Fic: Coming Home (5/?)
Rating: Mature
Warnngs/content: Depictions of violence, minor character death; angst, slash, romance.
Beta: lady_t_220. All remaining mistakes are my own.
Previous
****
John didn't hear anything from Sherlock for several days, but on Wednesday - a week to the day since he had reappeared in John's life - he turned up in the early evening. John was a little surprised to see him, but showed him in with a smile anyway.
Sherlock seemed on edge as he sat down at the table, drumming his fingers on the top, and John sat down opposite, regarding him curiously. Sherlock seemed generally off and it wasn't until John got a good look at his slightly unfocused eyes that he realised why.
"Are you drunk?" John asked with a laugh.
"No," Sherlock protested, but as John held his gaze, he let out a sigh. "Maybe a bit."
"Why?"
"I thought it might help. Dutch courage and all that."
"Am I really that scary?" John asked, smiling widely. Sherlock gave him only a solemn look in reply and John couldn't help laughing. "You ridiculous man."
Sherlock looked slightly put out, but then he seemed to shake it off, meeting John's gaze. "You still have questions."
John let out a surprised huff. "You got drunk so you could talk to me?"
"I'm not drunk."
"Course not. Look, I never meant for this to become... an obligation."
"Didn't you?" Sherlock countered.
"No," John said, then added after a beat: "Not purposefully."
Sherlock hummed and they shared a smile. John leaned back in his chair, rubbing his hands over his face before meeting Sherlock's serious gaze once more. "Am I going to need a drink to hear this?"
"That depends on your fortitude. I don't have any desire to repeat this, though, so don't get so drunk you can't remember anything."
John laughed and rose to his feet to fetch the scotch and two tumblers. He beckoned to Sherlock to follow him as he made his way into the rarely-used living room and sat down on the large, comfortable sofa. He placed the bottle and glasses down on the coffee table in front of them and poured two generous shots. He handed Sherlock one glass as he sat down at John's side, and took the other for himself.
"Bottoms up," he murmured, before swallowing his drink in one go. Once he was done, he settled back into the cushions, watching as Sherlock took small sips of his own.
Eventually, Sherlock lowered the tumbler to his lap, his eyes fixed on it. "Where shall I start?" he asked in a rough voice.
"Anywhere. At the beginning, I suppose."
Sherlock nodded, but it was several long moments before he finally took a deep breath and began to speak.
"You already know what happened with Moriarty. When I... when I woke up and Mycroft told me he was dead, I knew it wasn't over. Not as easily as that. It was just the start."
John closed his eyes briefly, his hands clasped tightly together. This was not going to be easy for either of them.
****
Only a little while later, John found himself pouring another drink as Sherlock told him about the assassin he had killed in Vienna - the first of many.
"I know the thought is abhorrent to you," Sherlock said quietly, giving John a sideways glance. "But I had no choice. If I'd let him leave that room, he would have come back to finish the job."
Sherlock pressed his hand absentmindedly to his thigh as he spoke and John couldn't help wondering what scars the knife fight Sherlock had just been recounting had left behind.
"I didn't enjoy it," Sherlock continued. "But it... it got easier after that."
John took a large mouthful of scotch, letting it burn its way down his throat as he stared helplessly at the ceiling. He didn't dare look at Sherlock, afraid that his reactions might stop him talking.
"After Vienna, I went to the Balkans," Sherlock continued. "I... I don't know what it was like when you were there, but I doubt it's much better now. People still kill each other for the silliest reasons." Sherlock paused, and gave a small, sad smile. "I suppose it's the same all over the world actually. It's... incredibly disheartening sometimes."
Sherlock stared at his glass, swirling the amber liquid round inside it before taking another small sip. He swallowed and then his expression darkened and John felt his stomach churn unpleasantly as Sherlock spoke up again.
"I was kidnapped in Macedonia."
John had to clench his hands into tight fists to stop him reaching out for Sherlock as he recounted his treatment at the hands of his kidnappers. They had broken three of his fingers, one by one, in an attempt to get information about his next move, and then another two to try to scare him enough to give up. John couldn't summon an ounce of pity for the men - hired thugs, of course - when Sherlock described his escape, which resulted in him killing two of them and severely injuring the other three.
After that, Sherlock had fled through Greece to Turkey, and his journey continued eastwards from there, growing more and more dangerous; after the events in Europe, there had been even more people on his trail. Through it all, John was struck by the fact that the network Moriarty had headed was still thriving long after his death - and probably still would be, if not for Sherlock. He finally began to realise just what Sherlock had gone up against, and why he had been committed to doing it, to such an extent that he was ready to abandon everything he knew, everyone he loved.
The stories went on and on, and their glasses were refilled and emptied several times. There were some things that made John shudder internally - fights, mostly, but far more dangerous ones than those he had witnessed in London - and some stories that made him feel sick to the stomach - murder at Sherlock's hands, and on several occasions, torture. The story of how Sherlock had half-drowned a man to get a name had, in particular, turned his stomach, and he had a feeling Sherlock knew it, judging by his sidelong glances. John struggled at this and a number of other points not to react too visibly, especially to the violence committed by Sherlock himself; he was still afraid it would stop Sherlock in his flow.
