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That afternoon, when John Watson leaves the cemetery, there’s a pain inside him that threatens to shatter him apart from the inside out, threatens to crack up through his veins and bones until there’s nothing left of him but a shell. Threatens to leave him broken and bleeding and ruined, just like Sherlock had been, cracked open in the middle of the sidewalk, and bringing down the entire world with him as he fell.
This must be what dying while you’re still alive feels like. Surely it cannot be possible to hurt this much and still be breathing.
John wanders. He stands by the Thames, watching the water splash up against the shoreline. He finds a park bench to sit on. He curls up underneath a bridge, surrounded by rats and garbage and mud. He walks and walks and walks until his leg is too sore to walk anymore, the first bite of pain he’s felt in almost eighteen months, and then he finds another pier to sit beside, curling up against the rough wall of a warehouse as the sun goes down across the water. When Mycroft’s car comes to pick him up, he gets up and keeps walking again, and it’s only two days later, when Lestrade pulls up alongside him and tells him that Mrs. Hudson has reported him as missing, that he finally goes back to Baker Street.
Once he gets there, he spends the next week barely moving from Sherlock’s bed.
Mrs. Hudson brings him food, and takes it away when he barely eats any of it. Mycroft tries to talk to him, twice, saying something about the Chief Superintendent and a court case, but the sound of his voice doesn’t seem to be processing right. Molly comes by with a container of muffins, her skin painted ashen and the lines of her face drawn tight, and then takes one look at him before bursting into tears, her shoulders actually shaking with the force of her sobs. If John was able to breathe, he would try comfort her. As it, all he can do is count the cracks in the ceiling, wondering how many times Sherlock has lied in this bed, simply thinking.
By the beginning of week two, some of the earlier numbness has begun to fade, shards of agony beginning to creep through into his mind and body, and John feels like he’s dying all over again.
His psyche has latched on to an image of Sherlock falling – a loop of torture that haunts him both night and day, that does not discriminate between eyes open or shut – and John eventually finds himself gasping for air into Sherlock’s pillow, the flames inside him threatening to flare up and scorch him open and leave him as nothing more than a charred outline on Sherlock’s sheets. This goes on for days upon days, leaves him shaking against the bed and clawing sharp lines into the skin of his arms, and when he realizes he’s considering putting a gun to his own temple – when he begins to imagine, in gloriously vivid detail, how unspeakably easy it would be pull a simple trigger and end this all – he goes downstairs, and Mrs. Hudson lets him move in and start to sleep on her couch, giving him at least a little more protection against his own thoughts. Because while living is no longer an option, dying isn’t an option, either, since Sherlock would have wanted him to live – and John has no idea where that leaves him.
- - -
In the end, it takes well over a year for John Watson to scratch his life back to anything that even resembles functional.
By some miracle, although he’s charged with battery for punching the Chief Superintendent, he ends up sentenced to a fine instead of jail time, and as loathe as he is to accept any help from Mycroft, he has no other way to acquire the money, and when Anthea calls to inform him that Mycroft has paid the fine, John doesn’t argue. Three months after Sherlock’s death, when John finally crawls out of Sherlock’s bed and leaves Baker Street, moving into a place that Lestrade had located, Mycroft’s cheques continue to find him, providing him with enough money to not need to work, and John continues to not argue with the steady flow of money. Around that time, he picks up the bottle and tries to recapture some of his earlier numbness, carefully ignoring the fact that one drunken night could be the moment when he finally kills himself. By around month six, when he’s still only leaving the house long enough to buy alcohol and food, his therapist finally convinces him to try a cocktail of anti-depressants and anti-anxiety medications, and it’s enough to start getting him out of bed in the morning, and almost enough to numb some of the agony that always seems to be bubbling right beneath the surface. By the time he reaches the end of the year – and while he still might drinking himself to sleep, he always makes it out of bed in the morning, which at least puts him a step above his sister – John has a new job at a small clinic, and he spends his days limping around the office, carefully not thinking about the cane he leans up against the wall whenever he needs both hands to examine a patient.
All through it, though, he never once cries.
He knows full well that he’s winding himself up to break. He distantly knows that repressing everything is going to destroy him in the end, and that he’s numbing the pain with alcohol, and that none of these tactics will ever pay off in anything but horrible outcomes – but he can still barely say Sherlock’s name, and if he ever starts to cry, he’s never going to stop. By about month fifteen, he’s pretty sure he’s not going to have to commit suicide, because his therapist is just about ready to kill him herself.
- - -
By the time he hits nineteen months, John finally has something that resembles a functional life again, even if he never stops seeing Sherlock everywhere, and he never stops aching from the inside out. While therapy might teach him that time truly can heal all wounds, he knows full well that not a day will ever pass when he won’t think of Sherlock falling from the roof, and when he pictures a lifetime of that, it still takes all his control to stop himself from putting that gun to his temple.
Then, one day when he comes back from a therapy appointment, everything changes.
He walks into his kitchen to find an apparition sitting at the table. It’s wearing Sherlock’s clothes and Sherlock’s face, and it’s deathly pale, with bruises and scratches marring up the skin where it’s wearing Sherlock’s cheekbones. John hears a low moaning sound that he barely realizes is coming from him, and then he’s putting his hands up over his mouth and closing his eyes, his body flashing hot as the room starts to twist around him, his arms going numb and flickers of static beginning to dance around the edges of his vision.
“John.”
Sherlock’s voice, rough and loud in the silence of the apartment. When John gets his eyes open again, Sherlock is still sitting there, and John feels the room spin again before everything starts to fade out. He only realizes he’s got a hand on the kitchen chair, keeping himself upright, when there are suddenly fingers curled around his elbows, the grip tight and sure and so fucking real.
“Breathe, John. Breathe for me, alright? Just –”
“You bastard.” His voice is hoarse and barely there, the words scratching up through his throat and across his tongue, and when Sherlock’s hands tighten a little bit more, John is suddenly shaking violently, his eyes still squeezed shut against the spinning room and his eyes brimming over and his heart seeming to shatter open inside his chest. “You mad fucking insane bastard –”
“I’m sorry.”
