Chapter Text
When the air is calm, smoke rises vertically.
It practically never does, though, no matter how calm and hateful and tedious the world intends to be. Sherlock knows this, because he smokes a lot when he’s waiting and he always, always watches the smoke rise.
He’s waiting a lot, these days.
Operator six-five-zero is fatally shot on a Wednesday afternoon. One shot in the chest. Immediate, irreparable damage to the right ventricle. Internal blood loss above critical. She is dead before her body hits the ground. As is her unborn daughter, because nature is pitiless this way.
Sherlock finds himself moved by it. This is uncharacteristic and not entirely understandable, since Sherlock Holmes does not grieve for people.
Mycroft calls first. He explains what's happened. After that, he explains what’s really happened and what kinds of arrangements have been made.
John calls second. He doesn’t sob or choke or cry. He sounds tired and like he isn’t really surprised by it all which is somehow worse. Sherlock hangs up with a sour taste in his mouth and wishes John had just shouted at him. Then he moves his armchair to the window and chain smokes, watches the smoke swirl and vanish in the dim late afternoon sunlight, wonders if there’s a way not to mourn a woman he’s not sure he ever actually knew.
Sherlock does his best not to feel anything for two hours, then it gets kind of boring and pointless. He lets his heart hurt for a while, clutches a hand to his chest and waits for the pain to go away. He’s supposed to feel something about the woman who and shot him and was his friend and carried the child he never met, he’s sure of it. Grieving is obligatory. A Pavlovian reaction. The inevitable result of thirty-eight and a half years of conditioning done by a society that fears death and idolizes the dead. It’s not important.
It’s not sentiment either, Sherlock decides, and takes a particularly forceful pull on his cigarette.
It occurs to him that John suffers more, after a while. John always does. One shouldn’t underestimate John’s inability to deal with loss. This time, he hasn’t merely lost a friend, of course. His wife and his child are dead. His family. The people he’s most devoted to. That must surely be a new level of loss to deal with.
John suffers, he definitely does, which worries Sherlock. Because that’s how it is. John is always Sherlock’s second thought, and sometimes his first, and he’s always the thought that stays when everything else doesn’t matter anymore.
Maybe, Sherlock contemplates, what he’s feeling is not just grief. It’s empathy, which is even more hateful.
Sherlock wonders if he has any responsibilities, as the best friend of a recently widowed man. He doesn’t, as it turns out. John doesn’t want anything from him. He doesn’t even want to see him. He doesn’t want consolation, and, as he informs Sherlock dryly during a particularly painful phone call, he doesn’t want pity either and needs to be left in peace. Sherlock wouldn’t have offered pity in the first place, of course. Not even if John had asked for it. Then again, he most certainly wouldn’t have offered peace. Sherlock Holmes is not a peaceful man.
Sherlock figures the loss of his wife and unborn daughter is going to change John. He wonders if there’ll be another wrinkle on his forehead. If one of the seven and a half laugh lines next to his right eye will have vanished when he sees him again. If his jaw is clenched and skin is pale, if his hair is greying more rapidly than usual, now that he’s in so much pain. If he’ll ever step into an empty nursery and close his eyes and clutch a hand to his chest. If he will cry at night, if he’ll roll onto his stomach to muffle his sobs when he’s alone in a too large bed with too cold sheets.
Sherlock doesn’t find out. They don’t talk about those things. John never visits. John only ever calls.
The funeral is annoyingly colourful. There are sunflowers, because they were Mary’s favourites, and yellow roses, because they simply match. The sun shines down on them ironically and bathes John’s expressionless face in soft colours. Sherlock observes him out of the corner of his eye as he stands next to him, hands clasped in supplication to a god who doesn’t exist.
John looks pale and tired and entirely emotionless. His self-control doesn’t falter for a moment. He doesn’t shed a single tear. Nor does Sherlock, but then, crying is definitely not on his agenda.
The priest talks about the kind-hearted woman Mary was. The loving wife. A woman who made friends easily. Who loved her job and was so good at caring for other people. Who would have been a wonderful mother. Friendly, generous, simply a good person. It’s oddly fascinating. Sherlock realises that he never actually got to understand the person behind the facade. Now it’s too late for that, and Sherlock doesn’t really mind. He supposes that’s something he should feel guilty about.
