Fic: Coming Home (6/prob 8)
Rating: Mature
Warnings/content: Minor character death, depictions of violence; angst, slash, romance.
Beta: lady_t_220. Any remaining mistakes are my own.
Previous
****
Morning brought with it the first fleeting twinges of regret, but before John could even begin to agonise over his relationship with Sherlock, he received the news he had been expecting and dreading at the same time: Lawrence's brother had passed away. It had been a short conversation, Lawrence obviously upset but, as usual, worrying more about being an inconvenience. John had reassured him once again that he could cope just fine, and Lawrence had gone off to help his sister-in-law with all the arrangements that needed to be made.
John was feeling out of sorts himself after the news. He didn't know George, had never met him, but it was more the effect it would have - was having - on Lawrence that upset him; Lawrence had always spoken warmly of his elder brother, and the nature of his illness and eventual death was sure to affect him greatly. For now there was nothing John could do, though, and there wouldn't be until Lawrence returned.
It was a warm, sunny day and John had already planned to work on the graveyard that morning. The physical exertion was a welcome distraction from thoughts of Sherlock, and the tangled mess things were becoming, as well as Lawrence's bad news.
He was weeding around the outer wall of the graveyard when a familiar voice called out.
"Hello!"
John looked up and smiled as Lisa approached, a woven shopping bag hooked over each arm. "Hello."
"It's a lovely day, isn't it?" she said, leaning against the wall as John rose to his feet.
"It is."
"You look like you're hard at work."
"Constantly fighting the weeds," John said with a crooked smile.
"Oh, I know the feeling. Our rockery is almost overrun."
There was a moment of easy silence, but then Lisa frowned slightly.
"John, I hope we didn't cause you any... trouble on Sunday," she said, biting her lip.
"Trouble?" John echoed in confusion.
"I honestly wouldn't have invited Sherlock if I thought things might be awkward."
"It's fine," John reassured her. "I didn't mind. Honestly."
"I couldn't help noticing that things were maybe a little tense though?" she got out uncertainly.
John sighed and brushed the back of his wrist over his sweaty forehead. "You said you'd read everything in the papers about Sherlock?"
"Yes."
"So you saw the articles towards the end, the ones that talked about us being... a couple?"
"Yes," she said quietly. "Obviously, you never can believe the papers half the time and-"
"It was true," John said, cutting her off with a small smile. "We were a couple."
"Ah."
"I mean, it doesn't really change the situation," John explained. "It just makes it a whole lot more..." He trailed off, searching for the right word.
"Fraught?" Lisa suggested and John let out a huff of laughter.
"Yeah, something like that."
"He's a very nice man," Lisa said after a short pause, watching him intently.
"He was very much on his best behaviour on Sunday," John replied, laughing, and Lisa smiled softly.
"I can't even imagine what you're going through. It must be incredibly..."
"Confusing? Bewildering? Infuriating?" John suggested with a grin. "Welcome to life with Sherlock Holmes."
"You obviously still care about him a lot."
"I do," John admitted. "It makes things even more difficult."
Lisa smiled and reached out to squeeze his arm. "That's love for you."
John huffed in amusement and nodded. "Tell me about it."
"Well, if you sort things out, tell Sherlock our invitation still stands. Chris hasn't stopped going on about him since Sunday. It's driving me scatty," Lisa exclaimed, rolling her eyes.
"I'll tell him," John said with a laugh. "If only to put you out of your misery."
Lisa smiled and shifted from her position on the wall. "Anyway, I'd better get in and put this lot away. Let you get on."
"Do you need a hand?"
"No, it's fine. Nothing heavy."
Lisa left and John watched her across the road, before kneeling and returning to his work.
****
After lunch, John made the short trip to Withyham to visit Father Benjamin - although his thoughts were fixed on the occupant of a house not too far away. Father Benjamin was an elderly priest and he had moved to the relatively quiet parish shortly after John and Lawrence had moved to Haywards Heath. Given the proximity of the two parishes, they saw each other fairly regularly, and John had assisted the elder priest on a number of occasions, usually when his bad hip was playing up.
"Awful news, even if we have been waiting for it," Father Benjamin said once John had settled down with a cup of tea and told him the news about Lawrence's brother. "Poor Lawrence."
"I know," John said sadly, sipping his tea slowly, trying hard to fight distraction. It didn't help that he was sitting in the very armchair where a sixteen-year-old Sherlock Holmes had broken down in tears on his shoulder.
"I'm assuming Lawrence won't be back this week?"
"No. Looks like I might be needing your help again."
"It's not a problem," Benjamin said with a slightly grim smile. "Makes me feel useful."
They fell silent, drinking their tea slowly.
"You're looking a bit tired, John," Benjamin remarked after a while. "I hope you're not running yourself ragged while Lawrence is away."
"I'm fine," John assured him with a smile. "Just haven't been sleeping very well."
"Oh, I know, this heat! I can't stand it. I'm thoroughly looking forward to autumn arriving any day now."
John laughed, and decided not to correct the older man's assumption. "I hear it's going to rain next week. Probably won't stop once it gets going."
"Oh dear, my hip'll start playing up again."
"Did you try those soothers the doctor recommended?"
Benjamin just scoffed and John smiled into his tea as he took another sip. They fell into a companionable silence as they finished their tea.
"I'd better be off," John eventually said. "I said I'd try to pop by the school this afternoon."
