Chapter Text
“Sherlock?”
John padded down the hall, scratching the back of his neck. He yawned and stretched, surveying the kitchen. No Sherlock, then.
He made his way to the refrigerator and had a quick look inside—yes, the samples from last night’s experiment were gone. No doubt Sherlock had slipped out early to make his way over to Bart’s and consult with Molly. He’d always done that, of course. Nothing new there. It was just…
John shook his head, trying to shake off the malaise that had been plaguing him for months. He was unsettled, but he didn’t know why, exactly.
He switched the kettle on and leaned back against the cupboard, arms crossed.
Long-term relationships were not something in which he was an expert. This was his first. He had nothing to compare it to, save for those few brief years with Mary. Which was nothing to—what was it now?
John started as the kettle snapped off. He filled his mug and stirred in the instant coffee (he as not as fussy as some) and grabbed one of the bananas he had purchased the day before. Fortunately, they were still in tact and uncontaminated. He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat heavily.
Fifteen years. It had been fifteen years.
Where had the time gone?
He ate his banana and stared at the wall across from him. A large piece of cork had been placed over the tile about a decade before. It was continuously covered—all of the artwork, stories, school reports and awards that they had once attempted to keep on the refrigerator door had shifted to this new, larger space. These days, there were several sophisticated sketches, three awards (two for academics and a rowing medal—gold), a recent acceptance letter from Trinity College, Cambridge and a postcard from Canada.
John’s phone rang. He pulled it out of the pocket of his dressing gown and checked the number, eyes immediately rolling.
“Yeah, hello, Harry.”
“Johnny! Happy Anniversary!”
“Thanks. Not for another two days, though.”
“Don’t be so pedantic. How’s the ol’ ball and chain, anyway?”
“Fine. Sherlock’s fine.”
“Well, tell him congrats from me. God knows how he puts up with you, but he’s done it. What are you planning to celebrate?”
“We—we haven’t really talked about it.” John shifted in his seat. He’d tried bringing it up a few months back, but Sherlock had brushed him off, saying it was too soon to discuss it.
“You haven’t? Bit odd, isn’t it? You two are usually nauseatingly romantic about this sort of thing.”
“Oh, it’s—we—we’ll do something, obviously. Just…Sherlock’s been busy with a case and with Lestrade’s retirement, there’s only one Yarder he really enjoys working with. Makes it a bit tougher for him.”
“Maybe he should stick to giving lectures or something. Or write books.”
John chuckled. He hadn’t actually told anyone that he was working on a book about their work—an extension of his blog, with a little more narrative flair. Sherlock had been very clear on his feelings about it.
“I’m sure he’d hate that.”
“He’s got to start thinking about it. I mean, he’s only 52, but you’re—”
“56. Hardly even considered middle-aged these days.”
Harry snorted into the phone. “Come on! You two are getting a bit long in the tooth for running around after criminals. I’m sure the coppers would rather you stayed out of the way. You putting yourselves in danger probably makes more work for them than your ‘help’ prevents.”
John tamped down on the instinctive flare of anger that his sister inevitably aroused. He wouldn’t take the bait—if he tried to defend Sherlock’s reputation, Harry would simply use it to springboard into a conversation about John’s usefulness to his genius husband: “Wouldn’t you be better off sticking to what you know? Flu shots and foot fungus these days, isn’t it, Johnny?”
“Is there something you wanted?”
There was a pause (which John chose to interpret as irritation). Finally Harry sighed. “I’m celebrating an anniversary of my own next month—ten years sober. Just thought I would let you know that Min and I are having a little party. You two are welcome, of course.”
“I’ll talk to Sherlock about it.”
“Like you talked to him about your anniversary?”
“Harry…” John growled.
“Oh, lighten up. I’ll send you an invite. Take care, big brother.”
The call ended and John stared at it in his hand. It never failed—just like their father had done, Harry had a gift for making John feel small and insignificant. And a failure. Always that.
The door downstairs slammed and John got to his feet. He knew the sound of Sherlock’s footsteps well enough by now. He was surprised, and a bit relieved, that his husband had not spent all day at the lab.
