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flawedamythystTitle: Skeletons: Chapter Three
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 10,294 words this chapter (60,024 total.)
Summary: Sherlock's refusal to talk about his past hides far more skeletons than John could ever have guessed at.
Halloween-esque AU. Actually a fusion with another (well-known) fandom, but I feel that knowing which in advance spoils some of the story, so putting it behind a cut: The Nightmare Before Christmas. I don't feel it's necessary to have knowledge of that fandom to read this fic.
It should be noted that I have ignored some aspects of canon, particularly S2 canon.
Masterpost: HERE
| Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six |
****
A week later, John woke up in the back of an ambulance with a paramedic bent over him. He groaned.
“Easy,” said the paramedic. “You took a nasty hit there.”
John could have guessed that much himself. The world was spinning and foggy around the edges, nausea rolled through his stomach, and his head felt as if it had been split open. He had vague memories of a plank of wood coming at him and Sherlock calling his name, but everything after that was blackness.
Sherlock. He tried to sit up, but the movement caused an explosion in his head.
“Best to stay still for now,” said the paramedic.
“Sherlock,” managed John. “Is he okay?”
“Oh, he's more than fine.”
John became aware of a commotion outside the ambulance, and heard a familiar voice raised in protest. “I know he's awake. Let me past!”
“Let him in,” he croaked at the paramedic, who hesitated. John could see the thoughts roll through his mind, the same ones he'd have had in his place. He had a patient who needed quiet and calm and a madman who was creating an uproar, it wasn't hard to guess that he didn't want them in the same place.
“If you tell him I need quiet, he'll shut up,” said John. “As long as you let him in.”
The paramedic sighed. “If he gets in the way-”
“Yes, yes,” agreed John. “Just- please.”
It was enough. The paramedic stood up and moved to the back of the ambulance, opening the door to talk to whoever was out there keeping Sherlock back. A minute later, Sherlock climbed in through the door. He fixed his eyes on John with enough strength to tell John how worried he had been.
“Hey,” said John, managing a smile.
Sherlock's look changed to a glare, but he didn't say anything. Obviously, whatever the paramedic had said to him had had the right effect. Instead, he just came and took John's hand and squeezed it tightly, not letting go while the paramedic ran through some basic checks.
“Right,” he said. “I think we're ready to take you in.” He glanced at Sherlock. “I suppose you'll want to ride with us.”
Sherlock nodded very firmly and added another glare in for good measure, but still didn't speak.
“You don't need to be completely silent,” said John. “Besides, I need you to tell me what happened.”
Sherlock's scowl transferred back to John. “You were hit with a plank,” he said.
“Yeah, I remember that much,” said John. “What happened after that? Did they get away?”
They'd been after two potential kidnappers, having ruined their plot to force an heiress to marry one of them.
“No,” said Sherlock. “They-” He stopped, then said, without meeting John's eyes, “Someone came out of nowhere and attacked them. They're being taken to hospital, under guard.”
John stared at him. “Someone?” he repeated. He might not be a Holmes-style genius, but he could guess who that someone was, and he wouldn't have come out of nowhere. Sherlock met his eyes defiantly.
“Were they badly injured?” asked John.
“Not really,” said the paramedic. “More shaken than anything, though they'll have some very nasty bruises. Whoever it was terrified them though – one of them kept going on about the shadows coming alive.”
“The shadows?” repeated John, looking back at Sherlock for an explanation, but Sherlock was apparently too engrossed in studying the back of John's hand to even look at him. He'd have to wait until they were alone to get the full story out of him.
Sherlock didn't leave John's side once they made it to hospital, and only let go of his hand long enough to let them take an x-ray of John's skull to make sure he hadn't cracked it.
The doctor bought the x-ray with him when she came to tell them that John had been given the all-clear and would be able to go home. Sherlock's eyes riveted on it.
“May I see?” he asked, holding his hand out as if there was no way the doctor would refuse him.
The doctor glanced at John, who shrugged his permission, then she handed it over.
Sherlock finally let go of John in order to hold it up and look at it. He spent several long seconds in contemplation of it, until John cleared his throat.
“I think he needs that back now,” he said, glancing at the doctor apologetically.
Sherlock didn't look away from the image. “You have an astonishingly attractive skull,” he said in a voice tinged with wonder.
John had no idea how to respond to that. “Ah, thank you?” he offered.
