Archive of Our Own

“You know, even I could tell that it was the sister”, John said after the cab’s doors closed behind him.

Sherlock gave nothing more than a noncommittal grunt in reply. Not exactly uncharacteristic for him, especially after a case turned out to be disappointingly easy to solve, but this one – no, something was off about today. They had spent the past five hours on the most obvious case John had ever encountered since he had begun working with Sherlock– woman in her late twenties, found dead at the bottom of the stairs in her sister’s flat by said sister’s boyfriend, wearing nothing but a man’s shirt. Sister missing.

“I mean, even Anderson-“

“Anderson jumped to a conclusion, John, as always.” Sherlock cut him off, irked enough about the mention of Anderson to deign to answer John.” Miraculously enough, this one turned out to be correct.” Despite his harsh correction at the mention of his least-tolerated colleague, Sherlock’s face had remained rather impassive. His eyes were lazily flickering through the car, as though categorising the visual input.

John wouldn’t be deterred though: “Yes, because it was bloody obvious.”

“Should we trust Anderson on the next one then, if he considers it obvious”, Sherlock scoffed through gritted teeth, still refusing to acknowledge that the case truly had been obvious. The intensity with which he seemed to be eying the stuffed toy (and what even was that supposed to be?) that was swinging from the mirror seemed to be quite overdone. John had rather had enough of his stubborn refusal to admit to – well, whatever he was pulling.

“Stop being ridiculous and tell me what’s going on with you”, he chastised. “I figured out it was the sister after five minutes at the crime scene. I deduced it.”

Sherlock’s eyes flitted over to him before he turned them out of the window. His lips pressed together for a moment and he let out a breath, slow, controlled, through his nose. A tell, most definitely. Agitated. Annoyed? Or embarrassed? No, John didn’t buy it for a second that it had truly taken Sherlock five hours to figure out the murder.

“How, pray tell, did you deduce it then?” His voice was cold with disinterest, but a quick flash of his eyes in John’s direction were enough to prompt his answer.

“Well, where do I start? The fact that the boyfriend was inconsolable but at the same time awfully jumpy might have tipped me off. But that’s jumping to conclusions, isn’t it?” He rolled his eyes at the miniscule, utterly stiff nod he received in response. Sherlock would still not meet his eyes. Fine, if the man wanted to play it this way. “The men’s shirt the victim was wearing, about his size I’d say, dirtied on the left hand. She wasn’t left-handed, going by the ink smudges on her right hand, but her sister’s boyfriend is – his left sleeve showed the same signs of use as the one she had on. Likely then that she’s wearing his shirt. She and her sister have the same size, why would she choose to wear something of her sister’s boyfriend instead when staying over? Why wear only the shirt when she knew he’d be home from work soon? Quite unusual to be that comfortable with a sibling’s partner. Affair then. Sister was supposed to be out of town, they probably planned to shag all weekend long, that’s why she didn’t bother getting dressed. Then there’s the small detail of the still-packed carry-on sitting in the hallway, not hers seeing as her stuff is all over her sister’s bedroom. Really, Sherlock, do you need me to go on?”

The familiar wrinkle between Sherlock’s eyes had appeared halfway through John’s deductions and hadn’t left since. If anything, it deepened at his obviously rhetorical question. Hardly surprising, Sherlock hated to be the one being told how things were. He was the one who saw through everything. Well, usually.

“Brilliant, John”, he finally came up with in response. It wasn’t the sarcastic drawl John would have expected when imagining Sherlock saying these words to him. Instead it was…a pathetic excuse for enthusiasm. John watched on with something akin to amusement (or it would have been, if he weren’t so irritated about whatever farce it was Sherlock was pulling here) as the most brilliant detective in the world gritted his teeth and continued to flatter him: “Really, you must pay more attention than I give you credit for. What an embarrassment that you-“

“Sherlock.”

“-managed to deduce-“

“Sherlock.”

“-I mean really, you beat me, John. I’m impressed, really im-“

“DAMN IT, Sherlock, come off it. This is ridiculous”, John barked, just as the cab came to a stop. He was too busy scolding Sherlock, though, to pay attention to how short the drive had seemed.

“No idea what you mean, John”, the detective quipped before sliding out of the cab with a flap of his coat, predictably leaving John to pay their fare, “you need to learn how to take a compliment.” His smug tone grated on John’s nerves. As he paid their driver the surprisingly small fare he was already composing the rest of his rant. Only when he stepped out of the car, he was not faced with their front door but – a pub? Yes indeed, he found himself standing on a rather busy London street in front of a pub that looked just run down enough to be appealing to the after-work crowd.

“What – Sherlock, where the hell are we?”

He received a full body eye-roll, a move most likely trademarked by the Holmes boys. Frustrating, but not nearly as much as when they opened their mouth.

“I see you’ve exhausted the extent of your observational skills for the day, and on a hideously simple case too”, Sherlock smirked, obvious in his enjoyment of needling his partner, “a bit embarrassing, John. This is a pub, by the way, as you seem to need the clarification.”

Case in point. Either of the Holmes boys opening their mouth exceeded the eyeroll’s effects by far.

“Yes, I can see that”, John almost growled. “But why are we here?”

“Because I invited you guys out”, said a gruff voice from behind John. He turned to find Greg coming towards them, Molly close behind him. It seemed they’d arrived together.
“Thought I’d buy you lot a drink for the time you wasted on my crime scene today. Not the Saturday you imagined, I’m sure.”

That was true, it had not been the Saturday he had imagined. But certainly not because he had spent it at a crime scene, that much was par for the course. It had been unexpected because they had spent it at this particular crime scene, a hideously simple one, as Sherlock had just admitted. One that Lestrade normally wouldn’t have even called them to. Seriously, he wasn’t sure it would rate even a one on Sherlock’s scale, let alone the seven it required to get him out of the damn house.

