Fic: Don't Explain, 1/8?
Title: Don't Explain, 1/8?
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Mary, John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13 this chapter, eventually NC-17
Word Count: 3,480 this chapter
Warnings: Explicit sex down the road, spoilers for season two
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: Three years later, John had a girlfriend, a new job, and a new life, and just because his ex wasn’t dead didn’t mean they were going to go right back to the way things used to be.
A/N: Huge thank yous to my betas breathedout and thisprettywren! The chapter count on here is very tentative for now.
On AO3
Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine
Don't Explain
Chapter One
The front door was unlocked. Odd, because he and Mrs. Hudson were always meticulous about locking up behind them, ever since those American thugs broke in and scared her half to death.
For a moment John tensed, and he thought of the gun tucked away in a drawer upstairs, out of reach. But that wasn’t his life anymore. There were no terrorists, no snipers, no assassins out to get him. That was three years ago, and he had to keep reminding himself that he didn’t need to be on guard. Mrs. Hudson must have stepped out. Locking the door must have slipped her mind.
He walked up the stairs wondering what Sherlock would say about it if he were alive. Would he have detected a stranger’s fingerprints by sight? Would he smell a foreign scent on the doorjamb? Would he commend John for being observant, or berate him for missing everything of importance? John still thought about it occasionally, what Sherlock would say, what obscure details he would note, whether or not he would be impressed with John’s continuing resolution to be more aware of the world around him.
There was a time, in the months following the death of his best friend and boyfriend and any other name you could put on it, when these thoughts were a constant torture. He could hardly make tea without feeling the nauseating void of Sherlock’s absence. But years had passed, and things had changed. He had a girlfriend whom he loved, a job that was satisfying if not thrilling, and on most days he was happy. Thinking about Sherlock was more of a comfort than a hardship; he liked to feel that he was keeping Sherlock’s memory alive. He even believed that doing so was his responsibility.
So John happened to be thinking of Sherlock that day as he turned his key in the lock upstairs, placed his hand on the knob, and opened the door to his supposedly empty flat.
Later, John would recall sensing another presence before actually seeing who it was. He would remember the split second in which his mind cycled through burglar, Mary, Mycroft. But at that moment, the only thing he was conscious of was the sensation of reality derailing. His vision tunneled, and his awareness narrowed down to the fact that he was staring into the very real face of Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock.
Standing there, in his sitting room. Eyes and jaw and lips and hair and throat. Unquestionably, painfully Sherlock.
Time, along with reality, disconnected completely, and John may have stood there staring for hours. Days. Decades. There was no way of knowing. He couldn’t think beyond Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.
“John.”
Oh god, that voice he thought he’d never hear again, smooth and deep, but also soft and broken. It fractured the moment, time was restored, and suddenly there were too many thoughts crowding him, too many realizations. His knees buckled and he leaned back, gripping the doorknob behind him for support, his weight accidentally slamming the door shut with a bang. He was breathing hard and fast. His heart felt as though it wouldn’t survive the strain.
And Sherlock-god, Sherlock just stood there, alive, very much alive, though there were so many things about him that were jarringly wrong. His hair was short, far too short. His face was too thin. There was too much emotion in his eyes, staring at John with something like fear, guilt, hope, longing, and pain. And everything else about him was too right, from his cheekbones down to his coat, too achingly familiar to make any sense.
Sherlock took a step forward and John cowered back, unable to form words. Because if Sherlock was alive-and his brain was slow to accept that-then what did that mean? What did the last three years mean? Whom did John mourn? Reality, for the second time, started to swim out of focus.
“John?”
This time John could hear concern in Sherlock’s voice, and the world snapped back into place with greater clarity than ever. Everything, all of it, had been a lie. The years of grief had been nothing but deception. Something in John’s gut hardened into a rock. He focused on the one emotion out of thousands that he could immediately recognize and understand, and that was rage, rising like mercury, flooding his limbs and his thoughts. Sherlock was alive when he had absolutely no right to be. Bastard.
John’s body hummed with tension as he finally stood up straight and lurched forward.
“John, I-”
John cut him off by slamming his fist into Sherlock’s face. His knuckles made contact with Sherlock’s cheek and the side of his nose. There was a loud crunch, but John hardly even felt the contact, watching with surprise as Sherlock reeled backward, blood spurting, the final proof that Sherlock was actually physically present and alive and capable of being hurt. John followed after him as Sherlock staggered away, ready to land more blows just to feel that solid body break, but Sherlock held up his hands.