“Look at how graceful the curve of your parietal bone is,” added Sherlock in an awed voice, tracing his finger over the x-ray. John did look, but he couldn't see any real difference between his skull and any of the hundreds of others he'd seen over his years as a doctor.
Sherlock continued to stare, apparently transfixed, until John cleared his throat. “This is the kind of thing that makes people think you're creepy,” he said. He glanced over at the doctor, who looked as if she was already mentally filling in the forms that would section Sherlock.
Sherlock shot John an uncomprehending look. “How is it creepy to find a part of my partner attractive?”
“It's a bit different when it's part of my skeleton,” said John.
Sherlock made a disdainful noise. “It's an integral part of you,” he said. “And it has an extremely pleasing symmetry.” He looked at the doctor. “Would I be able to get a copy of this?”
The doctor gave him a look that said she'd moved on to picturing straitjackets. “What? Why?”
“Because it's beautiful, and I want to be able to look at it often,” said Sherlock impatiently.
The doctor looked helplessly at John, who let out a sigh and rubbed at his forehead. This was far too much to deal with on top of a concussion. “If you can get him a copy, that would be great,” he said. “He'll only sulk, otherwise.”
“No,” corrected Sherlock “I'll only take you to Barts and make Mike or Molly do it for me.” He paused and tipped his head to one side. “That might be better, actually. That way I could get x-rays of the rest of your skeleton as well. I bet your pelvis is lovely.”
It figured that compliments from Sherlock would be weird, thought John. Still, he wasn't sure what response was normal for being told your bones were attractive, so instead he looked at the doctor. “Please give him a copy of that one, and save me from a day in an x-ray machine,” he said.
The doctor shook her head. “It's highly unorthodox,” she said.
“Orthodox is boring,” said Sherlock. “You don't have a good reason to refuse – John has given his permission.”
The doctor sighed. “I'll ask the technician to run off another copy,” she said. “This better not end with you cutting open his head to take a closer look, though.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As if I would ever hurt him,” he said. “I am more than aware of how fragile he is.”
“I'm not that fragile,” protested John, but Sherlock just gave him a disbelieving look.
“Look at what a mere plank of wood did,” he said. “I bet you can't even stand up without swaying right now, can you?”
John scowled, and the doctor took her chance to slip out of the room.
****
When they got back to the flat, John collapsed onto the sofa with a groan. “What are my chances of getting a cup of tea?” he asked.
“Rather high, if you'll just wait a few minutes,” said Sherlock. He had pulled the x-ray out of its envelope and was holding it up. After watching him for a bit, John realised that he was putting it up against the walls as if measuring the best place to hang it.
“You're not going to put it up, are you?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Sherlock. “I'll get a frame tomorrow. I rather think it would look best over the sofa, don't you?”
“No,” said John firmly. “Oh no. I am not having an x-ray of my own skull up in the sitting room – we've already got Sherrinford, that artwork and the cow skull in here, don't you think that's enough bones for one room?”
Sherlock looked exasperated. “John, you can't possibly compare your skull to a cow's. Besides, I want to be able to see it.”
“Put it in your room, then,” said John. “If you really must hang it. I'm not kidding, Sherlock, I don't want to be staring at my own skull while I'm having a cup of tea. Besides,” he added, having a flash of inspiration, “do you really want everyone who comes in here to be looking at it? Don't you think it's a bit of a private thing?”
Sherlock considered that for a moment. “The idea of Anderson gawking at it is rather unpleasant,” he agreed. “Fine, then. I'll put it up in my room.”
He disappeared off with it, and John let out a sigh. That had been a bit of a narrow escape.
Sherlock made tea, then brought it in to John before tucking himself onto the sofa next to him.
John waited until they had drunk a few sips of tea before starting in on the next difficult topic. “Are you going to tell me what really happened in the alleyway now that it's just the two of us?”
He'd spoken to the police in the hospital, and they'd said that both the men who had attacked them were physically fine, but that one of them was in the psychiatric ward, still rambling about the shadows coming alive. The other was refusing to talk about what had happened at all, although he had confessed everything about their kidnapping plot, and a few other unrelated crimes as well, as if to make absolutely certain that he stayed locked away for a good long time. Sherlock had stuck firmly to his story that someone else had attacked them, although he'd been a bit vague when it came to a description.
Sherlock suddenly looked intensely uncomfortable and glanced away from John, over at Sherrinford's skull on the mantel. “You heard me give my statement,” he said.