Everything the priest says might be true in a way, of course, except that Mary was not a good person. Just like Sherlock. It didn’t matter though, that neither of them was good, because John was good enough for both of them.
Actually, that’s not quite true, he contemplates as he rolls his eyes and hands Mrs Hudson who’s crying next to him another tissue. John was good enough for Mary. John’s always been too good for him.
Nobody talks about the baby. Sherlock figures there’s not much to say about a person who never had a chance to become.
People seem to agree that it was a horrible accident. A stray bullet. Nobody would have been able to foresee it. Wrong time, wrong place. What a tragedy.
Elderly ladies keep patting John on the shoulder. Sherlock stands back and watches, ignores the accusing glances people shoot him as he smokes, watches John’s mouth curl into a bitter smile when someone assures him that he couldn’t have done anything.
At least John knows it’s not his fault, Sherlock thinks. John blaming himself for things that cause him pain is an exceedingly unpleasant thing to witness.
When it’s over, everyone seems very eager to leave the cemetery, the flowers, the grief and the half-heartedly forced compassion. Sherlock begins to understand why funerals make people’s stomachs turn.
He is the only one left, after an hour or two. Apart from John, of course.
John is facing the grave stone, the second one with Mary’s name on it, hands clasped behind his back, jaw clenched, that vacant expression on his face that is starting to frighten Sherlock more than a bit.
Sherlock experiences this very odd sensation John sometimes evokes in him when he looks small and broken and storm-tossed in the light air of a late spring afternoon. He doesn’t want John to look so uncharacteristically fragile. Someone should stand behind him, probably, put his arms around him, offer a safe, warm weight to lean into. Maybe Sherlock should do this, because there’s no one else around.
Sherlock can’t do this, of course. John wouldn’t appreciate that. It’s a pointless train of thought, nothing else.
They don’t talk, that day. Not a single word. Inexplicably, there’s nothing to talk about whenever it’s about Mary. There never is.
Sherlock turns his coat collar up and walks away, leaving John behind at the grave of his wife because he figures that’s where John wants to be alone.
He goes home and continues his increasingly agonizing waiting, even thought he isn’t entirely sure what he is waiting for.
Sherlock isn’t really surprised that they don’t see each other for two more months. Sherlock’s used to this by now. They’re not nearly as close as they once were. Marriage does change people, after all.
When John finally comes, he arrives without a suitcase, which is not what Sherlock expected.
He paces on the pavement for nearly five minutes. Sherlock watches him through the curtains. His silhouette walks up and down, hesitates, continues walking, reaches for the door bell.
Mrs Hudson opens the door, hugs John briefly, coos about the creases on his shirt and the weight he’s lost. John doesn’t act irritated or unapproachable, which is a bit of a surprise. Sherlock hears meaningless chatter and Mrs Hudson’s giggles before she shoos John upstairs, listens to the familiar sound of John’s footsteps. His limp has worsened since the funeral. The door creaks and Sherlock doesn’t feel the smallest bit prepared for this.
John has indeed lost weight. Eight and a half pounds, which means he is one and a half pounds lighter than he was on his wedding day. This doesn’t matter, of course. Sherlock just notices because he always does.
John halts in the doorway, clenches his hands, unclenches them again.
Sherlock gives him his best impression of a surprised half-smile. “Hello, John,” he says.
John clears his throat. “Sherlock.”
How apt. His name is the first word John says to him in months and Sherlock feels pleased by the fact. Not that he’d wondered what the first word would be. Not that he’d wished it would be something more than a “hello” or an “alright”. That would have been entirely illogical.
He gestures vaguely at the couch and John sits down, his left foot tapping on the floor (one, two, three – pause - one, two, three) like always when he’s nervous and tries to hide it.
Sherlock walks into the kitchen and makes tea for both of them because he wanted some anyway. John wants his with very little milk and two sugars. Sherlock knows exactly how to make John tea.
They drink in silence. It could probably be described as awkward. Since Sherlock tends to make people feel awkward by just existing, he doesn’t really mind awkward silences. John looks around, lets his gaze wander. He takes in Sherlock’s experiments on the table and the new charts on the wall and Billy the skull who’s temporarily moved onto the coffee table because someone has to watch Sherlock when he’s sulking on the couch. John looks like he actually finds that interesting.
It makes sense that John’s missed 221B more than Sherlock.