Sherlock suddenly sounds like he’s having trouble getting the words out, and when John opens his eyes again, there’s a damp sheen to Sherlock’s eyes, and he’s watching John with something that looks like fear. It feels like being punched in the chest, feels like someone’s kicked his legs right out from underneath him, and John is suddenly on the floor with Sherlock kneeling in front of him, his hands hovering in front of him as though he wants to touch, but doesn’t know how.
“I had to, John, I didn’t have a –”
“Shut up.”
John doesn’t really register moving. All he knows is that Sherlock is suddenly underneath him, sprawled out on the kitchen floor and staring up at John with eyes that have blown wide in his face, his mouth dropping open on something silent as his hands snap up to dig in hard against the curve of John’s arms, and John can’t think, can barely breathe, the entire world tinting red at the edges.
“You were dead. We buried you.”
“If you need to hit me –”
John barely processes the pain of his knuckles splitting open on the linoleum floor, and then his mouth is on Sherlock’s, a senseless, graceless smash of lips that has Sherlock arching up hard against him with a gasp, his fingers suddenly scrabbling for purchase against John’s cheeks as John tries to inhale the air out of Sherlock’s mouth – his living, breathing, impossible mouth. It’s barely a kiss, barely anything more than the desperate press of two shaking mouths, and when John pulls back again, it’s to find Sherlock staring at him with an expression that looks almost helpless, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open and his skin damp from tears that belong to both of them. John still can’t breathe, can barely see through the way his vision has gone wet around the edges, and then Sherlock closes his eyes and pulls John down hard against his body, his shaking arms snaking around him to tighten around his back.
“Tell me how to make this better.”
Sherlock’s voice is shaky up against his ear, the brush of air proof that Sherlock is here and alive and real, that he’s not just a desperate manifestation of the trauma inside John’s psyche, and all John can do is press himself closer and hold on tight as tight as he can, something scratching its way up into his throat and trying to choke him.
“John. Tell me.”
“Shut up.”
The words sound weak even to his own ears, and when Sherlock’s only response is to nod against his shoulder and tighten his arms around him, John closes his eyes again, and then they just lie there together on the kitchen floor, nothing but the sound of their ragged breathing to break the silence. John isn’t sure how much time passes, how long he simply concentrates on the feeling of Sherlock breathing against him, but he’s still choking on the too much of it all when Sherlock finally stirs against him, his arms loosening ever so slightly around him.
“I need to get off the floor.”
The roughly muttered words barely seem to process, and John doesn’t have the strength to move. When, finally, Sherlock manages to get them both up on their feet again, he ignores the cane on the floor and helps John to walk with a hand under his elbow, and John finds himself sitting on the couch and staring at Sherlock, his vision still tinting red and his entire body still shaking. Sherlock, for his part, ends up sitting beside him, their legs brushing together as Sherlock rests his hands on his knees and stares down at the floor, very deliberately not looking at John.
“Do you… do you want me to leave?”
The words are barely audible, and John watches as his own head reaches out to curl around Sherlock’s wrist, his fingers stroking across the pulse point there, tangible proof of real and alive.
“I took your pulse. The day you died.”
“Ball tucked into my armpit.”
“Damn you.”
“If you – John. If you don’t want me here – if you wish for me to leave –”
“You look like hell. I’m guessing you’re probably due for some food and a shower.”
The words come out of his mouth with surprising steadiness, considering that his entire world still feels like it’s cracking around him, and there’s something like wonder in Sherlock’s eyes as he turns his head to stare at John, as though he had actually expected John to send him away after all of this. Feeling the weight of that stare through every inch of him, feeling the vulnerability in Sherlock’s expression twist inside him and make his chest hurt, John suddenly can’t just sit there anymore, climbs to his feet and wipes a hand across the moisture smeared out beneath his eyes.
“Shower’s down the hall, next to the bedroom. You can wear some of my clothes, if you don’t have anything else. They might be a bit big, but it’s the best I have.”
“John.”
“I’ll – find the kettle, put some tea –”
“John.”
“Just – don’t.”
Sherlock stares at him for a second before he nods sharply, pulling his coat – the same coat he had been wearing the day he jumped, and jesus, that is fucked up – tighter around him as he gets back up onto his feet, and John watches him leave, the ache inside him twisting even higher as he notices that Sherlock is walking with a barely discernible limp, evidence of the injuries he’s apparently trying to hide from John. Then, John is alone in the kitchen again, and he closes his eyes as he digs his fingers hard into the side of the table, trying to keep his breathing steady as everything inside him begins to splinter apart at the edges.
- - -
The next half hour gives John a chance to breathe, but he doesn’t feel any less like he’s going to fly apart, and he never manages to get that pot of tea made.
Instead, he curls up in a ball on his bed, listening to the shower in the other room, and fighting the urge to go in there and sit on the edge of the toilet seat – fighting the urge to stay as close to Sherlock as he possibly can. When Sherlock finally emerges from the washroom, wearing John’s old jeans and one of John’s jumpers, his hair a soaking mess and his bruised cheeks flushed pink, John stares at him for a moment before he pushes himself up against the headboard and stretches his legs out along the bed, and Sherlock hesitantly sits down beside him, watching John sideways like he’s afraid he’s going to disappear. Without the tints of red and white at the edges of John’s vision, he can see that Sherlock visibly looks like he’s been through hell, is bruised and battered and pale and far thinner than John has ever seen him before, and he hesitantly reaches out to curl his fingers over Sherlock’s pulse again, some of the ache inside him easing a little bit when Sherlock makes no attempt to move away.
“It’s not that I’m not angry. I am. And it’s going to take me some time to get past that. But when I woke up this morning, you were dead. Nothing matters more than you being here now.”
John somehow gets the words out around the lingering tightness in his throat, and he watches as Sherlock swallows hard, his eyes dropping down to where John’s fingers are pressed across the veins that trace out at the bottom of his wrist.
“Thank you.”