“John, wait. Please.”
It was the ‘please’ that broke through John’s fury, not because he felt sorry for what he’d done, but because that word had only ever come out of Sherlock’s mouth a handful of times and it automatically triggered John’s concern. He took a deep breath and paused for long enough to look down and take note of his aching fist. Shit. Then he looked up at Sherlock wiping the blood from his lip and pinching his nose. Shit.
He grabbed Sherlock by the arm, hard, and dragged him to the bathroom, refusing to feel guilty for the way Sherlock flinched. After forcing him down onto the toilet, he batted his hands from his face and examined the damage. Sherlock went completely still. It took only a few prods to confirm that nothing was broken, and a bit of compression was enough to stanch the blood flow. Sherlock just needed to be cleaned off.
John retrieved a flannel and ran it under the sink, then knelt down so he could bring it to Sherlock’s mouth and nose. He worked silently without thinking, because if he thought about it he might punch Sherlock again, or empty the contents of his stomach, or cry. He had to work especially hard to ignore Sherlock’s gaze, boring into him, unnervingly lost and confused. When had Sherlock become so easy to read? When did he begin wearing his emotions on his face? Certainly not when John had known him. This was someone new, then. A stranger.
The flannel needed rinsing, and John pulled his hand back, but Sherlock, with lightning reflexes, grabbed his wrist.
“Let me explain,” he said, and John could hear the start of a prepared speech that threatened to make him blind with anger. Did Sherlock honestly think he could return after three years, lay out his thin excuses, and be absolved? Because John was not going to let him clear his conscience so easily.
“Don’t you dare, you fucking bastard,” he hissed.
Sherlock looked down and quickly released his wrist. When John followed his gaze, he found that the hand holding the flannel had squeezed itself back into a tight fist, prepared to break Sherlock’s teeth in just to prevent him from explaining. He took a slow breath and relaxed his fingers, then stood again to reach the sink.
At the sight of pink water circling down the drain, John found himself outside of Bart’s, sinking to the pavement, watching a pool of blood spreading around Sherlock’s skull. He shuddered, gasped, and steadied himself against the basin. No, focus on the task at hand.
He lowered himself back to the floor, and worked like that for another few seconds, wiping the blood from Sherlock’s face, not saying a word. Not thinking. Then Sherlock parted his lips and sighed. And it suddenly occurred to John how intimate this was, how close he was to Sherlock’s mouth. How, without the flannel, he would again be feeling those soft lips under his fingertips, and he wondered if they would taste just as he remembered underneath the trace metallic tang of blood.
Fuck. John dropped the flannel onto the ground as he stood and rushed from the bathroom. Those were definitely not thoughts he could afford to have, not when his emotions were all over the place and he couldn’t trust his own actions.
Back in the sitting room, he sank into the leather chair and held his head in his hands. “Christ,” he whispered to the air. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Three years ago he would have given anything to have Sherlock back from the dead, but now it just felt wrong. Now it just hurt. Where had he been all this time, and why come back now, after so much fucking time had passed?
John heard a rustle, and he looked up to find Sherlock standing off to the side, watching him uncertainly. Even though Sherlock’s face was discolored and there was dried blood caked around his nostrils, he still looked breathtakingly gorgeous. Fuck fuck fuck.
They stared at each other for some time, and maybe Sherlock was waiting for John to speak, but John couldn’t think of a single word to say. So Sherlock broke the silence. “I’m sorry,” he said, slowly, as though he wasn’t sure the words would come out correctly.
The sound of that voice and those rare words, such a simple reminder of what they once had, brought everything home. Everything they once were to each other, the things John had depended on Sherlock to provide in order to feel whole-the weight of it was overwhelming, suffocating. Oh god. John squeezed his eyes shut, pressed the heels of his palms against his lids, and used all of his willpower to keep tears from forming. Sherlock did not deserve to see him cry.