“Yeah,” agreed John. “And it was clearly horseshit. Come on, Sherlock, you know I'm not going to get upset over you hurting a couple of thugs who'd already hurt me – I did shoot a man for you, after all. I just want the truth.”
“The truth,” repeated Sherlock, then gave a strange, almost pained half-smile. He was still staring at Sherrinford, and for a moment it looked as if he was sharing a private joke with the skull. “Fine,” he said, turning back to John. “You were knocked out, and I became a bit angry. There were certain consequences of that, then the police and the ambulance arrived and we all went off to the hospital.”
John stared at him. “That's all I'm getting?” he asked.
Sherlock gave an awkward shrug. “That's all there is.”
John studied him for a moment, taking in how tensely he was holding himself and the uncomfortable look on his face. There didn't seem any point in pressing the point when it was clearly only going to upset him, so John just nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
Sherlock blinked at him. “Okay?” he repeated, sounding surprised.
John nodded again. “If you really don't want to talk about it, then we won't.”
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then carefully put his tea down in order to fall sideways against John, pressing his face into John's chest and clinging on to him. “You really are remarkable,” he said, the words muffled against John's shirt.
John tangled his fingers into Sherlock's hair. “I know,” he agreed.
Sherlock's only response was a snort. He stayed precisely as he was, collapsed against John's body, and John kept his fingers moving through Sherlock's hair, gently stroking it and thinking that he must have really scared him.
****
A couple of days later, John woke up from a nightmare to find the bed beside him empty. Not unusual, given that Sherlock still slept in his own room on occasion, and didn't sleep at all far more often than John was happy about. Still, he could have done with the reassuring warmth of Sherlock's body beside him in the wake of his nightmare. He debated just turning over and going back to sleep, but the images of Moriarty's leering face all tangled up with his worst memories of Afghanistan were still seared on his mind and he was worried that more sleep would only result in another nightmare.
Instead, he got up and headed downstairs to where Sherlock most likely was. Even if Sherlock had had one of his middle-of-the-night epiphanies and dashed off after a case, leaving John alone in the flat, he could at least get a glass of water.
When he got close enough to the sitting room though, he could hear the sound of a hushed voice, and he realised that Sherlock was arguing with the skull again.
“It just feels like he should know,” said Sherlock. “Don't you think this has gone a bit far for me to still be lying to him?”
“You're not lying,” came the response, in 'Sherrinford's' voice. It really sounded as if it was coming from a different part of the room. John added 'ventriloquism' to his mental list of Sherlock's skills. “You're just not revealing everything.”
“Well, I should be,” said Sherlock. “Isn't that what relationships are built on? Honesty and openness and all that stuff?”
What a minute, was Sherlock talking about him?
“And exactly how long do you think your relationship while last once he thinks you're delusional?” asked 'Sherrinford'.
John wondered if he should feel bad about listening in on this, but whatever it was about was clearly a big deal. He couldn't bring himself to walk away without finding out what it was.
“I could prove it so that he wouldn't doubt me,” said Sherlock. “That would be easy, even without your help.”
“Fine, then,” he replied to himself in the other voice. “And what do you think his reaction to that would be? What is the usual reaction to our kind?”
Our kind, thought John. Was this about Sherlock's ridiculous claim to be a sociopath? Or some sort of weird Holmes thing? God, they weren't Jehovah's Witnesses, were they? That would explain Sherlock's refusal to celebrate Christmas, if nothing else. Of course, it didn't fit in any way with the rest of his personality or lifestyle.
“John's different,” said Sherlock stubbornly. “You know that – you've been observing him for months. You must see that he's beyond that kind of petty-”
“Sherlock,” interrupted 'Sherrinford', which John was impressed by. Sherlock was clearly very good at ventriloquism. He wondered just how many years he'd been talking out his internal dilemmas with the skull, and felt a pang at the thought of just how lonely he must have been to do that. “What was John's reaction when he found out about me?”
Sherlock was quiet for a long few minutes. “He said it was weird and unhealthy,” he admitted.
“Yes,” agreed 'Sherrinford'. “And he was clearly thinking that it was creepy. Just like everyone else.”
There was silence again, followed by a sigh. “Sherlock, I'm sorry. John is different in some ways, and you know I like him, but in other ways he is completely conventional. You can't tell him this, you'll be putting all three of us at risk.”
“Fine,” spat Sherlock. “Fine, you've made your point. I won't say anything.”