Sherlock burst through the door to the sitting room, his long grey wool coat swirling around him. He was as graceful and elegant as he had ever been—lean, restless, energetic. A force of nature.
“Morning,” John said amiably, stopping in the doorway from the kitchen.
“Oh, good morning. You’re up early today.” Sherlock did not look up from where he was digging for something in one of the piles on his desk. In the twenty years John had known the man, he had never developed any affinity for neatness.
“Something important?”
“Hmmm? Oh, well, I went to over to centrifuge some samples, but they’ve got some new equipment. It’s related to that new genetics technology Molly and I went to learn about last month. Revolutionary. I wanted to go back to that unsolved mutilation case from last year and see if this might provide some insight.”
“Ah. So…”
“Oh, and this was in the post.”
Sherlock stepped away from the desk and pulled something from his pocket. He moved close enough to reach out and hand it to John, but not close enough for a good morning kiss. Not that John needed one. Course not. They were fine without that kind of thing these days.
John took the postcard and turned it over. “Niagara Falls.”
“Yup. Says she’s heading out west next. Her friend Nira wants to see the plains.”
John glanced over the new missive from their daughter. He could almost hear the breathless description of the enormous waterfall in Rosie’s voice. He smiled to himself.
“She’s having fun.”
“You sound disappointed.”
“No, no. I’m not. It’s just—well, I hate her being away, is all. It’ll be nice when she’s back home.”
Sherlock gave him a hard look. “You’re the one who convinced her to take a gap year. She was prepared to go straight on to university, but you said she should have some fun, see the world.”
John sighed, and dropped into his new reclining chair. “I know. And I meant it. It’s good for her. She’s a serious little thing, and she’s been raised by two workaholics. God knows she could use some perspective.”
Sherlock sat at his desk and swivelled to stare at John. “There is nothing wrong with focusing on work.”
“I know that, but…well, she’s such a tender-hearted creature. She is—thank god—nothing like her mother. I think she’s got the best bits of you and I. But she wants so badly to make us happy that I worry she’ll chose a life she doesn’t really want.”
“Is this about Cambridge again?” Sherlock’s voice took on a sharp edge.
“No, no. GOD no. I am not resurrecting that argument. Rosie was free to apply anywhere she liked. Her grades were great—perhaps not as great as yours would have been—but she also had her volunteer work and sport going for her. I knew it was likely she would get in somewhere like that. I just—she’s not like us, Sherlock. She’s…ordinary.”
“She is not.”
“She is.” John stood and walked the few steps that separated them. He placed a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. “She works very hard and no one could ever call her stupid. But she is not like you—she doesn’t have that kind of cleverness. And she is not as restless as I am. She doesn’t need adrenaline. She hates it, actually.”
“She’s always been happy,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully. He was ignoring John’s hand slipping between the strands of his salt-and-pepper hair. It was still curly, though considerably less fussy than it used to be. Less product, too, which John enjoyed.
“Oh, she loves us. Desperately. And she wants us to be proud of her. But she has no interest in the strange sort of life that we lead. She likes going to parties and spending time with friends. She wants to be an artist.”
“She’s very talented,” Sherlock agreed.
“She’ll read Classics or something, and she’ll do well. And she’ll probably win more medals for rowing. But in the end, she wants to live in a small village somewhere—in a cottage—painting and drawing and spending time with someone she loves.”
Sherlock was quiet as he continued to shuffle through the mess in front of him.
“You know,” John began cautiously, “it’s our anniversary coming up. Two days time.”
Sherlock made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat.
“I thought maybe we could take a mini-break somewhere? I know they’ve closed travel to Spain again, but France is nice this time of year. Or we could just do a little hotel up in the Lake Distri—”
John jumped back as Sherlock rose abruptly and made for the door.
“We can talk about it later.”
“But Sherlock…”
“Won’t be in for supper, so don’t wait anything for me.”
“Sherlock!”
“Sorry—got to dash. Bye!”
John stared after his husband, mouth agape and a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
There was no denying it: something was terribly wrong.