Eventually the wave of emotion passed, forced down into some dark corner of his mind, and John opened his eyes again. Sherlock was fingering the scarf at his neck as though itching to remove it, but he kept it on along with that damn coat. He took a deep breath. “There was a reason I couldn't-“
“Shut up,” John interrupted in a surprisingly even tone. He refused to give Sherlock the satisfaction. “When I want to know why, I'll ask you. Until then, keep your fucking reasons to yourself.” He paused, realizing he'd been digging his nails into his thighs. Sherlock continued to watch him with that lost expression, his gaze occasionally straying around the room, no doubt gathering data. Not knowing where to begin, John decided to start with the basics. “I suppose you’ll want a place to stay? Or were you planning to run off again?”
Sherlock blinked. “I’ll stay. If you don't mind.”
He sounded almost afraid, and John could feel his resolve soften despite himself. He never knew he could feel so much simultaneous compassion and fury toward a single person. “I don’t mind. You can sleep in your old room.” Our old room, he thought.
“Thank you.”
John frowned. Politeness on Sherlock never quite fit. But then, Sherlock wasn't even supposed to be here, being polite or rude or any of it. Sherlock wasn't supposed to be alive. There was still no way to swallow that knowledge without choking on the size of it.
“Right,” said John, standing abruptly and turning his back on his undead ex-everything. He felt an unnatural calm descend on him. “I'm going out. You can help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. Sorry that Mrs. Hudson binned most of your things.”
“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, as John reached for his jacket. That tone of surprise didn't fit him either.
“My girlfriend’s,” John explained. He wondered how much Sherlock had deduced about his new life the moment John walked through the door. Possibly everything. “Her name is Mary. I'm staying with her tonight.”
Anything was better than staying in this flat with a ghost from his past who was no longer a ghost. He needed distance, miles and miles of distance, if he wanted any chance of processing it at all.
“One more thing,” he added from the doorway. “I know that I...that you...” He caught the icy blue of Sherlock’s gaze-Sherlock, god, here in his sitting room-and his words lodged in his throat. The last time he had seen those eyes… He stopped and gave up on whatever it was he’d been about to say. Instead he gestured to Sherlock’s cheek. “You should put some ice on that. I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?”
Sherlock gave a frown that made it clear he didn't understand what was happening. Well, that was his own damn fault, the bastard. Eventually, Sherlock nodded and John left.
***
On the way to Mary’s, his mobile went off. One look at the caller ID, and he knew exactly why Mycroft was calling, the realization making him physically ill.
He answered without letting Mycroft utter a single word. “You knew this entire time, and unless you’re calling to deny it, you can go fuck yourself.” Then he hung up.
After that, his thoughts essentially shut down. Every time he tried to picture Sherlock sitting in his (their?) flat, or ordering takeaway, or examining the patterns of dust, or showering, or reading, or whatever he might be doing at that very moment, he was hit by a jolt of exhaustion that made these mental images impossible to sustain. He managed to arrive at Mary's doorstep without any memory of how he had gotten there, or of his own thoughts during the journey. And it wasn't until he raised a hand to her buzzer that he realized he had forgotten to warn her he was coming.
“John,” she said in surprise upon opening the door. “Come in. Is everything okay?”
He stepped silently into her flat, and realized he didn't know the answer to that question. Was anything okay? It seemed like the most complicated thing he'd ever been asked.
Mary must have read something in his eyes, because she led him to the couch and eased him onto it, taking the seat beside him, never letting go of his hand. She looked radiant in her concern, and in that moment John thought he loved her more than ever.
“What's wrong?” she asked. John could hear her slipping into her doctor voice, the same calming tone he used on his own patients.
His first attempt to speak failed. He cleared his throat and looked at the floor, saying the words but hearing them as though they came from somewhere else. “Sherlock is back.”
In the silence that followed, John didn't need to look up to picture the confusion on Mary's face. “But...John,” she said slowly, “you told me he was dead.”
And that was the sentence that finally opened the heavily reinforced floodgates. “He-he lied,” John stammered. Too many emotions were rushing in at once: the visceral memory of how happy he had once been, and then how devastated. He felt three years of grief all compressed into this one moment, with the sharp sting of betrayal slicing through it. “He lied to me. He made me watch and it was all a lie, and I…I can't…” He realized his vision had blurred before he noticed the sobs wracking his body. He buried as much of his head as he could in his own arms, tensing against the arm that Mary draped over his shoulders. He wanted to curl himself up into a ball so tiny he'd simply vanish from the world.
