Fic: Past, Present & Future (5/?)
Past, Present & Future: Chapter Five
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 keeps his word and makes his way down to Scotland Yard the next day, and is greeted with a number of alarmed looks. The rumour of his being alive has evidently spread throughout the force, but several officers still seem dumbfounded to see him in the flesh. He ignores them all and heads straight for Lestrade's office, the PC who is supposed to be escorting him struggling to keep up. He knocks once, waves away his escort, and lets himself in.
Lestrade looks up from his desk, surprise melting away into a genuine smile. Sally Donovan looks round from the other side of the desk and her features settle into a mask of indifference. She shuts the file she is holding and gets to her feet, turning towards Sherlock.
"Freak," she acknowledges with something almost like friendliness.
"Sally," Sherlock returns. "I see you finally got that promotion to DI."
He decides not to comment on the link between her 'uncovering' his fraud and going up the ranks - in any case, Sally probably deserves the job. Sally smiles tightly, turns to nod at Lestrade, and then leaves them.
Sherlock takes her empty seat, crossing his legs and leaning back into the cool leather.
"Let's get on with it then. I have better things to be doing with my time."
"Like what?" Lestrade teases, even as he opens up the file. "I can't imagine a dead man has a lot of appointments in his calendar."
Sherlock gives him a scathing look, but Lestrade just grins in reply.
"Right then," Lestrade says. "You know how it goes - from the top, please."
Sherlock recounts every step and every deduction as Lestrade frantically scribbles it all down. When they are finally done, Lestrade thanks him and tucks the papers away. Sherlock is just rising to his feet when Lestrade speaks up again.
"I know it's not your sort of thing, but I'm having a drink with John and Marcus later, if you want to come along."
Sherlock shrugs indifferently and Lestrade gets to his feet to show him out, apparently ignoring his lack of an answer. "It's become something of a tradition. Every Thursday, shifts permitting. You should come, it'll do you good."
"I very much doubt that," Sherlock remarks dryly.
"Live a little," Lestrade jokes and Sherlock gives him a strained smile. "And it'll give you a chance to get to know Marcus."
"Why would I need to do that?" Sherlock asks, and Lestrade gives him a slight frown.
"Because he's part of John's life now, and if you want to be in John's life again, you have to accept that."
Sherlock says nothing, slightly bemused by Lestrade's earnestness.
"Anyway, think about it," Lestrade continues, ushering him towards the door. "We usually go to The Fox and Hounds, just round the corner from Baker Street."
Sherlock gives a vague hum and leaves Lestrade to get on with his day.
*
Sherlock, God help him, decides to take Lestrade up on his offer and meets him outside The Fox and Hounds that evening. He pretends that it is simply the desire for any company that is not his brother's. Lestrade is pleasantly surprised to see him and ushers him into the pub with a grin.
Lestrade heads straight for a table in the back, where John and Marcus are already sitting - presumably this is their usual table. John's arm is slung over the back of Marcus's chair and their bodies are pointed towards each other - both markers of casual intimacy that make Sherlock's smile just a little bit more strained.
"Look who the cat dragged in," Lestrade remarks and John and Marcus both laugh. "Drinks, then?"
"I'm fine for now," John says, lifting his half-full glass.
"Me too," Marcus adds.
"Sherlock?"
"I'll have a scotch."
Lestrade goes off to the bar and Sherlock sits down opposite the couple.
"Never thought I'd see the day - Sherlock Holmes in a pub," John teases.
"I went to the pub in Dartmoor," Sherlock points out.
"That doesn't count, we were staying there."
"When was this? During that Baskerville thing?" Marcus asks and John nods as Marcus turns towards Sherlock. "John let me read all his old case notes."
"I wanted you on my side," John says, his eyes flicking over to meet Sherlock's. "I would've done whatever it took to prove that you weren't a fake."
Sherlock blinks, once again disarmed by the knowledge of John's continued loyalty. John holds his gaze for a moment, smiles softly, and then finally looks away as Marcus starts up a new topic of conversation.
Lestrade rejoins them and Sherlock takes his scotch gladly, letting the burn as it slips down his throat distract him. The conversation moves onto the mundane and everyday and Sherlock can't help but zone out a little. He finds his gaze keeps creeping back to John and Marcus, no matter how hard he tries to resist. The urge to torture himself with the unattainable creeps up on him like some sort of masochistic compulsion. Sherlock finds himself cataloguing and absorbing every moment of contact from shared smiles to the easy intimacy of brushed fingers on the tabletop. Every moment of it sets up a deep, aching discomfort in the centre of his body, their obvious affection prickling like tiny shards of glass under his skin. John's hand brushes Marcus's shoulder, thumb swiping affectionately down the seam of his shirt and Sherlock forces himself to turn away. Jealousy is a petty weakness, but it's one he finds himself afflicted by with unpleasant regularity.
