Fic: Past, Present & Future (3/?)
Past, Present & Future: Chapter Three
Rating: Explicit
Pairings: John Watson/Marcus Morstan; Sherlock Holmes/John Watson (one-sided)
Beta: lady_t_220
Summary: Sherlock returns after three years to find that things have changed in ways he could never predict. There's a stranger living in 221b and no-one's life is quite the same for it.
*
July 2014
Sherlock knows he can't hide away from the rest of the world for much longer. Much as he'd prefer to go and see John again - he'd left late last night, with much reluctance - there are other people to whom he owes a visit. It's only a matter of time before it becomes known that he is alive, and it wouldn't be fair for some people to learn the truth on the grapevine.
He decides to leave Mrs. Hudson until later in the day - perhaps he can pop up and see John afterwards - and get the meeting with Lestrade out of the way.
Mycroft, the interfering git, informs Sherlock that Lestrade has the morning off, and even goes so far as to have one of his fleet of identical black cars waiting outside the house to take Sherlock across town. Sherlock thinks about refusing, but then decides against it - he can hardly be bothered to quarrel with Mycroft anymore, and he has proved himself useful over the last three years.
Lestrade's house is out in the suburbs, and is looking a little untidy and uncared for - the wife finally left for good then, and a few years ago if the rose bushes are any indication.
Sherlock rings the doorbell and waits several long moments on the doorstep, before he hears noises from within. The door opens and, as soon as Lestrade catches sight of him, he freezes, mouth hanging open slightly.
When Lestrade still hasn't said anything after a while, Sherlock clears his throat.
"Lestrade," he gets out.
The sound of Sherlock's voice seems to jolt Lestrade out of his trance.
"Bloody hell."
Lestrade still hasn't moved or said anything else several moments later and Sherlock rolls his eyes.
"Full of intelligent things to say as always, Lestrade," he comments, but his tone is not as harsh as it might previously have been.
"You're alive," Lestrade says breathlessly, and Sherlock resists the urge to sigh impatiently. "Does John know?"
"Of course."
Lestrade nods slowly, and then finally seems to get some of his sense back. "Bloody hell. Come in."
Lestrade retreats into the house and Sherlock follows, eyes flicking from place to place, taking in the changes. Lestrade already has the kettle on by the time Sherlock joins him in the kitchen and he leans against the worktop, looking at Sherlock in slight bewilderment.
"Well I hope John gave you a good clobbering," Lestrade remarks offhandedly.
"He didn't actually," Sherlock returns tartly, but then he hesitates. "His boyfriend did."
The word doesn't come easily; it feels strange in his mouth and pulls uncomfortably at his chest.
"Ah," Lestrade replies with a slight smile. "You met Marcus then. Good bloke."
Sherlock would prefer not to get into a conversation about the merits of John's boyfriend, so he changes the subject abruptly.
"Still not made Chief Inspector then?" he asks nonchalantly.
Lestrade's jaw tightens, just for a moment, before he answers. "I'm just glad I've still got a job."
Sherlock knew that there would be consequences after his apparent suicide, which was taken by many as an admission of guilt; he doesn't know precisely what happened to Lestrade, but its not difficult to surmise.
"I apologise. For any inconvenience I may have...inadvertently caused," he gets out stiltedly, and Lestrade huffs in shock.
"Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" Lestrade teases.
"Haven't you heard? Sherlock Holmes is dead."
Lestrade smiles - just a tiny twitch of his lips. "It doesn't seem to have stuck."
"Fortunately not."
Lestrade gives him a look of something like awe and then shakes his head. "I can't believe you've been alive all this time. Where the bloody hell have you been?"
"Oh, here and there."
Lestrade shakes his head again.
"You're a complete bastard."
"So I've been told."
A slightly awkward silence embraces them for a moment before Lestrade finally turns away. "Coffee?"
"Please."
*
Sherlock is almost as nervous standing outside Mrs. Hudson's door as he was in front of the door upstairs. Mrs. Hudson is a little unpredictable; one minute she's a slightly dotty old lady, the next she's something else altogether - the woman with nerves of steel who was willing to do anything to see her husband put to death.
After an almost excruciating wait, Sherlock finally hears a shuffling of feet, and the door opens a beat later. Mrs. Hudson looks startled - but not as much as he'd expected - and she reaches out for him.
"Oh, it's true," she gasps, pulling him into an embrace. "I didn't believe them, but here you are!
Her perfume still smells the same, floral and musky like old soap, and Sherlock pulls back after a moment just to look at her. Mrs Hudson gives him a halfhearted slap on the shoulder. "You wicked boy. How could you do that to us?"