“I don’t understand,” he choked, the sound muffled and wet and pathetic. “Why did he come back? Why now? Oh god, I can't do it, not again.” He began to lose track of what he was saying. He was confessing nonsense into the crooks of his elbows, pushing the words through his tears, letting everything spill from him as though he’d been gutted. He wanted to make himself hollow, empty. He wanted to purge everything like vomit. “It was so hard. It was so fucking hard. He left me. He didn’t die, he left! Fuck.” It didn’t matter that his chest hurt, or that it was becoming difficult to breathe. He still forced it out: the tears, the heaving cries, the vicious words. “God, he should be dead. I want him to be dead. Jesus Christ, what the fuck does he want from me?” he shouted.
Then, he couldn’t breathe at all. The air was coming out in short, terrified little gasps. He felt as though his ribcage were being squeezed in a giant fist, his entire body taken in a cold sweat.
He was sadly familiar with the symptoms of his own panic attacks, and he fell back on instinct to get him through it. He focused on his breathing: five seconds in, hold, five seconds out. Repeat. He ignored the gripping pain in his chest, the sensation of drowning. You’re not dying, Watson. You’re not dying. Eventually he noticed the small circles being rubbed into his back and let them ground him. And when the blood finally stopped pounding in his ears, he could hear Mary’s quiet, encouraging words.
“Shh, it’s okay John. Just breathe. You’re going to be fine. I’ve got you.”
After a moment, his head began to clear and it became slightly more bearable to breathe. He stayed in his curled-up position for a while longer, slowly filling his lungs through his nose. He turned his head to the side to suck in more oxygen, but it was away from Mary and not towards her. He hated her seeing him like this. It was one thing to wake up from a nightmare and to be comforted in the dark. But to break down in the middle of the day, in the middle of a conversation? He heard Ella’s voice in his head, telling him that it was nothing to be ashamed of and that it didn’t make him weak, but at that moment, weak was exactly how he felt.
The upshot, at least, was that he was now too physically wracked to sustain the level of emotion he’d been dealing with a moment ago. He’d wanted to get it out, and now he felt thoroughly drained, the knowledge of Sherlock’s return distant and detached. He finally uncoiled his aching body, still avoiding Mary’s eyes.
“I’m okay,” he said softly, staring at his palms. “I’m really sorry. I hope I didn’t scare you. I’m fine.”
She pulled him in by the shoulders and placed a kiss on his temple. “Clearly you’re not. Come on, let me take a look at you.”
John was grateful for the professionalism in her voice, for the lack of pity. He placed himself in her capable hands, fighting down his shame as she held his slightly trembling wrist in her fingers and looked at her watch.
“Really, I’m fine,” he repeated.
Mary hummed in response, then released his wrist. “Not your first panic attack, I suppose?” It was barely a question, and John didn’t answer. She quickly checked his pupils, then cupped his cheek, apparently satisfied. “You didn’t scare me,” she said with a warm smile. “I’ve seen far worse.”
John chuckled. “So have I. That’s the problem.” Shit-he knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Mary’s expression darkened, so he leaned in for a quick kiss and changed the subject.
“Do you think I could sleep here tonight?”
“I insist. Doctor’s orders,” Mary replied, eyebrow raised. It was such an old joke between them that John nearly groaned. But it did lighten the atmosphere, and by the time they both got into bed, he was close to feeling like himself again, the nightmare of a few hours ago easier to manage.
He held her in the dark, and stroked her hair away from her face. She really was a remarkable woman. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Stop apologizing, John. It’s fine,” she whispered, placing her hand over his hip.
“You don’t understand-“
“And I don’t need to understand tonight. You can explain everything in the morning. But right now, you need to get some sleep.” She kissed his mouth then rolled over, wrapping herself in John’s arms and nestling into his chest.
John sighed and curled around her. What Mary didn’t understand was that everything was going to be upended, and she didn’t deserve what was to about to come. He didn’t know how things would change; he just knew in his bones that they would, and that it would hurt. Sherlock had returned. There was no telling what tomorrow would bring. But for now, he pushed that terrifying thought from his mind and finally managed to drift to sleep.
Chapter Two
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Pairing: John/Mary, John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13 this chapter, eventually NC-17
Word Count: 3,480 this chapter
Warnings: Explicit sex down the road, spoilers for season two
Disclaimer: I don't own it.