“Right”, he said, squinting. “And Molly is here because…?”

“Don’t be rude, John.” And to be told that by Sherlock of all things was utterly infuriating! “Molly is here because she’s our good friend and Greg and I thought it would be nice to invite her.”

Right.
There were several – several – things wrong here:
1) Sherlock lecturing him on being rude.
2) Sherlock agreeing to impromptu after work drinks. To socialising.
3) Voluntarily.
4) Without John threatening physical harm if he doesn’t go.
5) Molly appearing at the – supposedly – impromptu afterwork drinks.
6) Sherlock apparently playing an active part in planning this.
7) “Greg and I thought”.
8) Greg!

John wasn’t sure how he still had any vision, as he was glaring so hard at his friends his eyes were almost shut. It was no wonder he had gotten so many more wrinkles around his eyes ever since meeting Sherlock. Granted, a lot of them were from the laughter they’d shared over the years. Even more were from grief, but he preferred not to think of all the reasons he’d had to grief in the past few years.

“And we”, he growled, “are here why, exactly?”

Sherlock painted the picture of innocence as he answered, ever so glibly: “I thought you’d enjoy a night out with friends. Mrs Hudson still has Rosie, we might as well make use of the free evening.”

It might have worked, if John couldn’t see Greg facepalming out of the corner of his eye. Molly was staring at her feet as if trying very hard not to give anything away. Really, none of them were good actors. Something was going on and all three of them were in on it.

“Listen-“, John let out a sigh, not quite sure how to go on. It was, after all, only a pub. What could be so nefarious about it? Christ, normally he’d happily go for drinks after a case, especially with the three people he was here with right now. But normally he would have made that decision, not his self-proclaimed sociopath of a best friend who seemed to avoid friendly human interaction at almost any cost if it didn’t directly benefit him. Normally Greg would have asked him because the natural answer out of Sherlock’s mouth should, by any standard, have been a resounding “no” (and that was on a good day). Instead he had been taken here without further knowledge (not really that shocking, after years of interacting with the Holmes’s) for an entirely trivial, friendly night out.

“Just tell me what’s going on, will you?” His eyes were on Sherlock even though he didn’t expect to get a straight answer from him. Sherlock could be ridiculously stubborn in his ploys, even after having been caught out in an obvious lie. No surprise then that it was Molly who answered instead.

“We haven’t seen you outside of cases for months, John”, she said, softly. “Really, not since…”, she blushed, her eyes going to Sherlock, then quickly back to John. Right, a tad awkward, that. John didn’t think she and Sherlock ever properly talked out the forced love confession on the phone. Certainly not during the few brief times she’d been to Baker Street since – and there hadn’t been many, probably for this very reason. She caught herself and managed to finish, as graciously as one could with a blush high on one’s cheeks:

“Not since you moved back to Baker Street.”

“She’s right, mate”, Lestrade chimed in. “I see you at crime scenes and then you two run off. Haven’t even seen the little one in a whole month.”

That was true. After settling back into Baker Street, he hadn’t done much else than take care of Rosie, go to work and maybe on the occasional Tesco run, and follow Sherlock to crime scenes. Except for his flatmate and daughter, Mrs Hudson was the only person he regularly saw outside of work.

“I suppose I was just getting used to-“

“We know!”, Molly was quick to interject. “And we understand, John, really. With all that’s happened… It’s just been a while and we missed you. Right, Greg?”

“Uh, right”, the man said, grimacing at the sharp elbow that had just dug itself into his side rather unsubtly.

“Right”, echoed John. An awkward silence settled over the group as they seemed to wait for their next cue. Around them the street was filling up, the early evening pub crowd making their way to their usual haunches. It was an odd mix of patrons that were filing into the pub’s entrance, men in suits almost as fancy as Sherlock’s and Uni students in ratty sweatshirts alike.

“We should…go in then?”, he hedged, unsure what they were waiting for exactly.

“Brilliant idea, John, really”, Sherlock quipped, “You’re on a roll tonight, aren’t you?”

“Oh, shut up, you great arse. There’s no way you didn’t figure out that murder the second you set foot on the crime scene and we both know it”, he grumbled at his best friend as he followed his tall figure through the crowd. As much as it irked him, Sherlock was much better at making his way through large groups of people and, if he was honest with himself, he had long since gotten used to following behind. They pushed through the businessmen and students quickly, Sherlock striding along with purpose.

“But John, look at you, you’ve even realised that I knew! One more deduction and I may need to give up that stupid hat to you”, his tone was still that of, horribly false, enthusiasm but John caught the corner of his mouth pulling up ever so slightly as Sherlock turned to wink at him. It didn’t slow him down in the least.

“Don’t try getting rid of the hat now, you’d cause an uproar”, he shot back and slid into the booth Sherlock pointed him to. It had a handwritten “reserved” sign sitting on the table that Sherlock pocketed nonchalantly. John decided to ignore it but silently vowed to make Sherlock deal with whoever may turn up to claim their reservation later. If he was forced into whatever this was going to end up being, he’d very much refuse to play mediator in his friend’s petty squabbles.

“Oh, this is lucky”, Molly exclaimed when she had finally managed to get through the crowd, her scarf trailing behind her. “I thought we’d have to wait for a table!” Behind her, Sherlock winked at John conspiratorially. What a madman.

…

It turned out to be nice, sitting with friends and chatting over a pint. John only realised now how much he had missed being out for his own sake rather than out of obligations, even if they were enjoyable obligations. He enjoyed listening to Molly talk about the new boyfriend and to Sherlock’s cynical comments on his sexuality (“Not gay, Sherlock!”) and career (“There’s really nothing wrong with being a dentist.”). They talked at length about Rosie and how she had developed a sudden but violent aversion to spinach that had, rather hilariously, manifested itself on one of Sherlock’s best dress shirts. Its particular shade of warm brown had clashed wonderfully with the green of spinach-and-baby-spit.