“So,” John says, finally, and deposits his cup on the table, “I’m just... I wanted to ask if I... I mean, possibly--“ He closes his eyes, collects his thoughts, opens them again. “Sherlock, I wanted to ask if I could--”
“You want to move back in,” Sherlock states matter-of-factly, because it’s obvious, isn’t it?
John takes a deep breath and smiles the bitter smile he seems to be so fond of lately. “Of course. Of course you’d figure it out before I can even explain it to you.” He buries his face in his hands and sighs.
Sherlock isn’t sure what he’s done wrong.
“Look,” John says, “it’s just—the house is so stupidly big for just one person and... and I hate being alone there, it’s just temporary if you want, I can find something. I just, I feel like I need to sort of... leave it behind. Just – start over. Properly. And I don’t know where else to go.”
Sherlock nods thoughtfully and takes another sip of his tea.
“It’s okay if you’re not alright with this, Sherlock. Just say no if you’d rather I... left.”
Sherlock looks up, genuinely startled. “Why on earth wouldn’t I be alright with it?”
“Well,” John says and smiles a bit more. His smile looks nearly sincere this time. “Letting someone you haven’t talked to in months move back into your flat, it’s... Many people would at least want to think about it.”
Sherlock frowns at him.
“You wouldn’t need time to think, though. Never mind,” John says, with something that sounds awfully like resignation in his voice.
“There’s nothing to think about,” Sherlock says decidedly, “Your room is upstairs. It’s only reasonable for you to be here, too.”
“Reasonable,” John repeats contemplatively. “Yeah. Of course it is.”
Sherlock wonders if it’ll always be like this. If they have forgotten how to talk to each other. He figures it’s theoretically possible for two people who like each other to become what they once were, even after an extended period of estrangement, but then, maintaining relationships with other people has never been his strong suit. He shouldn’t expect too much.
It would be alright if it was like this, though. It doesn’t matter that talking to each other isn’t as effortless as it once was. Having John here, in 221B, where he belongs, is already everything Sherlock could have wished for. He is quite fond of the prospect, really.
“So, I’m moving back in, then,” John declares. To break the silence, presumably.
“You are,” Sherlock agrees and tries not to sound too satisfied about this. Or eager, which would be even worse. Because he is satisfied, indeed. The silence stretches between them.
“I’d better leave,” John decides and rubs his thighs with both hands, as if he’s trying to remove the invisible dust that may have gathered during the barely seven minutes he’s spent here. “For now, that is. I’ll pack. And come back tomorrow. Bring the first few boxes.”
Sherlock remembers the first time John moved in with him, remembers that his possessions fit into a small suitcase and one cardboard box. Sherlock exhales, bites his bottom lip. “You could stay. Today. For dinner.”
John huffs out a laugh. “It’s barely half past two, Sherlock.”
“Oh.”
John stands and Sherlock gets up as well to bring John to the door, because that’s what you do when a visitor wants to leave.
John buttons up his jacket, gives Sherlock a tight smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Wouldn’t count on it,” Sherlock tells him, “Probably won’t be here. I’m busy. Need to see a man about a cockatoo.”
“Of course you do.”
Sherlock sighs as if seeing a man about a cockatoo is a terrible burden.
“Hey,” John says almost jovially (forcedly so, but he tries), “I’m... I’m glad. I’m looking forward to this, you know. I could use a bit of distraction.”
“Is that what I am?” Sherlock asks dryly, very deliberately not looking at him, wondering why his voice has gone so hard, “A distraction?”
John shakes his head in a way that indicates he is equally amused and exasperated. He pauses in the doorway to look up at Sherlock.
“Oh, you really are a distraction,” he murmurs, “in a good way, though.” John smiles, just for a second, and the corner of his mouth twitches like he means it. A moment later, the smile is gone and Sherlock wonders if he’s maybe just making things up.
He watches John’s silhouette through the curtains as he walks away.
They end up seeing the man about the cockatoo together.
John arrives when Sherlock’s just about to leave, which is not a coincidence. John doesn’t need to know this, of course.
“I could use your help,” Sherlock lies, “Cold case. Murderer most probably still on the run. Could be dangerous.”
John doesn’t question any of this. He just leaves his boxes on the floor, pushes them to the wall and follows him. Sherlock gives him the necessary details in the back of their cab and John nods, clears his throat, asks the appropriate questions. It’s almost as if they still do this every day.