Summary: Three years later, John had a girlfriend, a new job, and a new life, and just because his ex wasn’t dead didn’t mean they were going to go right back to the way things used to be.
A/N: Huge thank yous to my betas breathedout and thisprettywren! The chapter count on here is very tentative for now.
On AO3
Chapter One / Chapter Two / Chapter Three / Chapter Four / Chapter Five / Chapter Six / Chapter Seven / Chapter Eight / Chapter Nine
Don't Explain
Chapter One
The front door was unlocked. Odd, because he and Mrs. Hudson were always meticulous about locking up behind them, ever since those American thugs broke in and scared her half to death.
For a moment John tensed, and he thought of the gun tucked away in a drawer upstairs, out of reach. But that wasn’t his life anymore. There were no terrorists, no snipers, no assassins out to get him. That was three years ago, and he had to keep reminding himself that he didn’t need to be on guard. Mrs. Hudson must have stepped out. Locking the door must have slipped her mind.
He walked up the stairs wondering what Sherlock would say about it if he were alive. Would he have detected a stranger’s fingerprints by sight? Would he smell a foreign scent on the doorjamb? Would he commend John for being observant, or berate him for missing everything of importance? John still thought about it occasionally, what Sherlock would say, what obscure details he would note, whether or not he would be impressed with John’s continuing resolution to be more aware of the world around him.
There was a time, in the months following the death of his best friend and boyfriend and any other name you could put on it, when these thoughts were a constant torture. He could hardly make tea without feeling the nauseating void of Sherlock’s absence. But years had passed, and things had changed. He had a girlfriend whom he loved, a job that was satisfying if not thrilling, and on most days he was happy. Thinking about Sherlock was more of a comfort than a hardship; he liked to feel that he was keeping Sherlock’s memory alive. He even believed that doing so was his responsibility.
So John happened to be thinking of Sherlock that day as he turned his key in the lock upstairs, placed his hand on the knob, and opened the door to his supposedly empty flat.
Later, John would recall sensing another presence before actually seeing who it was. He would remember the split second in which his mind cycled through burglar, Mary, Mycroft. But at that moment, the only thing he was conscious of was the sensation of reality derailing. His vision tunneled, and his awareness narrowed down to the fact that he was staring into the very real face of Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock.
Standing there, in his sitting room. Eyes and jaw and lips and hair and throat. Unquestionably, painfully Sherlock.
Time, along with reality, disconnected completely, and John may have stood there staring for hours. Days. Decades. There was no way of knowing. He couldn’t think beyond Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock.
“John.”
Oh god, that voice he thought he’d never hear again, smooth and deep, but also soft and broken. It fractured the moment, time was restored, and suddenly there were too many thoughts crowding him, too many realizations. His knees buckled and he leaned back, gripping the doorknob behind him for support, his weight accidentally slamming the door shut with a bang. He was breathing hard and fast. His heart felt as though it wouldn’t survive the strain.
And Sherlock-god, Sherlock just stood there, alive, very much alive, though there were so many things about him that were jarringly wrong. His hair was short, far too short. His face was too thin. There was too much emotion in his eyes, staring at John with something like fear, guilt, hope, longing, and pain. And everything else about him was too right, from his cheekbones down to his coat, too achingly familiar to make any sense.
Sherlock took a step forward and John cowered back, unable to form words. Because if Sherlock was alive-and his brain was slow to accept that-then what did that mean? What did the last three years mean? Whom did John mourn? Reality, for the second time, started to swim out of focus.
“John?”
This time John could hear concern in Sherlock’s voice, and the world snapped back into place with greater clarity than ever. Everything, all of it, had been a lie. The years of grief had been nothing but deception. Something in John’s gut hardened into a rock. He focused on the one emotion out of thousands that he could immediately recognize and understand, and that was rage, rising like mercury, flooding his limbs and his thoughts. Sherlock was alive when he had absolutely no right to be. Bastard.
John’s body hummed with tension as he finally stood up straight and lurched forward.
“John, I-”
John cut him off by slamming his fist into Sherlock’s face. His knuckles made contact with Sherlock’s cheek and the side of his nose. There was a loud crunch, but John hardly even felt the contact, watching with surprise as Sherlock reeled backward, blood spurting, the final proof that Sherlock was actually physically present and alive and capable of being hurt. John followed after him as Sherlock staggered away, ready to land more blows just to feel that solid body break, but Sherlock held up his hands.