He is jolted out of his daze by a foot tapping against his ankle, and when he looks up, John is watching him out of the corner of his eye, his expression soft with amusement. Sherlock regards him for a moment, and then forces himself back to the conversation just as Lestrade turns to him.
"So, what are your plans? You're not staying with Big Brother forever, are you?" Lestrade asks.
"God, no. I'll have to start looking for somewhere."
"There's always 221C," Marcus suggests and Sherlock, John and Lestrade all grimace.
"You wouldn't be saying that if you'd been down there," John comments.
"Mrs. Hudson's always saying it just needs a little work," Marcus points out.
"With a bulldozer, maybe." John grins and Marcus rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Hey, wait a minute," John says to Marcus. "Weren't you saying the other day that your old place is empty again?"
"Yeah, it is actually," Marcus replies, turning to Sherlock. "It's nothing special - a one bedroom basement flat - but it's alright."
"I wonder how Mr. Patel feels about the violin," John muses with a sly smile at Sherlock. "He's the landlord. Lives upstairs."
Sherlock smiles awkwardly.
"I can give you his number if you want?" Marcus suggests, already reaching for his phone.
Sherlock wants to protest, but Marcus is soon scribbling the number down on a spare business card and handing it over to Sherlock. Sherlock takes it with a mumbled 'thank you' and the conversation moves on again.
Sherlock feels a little lost. Social situations have never been his strong point - unless he's acting a part - and the banter between John, Marcus and Lestrade seems so well practiced and filled with inside jokes that Sherlock feels like a stranger. He knew coming back wasn't going to be easy, but he didn't realise it was going to be quite this hard, either.
There is a tap against his foot again and he looks over to see John watching him with something like concern.
"My round," John announces, getting to his feet. "Give me a hand, Sherlock?"
Sherlock follows John to the bar, his hands shoved awkwardly in his pockets. John orders the drinks and then leans against the bar, looking up at Sherlock.
"Bit too much?"
"Hmm?"
"You seem a bit... overwhelmed."
Sherlock shrugs dismissively. "It's been some time since I've been around other people."
John regards him for a moment, and then turns back to the bar to pay. He hands Sherlock both his drink and Lestrade's, then picks up his own and Marcus's.
"Just... take it easy, alright?" John says with a soft smile. "You look like you might sprain something, trying to be sociable."
Sherlock gives him a half-smile and follows him back to the table. He tries his best to pay some attention to the conversation as it goes on, but not with much luck, and he is ultimately relieved when Lestrade starts making noises about leaving. He excuses himself as well and, once he has seen Lestrade off, starts to wander idly towards Regents Park. It's about time he got to know London again - he doesn't think she, at least, will have changed too much in the intervening three years.
*
"Sherlock!" Sherlock can't help but smile at Molly's shocked outburst, but he rushes forward before she can drop the stack of papers she is carrying and guides her into the room.
"Molly."
"You're here. What are you doing here? Is it safe?" she gets out breathlessly.
"Yes, it's safe. I'm... home, now."
For a few seconds, Molly looks so excited she might burst and she even goes to reach out for him, but at the last minute she pulls back, biting her lip. "I'm so so glad. Have you seen John?"
"Yes," he says, amused by the fact that this seems to be everyone's first reaction. "Oh god, did he - did he take it okay? He was a real mess when you died... well, pretended to die."
"I don't think he completely hates me," Sherlock offers and Molly smiles again.
"Oh, have you met Marcus?" Molly suddenly asks, with such a sympathetic look that, just for a few seconds, he fears he has been too obvious. He quickly dismisses the idea - Molly may have shown herself to be incredibly perceptive on occasion, but he has guarded his feelings well, ever since he realised he had them. He suspects that even Mycroft is mostly unaware, although that's almost certainly a result of separation and, now that Sherlock is back in London, he doesn't expect it to last long.
"I have," he eventually answers.
"And?"
"And what?"
"Do you like him?" Molly asks.
"I hardly know him," Sherlock says evasively.
Molly gives up on that line of conversation and instead starts to tell him about a body that just came in that morning. Before he knows it, they're standing either side of the cadaver, inspecting a nasty rash across the man's chest. When he glances up, Molly is watching him with a soft smile, but she quickly schools her expression and makes to leave.
"I'll just, err, get you some coffee."
"No, no need," he gets out quickly. "Stay."
She looks a little surprised but nods and takes her place on the other side of the body once more. He gives her a stilted smile and goes back to work.