It was nice. At least it had been until Greg awkwardly cleared his throat.

“So, John…anything else going on with you?”, he asked with a wince that clearly showed that he was aware of how forced he sounded. The skin around his eyes seemed to, at the same time, pull taught and wrinkle even more than usual.

“Not…really?” It was an honest answer to a seemingly innocent question, but he couldn’t help but mistrust this whole scenario. He could feel himself squinting again.

“No uh…dates, maybe?”, Greg hedged.

Hold on.

Very slowly, John let his gaze wander from Lestrade, to Molly, to Sherlock. All in various stages of acting politely interested, with mixed results. (Sherlock really couldn’t act for shit and John would never understand how it still seemed to work on people.) He squinted harder.

“No dates, no.”

Greg cleared his throat once more. The awkwardness seemed to cling to him like a blanket. “Uh, you planning to, then?”

“To what?” His suspicion was growing by the second.

“Date.”

John briefly wondered whether he should have accepted the anti-aging eye cream Mrs Hudson had offered him last week. He’d been a little offended then, but now he was beginning to think he might need all the help he could get.

“Why?”, he asked, deliberately obtuse. Silence enveloped them again during which a group of women could be heard cheering on the bride-to-be in their midst as she downed a shot of violently red liquid over at a table to their left. Sherlock sent a glare their way and ignored John’s question, possibly their entire conversation. Then again, the detective had deliberately lied to him to keep him at a crime scene until evening and then, out of his own motivation, dragged him out to a pub. How likely, then, was it that he was not listening to every word spoken on what clearly was the topic they had planned this whole night around?

“Ah”, Molly pulled him back from his thoughts, “we were just…wondering.”

John raised an eyebrow at that. He may be slowly morphing into Sherlock with the amount of body language he’d adopted from him.

“We were- it- we were maybe a bit worried?”, Molly now said in a small voice that was almost too quiet to hear over the pub’s noise level. She looked worried, too, in that mousy way of hers that she hid her determination and strength behind.

“You were worried,” he echoed, a habit Sherlock had long been trying to rid him of, without much success. “About what, exactly?”

Greg spoke up this time, his pain at the intimate topic obvious in the grim set of his mouth: “Listen, mate, I get it. It’s hard getting back in the game after. God knows I struggled, still am to be honest-“, a snort from Sherlock interrupted him, “yeah alright, you can shut it right now, this was your idea!” This had been whose idea? Sherlock Holmes’s?! Despite what John imagined must have been a completely shell-shocked look on his face, Greg continued: “Anyway, John – I know that this is weird. It was hard after my divorce and I can only imagine…I can only imagine how hard it must be to move on after…after losing Mary like that. But you need to eventually. It’s only for the best.”

“Rosie-…”

“Rosie will be around for at least another 16 years. I’ve been in your shoes, I’ve made the same excuses. They’re just that, excuses.”

“And Rosie is safely with Mrs Hudson right now, John. No need to be worried at all”, Sherlock added helpfully.

“Yes, but she won’t always be.” It was quite a reasonable objection, John thought.

“All of us around this table are happy to help you out. I understand you don’t quite trust me with her-“

Wait, what now?

“Bollocks!”

“-I do understand, but even if we’re counting me out, Molly and Lestrade are two perfectly safe and acceptable options for a babysitter.”

“Will you shut up?”, John burst out, “I have never said I don’t trust you with Rosie-“

“I’m quite sure you have, you specifically relayed to me that you would ‘rather have anyone else than me’-“

“Those were extenuating circumstances, which you very well know. My wife had just died-“

“-because of me-“

“for you, to save your damn life, not the same thing, we’ve been through this,” he stressed, leaning over the table towards Sherlock.

“Regardless, I understand if you-“

“You obviously don’t understand anything, you daft git”, John interrupted him again, “because what I’m telling you is that I trust you with my life and, yes, with my daughter’s life as well.”

Time seemed to freeze while they were staring at each other, unmoving. John was determined to win this argument, if not for his own sake then for Sherlock’s. It simply wouldn’t do that his best friend, the most important person to him beside his daughter, believed that he was not trusted. Eventually, Sherlock averted his eyes.

“Well that’s…good, I suppose.” The detective cleared his throat, a blush faint on his cheeks. John watched his Adam’s apple bob as he swallowed a large gulp of his beer, which they all knew he detested. After that, he seemed to have regained his momentum: “Actually, that’s very good, John. It puts you back to four eligible babysitters to watch over Rosie so you can reanimate your lovelife.”

“Who even says I want that?”

Sherlock gave a snort at that. “Please, don’t be ridiculous. You’ve never been without a girlfriend for longer than a month since I met you. You’re three-continents-Watson.”

Out of the corner of his eye, John could see Greg nod into his close to drained pint.

Molly added: “It doesn’t even have to be a date, John.”

And wasn’t that just preposterous?

“I will not be one of those single fathers who leave their child home with a babysitter just so he can get his fucking dick wet, thank you very much! I am not that desperate!”, he fumed. This time it was John avoiding Sherlock’s gaze by all means, but he could almost physically feel his stare on his burning face. After all, Sherlock was the only one who knew that John had almost done just that, except with his wife taking care of their daughter while he was texting another women out of sheer boredom with his life.

At this point, Molly was red as a tomato. “It doesn’t have to be sex either. Just…flirt a little, maybe. Find someone attractive, have a chat. Embrace the possibility of something happening.”

And, really?

“That sounds like a load of horse shit.”

Lestrade, encouraged by the last dregs of his beer, chimed in: “No really, Molly’s right. If you don’t want a date or even a one-night stand, what’ve you got to lose? Tell you what, you go for the prettiest bird in this entire shithole of a pub, buy her a drink, get her number and then go home.”