“John, wait. Please.”
It was the ‘please’ that broke through John’s fury, not because he felt sorry for what he’d done, but because that word had only ever come out of Sherlock’s mouth a handful of times and it automatically triggered John’s concern. He took a deep breath and paused for long enough to look down and take note of his aching fist. Shit. Then he looked up at Sherlock wiping the blood from his lip and pinching his nose. Shit.
He grabbed Sherlock by the arm, hard, and dragged him to the bathroom, refusing to feel guilty for the way Sherlock flinched. After forcing him down onto the toilet, he batted his hands from his face and examined the damage. Sherlock went completely still. It took only a few prods to confirm that nothing was broken, and a bit of compression was enough to stanch the blood flow. Sherlock just needed to be cleaned off.
John retrieved a flannel and ran it under the sink, then knelt down so he could bring it to Sherlock’s mouth and nose. He worked silently without thinking, because if he thought about it he might punch Sherlock again, or empty the contents of his stomach, or cry. He had to work especially hard to ignore Sherlock’s gaze, boring into him, unnervingly lost and confused. When had Sherlock become so easy to read? When did he begin wearing his emotions on his face? Certainly not when John had known him. This was someone new, then. A stranger.
The flannel needed rinsing, and John pulled his hand back, but Sherlock, with lightning reflexes, grabbed his wrist.
“Let me explain,” he said, and John could hear the start of a prepared speech that threatened to make him blind with anger. Did Sherlock honestly think he could return after three years, lay out his thin excuses, and be absolved? Because John was not going to let him clear his conscience so easily.
“Don’t you dare, you fucking bastard,” he hissed.
Sherlock looked down and quickly released his wrist. When John followed his gaze, he found that the hand holding the flannel had squeezed itself back into a tight fist, prepared to break Sherlock’s teeth in just to prevent him from explaining. He took a slow breath and relaxed his fingers, then stood again to reach the sink.
At the sight of pink water circling down the drain, John found himself outside of Bart’s, sinking to the pavement, watching a pool of blood spreading around Sherlock’s skull. He shuddered, gasped, and steadied himself against the basin. No, focus on the task at hand.
He lowered himself back to the floor, and worked like that for another few seconds, wiping the blood from Sherlock’s face, not saying a word. Not thinking. Then Sherlock parted his lips and sighed. And it suddenly occurred to John how intimate this was, how close he was to Sherlock’s mouth. How, without the flannel, he would again be feeling those soft lips under his fingertips, and he wondered if they would taste just as he remembered underneath the trace metallic tang of blood.
Fuck. John dropped the flannel onto the ground as he stood and rushed from the bathroom. Those were definitely not thoughts he could afford to have, not when his emotions were all over the place and he couldn’t trust his own actions.
Back in the sitting room, he sank into the leather chair and held his head in his hands. “Christ,” he whispered to the air. He couldn’t believe this was happening to him. Three years ago he would have given anything to have Sherlock back from the dead, but now it just felt wrong. Now it just hurt. Where had he been all this time, and why come back now, after so much fucking time had passed?
John heard a rustle, and he looked up to find Sherlock standing off to the side, watching him uncertainly. Even though Sherlock’s face was discolored and there was dried blood caked around his nostrils, he still looked breathtakingly gorgeous. Fuck fuck fuck.
They stared at each other for some time, and maybe Sherlock was waiting for John to speak, but John couldn’t think of a single word to say. So Sherlock broke the silence. “I’m sorry,” he said, slowly, as though he wasn’t sure the words would come out correctly.
The sound of that voice and those rare words, such a simple reminder of what they once had, brought everything home. Everything they once were to each other, the things John had depended on Sherlock to provide in order to feel whole-the weight of it was overwhelming, suffocating. Oh god. John squeezed his eyes shut, pressed the heels of his palms against his lids, and used all of his willpower to keep tears from forming. Sherlock did not deserve to see him cry.