“You actually thought –”
“I made you watch me die. I wasn’t sure I would be welcome here.”
“I – christ. It might help if I knew why you… did that. And why you left me.”
“I – that wasn’t – I never left you, John. I was trying to protect you.”
“How do you mean?”
“Moriarty had guns trained on you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, and if his people didn’t believe me to be dead – if they didn’t believe that you believed me to be dead – you would have been killed. There are more details, but the simple answer is that Molly assisted me in faking my death, and that I have spent the last nineteen months destroying Moriarty’s crime ring. Some of them have been incarcerated. The others are feeding the fish in various rivers across the globe.”
“Jesus.”
“Yes. It has not been pleasant. And before you ask – the limp is permanent. I didn’t have access to adequate medical care after I jumped.”
Sherlock suddenly sounds wired to break, and the words feel like being punched in the stomach. John blinks through the itching in his throat, the sudden burn behind his eyes, as he glances down at their legs, pressed up against each other where they’re stretched out along the bed.
“Sherlock –”
“You kissed me.”
“I – what?”
“When you should have punched me. You –”
“Yes, I know what you –”
“Not talking about my leg. Tell me why you kissed me.”
“If you need an explanation for that one, then you hardly deserve the title of genius.”
But his voice is shaking again, his chest tightening up and his body suddenly flashing hot and cold and then hot again, and Sherlock stares down at his own wrist for a moment before he curls his hand and slides his fingers down to rest up against John’s pulse in return, and John suddenly can’t get enough oxygen into his lungs, even as he fights the sudden urge to pull Sherlock in close and protect him from basically the entire world. Sherlock looks – fragile, in ways that John has never seen before, bruised around the edges and, apparently, dealing with an injury that will slow him down for the rest of his life, and when his line while they were lying in the kitchen – I need to get off the floor – suddenly makes a horrible kind of sense, the unfairness of it all brings the taste of bile to the back of John’s throat.
“Jesus, Sherlock – you should have taken me with you. Should have let me fix you up properly before you went chasing after criminals. Should have let me come with you to be your gunman.”
“You were safer here.”
“Considering how many times I nearly put a gun in my mouth, I’m pretty sure I’d have been safer with you.”
John regrets it the moment it’s out, and when Sherlock goes perfectly still beside him, a living and breathing statue sitting on the bed, John carefully tightens his grip around Sherlock’s wrist, a sudden wave of guilt making his stomach turn over unpleasantly.
“Look, sorry, shouldn’t have –”
“If you had killed yourself, Mycroft would have found my body floating down the Thames.”
“Jesus christ.”
“You terrify me, John. I would do anything to keep you safe, and there would be no point to this existence without you. Nobody should ever have this much power over another human being.”
Something inside him seems to crack apart at the words, and there is… absolutely nothing John can say to that. Nothing that could even come close to an adequate response. All he can do is stare, the impossible words ringing round and round in his ears, until Sherlock eventually raises his eyes again, turning his head slightly to face John.
“Not good?”
“No – it’s. It’s – jesus. This isn’t healthy.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, that’s not what – I don’t want to do this without you either, Sherlock. I was – very alone, for a very long time, and… you gave me something to live for. Someone. And when you died –”
The flash of memory traps the words in his throat, and Sherlock tightens his fingers against John’s wrist, ducking his head to stare at the floor. After watching him in silence for a moment, something inside him cracking a little bit further as he simply lets himself take in the familiar sight of him, John strokes his fingers across Sherlock’s pulse and gets to his feet, ignoring the spike of pain that radiates up his leg.
“John?”
“I want to look you over, even if I can’t do anything about your leg.”
Sherlock nods, but he still looks a little hesitant, still looks more fragile than John has ever seen him, and it takes everything John has to not lean in and kiss him until they both can’t breathe. Instead, he silently holds out his hand, and Sherlock stares at him for a moment longer before he takes it, letting John tug him back up onto his feet.
“We’re gonna be okay, Sherlock.”
He does his best to make the words as even as possible, and Sherlock watches him for a moment, his eyes never breaking from John’s own, before he nods again and tightens his grip around John’s hand, and something broken inside John seems to ease a bit, sliding into place in a way that feels like possibly beginning to fix everything that Sherlock had shattered when he fell.
- - -
In the end, it only takes three days for them to decide that they want to go back to Baker Street.
Sherlock sleeps almost constantly while he’s at John’s apartment, exhaustion keeping him under for longer than he’s awake, and John spends most of his time sprawled out on the bed beside him, watching him sleep as his mind tries to grasp everything that’s happened. Neither of them mentions the kiss again, but when John begins to wake up on the morning of day three, it’s to find Sherlock already awake and watching him, and they stare at each other until John manages a shaky nod, and then there’s a barely there press of lips against his own, slow and gentle and enough to make him feel like someone’s poured gasoline into his veins and lit him up from the inside out. He’s barely breathing by the time Sherlock pulls away again, and judging by the flush to Sherlock’s skin, the way his eyes have blown wide in his face, John isn’t the only one who feels a bit like he’s going to fly apart.
After that, they take a taxi to Baker Street and spend the morning with Mrs. Hudson, John holding on tight to her as she sobs her eyes out, and Sherlock murmuring an apology before he manages to look anywhere but at her, guilt written into every tight line of his body. By the time John gets her calmed down again, Sherlock is visibly unsteady on his feet, exhaustion pulling him down again, and he ends up curled into a ball on Mrs. Hudson’s couch while John makes tea and passes her tissues. They bring in the afternoon watching Sherlock sleep, neither of them saying much, until Mrs. Hudson quietly tells him that the current tenants – visiting professors from Canada – will be leaving when the lease runs out at the end of the month, and all John can do is take her hand and close his eyes, a sudden wave of gratitude completely taking away his ability to speak.