“Don’t call women birds, Lestrade, you’re only embarrassing yourself”, drawled Sherlock, brows drawn together in annoyance. With a look at John he added: “He does make a decent point, though, John. You have nothing to lose and everything to gain.”

John took a drink of his pint. The annoyance he felt for this entire conversation was like an itch under his skin, one he couldn’t possibly rid himself of. He truly wanted nothing less than to follow his friends’ advice.

“And if I don’t want anything from it, why even do it? What’s the point? Can’t I just have a couple pints with my friends and then go home to my daughter, is that such a crime?”

“Please, don’t be so dramatic, John. Of course you can do that.” Sherlock had returned to avoiding John’s eyes, but his keen attention on the doctor was still evident.

“So you will leave me alone, then?”, John prompted.

“Absolutely not”, Sherlock scoffed, as if the idea itself was ridiculous.

Greg tried, and failed, to suppress a snort. Even Molly was hiding a smile behind her still almost full pint.

“Damn it, Sherlock,” he huffed. “Why? What’s it to you?”

“’Do something while there’s still a chance, because that chance doesn’t last forever. Trust me, Sherlock, it’s gone before you know it, before you know it’ – sound familiar?”

And that, that right there, was a low blow. Something he’d said in grief (guilt) and regrets (though not the right ones) in a desperate attempt to salvage – something. What he
wasn’t even sure anymore.

But Sherlock went on, without even acknowledging any and all reactions from John: “That’s what you said to me, about Irene Adler. And although you were wrong in your deductions, as usual, it is sound advice. Not just about one person, but people in general,” he sucked in a deep breath and squared his shoulders, finally looking John in the eyes,

“You should take the chance to find someone, to not be alone. To enjoy your life and not just sit it out in Baker Street with me. You may trust me with Rosie, but do you really intend to raise her with an erratic, self-absorbed sociopath in a too small flat filled to the brim with body parts and potentially deadly substances?”

Curiously, the answer was yes.

Greg nodded sedately. “We’re not getting younger, John. None of us is, but you’re a dad now and I’m telling you, those little monsters age you ten years in just one. And it gets harder. The longer you wait, the harder it gets.”

Molly moved her hand to pat Greg’s in solidarity, but her eyes were on John. “We’re not saying you should date immediately. Take the time you need to heal, John, but don’t settle for being alone.”

“I’m not-“

“Just one drink, mate”, Greg said. “That’s all we’re asking. Pick the most appealing person in the room, someone you think you could talk to and just try. A drink and a chat with someone you find attractive, nothing more. Then we’ll leave you alone.”

“Seriously?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’ll leave me alone, for good?”

“For three months”, Sherlock conceded. “We’ll try in regular intervals to see if you’re far enough in your healing process to move on yet.”

“Right, of course. Who am I to decide what’s good for me, huh?”

“Quite.”

If he hadn’t had quite so much practice, it would have been a challenge to keep himself from strangling Sherlock in this moment. But he did have practice, so instead of committing murder in the middle of an overcrowded pub with mediocre beer on tap, John took a deep breath.

“Right. Most attractive person in the room, yeah?”

The three of them nodded as one.

“What’s there to lose? Might as well go for it.” Greg again, with everlasting optimism.

“Someone I want to talk to.”

“That’s the idea.” And wasn’t Sherlock just so bloody smug about this?

“Right.”

John got up and walked to the bar with heavy steps, where he made a show of looking around the room. The hen’s party was still in full swing, though the bride seemed to have slowed down at least a bit. The group looked to be in their early thirties, well-dressed but not overly posh. They were pretty, especially one woman with short dark hair and a dark purple dress. It would be easy to go over there with a drink, flirt a little, maybe get her phone number. He’d done it plenty before. But looking at all of them, suddenly, they seemed so young. Unbroken. So…simple. He tried to imagine striking up a conversation with any one of them and came up pathetically empty. How had he approached woman before Mary?

Then again, how had he approached Mary? Suddenly he wasn’t sure, a painful thought that hit him square in the chest. Back then he had been so preoccupied with his grief for Sherlock, he had barely payed attention to the pretty new nurse at the clinic until…until what? He vaguely remembered a first date during which he was pretty sure he’d only spoken of Sherlock. And what then? What had they talked about back then? And after Sherlock had come back? He tried to recall, but all he could come up with was work, the wedding, later on Rosie, whatever danger they had been dealing with at the time and, over and over again, Sherlock.
It was not the first time John was wondering what their marriage really had been. It was a question he’d asked himself repeatedly in those dreadful months after finding out Mary’s true identity. After Christmas, he’d managed to push it away for a while, if only because Sherlock, then Rosie, then once again Sherlock had made their lives much too exhausting (exhilarating) to question much. But at night…in the quiet moments…he had wondered. Wondered who that woman he slept next to was, who fed and bathed and sang to their daughter. Wondered what he saw in her other than-… No. He wouldn’t think that way. Never. Mary may have deserved a lot, but not…not to be thought of as anything less than a person in her own right. (Not to be thought of as a replacement. Or worse, a distraction.)

He shook his head, turned his eyes back to the room. He’d already taken too long, probably looked like an idiot hovering near the bar like this. He had to get on with it. Not the hen’s party, definitely not. Over in the left corner sat a woman in her forties, skinny, blonde hair falling out of what must have been a sleek bun at some point. Silk blouse, pencil skirt. A professional, strong, independent woman. Attractive, certainly. Interesting? Her posture demonstrated disinterest in the room at large, but not inattention. It was familiar to him, a stance he’d see mirrored if he were to look at their table where Sherlock was most certainly bored out of his mind at the moment. The woman shifted in her chair, cold eyes swiping through the room and locking on John’s. Her gaze was intelligent. Another parallel to Sherlock. He was quite sure that she’d manage to hold his attention for a short chat, easily. And yet… The woman raised an eyebrow. Lifted a red wine glass and emptied its contents in one long drag. Over her thin lips sat a beauty mark, moving appealingly when she smiled. She waved the empty glass at John with a look that was on the verge of mocking. She’d be perfect for his task. Attractive, intelligent. Not mind-numbingly boring, probably. Detached enough not to be crushed when he didn’t call her. And yet…

And yet he could not find a single ounce of desire to go over there. Not even to get his friends to shut up about his non-existent love life.