*
When John gets home from work it is with quiet anticipation of spending an evening on the sofa, watching a film. Marcus is working late, so John has already settled on some classic Bond (Marcus won't watch anything pre-Brosnan) and he's already looking forward to watching Connery smarm his way around the world. He is all set up and ready to go - DVD in the player, drink at his elbow - when his phone signals that he has a new message. He reaches over to the coffee table to pick it up, unlocking the front screen.
Could use a medical opinion, if you're free. SH
He laughs out loud, because once again it's as if Sherlock has never been away. John should probably be annoyed by the fact that Sherlock thinks he has any right to John's time anymore, but Sherlock's message brings back memories of chases and fights and puzzles and, for the first time in years, he misses that life. He hesitates for a moment, and then types his reply.
Where are you?
Bart's.
I'll be there in 20 mins.
He shoves his feet into his shoes, grabs his coat, and heads out. He gets a taxi across to Bart's and sends a text to Marcus during the journey, letting him know where he is. As he gets out of the cab, he happens to glance up at the roof almost out of habit, and he feels his stomach roll even after all this time. He shakes it off and makes his way into the building.
Sherlock is, as expected, in the morgue. He looks up as John enters and for a split second, he looks absolutely thrilled, before he turns his gaze back to the dead man on the table in front of him.
"Ah, John, you're here. Good."
Molly, perched on a stool opposite Sherlock, gives John a hesitant little wave as he approaches.
"So, what did you need me for?" John asks pleasantly.
"Take a look at this rash," Sherlock answers, gesturing towards the body.
John moves round beside Sherlock to get a better look at the discolouration covering most of the man's upper chest.
"Another case already?" John asks, mentally flicking through his knowledge of rashes and their causes.
"No, just something to pass the time."
John glances at Sherlock, one eyebrow cocked, and then turns back to the body. "What did he die of?"
"Heart attack," Molly pipes up.
"Hmm. Well, I might be wrong, but this looks a bit like a HIV rash. Probably didn't have anything to do with his death."
Sherlock looks at the body and makes a noise that can only signal boredom; John, God help him, has missed that noise more than is perhaps reasonable.
"I suggest you run a blood test," Sherlock tells Molly.
Molly leaves to do Sherlock's bidding and John shakes his head as he turns to Sherlock. He can't help but notice that he looks tired, with dark marks smudged under his eyes, although his expression is as alert as ever.
"Is there any sign of foul play?" John asks, still not sure of the reason for Sherlock's interest in the body.
"No, I told you, it was just something to do."
John watches him closely for a moment, and then laughs. "Are you really that desperate to get away from your brother?"
Sherlock looks momentarily surprised, but then he smiles. "Of course."
"And you couldn't think of anything better than hanging around a morgue?"
"What do you suggest?"
John's rumbling stomach answers for him. "Dinner?"
"What about Marcus?" Sherlock asks with uncharacteristic hesitance.
"He's working."
Sherlock hums, and then gets to his feet decisively. "I know a lovely little French place not far from here."
It is a very nice French place and, as usual, Sherlock seems to know the owner. At least, that's what John assumes as Sherlock talks first to a waiter and then to a middle-aged woman who comes over, but as it's all in French he can't be sure. The woman eventually leaves and Sherlock turns his attention back to John.
"I recommend the duck a l'orange."
John smiles widely. "So, what did you do this time to get free food?"
"I helped her daughter."
"With?" John presses, and Sherlock looks uncomfortable for a second, but he seems to push past it.
"She was in trouble with a gang. Which is admittedly not necessarily what you associate with the South of France, but anyway, I was... in the area, and I was able to help out."
John remembers vague mentions of France when Sherlock had related what was probably a hugely edited account of how he'd spent the last three years. He wants to ask for more, but Sherlock's expression is rather strained so he lets it drop. He gets the feeling there will always be gaps, and he honestly can't decide if he's okay with that - he supposes he doesn't have much choice.
The waiter reappears and takes their orders, and once he's gone the silence stretches out for a few minutes; it's not quite comfortable - not the way it used to be. Eventually, John speaks up again.
"Have you thought anymore about Marcus's old flat?" he asks. "If you want to get out of your brother's that badly..."
"I've considered it, but I have to get my financial affairs in order first," Sherlock says with a tight-lipped smile. "It's not as easy as you'd think, reversing a death certificate."
John almost chokes on his wine as helpless laughter bubbles up inside his throat. "What, you mean you can't just turn up at the registry office and say, 'Look, I'm alive!'?"
"Sadly not."
"So, technically, you're still a dead man?"
"Technically," Sherlock agrees.