Over the next two weeks, Sherlock and John fall into a routine, in which Sherlock sleeps as much as he can, and John barely leaves the apartment. He calls the clinic and quits – he’s in no shape to work, and Mycroft’s cheques never stopped coming, even when John acquired a job – and then he proceeds to barely let Sherlock out of his sight. They go no further than kisses – for all that the simple touches make John shaky inside, Sherlock is still dangerously thin, with dark smudges under his eyes, and so visibly exhausted it almost hurts to look at him – but John can’t seem to stop touching, can’t seem to get close enough, can’t seem to stop himself from feeling Sherlock’s pulse or curling up around him or pressing his hands up against his chest, and Sherlock doesn’t argue for a second, seems to soak up the touches like he needs them as much as John does. They spend the nights curled up around each other, and by the time they hit week three and move back to Baker Street, John is almost starting to believe that this isn’t all some cruel joke, and that Sherlock is actually back to stay. In the end, it takes them two days to get all their belongings moved back in – John from his apartment, and Sherlock’s from a storage room that Mycroft had been covering – and then they collapse into Sherlock’s bed for the night, John’s cane leaned up against the wall and Sherlock’s legs tangled into his own as they sleep.
It’s the next morning when they wake up – curled up in Sherlock’s bedroom, with the familiar wallpaper and the familiar bed and Sherlock looking less exhausted than he has in weeks – that Sherlock’s kisses get a little deeper, and when he slides over onto his back and tugs John down on top of him, something inside John finally seems to crack, leaves him gasping into Sherlock’s mouth as his skin catches fire. By the time they’ve been stripped of their clothing, Sherlock rail-thin and shaking underneath him as clings to John and breathes out little broken sounds into his neck, John is almost unable to breathe, and then Sherlock is arching up hard against him as John wraps a hand around him, and John’s mind is fracturing as Sherlock’s hand slides between them to do the same, even as Sherlock presses their mouths together and proceeds to kiss him like he’s trying to steal the sparse air out of John’s lungs, like it’s impossible for him to get close enough. By the time they both shatter over the edge, Sherlock moaning rough and low into his mouth and John’s entire world washing white around him, John’s eyes are damp, and Sherlock is pulling him in close and just shaking against him, his entire body trembling as John pants for air and tries to find something calming to say. Before he can, though, Sherlock is suddenly kissing him again, his hands moving across his body like he still can’t get close enough, and John stops trying to fight the burn behind his eyes, his cheeks growing damp and his own body shaking as they just lie there together, pressed up close against each other and hidden away from the rest of the world.
- - -
Thirty-three days after Sherlock comes back to life, with him and John moved back into Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson gradually becoming able to be in the same room as Sherlock without crying, Sherlock decides that it’s time for him to talk to Lestrade. He and John have barely left the apartment since they moved back in – ordering in their food, and spending the majority of their time in bed, exploring each other’s bodies and trying to get as close as they possibly can, and if either of them ends up blinking back tears at any point, then nobody’s going to say a damn word about it – and the furthest either of them have gone has been the taxi rides between Baker Street and John’s old apartment.
“You sure?”
“I have amassed enough evidence to prove my innocence, and I need to resume my work.”
Sherlock isn’t quite looking at him as he speaks, still far too thin and pale as he stands in the kitchen and does up the buttons on his coat, and John stares at him as he takes in the words, hearing exactly what Sherlock isn’t saying. He knows full well that solving cases is as essential to Sherlock as oxygen, and if Sherlock can’t work with the police force here – if he can’t prove his innocence, and convince Lestrade to forgive him – then the sad fact is that they might have to think about leaving London.
“You know that if you can’t work here, I’ll come with you, right. Wherever you need to go.”
Sherlock’s fingers pause on the last button of his coat, his eyes still aimed down at his own hands, and John looks away and reaches for his own jacket, wanting to give Sherlock time to process that one. By the time he’s ready to leave – with his cane in hand, although at least his leg has been aching less than usual – Sherlock is standing beside him, all wrapped up in his coat and scarf, and when he leans in to press a gentle kiss against John’s mouth, John curls his fingers into his hair and does his best to convince his shaky knees to hold him up.
“Thank you.”
It’s barely a whisper against his mouth, and John can’t help the way his lips curve into a smile underneath the press of Sherlock’s mouth, lets Sherlock pull him even closer and kiss him like they’re both going to stop breathing if they break contact. When they finally do part, Sherlock is flushed and looks almost a little shy, as though he still doesn’t quite believe that he’s allowed to touch, and John he smiles up at him, something inside him twisting painfully tight at the sudden realization of how impossible it is that they’re even standing together in their kitchen again, let alone sharing kisses and having this conversation.
“C’mon, you. Let’s go get your job back.”
The curve to Sherlock’s lips is one of the most wonderful things John has ever seen. By the time they get to Lestrade’s apartment – taking a taxi across town – Sherlock is looking a little more put together, and he seems to hesitate for a moment before he pushes the doorbell. After a few seconds of silence, John can hear footsteps coming from inside, and then Lestrade is pushing open the door, his wallet in hand as he fishes out a couple of bills.
“Well, that was quick –”
And then Lestrade stops, and John watches as all the colour actually seems to drain from his face, leaving him pale and shaky looking as he stumbles backwards and hits the hallway wall, hard. Beside John, Sherlock swallows hard and steps into the building, and then proceeds to fidget slightly as he just stares at Lestrade, whose mouth has dropped wide open.
“Inspector.”
Lestrade stares back at him for a second longer before he makes some kind of choking noise, his eyes squeezing shut as he sinks down a little further against the wall, and Sherlock moves to stand in front of him, his hands coming up for a second, before he drops them back down to his side.
“I’m sorry.”
“You – you –”
“John refused to hit me. The offer is there for you, if it will help.”
“Although I’d really rather you didn’t.”
John isn’t sure how he keeps his voice stable, because just looking at Lestrade is rather painful. The silence stretches uneasily until Lestrade opens his eyes again, his hands curling into fists at his sides, and John takes a step closer, just in case Lestrade decides to start throwing punches after all.
“You –”
“There were guns trained on you while I was on that roof – you, and John, and Mrs. Hudson. There are more details than that, but the simple answer is that you would have died if I didn’t.”