Sherlock gives her a weak smile and she shakes her head dazedly, pulling back and pressing her hand to her chest. "I swear, if John and Marcus hadn't come and told me this morning, you would've given me a right shock. Come in, come in."
Somehow, Sherlock finds himself in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen, being practically pushed into a chair at her table as she frowns down at him.
"Look at you," she says. "You're so thin. I bet you've hardly been looking after yourself, especially without John to keep an eye on you."
She waves a finger at him in admonition and bustles off towards the fridge. "I'll make you a sandwich. What do you want? Ham and lettuce?"
He barely has time to reply before she starts pulling ingredients out of the fridge and he slumps back in his chair a little, watching her with fondness. It's finally starting to sink in that he's home, and he feels like a weight has been lifted from his shoulders.
*
Sherlock leaves Mrs. Hudson's and hesitates for a moment before making his way up the stairs. He reaches the top and is once again faced with a closed door. It doesn't take him quite as long to gather up the courage to knock this time, and the door opens a few seconds later. John smiles widely and beckons him into the flat.
Marcus is sitting on the sofa, feet up on the coffee table as he watches television and he gives Sherlock a little wave in greeting. Sherlock smiles weakly and turns back to John.
"Have you been to see Mrs. Hudson?" John asks.
"Yes, I've just come from there."
"Good."
"You told her I was alive."
"Yeah, well, we didn't want to risk you giving her a heart attack or something," John explains with a grin. "It was a pretty close thing anyway."
"Thank you."
John looks a little nonplussed by the thanks, but he says nothing. "Did you want a drink of anything? I was just about to make tea. Or something to eat, maybe?"
"I'm fine. Mrs. Hudson has set me up for the rest of the day," Sherlock says with a smile and John laughs as he wanders off into the kitchen.
Sherlock isn't sure whether to follow John or to attempt small talk with Marcus, but before he can decide, the silence is pierced by a phone ringing. Marcus scrambles in his pocket and pulls his mobile out.
"DS Morstan."
There is a short pause as the caller talks and Marcus nods, getting to his feet. "Right, yeah."
John appears at the door, arms crossed.
"Just knew a whole day off was too good to be true," John comments under his breath, but there is no resentment in his tone - he's obviously more than used to this.
"Yeah, he is actually," Marcus speaks up, glancing at Sherlock. "Yes. I'll be there as soon as possible."
Marcus hangs up and turns to John. "They've found the girl," he says with a slight frown, and John's expression fills with a familiar mixture of horror, pity, and disbelief.
Marcus then turns to Sherlock. "Lestrade says if you're planning on going back into business, he could really use a consultant on this one."
Sherlock stills in surprise. "I can't imagine that going down well with his superiors."
Marcus shares a look with John over Sherlock's shoulder.
"Your name was cleared over a year ago," John explains, and Sherlock turns to him with raised eyebrows. "You didn't really think I was going to let you go down in history as the greatest fraudster ever to fool the police, did you?"
Sherlock does not know what to say to that.
"It helped having a couple of insiders, of course," John remarks with a smile at Marcus.
"Lestrade has already cleared it with the Chief Inspector," Marcus explains. "So, can you come?"
Sherlock hasn't really thought about what he's going to do now that he's back, but the lure of The Work is as strong ever. The last three years have been a test of his physical and mental strength, but with Moriarty dead, there was no real intellectual challenge. Only Moriarty's second-in-charge, Sebastian Moran, had been more than averagely intelligent, but Sherlock had tricked him in the end and now he is wasting away in a Parisian prison.
Sherlock eventually gives a nod and Marcus grabs his jacket and pulls it on.
"I'm really sorry," Marcus says, crossing the room to John.
"I know," John says with a smile. Marcus leans in and Sherlock averts his eyes as they kiss.
"I'll see you later," Marcus says to John, before addressing Sherlock. "Ready?"
Sherlock nods and they make their way out of the flat.
Marcus has an unmarked car parked up in an underground garage just around the corner from Baker Street. He and Sherlock pass the short journey in silence and it is only once they're in the car that Sherlock speaks up.
"Where's the scene?"
"Maida Vale."
Sherlock nods and they fall silent again as Marcus pulls out of the garage and begins to navigate his way through the busy London traffic.
It's not far to the crime scene - although it takes almost half an hour, thanks to the traffic - and Marcus fills Sherlock in on the details of the case so far: eighteen-year-old girl missing, parents put up a huge reward, and now she's been found. Dead, of course. Marcus is obviously a little perturbed, but he remains professional as he goes on.