Eventually the wave of emotion passed, forced down into some dark corner of his mind, and John opened his eyes again. Sherlock was fingering the scarf at his neck as though itching to remove it, but he kept it on along with that damn coat. He took a deep breath. “There was a reason I couldn't-“
“Shut up,” John interrupted in a surprisingly even tone. He refused to give Sherlock the satisfaction. “When I want to know why, I'll ask you. Until then, keep your fucking reasons to yourself.” He paused, realizing he'd been digging his nails into his thighs. Sherlock continued to watch him with that lost expression, his gaze occasionally straying around the room, no doubt gathering data. Not knowing where to begin, John decided to start with the basics. “I suppose you’ll want a place to stay? Or were you planning to run off again?”
Sherlock blinked. “I’ll stay. If you don't mind.”
He sounded almost afraid, and John could feel his resolve soften despite himself. He never knew he could feel so much simultaneous compassion and fury toward a single person. “I don’t mind. You can sleep in your old room.” Our old room, he thought.
“Thank you.”
John frowned. Politeness on Sherlock never quite fit. But then, Sherlock wasn't even supposed to be here, being polite or rude or any of it. Sherlock wasn't supposed to be alive. There was still no way to swallow that knowledge without choking on the size of it.
“Right,” said John, standing abruptly and turning his back on his undead ex-everything. He felt an unnatural calm descend on him. “I'm going out. You can help yourself to whatever’s in the fridge. Sorry that Mrs. Hudson binned most of your things.”
“Where are you going?” Sherlock asked, as John reached for his jacket. That tone of surprise didn't fit him either.
“My girlfriend’s,” John explained. He wondered how much Sherlock had deduced about his new life the moment John walked through the door. Possibly everything. “Her name is Mary. I'm staying with her tonight.”
Anything was better than staying in this flat with a ghost from his past who was no longer a ghost. He needed distance, miles and miles of distance, if he wanted any chance of processing it at all.
“One more thing,” he added from the doorway. “I know that I...that you...” He caught the icy blue of Sherlock’s gaze-Sherlock, god, here in his sitting room-and his words lodged in his throat. The last time he had seen those eyes… He stopped and gave up on whatever it was he’d been about to say. Instead he gestured to Sherlock’s cheek. “You should put some ice on that. I’ll be back tomorrow, okay?”
Sherlock gave a frown that made it clear he didn't understand what was happening. Well, that was his own damn fault, the bastard. Eventually, Sherlock nodded and John left.
***
On the way to Mary’s, his mobile went off. One look at the caller ID, and he knew exactly why Mycroft was calling, the realization making him physically ill.
He answered without letting Mycroft utter a single word. “You knew this entire time, and unless you’re calling to deny it, you can go fuck yourself.” Then he hung up.
After that, his thoughts essentially shut down. Every time he tried to picture Sherlock sitting in his (their?) flat, or ordering takeaway, or examining the patterns of dust, or showering, or reading, or whatever he might be doing at that very moment, he was hit by a jolt of exhaustion that made these mental images impossible to sustain. He managed to arrive at Mary's doorstep without any memory of how he had gotten there, or of his own thoughts during the journey. And it wasn't until he raised a hand to her buzzer that he realized he had forgotten to warn her he was coming.
“John,” she said in surprise upon opening the door. “Come in. Is everything okay?”
He stepped silently into her flat, and realized he didn't know the answer to that question. Was anything okay? It seemed like the most complicated thing he'd ever been asked.
Mary must have read something in his eyes, because she led him to the couch and eased him onto it, taking the seat beside him, never letting go of his hand. She looked radiant in her concern, and in that moment John thought he loved her more than ever.
“What's wrong?” she asked. John could hear her slipping into her doctor voice, the same calming tone he used on his own patients.
His first attempt to speak failed. He cleared his throat and looked at the floor, saying the words but hearing them as though they came from somewhere else. “Sherlock is back.”
In the silence that followed, John didn't need to look up to picture the confusion on Mary's face. “But...John,” she said slowly, “you told me he was dead.”
And that was the sentence that finally opened the heavily reinforced floodgates. “He-he lied,” John stammered. Too many emotions were rushing in at once: the visceral memory of how happy he had once been, and then how devastated. He felt three years of grief all compressed into this one moment, with the sharp sting of betrayal slicing through it. “He lied to me. He made me watch and it was all a lie, and I…I can't…” He realized his vision had blurred before he noticed the sobs wracking his body. He buried as much of his head as he could in his own arms, tensing against the arm that Mary draped over his shoulders. He wanted to curl himself up into a ball so tiny he'd simply vanish from the world.