Sherlock somehow manages to not meet Lestrade’s eyes while he speaks, even though Lestrade is practically nose to nose with him, and Lestrade stares at Sherlock for a few more moments before his wallet is hitting the floor and his hands are coming up to fist in the front of Sherlock’s coat, pulling him in close as though he’s just barely fighting the uncontrollable urge to shake him.
“And you didn’t bloody well think you could just tell me that?”
“Do you recall the officer who disappeared from your force about two months after I jumped?”
“I – what the hell does –”
“He only disappeared because Mycroft was able to identify and terminate him. Moriarty had been quite clever about implementing him among your officers, and Mycroft has spent the last year confirming that there is nobody else hidden inside the London police force. Until he was certain that you were no longer in any danger, and until he and I had eliminated the main members of Moriarty’s crime ring, you needed to believe that I was dead.”
Sherlock is fidgeting a bit as he finishes speaking, his hands sliding into his pockets as he pulls his coat a bit tighter around him, and when Lestrade lets go of Sherlock’s coat and sags against the wall, as though the dual insanity of Sherlock being alive and there being an assassin inside the police force is a little too much to handle, John steps forward to rest a hand on his elbow, just in case Lestrade’s legs decide to go out from under him.
“Come on, Greg. Let’s – I’ll make tea, shall I?”
Lestrade simply nods, but he doesn’t make any attempt to move, still looking lost as he stares up at Sherlock, and Sherlock finally raises his eyes from the floor, his lips pressed tightly together.
“I have evidence to prove my innocence, if you – Moriarty was very thorough in his construction of a false identity –”
“You daft bugger. I never believed a word out of that psycho’s mouth.”
Lestrade suddenly sounds more exhausted than angry, and when Sherlock doesn’t manage to supress an expression of gratitude, a flush spreading across his skin, John can’t help a smile. He leans down to pick up Lestrade’s wallet, and when he straightens up again, Lestrade is looking at him for the first time since Sherlock walked into the hall, as though he’s only just noticing that he’s here.
“C’mon, Greg. Tea. Then we can talk.”
Lestrade stares at him for a moment longer before he nods, and then he lets himself be lead back in the direction of his kitchen, his eyes never going far from Sherlock. By the time they’re all seated around the table and drinking tea, Lestrade still staring somewhat helplessly at Sherlock even as he makes plans to talk to the Chief Superintendent, John has got his hand curled into Sherlock’s underneath the table, and he’s starting to let himself hope that maybe – just maybe – they’re all going to be able to get their old lives back.
- - -
Three days later, as Sherlock and John are stretched out on the couch, Sherlock whimpering and shaking underneath him as John tugs down the his shirt and does his best to suck a bruise into the curve of his collarbone, John hears the sound of Lestrade’s ring tone. Sherlock doesn’t offer a word of protest as John peels himself away to find his phone, and ten minutes later finds them bundled into their coats and waiting in the rain for a taxi, with Sherlock looking more uneasy than John has seen in a long time. By the time they get to the station, Lestrade’s expression set in stone as he leads them straight in through the front of the building, Sherlock seems to have pulled himself together a bit more, and he sweeps in behind Lestrade like he owns the joint, though his eyes are darting around and his limp is more noticeable than normal. He and John haven’t been doing much that could count as particularly strenuous – wandering around their apartments doesn’t exactly count as extended periods of walking, and their activities between the sheets have consisted merely of hands and mouths, at this point – and as John follows Sherlock and Lestrade through the station, he realizes just how pronounced that limp actually is, and it’s no wonder Sherlock hasn’t wanted to talk about it. John’s condition, at least, is psychosomatic, and can theoretically be lessened once he gets his damn brain on side with him – Sherlock, though, is dealing with something that’s purely physical, and John has little doubt that it’s not a topic that Sherlock is ever going to discuss.
He stops pondering the situation when they arrive at the Chief Superintendent’s office, storing the thought away even as he finds a sort of grim amusement in the way the officers around them are all standing there with their mouths hanging open, and their eyes blown so wide it’s a wonder they haven’t fallen clean out of their faces. Lestrade visibly hesitates for a second, and then he mutters something unhappy and pushes the door open, and John and Sherlock follow him into the room just in time to see Donovan stumble backwards against the desk, all but falling on top of the Chief Superintendent, who jerks slightly and drops the file he had been looking at.
“Donovan, what –”
And then his words cut off, and the colour drains from his skin as his mouth drops wide open. Barely holding herself up on the edge of the table, Donovan makes an odd strangled sound, and John suddenly can’t decide which is better – the way the Chief Superintendent looks like he’s about to pass out, or the fact that Donovan looks like she’s been hit in the face with a frying pan.
“Sally. Here we are, yet again.”
Sherlock – whose attention had originally been focused on the Chief Superintendent – finally glances at Donovan, and John honestly can’t remember the last time he’s seen Sherlock look at someone with such contempt. Beside Sherlock, Lestrade shifts uncomfortably, and then Donovan is slowly pushing herself off the desk, still looking at Sherlock as though convinced he’s a ghost.
“You – you –”
“I suppose you’re going to remind the Chief Superintendent that I was a criminal when I died.”
“You – how –”
“I recorded my final conversation with Moriarty, which took place right before he shot himself, and I jumped to my supposed death. The hospital mortician, Molly Hooper, collected my phone and gave it to my brother for safe-keeping, and he has assured me that everything is audible, and that voice recognition software can identity both myself and Moriarty. Mycroft and I have also unravelled Moriarty’s ‘Rich Brook’ alias, and my brother will direct you to Moriarty’s body, which has been in cold storage for the past nineteen months. I think that should be sufficient to prove my innocence, even to someone like you.”
Sherlock’s gaze slides from Donovan to the Chief Superintendent as soon as he’s done speaking, and John has a vivid recollection of the last time they all met, when Sherlock had been arrested and John had punched the Chief Superintendent in the nose – and then the Chief Superintendent is suddenly on his feet, his voice apparently coming back to him as he begins to yell at Lestrade and Sherlock in what seems like equal measure, and everything pretty much goes downhill from there.