He shook his head at the woman with a guilty little grimace, but she didn’t seem bothered. She just smiled and waved her wine glass at the bartender instead.
John continued his perusal of the room. There were a few more good-looking women around, though some probably were with dates. A few were much too young for him – the thought pained him less than he’d have expected. He was on the wrong side of forty with a baby, no longer had an impressive physique to show for his army career and instead a messed-up shoulder and a psychosomatic limp that came back when he least expected it. Without realising, he was on the path to becoming an old man. It was a surprisingly happy thought. He didn’t want a partner decades younger than him. Christ, he didn’t want to be decades younger again either!
Then one of the women in the pub reminded him, horrifyingly, of his sister and that brought an end to his perusal. He went back through his options. Discarded them one by one. Threw a look towards their table, where Lestrade and Molly appeared to be deep in conversation and Sherlock pretended not to be observing John.

He looked on.

Looked back.

Looked on.

Nobody really interested him. He tried to imagine Mary here, with a scotch on the rocks at one of the filthy wooden tables, grinning at him from across the room. Guilt flushed through him, the pain of loss hot on its heels. But once these feelings were settled – there was no desire to go to her. No desire to talk to her, other than that part of him that oh so desperately wanted to speak to her just one last time, to tell her what he only got to tell his hallucination. To apologize for his actions. To apologize for his inaction when he should have acted, months before Rosie was born when he first realized that he was incredibly bored with their life together and the only thing that kept him with her was a stubborn refusal to lose even the slightest bit of ground to Sherlock. Mary was the one trump he had over him – John may have been oblivious to many things, but he’d always known how deeply it had affected Sherlock to find out that John had – seemingly – moved on. And while he had forgiven him for faking his death, for leaving John behind, he had never quite forgotten. He had wanted to give him a taste of his own medicine and so he had gone through with a wedding and a marriage to a woman who turned out to be a stranger. He had known then, when Sherlock had forced them to spend Christmas at his parents’ cottage, that he would stay with her only because there was no other option that would ever fulfil him. He should have said so, should have broken it up on bloody Christmas Day. When he imagined Mary here now, he wished he could apologize to her for making them both live a lie, for almost letting Rosie grow up with one. But there was nothing else. No wish to make conversation with his late wife.

Suddenly exhaustion seemed to wash over him. He didn’t want to chat up a girl. He didn’t want sex or a relationship with a girl. Right now, all he wanted was to get himself another pint and a plate of chips he could force on Sherlock, who hadn’t eaten anything all day, and maybe listen to him talk about his newest experiment that had burned a hole through the upper shelf in their refrigerator but, apparently, was a success on all other levels. (Though John had mainly considered it a success that it hadn’t burned through the other levels of the refrigerator.) Really, the best thing he could imagine right now would be to listen to that drawling baritone until he fell asleep and wake up to his flatmate softly singing to Rosie in the early morning hours, like he had caught Sherlock doing the past two weeks. He’d denied it, of course, but every morning since, without fail, John had woken up to his singing again. It was nice. He liked it. Not only because it kept his daughter quiet for a little longer and let him sleep in. He liked it because-…

Because it was Sherlock, taking care of Rosie. Because he was singing “Mary had a little lamb” and John knew without a shadow of a doubt that he had purposely chosen the song to give Rosie a tiny little piece of her mother, even if it was only a stupid name in a children’s song. He hadn’t given it much thought at first, not at five in the morning, but it had been glaringly obvious when it happened again the next day, and the next. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective, self-proclaimed sociopath, sang John’s daughter back to sleep with a lullaby that honoured her late mother. He did so despite once upon a time almost dying from a bullet Mary had put in him, despite almost losing his life and freedom in sacrifice for Mary’s, and despite what John had put him through in his blind grief and anger over the loss of his wife. (Over the loss of a life he may not have been happy with, but that had filled the hole he was carrying around with him.)

John liked it because when he woke up to Sherlock’s soft singing and Rosie’s cooing, he woke up to a home where nothing but love surrounded him. And the hole in his chest felt a little smaller.

His eyes wandered back to Sherlock as though he couldn’t help it. The detective was actually conversing with the other two now, though a smug grin was playing around his lips as he looked down on Lestrade. Being an arse as usual, then.

The thought sent a sudden frisson of warmth through John.

However, as he watched their table, he could see Sherlock’s aloofness fade into nothing as soon as the others’ attention moved on from him. The detective looked withdrawn now, almost sad. John felt like he should recognize that look from somewhere, but he couldn’t make up his mind. He was still trying to remember when Sherlock’s eyes suddenly met his. Both of them startled. Through the hazy light of the pub he couldn’t be sure, but he thought he could see Sherlock blushing as his eyes widened. The reaction only lasted for one brief moment before he drew up his defences, lifted an eyebrow and quirked his lips.

‘What are you waiting for, John?’

Usually, that look would have provoked John into proving a point (and doing exactly what Sherlock had wanted in the first place, of course) but somehow it was less potent after…whatever that had just been. Where had he seen that look before?
Before the plane. Sherlock had had this exact look on his face, face even but his eyes dull, pained. As though he knew something bad was about to happen but was saving face for everyone else’s sake. He’d had that look before he shot Magnussen, too. John remember the brief seconds of eye contact before the gunshot had pieced the air. And, if it was even possible to see something so small, he believes to have seen the look on Sherlock’s face before he’d jumped off St. Barts. Not just on the roof though, but even the entire day before. Even on John’s wedding day…that look had been on Sherlock’s face when he told them of Mary’s pregnancy. During their waltz.