John couldn't help noticing that it seemed to be getting progressively easier for Sherlock to share the more he went on - he was less uncertain, his words coming more easily, only pausing at particularly grizzly points. John wasn't sure whether it was a result of the alcohol, or John's continued silence, but he certainly wasn't going to comment on it. It even seemed to be a little therapeutic, judging by the way Sherlock's shoulders got less and less tense, and John wasn't going to hinder that by any means. In the end, they both needed this to be out in the open, so they could move forward.
****
By the time Sherlock got towards the end of his story, it was getting late and they were both showing signs of fatigue, although the alcohol probably hadn't helped in that regard. John wiped his eyes as inconspicuously as he could and tried to hide his yawns, but he knew it was probably still obvious to Sherlock, even if he didn't say. Sherlock himself was slouched right down on the sofa, his eyes heavy-lidded as he stumbled slightly over his words.
"Then... Finally, there was only one of them - one more left... Sebastian Moran."
"Moran?" John echoed, perking up a little at the familiar name.
"You've heard of him?"
"He was in the paper just the other week. He'd been arrested by Interpol after years on the run and- That was you, wasn't it?"
"Moran was Moriarty's right-hand man. He was better than all the rest put together. Clever. Dangerous."
Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, apparently lost in memory, and opened them again slowly.
"He almost killed me," Sherlock said quietly. "I was tired and I was already thinking about coming home. He took advantage of that. Stupid of me, really."
For the first time that evening, John couldn't resist the urge to reach out for Sherlock, and the younger man started as John wrapped his hand around his wrist. "You forget you're human sometimes," John said softly. "Actually, a lot of the time."
"Sometimes I have to," Sherlock replied just as quietly. "To do the things I need to do. Things that... that humans won't do."
John gave Sherlock's arm a squeeze as he held Sherlock's gaze. "You're not a monster."
Sherlock's expression faltered, his eyes shining wetly in the split second before he turned his face to the side.
"Do you hear me?" John said, giving Sherlock a little shake. "You're not."
Sherlock blinked several times, looking almost overwhelmed with emotion. It was enough to break the last chains of John's control and he reached out for Sherlock, pulling him into a tight embrace. Sherlock let out a choked noise and buried his face against John's neck, his hands fisted in the fabric of John's jumper. Sherlock's left hand was trembling against his back and John pressed a hand to Sherlock's dark curls, breathing shakily against his temple.
"I have never doubted you for a single second," John whispered. "Even when I was so angry I wanted to hurt you."
Sherlock made a noise that was part laugh, part sob, and John held him even tighter.
"Thank you," John said. "For telling me."
"You should think so much less of me" Sherlock said tightly, his breath warm against John's neck.
"Never."
Sherlock raised his head, his eyes red-rimmed and tired. A moment passed, and then he leaned in to press his lips to John's. John's breath hitched with the first brush of their lips, and then he was pressing in close, burying both hands in Sherlock's hair, and kissing him back helplessly.
****
It was a sloppy, unrefined kiss, both of them too desperate, Sherlock almost whining against John's mouth. John was lost, lost in the taste of him and the way they fit so well even after all this time, and when Sherlock pressed closer, John let out a helpless moan. He freed one hand from Sherlock's hair to skim down his side and slide under his jacket, pressing against the warmth of Sherlock's skin through his shirt. It had been too long, too long without this, and even as he thought it, John faltered.
John forced himself away from Sherlock with effort, panting heavily, his hands on Sherlock's shoulders to hold him at a distance.
"I can't do this," he said brokenly. "It- it's too soon."
Sherlock closed his eyes as a pained look crossed his expression. "I'm sorry," he got out. "I shouldn't have."
"I just... I need time still."
"I know," Sherlock said, before berating himself angrily: "Stupid, stupid."
"No," John insisted, giving Sherlock's shoulders a squeeze as he shook his head. "Not stupid. Human, remember?"
Sherlock gave him a halfhearted smile and John couldn't help leaning in to press his lips against Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock grabbed his arms desperately, the press of his fingers against John's skin almost enough to hurt.
"I love you," Sherlock whispered.
John closed his eyes, dipping to press his forehead against Sherlock's.
"I love you too," he whispered painfully, before forcing himself away with a regretful sigh.
Sherlock straightened a moment later, smoothing a hand over his clothes, his face a carefully-poised mask. "I should go."
"You shouldn't drive," John reminded him. "You'd best stay here."
Sherlock shook his head. "It's fine. I got a lift here, I'll get the driver to come back and pick me up," he said, already pulling his phone out.
"You don't have to," John said weakly, and Sherlock raised his head to meet John's gaze.
"I don't want to stay here if I'm not staying with you," Sherlock said honestly, before ducking his head to finish typing his message. "I think we might both need the space right now."
John nodded helplessly, even though Sherlock couldn't see him, and when Sherlock got to his feet a moment later, John followed.
Sherlock crossed the room purposefully, but paused at the door, looking down at John with an unfathomable expression. "I want to see you again."
"Of course," John said a little breathlessly. "Come for dinner tomorrow. Or Friday. Whenever."
"Friday," Sherlock decided with a slight nod. He glanced out into the darkness and turned back to John. "I have to go."
Sherlock dipped his head to press a chaste kiss to John's lips, and lingered just a bit too long for it to be really chaste when John leaned into him, one hand locked around his forearm. Sherlock's hand settled on his hip for a moment, and then he stepped away entirely and opened the door.
"Goodnight, John."
"Goodnight."
Sherlock hesitated for just a second, but then seemed to force himself into action, leaving the house and pulling the door shut behind him.
****
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