“I don’t understand,” he choked, the sound muffled and wet and pathetic. “Why did he come back? Why now? Oh god, I can't do it, not again.” He began to lose track of what he was saying. He was confessing nonsense into the crooks of his elbows, pushing the words through his tears, letting everything spill from him as though he’d been gutted. He wanted to make himself hollow, empty. He wanted to purge everything like vomit. “It was so hard. It was so fucking hard. He left me. He didn’t die, he left! Fuck.” It didn’t matter that his chest hurt, or that it was becoming difficult to breathe. He still forced it out: the tears, the heaving cries, the vicious words. “God, he should be dead. I want him to be dead. Jesus Christ, what the fuck does he want from me?” he shouted.
Then, he couldn’t breathe at all. The air was coming out in short, terrified little gasps. He felt as though his ribcage were being squeezed in a giant fist, his entire body taken in a cold sweat.
He was sadly familiar with the symptoms of his own panic attacks, and he fell back on instinct to get him through it. He focused on his breathing: five seconds in, hold, five seconds out. Repeat. He ignored the gripping pain in his chest, the sensation of drowning. You’re not dying, Watson. You’re not dying. Eventually he noticed the small circles being rubbed into his back and let them ground him. And when the blood finally stopped pounding in his ears, he could hear Mary’s quiet, encouraging words.
“Shh, it’s okay John. Just breathe. You’re going to be fine. I’ve got you.”
After a moment, his head began to clear and it became slightly more bearable to breathe. He stayed in his curled-up position for a while longer, slowly filling his lungs through his nose. He turned his head to the side to suck in more oxygen, but it was away from Mary and not towards her. He hated her seeing him like this. It was one thing to wake up from a nightmare and to be comforted in the dark. But to break down in the middle of the day, in the middle of a conversation? He heard Ella’s voice in his head, telling him that it was nothing to be ashamed of and that it didn’t make him weak, but at that moment, weak was exactly how he felt.
The upshot, at least, was that he was now too physically wracked to sustain the level of emotion he’d been dealing with a moment ago. He’d wanted to get it out, and now he felt thoroughly drained, the knowledge of Sherlock’s return distant and detached. He finally uncoiled his aching body, still avoiding Mary’s eyes.
“I’m okay,” he said softly, staring at his palms. “I’m really sorry. I hope I didn’t scare you. I’m fine.”
She pulled him in by the shoulders and placed a kiss on his temple. “Clearly you’re not. Come on, let me take a look at you.”
John was grateful for the professionalism in her voice, for the lack of pity. He placed himself in her capable hands, fighting down his shame as she held his slightly trembling wrist in her fingers and looked at her watch.
“Really, I’m fine,” he repeated.
Mary hummed in response, then released his wrist. “Not your first panic attack, I suppose?” It was barely a question, and John didn’t answer. She quickly checked his pupils, then cupped his cheek, apparently satisfied. “You didn’t scare me,” she said with a warm smile. “I’ve seen far worse.”
John chuckled. “So have I. That’s the problem.” Shit-he knew immediately it was the wrong thing to say. Mary’s expression darkened, so he leaned in for a quick kiss and changed the subject.
“Do you think I could sleep here tonight?”
“I insist. Doctor’s orders,” Mary replied, eyebrow raised. It was such an old joke between them that John nearly groaned. But it did lighten the atmosphere, and by the time they both got into bed, he was close to feeling like himself again, the nightmare of a few hours ago easier to manage.
He held her in the dark, and stroked her hair away from her face. She really was a remarkable woman. “I’m so sorry,” he said.
“Stop apologizing, John. It’s fine,” she whispered, placing her hand over his hip.
“You don’t understand-“
“And I don’t need to understand tonight. You can explain everything in the morning. But right now, you need to get some sleep.” She kissed his mouth then rolled over, wrapping herself in John’s arms and nestling into his chest.
John sighed and curled around her. What Mary didn’t understand was that everything was going to be upended, and she didn’t deserve what was to about to come. He didn’t know how things would change; he just knew in his bones that they would, and that it would hurt. Sherlock had returned. There was no telling what tomorrow would bring. But for now, he pushed that terrifying thought from his mind and finally managed to drift to sleep.
Chapter Two