squarely between Sherlock’s thighs. “Am going to take that as a compliment.”
“Mm.” Sherlock gathers John closer still, his threadbare excuse for pajama pants barely concealing his growing erection. “And well you should.”
John needs him closer, so much closer. Needs to feel all of Sherlock right now, from head to toe. He leans closer into Sherlock, licking his way down and down that exquisite tendon-
“Ouch-”
“What?” John asks, dizzy for the interruption.
“The faucet,” Sherlock says. “Right in my rib.”
“Oh,” John chuckles, helping Sherlock rearrange himself. “Christ, sorry. Come here.”
Sherlock runs two hands down John’s back, bringing their foreheads together. “Take me to bed.”
“Yes,” John says greedily, scooping Sherlock up from his place with a grunt. He’s far too old for this. “Yes. Can’t promise five times, though.”
“You’ll just have to try your best, then,” Sherlock teases, landing in a huff on the mattress.
They don’t speak much for the rest of the night.