John turned around to face the bar. He couldn’t look at Sherlock any longer. Couldn’t look at the teasing, smug grin as he was baiting John to hit on a random woman because in his brilliant but confusing mind that somehow translated to John’s happiness. And what would be more important to Sherlock fucking Holmes than that?

That was what it boiled down to, wasn’t it? Suddenly it seemed glaringly obvious to John. All the big decisions Sherlock had made, all the ones that ended up crippling the both of them beyond compare, had been for John’s benefit alone.

Faking his death so John wouldn’t be shot.

Downplaying his exile so John could pretend he was alive.

Murdering Magnussen in cold blood so John’s wife would be safe.

Putting himself in the hands of a serial killer to pull John from his grief. Christ.

John’s hands were shaking now. His eyes were burning, and the pub suddenly seemed much too loud.

What the hell. What the bloody fucking hell. How had he not realized that Sherlock had tried to die for him, one way or another, over and over again?

But the wedding. How did that fit? Why that face at their wedding. Had he known about Mary then? No. No, they’d talked about that, Sherlock had sworn that he’d never known. And he’d paid the price for discovering the truth with his own near-death by Mary’s hand. What else then? What was he missing?

Sadness. Knowledge of something bad ahead. Pretending for everyone else’s sake (for John’s sake). His wedding. His child. Mary.
Slowly, he turned again to risk a glance at Sherlock. The man had turned away now and had his scarf wrapped around his neck as if he was preparing to go-

-to leave early, like on his wedding.

There was too much going on in John’s head, he felt like he was trying to think through a fog. A man in an ill-fitting grey suit pushed past him, a splash of beer sloshing against his sweater’s sleeve. It did nothing for his concentration. In moments like these he envied Sherlock, who would have surely seen through the mess in seconds. But his stupid, ordinary brain needed to step back a million times and even then, he was still always behind.

Nothing to do about it but take a step back and think though. He pushed away his objective – hitting on a woman he had no interest in whatsoever – and went over what he thought he understood about his best friend’s actions.

Sherlock’s motive, in everything, apparently, was John’s safety. (Was his happiness understood as the same?) He had risked his life and livelihood for that reason. But how did that fit into his and Mary’s wedding? How-

Blushing. Sherlock had blushed when their eyes had met.

Tonight, Sherlock was displaying signs of sadness while encouraging John to approach another relationship. Sherlock had displayed sadness when John married Mary. Even more so when he had told them they were expecting. Just like he had every time he had sacrificed something for John’s safety and happiness so – there had to be a sacrifice here. A reason he was sad in the face of John finding partnership. A sacrifice he’d have to make for John to be with another partner.

Oh.

He chanced another look, and who would have thought, Sherlock had his coat in his lap, ready to pull it on at a moment’s notice. His eyes were on John, but this time he didn’t pull a provocative face. He was watching, quietly, as he sometimes did when John did something particularly interesting to him.

John turned away fast, his stomach in knots. He needed to think about this, to sort his jumbled thoughts. He needed to not jump to conclusions, because surely that’s what this was, a conclusion, a really fucking hare-brained conclusion. Surely Sherlock Holmes didn’t -…

But Sherlock Holmes was about to leave this pub and John knew, he knew, that he couldn’t let him leave. Determined now, he pushed his way through to the bar.

’Do something while there’s still a chance, because that chance doesn’t last forever’. Had it really been him who told Sherlock that? And how fucking ironic, that his attempt to drive Sherlock firmly away from himself so he wouldn’t be tortured with him so close but never attainable because how could John Watson ever be enough, how ironic that this attempt, his words were now firmly lodged in his mind, telling him to take the damn chance this time.

(Had he missed a million chances he never realized were right in front of him?)

“Gin and Tonic, with cucumber and two mint leaves please,“ he croaked at the bartender, hands fumbling with his wallet, “as fast as you can.”

He should think this through longer.

(He didn’t have time.)

He should carefully consider the consequences.

(He had never considered any consequences when it came to Sherlock Holmes.)

He should-

“There you go.” A Gin & Tonic was slammed on the counter in front of him. One of the mint leaves was almost spilled over the rim with the force of it. He threw the bartender a twenty-pound note, muttered a hurried “cheers mate” and turned.

Lestrade, Molly, and Sherlock had their eyes on him now, following his every move. Sherlock was on the edge of his seat, his fingers fiddling with the Bellstaff on his lap. Ready to run, then.

Not tonight, John thought, squared his shoulders and marched towards their table. Their eyes grew bigger the closer he got, Lestrade’s face slowly turning into a frown as he opened his mouth as if to protest John’s return. He did not intend to let him get a word in, instead placed the drink in front of Sherlock and took his seat.

“What- John”, Sherlock said, eyes flickering between John and the Gin & Tonic, made exactly to his preference.

“I bought you a drink”, John interrupted before the detective could get going.

“I can see that.” Sherlock was staring at the drink as if it might contain poison. “But why?”

“Mate, seriously, if you didn’t want to go through with it you could have just-“, began Lestrade, but John cut him off too.

“I did, though.” He took a sip from his now lukewarm beer and tried to tamp down on the grimace he wanted to make at the taste.

His friends stared at him in more silent bafflement. Heart racing, he swallowed once, then again for good measure before he managed to say what he hadn’t thought through at all.

“I bought a drink, didn’t I?”

“For me.” Sherlock remained absolutely baffled, so much so that his usual façade of cold collectedness was nowhere in sight.

“For you.”

“That was not the …”

“Yes it was.”

“John-“

“The most attractive person in the damn pub, right? Someone I want to talk to for more than a minute? Well, there you fucking go.” John was aware he sounded angry now, but he couldn’t help it. He was quite sure his heart had never beaten this fast.

Across from him, Sherlock stared, mouth open.