- - -
In the end, it takes less than a month to legally prove Sherlock’s innocence, and then Sherlock and John retreat into their apartment as the press has a field day plastering England with stories of how the Genius Detective has returned from the dead and been pardoned, and of how he’s shacked up at Baker Street again with his loyal Blogger. By the time the court case is officially over, Sherlock has managed to stop sleeping more than he’s awake – which is good – but he’s also starting to get that look that suggests that the wall’s about to take a pounding, or that John is going to find him wide awake at 3 am and working on some god awful experiment that involves body parts, and John is reluctantly starting to wonder if he should start looking into apartments in another city. Lestrade might have gone to bat for them, and Sherlock might have been cleared of anything illegal, but there’s still no guarantee that he’ll be able to work with the force again, and John has no idea how long Sherlock’s patience is going to last, now that he’s no longer as exhausted as he was when he first got back to London.
In addition to trying to keep an eye on Sherlock, John, for his part, continues to take his anti-depressants and anxiety medication, his mind still trying to undo nearly two years’ worth of mental damage, and though he’s yet to take them in front of Sherlock – knowing that it’s yet another thing Sherlock will blame himself for – there can’t be any way Sherlock doesn’t know, though neither of them have said a word about it. John has, at least, managed to cut down on his alcohol intake, even though he’s still not anywhere close to what could be considered mentally stable, and whenever he finds himself slipping back into the darkness inside his own head – finds himself unable to convince himself that the last two months have actually happened – he wraps himself around Sherlock, and he only realizes he’s made a habit of holding on tight to Sherlock’s pulse when Sherlock eventually calls him on it. There’s no condemnation in voice, though, and John doesn’t attempt to pull away – even though his skin is flushing much hotter than he would have liked – and then Sherlock’s kissing him hard and rolling him over underneath him, pressing him down into the mattress as his fingers stroke along the racing beat of John’s own pulse, and John finds himself falling in love all over again, his heart beating so fast it’s a wonder it doesn’t explode out of his chest.
Then, a week after Sherlock’s been proven innocent, Lestrade’s ringtone cuts through the apartment. John is just setting down some groceries in the kitchen – having somehow managed to get to the store without being mugged by the media – and he holds his breath as he watches Sherlock’s entire expression tighten, his fingers curling hard around the phone in his hand. The sight is like being punched in the gut, and when Sherlock hangs up the phone without saying a word, John cautiously sets down the grocery bag and takes a step towards Sherlock, knowing that there’s very little he could do to make this situation better.
“Sherlock?”
“It seems that the Chief Superintendent still isn’t all that fond of me.”
Sherlock’s voice sounds like it’s been carved from granite, and his eyes are focused on nothing. John’s about to start grasping for some kind of adequate response when Sherlock slowly sets the phone down on the table, and then wraps his arms around himself, not once meeting John’s eyes.
“Excuse me.”
He’s around John and into his bedroom before John can say a word. John watches him go until the door slams shut, and it only takes a minute for him to make a decision, and then he’s locking himself in the upstairs bedroom – which is still empty, without even a sheet on the mattress – and dialing a number he hasn’t dialed in close to two years. When Mycroft answers, John manages to keep his voice level, though he can feel his skin flush with that anger that still hasn’t gone away.
“You need to do something.”
“John?”
“The Chief Superintendent won’t let Sherlock work with the force.”
There’s silence for a few moments, until Mycroft sighs softly.
“Not a word to Sherlock until I have a verdict.”
“Fine.”
John hangs up before Mycroft can say anything else, and then he heads back downstairs again, slipping the phone into his pocket as he hesitates outside of the their bedroom door.
“Sherlock?”
When there’s no response, John tries the handle – if Sherlock wanted to keep him out, he could lock it – and then pushes the door open to find Sherlock curled into a ball on the bed, wrapped up in his giant coat and staring at the wall as though he can burn through it with his eyes. John only pauses for a second, until he sits down on the bed and puts a hand on Sherlock’s leg, a wave of relief sweeping through him when he isn’t shrugged off.
“Sherlock –”
“I no more desire to leave London than you do.”
“Then –”
“I can still take private cases. That’s what your blog is for, after all.”
“And will that – do you think that’s enough?”
“I was a consulting detective long before the police sought my advice. I can do it again, if I have to.”
He doesn’t sound pleased about it, though, and John sends a silent good luck wish in Mycroft’s direction before he strokes his hand across Sherlock’s hip, dragging his palm across the material of his coat.
“Do you want me to –”
“No. Stay.”
Despite everything, John can’t stop a low flutter of pleasure, and Sherlock lets himself be held as John curls up behind him, pulling their bodies in close together as he presses his face into the mess of hair on Sherlock’s head. After a moment, Sherlock squirms around a bit and rolls over, buries his face hard into John’s neck as he pushes himself even closer, and John tightens his grip around Sherlock, closing his eyes and soaking up the feeling of Sherlock breathing against him.
- - -
The very next morning, John wakes up to find Sherlock in the kitchen, wrapped up in his coat and typing away on John’s laptop, and when he doesn’t so much as glance up at John, John goes to have a shower, bypassing his suit and pulling on his normal clothes, so as not to give Sherlock any hints as to where he’s going. When he says that he’s off to buy some groceries he’d forgotten the day before, Sherlock doesn’t seem to hear him, and John gnaws on his lip for a second before he leaves, reluctant to let Sherlock out his sight, but knowing that he has to at least give this a try. By the time he gets to the police station, John has come up with something that resembles a plan of attack, and when Lestrade reluctantly pulls the necessarily strings to get him in to talk to the Chief Superintendent, John makes a silent promise to buy Lestrade something very nice to drink when this is all over. He stops thinking on that one once Lestrade brings him to the head office, and then John pushes the door open and steps inside, and it’s just John and the Chief Superintendent staring at each other, until the Chief Superintendent’s expression pulls so tight it looks almost painful.
“You lot just don’t quit, do you? I should bloody well –”
“I came here to apologize for punching you.”