"Take it easy now," Father Benjamin said concernedly.
"I will, don't worry," John said, rising quickly to his feet and taking both of their cups through to the kitchen. He returned to the living room, where Father Benjamin was still leveraging himself out of the chair.
"I'll see you first thing on Sunday?"
"Yes, yes."
They shook hands and Benjamin sent him on his way with a clap on the shoulder.
****
John left the house and followed the path along past the graveyard, his eyes drawn unwillingly to the dark headstone sitting upon what he now knew to be an empty grave. He was soon distracted, though, when he spotted a figure lingering a bit further along the path. Mycroft bloody Holmes. John sighed and approached him quickly, wanting to get the meeting over and done with as quickly as possible.
"Do you have nothing better to do with your time than follow me?" John got out in lieu of a greeting, folding his arms across his chest as he drew level with the elder Holmes.
"I was in the neighbourhood," Mycroft simpered. "On my way to see my brother, actually."
"And you just happened to know I was here?"
"Would you like to join me?" Mycroft asked, ignoring John's question.
"I'm busy."
"I thought you might be persuaded to take a short break to visit my brother."
"Look," John said sharply, "If this is you trying to help, stop it. What happens between me and Sherlock is none of your business."
Mycroft frowned ever so slightly, but a moment later the polite mask was back.
"Things going well then? Are we to expect a full reconciliation?"
John regarded the eldest Holmes for a moment, and then let out a laugh. "I see. You can't get anything out of Sherlock so you thought you'd try me instead." John shook his head and smiled widely. "S'not going to happen. Now I hope you take this in the nicest way possible, Mycroft, but bugger off."
Mycroft scowled in a manner all too reminiscent of his brother, but bowed his acquiescence.
"Very well. Feel free to use the car," he added, gesturing to the black car idling behind them. "Take it as compensation for your valuable time."
John raised an eyebrow and watched in slight bewilderment as Mycroft turned and walked away. The car didn't move and John let out a heavy sigh, before just giving in and climbing into the back. It beat getting the bus, in any case.
****
John was just washing up his dinner plate later that evening when the phone rang. Expecting it to be Lawrence, he rushed to dry his hands and answer it. A deeper, but no less familiar voice answered his rather breathless greeting.
"Sherlock," he said warmly.
"I hope you don't mind."
"No, not at all," John said, smiling. It really shouldn't have made him so ridiculously pleased to hear Sherlock's voice. There was a slight pause, and then John spoke up.
"Your brother's been stalking me again."
Sherlock gave a scoff of disgust. "Insufferable git."
"Yeah."
"What did he want?"
"Intelligence gathering as usual."
Sherlock scoffed again and John could practically hear the eye-roll that accompanied it.
"I certainly didn't miss your brother's delightful company the last few years," John said with a grin.
"Me neither."
"You didn't speak to him then?" John asked in surprise. Sherlock hadn't said, but John had assumed he had been in regular contact with Mycroft.
"No," Sherlock replied. "Not once he'd got me out of the country."
"Oh," John breathed. It made Sherlock's mission seem all the more lonely.
"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked after a short pause. "You don't sound yourself today."
"Don't I?" John asked. "No, I'm fine. I just... Lawrence's brother passed away last night."
"Ah. Did you know him well?"
"Never met him, but that doesn't mean I can't be sad."
"No," Sherlock said a little uncertainly, and John couldn't help smiling. He still forgot from time to time how baffling Sherlock sometimes found emotions to be.
"We're still on for dinner?" John asked, changing the subject.
"Are we?" Sherlock countered.
"Yes," John said softly.
"John, there's just one problem."
"What's that?"
"You know I don't like fish," Sherlock said solemnly, although John could hear the faint hint of amusement in his voice.
John laughed. "Tough. Be a good Catholic for once in your life."
"I was a very good Catholic for several years," Sherlock protested, his voice rich with laughter.
"Doesn't count when you're under twelve and your mother forces you."
"Doesn't it? Shame," Sherlock joked.
John smiled brightly, and they talked idly for a while longer, until John reluctantly had to say goodbye.
"I'll see you tomorrow."
"Till tomorrow," Sherlock echoed and John hung up with a ridiculous smile on his face.
****
Dinner was passed in much the same way as their phone conversation the night before, with jokes and smiles and the odd moment of seriousness and even, John had to admit in hindsight, a great deal of flirting. It was easy and it was pleasant, and it made it very simple to forget that there was a reason for the underlying tension.
When the meal was done and they had lingered for a long time over coffee, Sherlock finally - reluctantly - made to leave. At the door they shared another not-quite-chaste kiss and when Sherlock disappeared into the night, John had that ridiculous grin plastered across his face once more.
It was like falling in love all over again, his mind and body infatuated once more with the brilliance and beauty of Sherlock Holmes. It was only his heart - his battered and bruised heart - that held him back; he didn't know if he could bear to entrust it to Sherlock again, to make himself vulnerable as he had once done without a second thought. His heart was a bitter, angry old fool but it ruled his every move - held Sherlock at arm's length and stopped John from hurtling head first back into a life with Sherlock as the centre of his universe.
With head and heart in conflict, the way forward was as unclear as ever and, after John had gone through his usual evening prayers for all those close to him, he found himself praying extra hard for a guiding light to steer him on the right path. Until then, he would muddle along blindly, constantly taking one uncertain step forward and another two backwards, in a helpless battle of attrition with no end in sight.
****
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