“John”, Molly said, softly, “we meant someone attractive to you. If there wasn’t anyone, you should have said.”

If he hadn’t been looking straight at Sherlock, John would have missed the tiny flinch he did at her words. But he didn’t miss it and felt hot rage crawl up through his rib cage at the sight.

“There is someone”, he gritted out, eyes not leaving Sherlock’s, “and I bought him a bloody drink. Now I’m chatting at him, but there’s not much feedback.”

The other two were firmly silenced bis this, but it seemed to finally rouse Sherlock.

“You’re not gay.”

“You’re married to your work,” John shot back.

“No, John, you’re not gay !”

“And you turned me down before I could even think of asking you out, you bloody git, and then made yourself the most important person in my life. Before trying to off yourself again and again and again for my bloody fucking happiness.”

Gawping like a fish, Sherlock stammered out: “…you’re…welcome?” He seemed genuinely unsure whether this was an appropriate answer or not. Well, John would have no problem setting him straight on that one.

“Oh no, you don’t get to- I’m not grateful, you bastard. I am, because you made yourself miserable all to make me happy and fuck, I’m glad you care so much, but fuck you, Sherlock, for making all these decisions without me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Of course you don’t understand, you idiot, because you never asked me!” There was a ringing in his ears now, so loud he could almost not hear Sherlock’s reply.

“Asked you what?”

“Anything! Anything, Sherlock, you never ask me anything”, he buried his head in his hands for a second, lost in anger and regret and longing, fuck, there was so much longing.

Sherlock was quiet and his eyes, for the first time, really, were completely and entirely lost. John had seen shades of this, after he’d returned and John hadn’t forgiven immediately, or when his eyes had been glossed over with a high. Never like this though.

“I don’t know what you want me to ask you”, Sherlock breathed. John thought his heart might break. But it had been broken before, so many times, and almost all of them had had to do with the man sitting right in front of him.

“Ask me”, his voice broke and he had to clear his throat before he could continue, “ask me what I want. Just one time, Sherlock, ask me what I want from my life without deciding the answer for yourself.”

“What do you want, then, John?” It was even more quiet than before.

“I want to go home”, he said.

Sherlock nodded, his curls falling into his eyes as he looked down on the table. “Okay.”

“No, I’m not done. I want to go home, with you, to Rosie. I want to put her to bed and then I want to read a bad crime novel while you burn another hole into our fridge or whatever is the next step in your experiment. I want us to go to bed, because you haven’t slept more than three hours a night for God knows how long, and I want to wake up to you singing a ridiculously sentimental song to Rosie.” He had to take a deep breath. “I want our daughter to grow up with a – what did you call yourself? – an erratic, self-absorbed sociopath in a tiny flat with questionable things lying around because that is our home and we are her family and I truly wouldn’t have anyone else but you, Sherlock.”

“I- what, John-“

“I’m not gay and you are married to your work. Neither of us is particularly stable and we’ve hurt each other more than any two people in the world should. But the closest I have ever come to happiness is with you, you prick, so no matter how this plays out, if you would kindly stop trying to remove yourself from my life for what you believe to be the best for me, I’d be really fucking grateful.” His chest was heaving from exertion now, as if he’d run five blocks. It was a feeling he’d long come to associate with Sherlock, the rush of chasing a criminal through the streets, pushing his limits. This was a rush in its own right.

Sherlock looked as though he might cry.

“And if…if there’s any chance…that you want me. I’d like to do something about that. Before it’s too late.”

“I thought it was.”

“What?”

Glassy eyes, lashes sticky with unshed tears, met John’s. “I thought it was too late. I…I didn’t think I had a chance at all.”

“You had me sitting across from you at a candlelight dinner the day we met.”

“Exactly! I had just met you twelve hours ago. You had already tolerated me for an impressively long time, I was counting down the seconds until you’d run,” Sherlock exclaims. His hands settle back on his Belstaff, as if he’d suddenly become aware of their gesticulating.

“But I didn’t run.”

“No, you didn’t. You said you weren’t gay.“

“I’m not.” He wasn’t, but that hardly seemed to matter now.

“-and kept reiterating it, very decidedly, so I considered the topic closed.”

John kept silent for a long time.

“You’re right. I did say that. I meant it, too.” He looks down at his hands. “I wanted to push any thought of you in that context away from me. And when I stopped, you were dead and I hated myself for not taking the chance so I pushed even harder and found myself a fucking instant wife. When you came back I was- so hurt-that you’d leave me behind-“

“I didn’t-“, and this was the first time Sherlock’s voice had gotten back to its usual volume, loud and decisive in protest of John’s words.

“I know. I know that now, but I didn’t then, and I didn’t want to know for a long time after. I didn’t want to forgive you because it hurt. So I kept pushing and I married Mary and you let me, you stood by, Sherlock, you were my best man and you composed a bloody waltz and I thought there truly was never a chance because if you cared for me, how could you ever do that?”

“I do, I do care for you, John. I thought you wanted Mary, I thought you’d be happy-“, Sherlock rambled. His knuckles were now white with how hard he was clawing at his coat’s fabric.

“I know. I do, I know, Sherlock.” He did, but he was so tired. All the courage from moments ago had been exhausted and what was left was faint relief and an almost overwhelming amount of residual pain. “I know you care. But I don’t know how and I- I just want you. In whatever capacity you’re willing to give, I want you with me and Rosie for the rest of my life.”

Sherlock looked at him, silent. And wasn’t that an answer already?

“So…so no more setups, alright?” His heart was clenching, now, and he suddenly just had to get out. He wouldn’t wait until Sherlock found his voice again, couldn’t stand to watch him silently process his words only to then reject the notion that somehow, John may want more than friendship from Sherlock, something he may not, was probably not, prepared to give him. John reached behind himself for his jacket and moved to stand. “I’m…I’m done.” He shrugged on the jacket and, with a quick nod to Molly and Greg, who were staring open-mouthed, made for the exit. He had to shoulder his way through a crowd of business men to get out and, when he had finally made it, the cold London air seemed to hit him like a brick wall – or maybe it was the realization of what he’d just done.