"We spoke to the boyfriend. He was with her best friend when she went missing."
Sherlock scoffs and Marcus goes on.
"Texts and calls from her phone didn't show anything strange," Marcus continues, turning into a side road. "Phone's been off for a day now."
Sherlock hums in reply, and Marcus pulls in behind another police car. The entrance to an abandoned shop just along the street is already swarming with forensic technicians and Sherlock can see the unmistakable figure of Anderson among them.
"Alright?" Marcus asks.
Sherlock schools his expression and nods stiffly. They climb out of the car and Sherlock spots Lestrade waiting just the other side of the police tape. They join him and Lestrade gives Sherlock a grim smile.
"We probably could've done with you a day or two ago," Lestrade remarks. "Shame you were busy being dead."
Sherlock isn't sure what to make of the comment, but then Lestrade shrugs and gestures for them to follow him to the shop.
Marcus and Lestrade go ahead and Sherlock trails slightly behind. He can feel eyes on him but he doesn't bother looking round.
The body is artfully sprawled (positioned after death) in the middle of the tiny storage room at the back of the shop. Lestrade dismisses the few forensic technicians hanging around and waves Sherlock forward as he and Marcus linger near the doorway.
Sherlock moves forward and crouches by the girl, and for the space of a few heartbeats, he is lost; it's been so long since he's had to do this. He takes a deep breath, lets it out, and suddenly he spots the smudge at the back of the girl's neck.
After that, it's a flurry of data and his mouth can barely keep up as he barks observations out into the silence. This is what he was made to do; this is where he is really at home.
"An artist," he finally pronounces, straightening and turning towards Lestrade. "Someone she knew very well. Intimately, even."
Lestrade shares a look with Marcus.
"The tutor?" Marcus asks and Lestrade gives a grim nod.
Marcus dashes from the room and Lestrade turns his attention back to Sherlock.
"I see you haven't lost any of your touch," Lestrade comments, then smiles weakly. "It's good to have you back."
Sherlock gives him a strained look in return.
"I'll need to go through some paperwork with you," Lestrade adds with a slight grimace. "They've really cracked down on procedure, as you can imagine."
"I'll come by the Yard tomorrow."
Lestrade looks a little surprised by his offer, but thanks him anyway. Marcus reappears a moment later.
"Jones has gone to arrest the art tutor," he reports.
"Great," Lestrade replies. "I suppose we'd better let Forensics finish up here. Is the coroner here yet?"
"On his way."
Lestrade nods and Marcus disappears once more, presumably to give the forensics team the all-clear.
"Come on, let's get out of here," Lestrade says. Sherlock follows him back into the main room, where they almost collide with the forensics team coming back in.
Sherlock steps to one side, and Anderson comes to a stop in front of him. Their gazes hold for a long moment and Sherlock can sense Lestrade hovering nervously nearby, but then a technician calls to Anderson, breaking through the awkward moment, and he gives Sherlock a final glance before moving away again. Sherlock looks at Lestrade, who raises his eyebrows and gives a one-shouldered shrug.
Marcus returns once more and Lestrade turns to him. "Sorry for calling you in on your day off. We're pretty much done here now though. You can pack up if you want."
"You sure?"
"Yeah. The paperwork can wait 'til tomorrow," Lestrade says easily, and then smiles. "Besides, I don't fancy John giving me an earful next time I see him."
Marcus laughs and his gaze moves to Sherlock. "Do you want me to drop you off anywhere?"
"Thank you, I'll walk."
"You sure? It's no problem. And anyway, it's just started raining. I'll give you a lift."
Sherlock wants to protest, but there's that hard steely edge of authority in Marcus's voice again, and he can't think of a good reason to refuse. He acquiesces and they say their goodbyes before heading out to the car once more.
"Where to?" Marcus asks as they climb in.
Sherlock doesn't particularly want to return to Mycroft's - he'd prefer to spend as much time away from there as possible - but he has nowhere else to go. Marcus regards him for a beat, and then starts up the car.
"John's probably doing dinner about now, if you've got nothing better on."
"I wouldn't want to intrude," Sherlock mumbles awkwardly, staring out into the street.
"Don't be stupid. You're John's friend."
There is a pause as Marcus pulls away from the kerb, but then he speaks up again. "I still don't think it's quite sunk in that you're back. He's a little... shellshocked."
Sherlock turns his head slightly to watch Marcus's profile. "Shellshocked, but happy," Marcus adds.
Sherlock makes a non-committal noise and they fall silent as Marcus competently winds his way back towards Baker Street.
When they return to 221b, John looks surprised but pleased when his gaze flicks past Marcus to Sherlock.