There was the unmistakeable sound of the sofa compressing under the weight of a Sherlock-sized person. John gritted his teeth with frustration. He'd clearly just lost his chance at finding out whatever it was from Sherlock's past that he was so desperate to keep secret, at least for the moment. As he crept back up the stairs to go to bed, he tried to console himself that at least Sherlock had got as far as considering the matter. They hadn't even known each other a year yet, and had been a couple for less than six months – once more time had passed, maybe he'd feel better able to open up.
*****
By the start of December, it was impossible to ignore that Christmas was well on its way, although Sherlock did his best to. He didn't hide indoors in the same way that he had before Halloween, but he did take to glaring at the decorations that were being put up everywhere with a look of death, and when a cheery sales assistant asked him about his plans for the holiday, John thought he was going to try and strangle her.
That evening, John sat Sherlock down and took a deep breath. “Look,” he said, “I know you don't want to talk about Christmas-”
“Then let's not,” said Sherlock, turning to reach for his violin.
John grabbed his wrist, pulling him back. “But we need to, on a purely practical level,” he said firmly. “You don't want any of the trappings of it here, right?”
“None of them,” said Sherlock firmly. “If you even think about getting me a present-”
“I wasn't,” said John. “I really have got your anti-Holiday thing now – no presents, no decorations, no glad tidings of peace and joy. Just – what are you actually going to do for the day? Are you going off with Mycroft again?”
“Thankfully, that's not necessary for this one,” said Sherlock.
John nodded. “Okay, so you're just going to be hanging out here, hiding, like you did for Easter?”
“I was not hiding,” said Sherlock in scathing tones.
“Of course not,” said John, only letting a little sarcasm creep in to his voice. “Well, Harry's asked me if I want to go to her place for it, but I could stay here instead. Not to do anything festive, just a normal day with the two of us together.”
He knew which he'd prefer – a day spent with Sherlock, even a day he was going to spend sulking over a religious festival, was always going to be infinitely better than anything with Harry.
Sherlock looked torn for a moment, then shook his head. “You should go to Harry's.”
“I don't mind not celebrating,” said John.
“You'll be celebrating even you do stay here,” said Sherlock. “Spending time with those you care about is all part of it, isn't it?”
“Well, yeah,” said John, “but it's not as if that would make any difference to you.”
Sherlock shook his head again, reaching for his violin. “Go to your sister's,” he commanded, then started playing in a way that signalled the end of the conversation.
John sighed, but left it. He could handle one day at Harry's, he supposed. After all, he did get to spend all his others with Sherlock.
****
Christmas at Harry's was just as bad as John had expected it to be and he left as early as he could, having drunk more than he'd wanted to. When he got home, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and his bedroom door was firmly shut. John tapped on it.
“Sherlock?” he called.
“Not now, John,” came the reply.
John hesitated. He really wanted to see Sherlock, if only for long enough to kiss him and remind himself that nothing Harry predicted about John's life when she was drunk ever came true. “Are you coming up to bed in a bit?” he asked.
There was a pause. “No,” said Sherlock eventually. “Not tonight. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Oh, right,” said John, disappointed. “Well, good night, then.”
“Good night,” replied Sherlock.
John gave up and went to his room, alone. He sat on his bed, rubbed his hands over his face and ran through his top ten worst Christmases. This probably came in at around eighth – no one had actually died, after all, and at least he wasn't stuck in the post-Army limbo he'd been in this time last year. Still, it seemed ridiculous that he'd had to spend the day with someone he didn't get on with when he could have spent it with Sherlock.
Sherlock, who hadn't ever got around to telling John why, precisely, he treated all these holidays as if they were tainted by evil and who hadn't even bothered to leave what he was doing long enough to kiss his boyfriend after he'd had a shit day, even though John hadn't seen him since yesterday afternoon. John thought about everyone who was convinced that there was no way Sherlock could maintain a relationship that didn't end with a murder and who so obviously thought that John was insane for even trying, and wondered if they'd end up getting proved right that this had been a massive mistake.
No, he told himself. Sherlock might not be like everyone else and he might not pay much attention to the usual social niceties, but he wasn't as bad as everyone thought, once you got know him. After his reaction to John's head injury, John couldn't deny that Sherlock cared about him a great deal – and that was without taking into account the slightly creepy compliments he had paid to the shape of John's skull.