He’d asked his best friend, his flatmate, colleague, his daughter’s (god)father to be his. In a way he hadn’t quite disclosed, as he realised now, but had strongly implied. He really, really should have thought about it longer.
All he wanted was to get home but, as usual, none of the cabs seemed to catch sight of him waving for them. Of course.

“John!” The shout startled him, enough to knock him off balance as he turned to look at a dishevelled Sherlock, in just his dress shirt and a scarf. He would have tipped over, off the curb and into traffic, had the detective not reached him just in time and grabbed his elbow. John expected to be pulled back to his feet, but even when he was upright Sherlock kept pulling.

In the blink of an eye, John felt himself tip forward, against a bony chest and then, as he was still tilting his head up to figure out what the hell Sherlock was doing, he felt lips on his. And just like that his world narrowed down to the man in front of him and to their points of contact. Lips on lips, hand on elbow, chest to chest. For the moment it took John to absorb all this, they were perfectly still. Then, though, he was moving, moving to get closer, also maybe to not use Sherlock to prop him up and instead stand on his own two feet (or maybe the tip of his toes) and finally, finally kiss him.

It was slow and soft, and ever so careful. He couldn’t quite believe that this was happening, that he actually got to do this. As if on their own, his hands moved to Sherlock’s back, scrabbling to curl into the fabric of his shirt. And damn him for wearing such tight shirts, because it was impossible to hold on and John never wanted to let go, could feel panic rise in his stomach at the though of losing this, even while his lips were slowly moving on Sherlock’s. They were bitten, he thought he could taste a faint hint of iron. And then, when tilting his head to gain a better angle, he felt warm wetness touch his cheek. Sherlock…was crying.

John pulled away, hands flying up to Sherlock’s arms to steady the man. What was wrong, whatever could be wrong in this moment that this man, this always composed man, would cry?

Instead of an answer to this question, Sherlock croaked out, voice barely audible: “Everything. I’m willing to give you everything, John.”

The meaning of his words barely registered with him. “What?”

“You said you want me in any capacity I‘m willing to give,” Sherlock reminded him, voice gaining strength once more, though he still sounded hoarse. Tears were still spilling down his cheeks and, God, there was that look, the bottomless sadness John had finally grasped just minutes ago back in that stuffy pub.

“Yes…yes I did.” He had said that, he vaguely recalled, though his brain was foggy once more and all he wanted was to hold and hold and hold Sherlock.

“And I am willing to give you everything.” The sincerity with which Sherlock said it made it sound like an oath. “Anything you want.”

And that, really, was easy right then: “I want you to stop looking like I just broke your heart.”

It was almost worse, the pained smile he received in answer. “You’ve broken my heart a million times, John. But I’m afraid all of them were my own fault.” At this, Sherlock averted his eyes once more. But John wouldn’t let him believe for even a second longer that everything was his fault. He had taken on quite enough already.

“Don’t say that.”

“But it’s true”, Sherlock breathed, “I’ve had my…my hopes dashed and thrown back in my face too many times to quite believe it won’t happen again.”

“It won’t.” John said this with desperate confidence. It wouldn’t. Not after finally getting here, would it?

“I…I killed your wife.” It was painful to watch him reiterate an accusation John had once thrown at him himself. They’d worked through it, but evidently it had stuck with Sherlock.

John shook his head, his eyes closed in what he knew was a grimace of guilt. “I had just as much part in her death as you did, Sherlock. More, even.”

“You weren’t even there,” he protested, flabbergasted at such nonsense.

“No. No, I wasn’t.” He reluctantly let go of one of Sherlock’s arms to pinch the bridge of his nose. “But I made it all too clear to Mary that you were and always will be the…the most important person in my life.”

“I am?” Astonished. His face, his voice, his posture – all of it betrayed exactly how unexpected such an admission came to him.

John rushed out his answer: “Yes. Christ, yes, Sherlock. Nobody is as important to me as you are.”

“Rosie…”

“…is my daughter, she doesn’t count.”

Indignation in his voice, Sherlock retorted: “Of course she counts, John, how could you-“

“Yes, of course she counts, damn it, but she is my daughter and you are Sherlock Holmes and I – I cannot put into words how much you mean to me, but it quite possibly exceeds every sappy love story ever written, including Romeo and Juliet.”

“John, they were thirteen and seventeen, I hardly think our situation is comparable –“

And finally, the sadness seemed to be slipping away, even if it was replaced by scepticism and the special brand of scepticism only Sherlock Holmes could display in the middle of a drawn-out love confession. But what had John expected? (Certainly not this, not the delirious happiness he felt at holding onto the man he is quite sure he had fallen in love with at first deduction. Certainly not that he had kissed him and would, as it seemed get to kiss him again. And there was a thought-)

“Oh will you just shut up and let me kiss you again?”, he said, already moving to do just that.

Their lips were less than an inch apart when suddenly Sherlock blurted: “John!”

Disgruntled, John moved away ever so slightly, squinting at his – oh. At his incredibly irritating, but wonderful partner. “Seriously, Sherlock? What is it?”

“I love you.” His eyes were earnest, this time, not quite free of sadness but…hopeful.

And now it was John who was fighting back tears (and losing).

“Fuck. I love you too, you bloody git.” He sniffled. “Don’t ever try to set me up again though, do you hear me? I won’t forgive you this easily.”

“I hardly think it will be necessary”, Sherlock said and bent down to kiss him again. This time, John could feel him smile against his lips. And for the first time since he’d watched Sherlock Holmes slip through the door of a random lab at St. Barts with the promise of looking at a flat together, the hole in his chest was gone, finally filled by the man who had caused it so many years ago.