"That was quick," John comments. "Have you solved it already?"
"He did, actually," Marcus says. "It was incredible."
"It was obvious," Sherlock says dismissively, and John smiles widely.
"You can tell me all about it over dinner."
"Really, I should be going..." Sherlock gets out weakly.
"What, back to Mycroft's?" John comments, flashing Marcus a quick smile as he joins John in the kitchen and starts poking at the contents of a saucepan. "You're not seriously telling me you'd rather spend time with your brother?"
It would be quite difficult to explain why even Mycroft's company seems like a more enjoyable prospect than the torture of watching John and Marcus together, so Sherlock simply scoffs in reply.
"My thoughts exactly," John says.
John turns back to his cooking and Marcus starts to pull plates out of a nearby cupboard. Sherlock moves forward and seats himself somewhat awkwardly at the table, wondering exactly how he'd got himself into this situation two nights in a row.
Over dinner Marcus relates the latest twists of the case and Sherlock, with much prompting, adds some of his own comments. John sits and listens attentively with a familiar expression of awe. Sherlock can't help thinking how strange it is to have John on the outside, when he was such a vital part of The Work before - but it's obvious that John no longer lives in that world. It's a little saddening to think that Sherlock really is still alone, even though he has returned to his friends and family.
Dinner passes quickly and Sherlock eventually leaves the couple to their evening together and makes his way back to Mycroft's. He is in no mood to face his brother so he heads straight upstairs and, once he is safely in his room, he takes his violin from its case and plays and plays until he is numb to everything but the sound of his bow on the strings.
*
"Are you alright?"
John startles at the sound of Marcus's voice. Marcus rolls onto his side, his hand brushing over John's arm.
"Of course."
Marcus just shoots him a look and John gives in with a sigh. "Alright, alright... I don't know."
"I think that's probably normal. It's not every day your dead best mate turns up alive."
John smiles weakly. "I'm happy, of course I am, but..."
"You're still hurt."
"Yeah that. And the rest of it."
Marcus stays silent and John lets out another sigh. "He was dead, Marc. I saw him fall, I buried him... I mourned him. And now he's back and he's already solving crimes and - and it's as if he's just been on bloody holiday or something!"
"You're angry with him."
John glances at Marcus, and then fixes his gaze on the ceiling once more. "Yes," he sighs. "He made me think he was dead for three years. He just went gallivanting off, fighting against this huge network all by himself and..."
John trails off and Marcus props himself up on one elbow, drawing John's attention. "And you wish he'd taken you with him."
John holds his gaze for a long moment, and then shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably. It doesn't matter now, it's over and he's home and that's what's important."
They fall silent, and John rubs a hand over his face.
"You were right," Marcus says after a while, and John turns to him once more. "He's a genius."
"Did you think it was all just exaggerated nostalgia?" John asks with a teasing smile.
"No, but it's one thing to hear about it, another to see it in action. The things he picked up on at the scene today... It was unbelievable."
"Yeah, that's what a lot of people thought, remember?" John says a little bitterly, and Marcus hums in agreement.
"I still have no idea how he did it."
"Trust me, you never will," John remarks with a laugh. "I've always thought I was pretty observant - you know, being a doctor and all - but he's just..."
"On a different plane," Marcus finishes, and they share a grin.
Marcus flops back down onto his pillow, his leg pressed to John's. They fall into a comfortable silence, both staring at the ceiling.
"He's gorgeous, too," Marcus says after a while.
"I've never really noticed."
"You're kidding?" Marcus gets out with a laugh, turning his head to give John an incredulous look. "Are you honestly telling me that you've never thought, not even for a single second, not even when you first met, that he was incredibly attractive?"
"I know people find him attractive - I've seen him take advantage of it a hundred times, believe me - but, I don't know, to me he's just always been... Sherlock." John shrugs dismissively.
"You're either mad or blind," Marcus jokes and John turns towards him, grinning.
"You fancy him."
"No, I don't."
"That's not what it sounds like," John teases.
"He's not my type."
"What is your type then?"
In the space of a heartbeat, Marcus has him pinned to the bed, his body pressed the length of John's. "Blonde," Marcus says with a smile, his breath brushing over John's lips. "Not too tall... Not too thin..."
"Are you saying I'm short and fat?" John asks with a sly smile, hooking one hand round the back of Marcus's neck and pulling him in close.
"You said it," Marcus counters with a laugh, ghosting his mouth over John's.
"You arse," John says, tugging him into a kiss. There is no real intent behind it, but it's enough to make John forget about anything but the man in his bed.