No doubt Sherlock would emerge from his seclusion tomorrow, greet John with his usual enthusiastic kiss and tell him all about something either disturbing or disgusting, or both. That would make everything seem better, and likely always would, even if John never found out about Sherlock's past, or got to celebrate Christmas with his boyfriend.
He put himself to bed, telling himself that his current feelings had far more to do with Harry and the drink he'd had than they had to Sherlock or their relationship.
His hypothesis for Boxing Day proved to be almost correct, although it took Sherlock longer to emerge from his room than John would have guessed. It was mid-afternoon when he finally burst out of his room, spent ten minutes enthusiastically kissing John against the kitchen counter next to where John had been making tea, then dragged him into the sitting room, pushed him onto the sofa and sprawled out on top of him. He spent the next two hours detailing what seemed to be almost every thought that had passed through his mind since he'd shut himself away, as if they'd been parted for far longer than a day or two.
John listened, interposed the occasional comment, and let himself relax into a feeling of perfect contentment that more than made up for the dismal time he'd had the day before.
****
New Year's Eve passed in a similar fashion. Sherlock hid away in his room as if the sound of fireworks wouldn't dare intrude in there and John sat in the sitting room, watching Jools Holland's Hootenanny until it became too depressing and he just went to bed instead. He was cleaning his teeth when the fireworks went off at midnight, and he glanced out of the bathroom window as they bloomed over London. He wondered if 2011 would bring anything that could top 2010 and meeting Sherlock.
All I want from this year is to still be exactly where I am now at the end of it, he thought. That should be easy enough to achieve, surely?
A couple of weeks later, Lestrade and Donovan came over to re-appropriate some evidence from Sherlock.
“Sherlock, we've talked about this,” said Lestrade. “You can't take these things and then just forget about them.”
Sherlock let out an almighty sigh and slumped in his chair. “Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “Just get it, then get out.”
“Well, where is it?” asked Donovan, looking around the room as if she'd be able to spot anything in the piles of clutter that Sherlock kept spread out everywhere.
“Can't you even work that out?” asked Sherlock. “Some detective you are.”
Donovan glared at him. “Let's think,” she said. “Where would a freak like you decide to keep a sharpened knitting needle that's been soaked in arsenic? In the microwave? Under your pillow?”
“Close,” said Sherlock. “It's in my bedside table.”
“Why on earth-” Donovan broke off, shaking her head. “No, I don't want to know.” She strode off towards Sherlock's bedroom.
Sherlock smirked after her until he noticed the look John was giving him. “What?”
John thought about all the things he wanted to say, about how Sherlock shouldn't take evidence, especially not dangerous evidence, and how he really shouldn't leave it lying around where anyone could stumble over it and hurt themselves, but instead he just shook his head. “Just wondering how many other deadly booby-traps there are hidden around this flat that might end up killing me,” he said.
Sherlock scowled. “Don't be an idiot, John, I wouldn't risk hurting you. When have you ever been in my bedside drawer? You were perfectly safe.”
Donovan re-emerged from Sherlock's room carrying a plastic evidence bag rather gingerly. “He's got an x-ray of a skull on his wall,” she said to Lestrade. John suddenly felt horribly self-conscious and looked away, clearing his throat. “Right over his bed, where he'll see it when he first wakes up. It's creepy as hell, Sir, I really think-”
“Oh, please don't try and think,” said Sherlock. “It's just horribly painful.”
Donovan glared at him. “You've got some kind of creepy obsession with skulls and bones,” she said, gesturing at Sherrinford. “If we ever have a case where the murderer is keeping bones as keepsakes, you'll be our main suspect.”
Sherlock made a face. “Why would I want a stranger's bones?”
John almost put his hand over his face. The look on Donovan's face became even more disgusted. “Are you saying you knew the person whose skull that was?”
“Of course,” said Sherlock, then gave her a wide, smug smile. “And the x-ray is of John, of course. Who else would I want to see when I wake up?”
John was rather touched by that, even as Donovan's horror-struck gaze turned to him. “You let him put a picture of your skull on his wall?”
John gave a shrug. “Why not?” he asked. What business was it of her's, anyway?
Donovan stared, then turned back to Sherlock. “And, what, that's an ex, is it?” she asked, gesturing at Sherrinford.
“Don't be ridiculous,” said Sherlock, but she wasn't really listening.
“Christ, it's going to be your body we find with missing bones when he finally cracks,” she said to John.