It's absurd, completely and utterly absurd, and he's certain it's the kind of situation that only Sherlock could get himself into. John breaks into a giggle and the low rumble of Sherlock's laughter joins him a moment later, a sound he hasn't heard in far too long.
Their amusement tails off eventually and John takes a sip of his wine, watching the other man over the rim of his glass before setting it back down again.
"If you need a loan or anything, to help you out-"
"No, I couldn't, I-"
"It's your money, anyway." Sherlock freezes and John gives him a slanting smile. "You left me all your money," he states softly.
"I did."
"I've hardly spent a penny of it," John admits, looking awkwardly off to one side. "I didn't want your money and I told your brother as much."
He still doesn't know what had upset him so much about getting Sherlock's estate, but he'd had several angry discussions with Mycroft, who'd refused to take the money back. In the end, John had put it in a savings account and left it there.
"I suppose I should give it back to you now."
"It's yours," Sherlock says solemnly.
"Don't be an idiot," John says. "You'd better work on reversing your Will as well."
Sherlock looks like he wants to protest, but in the end he acquiesces with a slight nod. It's a strange thing to behold, this new Sherlock, who is all quiet acceptance and awkward hesitance. It almost makes John miss the arrogant, mad bastard who shot the walls for fun. John can only hope that it's a temporary shyness brought on by guilt, perhaps, and an uncertainty about his own place; John wants the Sherlock he knew back - or at least the closest approximation he can get.
It has been an odd couple of years when he looks at it objectively. He has found love - found a partner he could happily spend the rest of his life with - but he has known all along that the bond he and Marcus share, strong though it is, has never been enough to fill in all the little parts that shrivelled up and died the day that Sherlock fell from the roof of St. Bart's. The link between John and Sherlock was forged out of adrenaline and fear and excitement; they were brothers in arms, effectively, and the very real threat of danger brought a closeness which John has only found in one other place - the Army. It was more than that, though, and even after far too much time spent dwelling on it, John has never been able to pin down exactly what it was about their friendship that made Sherlock's death feel like he'd lost everything.
It doesn't matter now, in any case, because Sherlock isn't dead and John will never not be grateful for that, however much the knowledge of the conspiracy burns in his chest. John has been extremely lucky, not for the first time in his life, and he knows never to look a gift horse in the mouth. He's not going to throw away a second chance out of spite.
"You know," John speaks up, drawing Sherlock's bright gaze to his. "I've still got some of your stuff in storage. Mycroft wouldn't take anything but your violin - 'spose I know why now - and there were a lot of things I didn't want to get rid of. Books and stuff, you know."
Sherlock looks a little moved by the thought, and it's strange to see sentiment so clearly written across his face. John wonders if he's just out of the habit of shutting himself off, of being around people he might have to hide it from. It's certainly not the first time John has seen emotion from his friend, but never has he witnessed such softness.
"Thank you," Sherlock finally says a little awkwardly, and then he goes back to picking at his dinner.
John doesn't think he's ever seen Sherlock eat as much as he has in the last few days either, but if it's going to fill out cheekbones that have become even sharper and shirts that aren't quite as taut, then it's all good in John's eyes. He smiles and tucks into his own food with relish - the duck was certainly a good recommendation.
As dinner passes, they seem to slip more and more into the comfortable, familiar habits of old: Sherlock makes witty - and sometimes cutting - remarks about their fellow diners, and John tries hard not to laugh or to marvel, so as not to encourage Sherlock or, God forbid, feed his ego. John doesn't try to curb this behaviour as much as he might have done several years ago, though, because with every smothered laugh or wide-eyed look of amazement from John, Sherlock becomes more animated, more outrageous - in truth, more like himself.
All too soon, dinner is over, and John can freely admit that it makes him a little sad that they are not heading back to Baker Street together. Instead, almost by magic, a black car appears alongside the kerb outside the restaurant and Sherlock scowls at it fiercely. John laughs.
"Come on, look at it this way, at least you don't have to pay for a cab. And you get to waste Mycroft's money on petrol."
"True," Sherlock answers, and then grins maliciously. "Would you like a ride home?"
"I'm going the opposite way to you."
"I know," Sherlock replies, looking far too pleased with himself.
John chuckles and, unable to resist the opportunity to get back at Mycroft in even this small way, climbs into the back of the car after Sherlock. Sherlock orders the driver to take the most scenic route he can think of to Baker Street and sits back in his seat, all smugness and satisfaction.
"You are ridiculous," John teases.
"It was your idea."
"Not quite what I meant," John counters.
Sherlock just shrugs and sits back to watch the city rush by. John watches the lights of Central London flicker across Sherlock's face and feels a wave of contentment. Sherlock is back where he should be, here in the heart of the capital, and John feels like his world has tilted back onto its axis.