It feels a bit like a farce. They’re both trying very hard and they know it.
The cockatoo is extremely peculiar.
The bird has witnessed the murder of its owner’s wife. The owner is convinced the bird knows something, which is quite interesting. The police don’t interrogate animals because the police are stupid, therefore Sherlock is going to talk to a cockatoo.
Turns out the bird is the most reliable witness Sherlock has questioned in months. It doesn’t look all that promising at first, though.
Thomas Bulgner (moderately wealthy novelist and self-proclaimed philosopher, recently widowed, bird enthusiast) leads them into his living room, offers them coffee. They sit down on one of the gigantic, fluffy grey sofas that look oddly out of place in the large, brightly lit room. The furniture is modern, bordering on minimalistic, all arranged carefully around the two frankly enormous sofas. Mr Bulgner himself looks like he’s about to appear in a historical play, wearing a grey three-piece suit and metal-rimmed glasses. There’s a quill pen in his breast pocket and, well, a cockatoo on his shoulder, which Sherlock finds mildly startling at first.
“Her name is Charlene and she only talks when she feels like talking,” Mr Bulgner tells them as he sits down opposite them, pointing at the great white bird on his shoulder that’s eyeing them warily.
“Good morning, Charlene,” Sherlock says formally, although it’s technically already noon.
Charlene narrows her eyes to slits, bends forward on Mr Bulgner’s shoulder and says, “Good morning.”
Sherlock frowns. “Mr Bulgner, you say the bird doesn’t just repeat words, it can-“ he pauses in reaction to the man’s disapproving look and stifles the urge to roll his eyes, “Charlene can use specific words in order to communicate?”
Mr Bulgner nods eagerly. “She absolutely can. Nobody ever believes it, but she understands what’s happened. She knows Cecilia’s been… she knows what’s happened to Cecilia. It changed her completely. She… she grieved for weeks. She barely ate, didn’t talk, just kept asking for Cecilia. Cecilia and Charlene were very close.”
“So,” Sherlock begins, making eye contact with the feathered specimen that’s beginning to look like it wants to eat Sherlock alive, “Charlene, what happened to Cecilia? Tell me about Cecilia.”
He feels more than a little stupid, admittedly, but he’s going to go through this with his best impression of sincerity. John is beginning to look amused, which really doesn’t help.
Charlene nibbles at Mr Bulgner’ earlobe and coos. Mr Bulgner smiles apologetically.
“Cecilia,” Sherlock repeats, “what happened to Cecila in November?”
“Ah, grapefruit,” Charlene crows.
“Grapefruit?” Sherlock repeats, puzzled.
Mr Bulgner shrugs. “Well, she really likes grapefruit. She probably wants some.”
Sherlock snorts, but stubbornly maintains eye contact with the bird. He’s not going to give in. “Cecilia. Who killed Cecilia?”
“Grapefruit.”
“Charlene, concentrate. Who cut Cecilia's thoat?”
“Leo Tolstoy.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Grapefruit.”
“I’m sorry,” Mr Bulgner cuts in. “I think she’s very emotional about this.”
“Yeah, I think so, too,” John remarks flatly. He seems entertained, unlike Sherlock.
They’ve only been here for five and a half minutes and Sherlock is already getting impatient because nobody in this room (which includes both the bird and John) is currently cooperating. “Mr Bulgner,” he says very seriously, “did Charlene call Cecilia by her first name? Was there any kind of nick name? Or anything else she could possibly associate with her? A word? A sentence?”
Mr Bulgner stares at him, somewhat startled.
“Think!” Sherlock orders.
Charlene jumps from Mr Bulgner’s shoulder onto the coffee table in front of them, places herself in front of Sherlock, ruffles her feathers and says, “Grapefruit.”
John fails to hold back a chuckle.
“Oh, for God’s sakes,” grumbles Sherlock, his voice barely audible.
“Grapefruit,” Charlene repeats petulantly.
“Um. Yes. Well. About the nick name.” Mr Bulgner clears his throat. “When we adopted Charlene, the first words we taught her were our names. Naturally. She had troubles pronouncing the word Cecilia, so for the first few months she called her… Lia.”
Charlene’s head turns almost a hundred and eighty degrees in reaction to the last word. She coos loudly.
“I know, darling,” Mr Bulgner murmurs and reaches out to pet the bird lightly.