It takes everything he has to get the words out, but he’s done worse for Sherlock in the past – and he’ll probably do much worse for him in the future – and even if grovelling in front of this man is going to be much more difficult than chasing down criminals, John’s just going to have to suck it up. Standing up from behind his desk, the Chief Superintendent pulls a frown, glaring at John as though he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing.
“Excuse me?”
“I came to apologize. And to check that my past actions haven’t affected your decision –”
“Sherlock’s an arrogant sod.”
“He’s also quite brilliant. And he’s never done a damn thing that would harm this police force.”
“I don’t bloody well care –”
“Sherlock’s put well over a dozen serial killers behind bars for you, and he’s rescued everyone from bankers to politicians to dying children – and if not for him, Moriarty would still be running mad about this city, planting bombs and blowing up anyone and anything that damn well suited his fancy. And I’m asking you – please – to set aside our history – yours and Sherlock’s and mine – in the interest of trying to make London as safe as it can be.”
John’s doing his best to keep his skin from burning by the time he’s done talking – not only because of the way he’s pretty much begging in front of the Chief Inspector, but also, god, the thought of how Sherlock would react if he could hear John rambling on about him like this – but there’s something a little different to the way the Chief Inspector is looking at him, something that John is pretty sure wasn’t there before, and he swallows hard as he tries to press whatever advantage he might have.
“Look, I’m not saying he’s easy to work with, alright? He’s not. I know better than anyone what kind of unholy terror he can be. But there are dozens of people in this city who are still alive only because Sherlock saved them, and there’s a reason why your senior detectives have been coming to him for all these years. Your police force is much stronger with him than without.”
“Is that so?”
“Yes. And everyone knows it, even if they don’t always like it.”
There’s silence for a moment, then, until the Chief Inspector glares at him some more, looking like he either wants to bury his head in his hands, or reach across the table and shake him.
“Bloody daft buggers, the whole lot of ya – going to bat for this weirdo. First Lestrade, then Dimmock, then a whole lot of senior detectives, then some of the rookie ones, and now you – what am I to expect next, a phone call from the Queen?”
John thinks of Mycroft’s promise to get in touch with the Chief Superintendent, and carefully keeps his face neutral, even as something inside him warms at the unexpected list of people who seem to want Sherlock back with the force. After a moment, the Chief Superintendent waves at the doorway, and John decides to cut his losses and go, giving him quick nod as he leaves. On the other side of the door, Lestrade is waiting for him, looking so anxious it’s a wonder he hasn’t started chewing off his nails or biting right through his lip, and all John can do is shrug.
“No idea. Don’t tell Sherlock, alright?”
“Not a word.”
- - -
Three days later, John hasn’t heard from Lestrade or the Chief Superintendent or Mycroft, and Sherlock has taken to blowing things up in the kitchen. Getting a little desperate, John checks his blog – just to make sure that it’s still functional, with their correct address and phone numbers – and then wonders if he should be concerned that Sherlock hasn’t found a private case by now. Frankly, he’s surprised that nobody’s gotten in touch with them yet, considering that the entire country probably knows by now that Sherlock’s returned from the dead, and when his ringtone for an unknown number crackles across the flat, he nearly knocks himself out lunging for it, because if there is actually a case at the other end of the line, then maybe John’s going to be able to stop cringing at the way Sherlock appears to be feeding human thumbs into a blender.
“John Watson.”
“Tell that weirdo boyfriend of yours that he’s all Lestrade’s now.”
John goes still as the Chief Superintendent’s unimpressed voice fills his ears. The boyfriend comment registers somewhere in the back of his mind – has this become common knowledge, or is this simply the same assumption that everyone, in the history of ever, has made about him and Sherlock? – but it gets mostly lost in the wider meaning behind the words, in the way his chest is tightening up and squeezing out his air, trapping the words somewhere inside his throat.
“I – that’s – you –”
“I don’t doubt I’ll live to regret this, mind. But you and Lestrade put up a convincing enough argument, and then Mycroft bloody Holmes had to go and get involved, and between the three of you, I seem to be rather out ruled. But if he screws up anything, he’s gone, alright?”
“I – yes. That’s – fine. Thank you, that’s –”
“Lestrade already knows. I’ve no doubt you’ll be hearing from him soon.”
The Chief Superintendent hangs up before John can get in another word, and John sets down the phone, his stomach flipping over at the place at the way Sherlock has paused with his finger over the blender’s start button, and is watching John with something that looks like outright suspicion.
“So?”
“I – my god, we did it. You’ve got your job back. That was the Chief Superintendent, we –”
And then John has to stop, because he’s smiling too wide to keep going. Sherlock stares at him for a moment, and then he slowly and deliberately slides his bloody gloves off his hands, drops them onto the counter, and then scrubs down his hands and wrists with soap and water. Before John can ask what the hell is going on, Sherlock is across the room and kissing him so hard John can’t breathe, shoving him up against the wall and cradling his head in his hands as Sherlock presses up close and licks into his mouth in a frankly filthy way that has John groaning, until Sherlock breaks free to just stare at him, his skin already flushed and his eyes blown wide in his face.
“Something changed his mind. What?”
John licks across his already damp lips as he tries to get his thoughts together, finding it difficult to think with the way Sherlock’s pressed full-length against him, with the way his pounding heart is slamming right up against John’s own.
“Um – Mycroft pulled a few strings, I think – and Lestrade and Dimmock and a bunch of other officers went to bat for you – and I, uh – apologized for doing my best to break his nose, and told him that you keep the city safe, and that –”
John’s words get swallowed up as Sherlock makes an almost hurt sound and kisses him again, murmuring the words thank you over and over again against his lips even as he tries to suck the air of John’s lungs, and all John can do is hold on, his body flashing hot and his chest getting tighter, and god – he will never, ever take this for granted. Sherlock’s wonderful, alive, shaking body against his own, the sound of his rough breathing and the thump of his pulse, and John doesn’t utter a word of protest as Sherlock spins him around and maneuvers him across the apartment, his hands never stopping on John’s body as he presses him up against their bed and then lands sprawled out on top of him. John’s barely breathing by the time he hits the mattress, and by the time they’re naked, rolled over with Sherlock stretched out underneath John and his face buried into John’s neck, John is panting into Sherlock’s ear as Sherlock makes a mess out of his skin with his tongue and lips and teeth.
“Bloody – oh god – great mind of yours – get to keep putting it to good use –”
“John –”
“Can get a damn – official case – and stop blowing up the goddamn kitchen –”
The sound Sherlock makes is somewhere between a laugh and a groan, his thin body twisting underneath him as John slides a hand between them and wraps his fingers around Sherlock, thumb sliding through the top and slicking Sherlock’s own wetness down the length of him – and he’s just finding a rhythm, biting down against Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock shakes beneath him and arches into John’s hand, when Sherlock suddenly pushes John back a bit, his breath wheezing out of him in one long rasp.
“Wait.”
“Sherlock?”
John barely has time to be concerned before Sherlock’s reaching under the pillow and pressing a tube into his hand, and John feels himself blush so hot it’s a wonder his skin doesn’t catch fire. Sherlock looks just about the same, flushing clean down his throat as he leans back down on the bed and lets his legs fall open, and John actually has to stop and close his eyes for a moment, before he lets himself fall back onto Sherlock. There’s an urgency to the body underneath him that John doesn’t think he’s felt before, and Sherlock’s still far too thin – his hipbones are almost dangerously sharp underneath John’s fingers – but his hands are strong - if rather shaky - against John’s back, cradling John close as Sherlock bucks up against him, and where Sherlock leads, John will always follow.
He spends forever getting Sherlock stretched out, taking it slow and careful as he grasps for every possible cue, every rasp of air and every moan and every sharp twist of Sherlock’s body, and by the time he’s up to three fingers – he might have never done this before, but he knows how it’s supposed to work – his mind is fracturing at the insane heat clenched around him, and Sherlock seems to have given up on words, his voice gone sharp and his fingernails digging into John’s skin. It’s only when Sherlock breathes out please against his lips that John removes his fingers, trying to keep himself from shaking as Sherlock wraps his legs up around him, and by the time he’s pressed himself inside, going as slow as he can and never once taking his eyes from Sherlock’s face, Sherlock is making sounds that John’s never heard from him before, and his face is scrunched up in something that could either be pain or pleasure.
“Hurting you – shit, – jesus, Sherlock, am I –”
“John –”
“Hurting you – your leg, or – is it too much – do you want me to –”
Sherlock’s only response is to bite out a moan and kiss him, hard, the sweaty skin of his thighs sliding slick against John’s sides as Sherlock tightens his legs around him and pulls him closer, and John can only helplessly kiss him back, everything inside him suddenly shaking with the impossibly of the moment, Sherlock alive and warm and breathing underneath him a way that John thought he would never get to see. It’s enough to drive the air from his lungs, makes him clutch at Sherlock tighter than he probably should, makes him bite and scratch as Sherlock matches every touch with his own nails and teeth, rasping out John’s name as he twists underneath him and scrapes his nails across his skin and pants for more, harder, John, please, and the world narrows down, then, to nothing but them in their bed, hidden away from the rest of the world, until Sherlock falls apart underneath him and John follows over, leaving them lying there and shaking against each other. It takes a minute for John to get his thoughts back together, and by that time Sherlock is kissing him again, biting down hard against his lip as John pulls out of his body as carefully as he can, and John has barely settled back on top of his body Sherlock’s arms are around him, an iron bar across his back as he pulls John in and breathes into his neck. It’s too much to process all at once, and John gives them both a few minutes to get it together – Sherlock’s still trembling against him, and John can't quite stop himself from doing the same – before he licks his damp lips and lifts his head to look at Sherlock, his heart twisting tight at the sight of his tousled hair and flushed skin.
“You alright?”
Sherlock’s eyes are blown wide in his face, his expression more vulnerable than John thinks he’s ever seen it, and John is just about to start getting concerned when Sherlock closes his eyes and curls his hand around John’s racing pulse, even as the arm wrapped around John’s back tightens even further, pulling their bodies as close together as they can possibly get. The touch steals whatever air John had managed to find, and there’s something stuck inside his throat, something burning hot and wet behind his eyes, as he swallows hard and buries his face into Sherlock’s neck and curls his fingers around Sherlock’s pulse in return, the rest of the world fading away as he loses himself in the feeling of Sherlock’s heart beating real and fast and alive beneath his fingertips.
- - -
After that, their lives return to what passes as normal for them, as Sherlock starts taking on cases again – both private and with the police – and John pulls out his gun and follows Sherlock into the trenches of London.
There are differences from before Sherlock’s faked suicide – although John’s leg slowly returns to being mostly pain free, he has yet to throw away his anti-depressants and anxiety medication, and he isn’t sure that he ever will; and Sherlock can’t always run as fast as he could before, even if he won’t say a damn word about his leg – but they make do. Sherlock keeps John from sliding back into the memories that still haunt his mind, and John does his best to make sure Sherlock eats and sleeps – thankfully, using sex as an incentive to get him into bed normally works, as long as he’s not right in the middle of something terribly pressing, and they spend a lot of nights curled up around each other – and on those unpleasant occasions where John wakes up smelling the desert sand or watching Sherlock hit the pavement, Sherlock’s there to calm him down, even if he’s wrapped in a bloody apron or balancing a blow-torch in one hand as he pulls John in close against him. It’s not always ideal – there are still too many close calls, and neither of them can ever quite keep their calm when the other is in danger – and John never even attempts to get over his thing about holding on tight to Sherlock’s wrist, but both of them are still breathing and alive and more or less in one piece, and as John spends his days and nights chasing down dangerous criminals or spreading Sherlock out on the sheets or arguing with him over whose turn it is to buy milk, it’s about as close to perfect as life is ever going to be, and now that he’s got Sherlock back, John is going to do his best to never take a single day for granted.