This looks a lot like progress.
“Focus, Charlene,” Sherlock orders the bird, because someone has to stay on track here. “Lia. Tell me about Lia.”
“Peanut,” Charlene tells him.
“Are you going to keep talking about food?”
“Um,” Mr Bulgner says and clears his throat, “I don’t know. She doesn’t particularly like peanuts.”
Sherlock glares at the cockatoo. He’s far higher up in the hierarchy evolution has established and the cockatoo doesn’t appear to be aware of his superiority. This is unacceptable.
“No,” he tells Charlene decidedly. “We’re talking about Lia. What happened to Lia?”
“Peanut.”
“Lia.”
“Peanut, peanut, peanut, grapefruit. Fuck.”
“Oh,” Mr Bulgner gasps, horrified, “I’m terribly sorry. We had a talk about swearing. She’s sixteen. Teenagers, you know how… well.”
John’s face is turning a quite delectable shade of red as he tries not to laugh. He rubs his forehead and takes a few deep, steadying breaths.
“Is that all you can tell me, Charlene?” Sherlock asks, one more time.
“Peanut.”
“Peanut?”
“Peanut, peanut.”
“You’re tiresome.”
“Oh my god,” John breathes and chokes back a chuckle.
“Cecilia,” Sherlock says.
Charlene tilts her head, glares directly in Sherlock’s eyes and says, “Posh git.”
The dam breaks. John bursts out laughing.
And he continues laughing, until his chest is heaving and his breath is coming in shallow puffs and there’s a sheen of sweat on his red cheeks. Sherlock fails to see why this situation is laughable. He also isn’t sure if he should stop glaring at the bird in order to glare at John.
“Oh,” John gasps out when he has his voice back, still shaking, tears of mirth in the corners of his eyes, “that bird is amazing.”
Mr Bulgner smiles proudly. “Yes, isn’t she?”
Sherlock forgets to focus on the bird for a stupidly long time. He isn’t sure why seeing John laugh for the first time in months makes his chest hurt in such a peculiar way, but then, John has a habit of making Sherlock hurt in peculiar ways.
He’ll figure that out sooner or later.
They leave without a clue, except that “peanut” may be a code word of some sort, as John very helpfully points out.
“Was that a distraction?” Sherlock asks as they walk upstairs and into their flat. He notices that the tips of John’s ears are still red, which is a side effect of laughter. Sherlock finds he quite likes it.
John snorts. “Well, you got insulted by a bird and I have a new story for the blog.”
Sherlock holds the door open for John. “You’re going to update your ridiculous blog again?”
“Of course I will. I mean, it’s part of the game, isn’t it? You, me, the flat, the blog.”
“The case isn’t even solved yet.”
“You’re going to figure it all out, Sherlock. And people are going to love the cockatoo.”
Sherlock grunts in annoyance and turns to hang up his Belstaff. “This bird hates me.”
John huffs out a laugh. “Yes, it does, and it’s the most hilarious thing I’ve ever seen.”
John takes off his jacket, stretches himself contentedly and walks over to the fire place to inspect Sherlock’s case notes on the mantle.
Sherlock sucks in a sharp breath. “You’re planning on writing your blog again. You were thinking about it before you even came here.”
“Probably?”
“So, this,” Sherlock says and gestures at John’s chair opposite his own, “it’s not actually temporary, is it?”
John sighs, rubs his hands together. “Don’t think so,” he murmurs and gazes at his own feet like they’re extremely interesting. “Not if you’re okay with that.”
"I am okay with that."
“Good.”
“Mmh.”
John kicks off his shoes, lets himself fall into his chair and sighs. He reaches for his laptop that’s already on the coffee table and begins to compose the first blog post in over six months. He types with three fingers (left index and middle finger, right index finger), because that’s how John always types, unbearably slow. He’s frowning. The corners of his mouth are twitching and once or twice he involuntarily curls his toes as he concentrates hard. Sherlock watches him, fascinated, because John is struggling with something that’s mind-numbingly simple and only holds importance when John does it.
It’s astonishing how one single day can change things.
John catches Sherlock staring. “Something wrong?” he asks and stops typing.
“Nothing,” Sherlock says. He walks towards the window, lights a cigarette and watches the smoke rise, swirl, vanish.
And all of a sudden he knows exactly what he’s been waiting for.