“Donovan,” said Lestrade in a warning tone.
Sherlock's face had gone very white. “How dare you even suggest that?” he said, and stood up. “Out!” he demanded. “Take your evidence, and get out.”
Donovan sneered at him. “I wouldn't stay in this freakhole any longer,” she said, and stormed out.
Lestrade glanced after her, then at Sherlock and John with an apologetic shrug. “I'll talk to her,” he said.
John nodded and Lestrade left, heading after her.
Sherlock remained standing where he was, looking as if he was shaking with rage.
“Do you think 'freak' is the only insult she knows?” asked John, trying to defuse the mood a bit.
It didn't work. Sherlock spun to look at him, then strode to stand in front of his chair before dropping to his knees. He grabbed John's shoulders. “I would never hurt you,” he said. “She doesn't know the first thing about it.”
“I know,” said John as carefully as he could. “Sherlock, it's okay. I know you far better than she ever will. I don't for a moment think you'd ever actually murder anyone just for fun, and especially not me.”
“Right,” said Sherlock. “Good.”
John reached out to touch his face. “You don't have to worry. I'm not about to let someone else tell me who you are.”
Sherlock let out a long breath, then nodded in a jerky manner.
John leant forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Tea?” he suggested.
Sherlock blinked, then the tension fell off his face, and he laughed. “Of course, your default response to everything.” He kissed John, then added in a soft voice, “Don't ever change.”
He sprang to his feet before John could react to that. “I'll make the tea,” he announced, and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving John with a warm glow and what was probably an embarrassingly pleased smile on his face.
****
“I'll meet you from work,” said Sherlock as John sped around the sitting room trying to find his wallet and his keys amidst the general detritus, and wondering if any of it would ever be cleared up.
“Will you?” asked John, going through a stack of newspapers. “Is there something going on?”
Sherlock ran the bow across the strings of his violin for one, long note. “We're going to Angelo's, like we did a year ago.”
“A year ago?” repeated John, finally finding his keys under a pile of soil samples. Just his wallet to go, then. “What was a year ago?”
Sherlock let out a very long sigh and John paused his hunt long enough to actually think about it. What was the date today, and what had he been doing a year ago? “Oh,” he realised. “It's been a year since we met.”
Sherlock beamed at him as if he'd managed a clever trick. “Precisely,” he said, playing another note. “I thought we should mark the occasion.”
“I wouldn't have thought you'd be interested in anniversaries,” said John. “Given your thing about holidays.”
“Why not?” asked Sherlock. “It's not a holiday – it's unique to just the two of us. And it turned out to be rather an important event, one way or another. It deserves to be remembered.”
“It does,” agreed John. “Angelo's sounds like a great idea.”
Sherlock smiled, then nodded at the mantelpiece. “Sherrinford has your wallet.”
John turned to see that his wallet was propped against the skull. “How on earth did it get there?” he asked, grabbing it then pulling on his coat. “Right, I'll see you later, then. I'll be done at six.”
“I am aware of that,” said Sherlock. He glanced at the clock. “You're going to be late.”
John followed his gaze. “Shit,” he muttered, darted over to kiss Sherlock goodbye, then dashed off down the stairs. As he headed to the tube station, he couldn't help remembering that this time last year, he would have been limping along with a cane. He owed Sherlock a lot.
Dinner at Angelo's to mark their anniversaries was definitely a tradition that John could support whole-heartedly. Celebrations that are unique to us, he thought, remembering what Sherlock had said, and smiled to himself. Having those would go a long way towards making up for missing out on holidays. He thought about constructing their own pattern of special days together, finding moments to remember that were relevant to them and not just arbitrary days decided on by society, and decided that he rather liked the idea.
As the tube pulled in to the stop closest to the clinic, he wondered if he'd have time on his lunch break to go and pick a present up for Sherlock. A copy of The Princess Bride, maybe, although it was probable that either he wouldn't get the joke, or he wouldn't find it funny.
****
When John left work that night, Sherlock was waiting outside for him. His eyes were fixed somewhere off in the distance and for a moment he didn't see John, giving John the chance to take in his appearance while he was unaware of the scrutiny.
He was dressed in a wine-red shirt and a black suit, and his skin almost seemed to glow in contrast. There was something almost ethereal about him, especially with his eyes fixed on something unseen in the distance. He stood out from all the ordinary, mundane things surrounding him as if he was superimposed on the world. John found himself wondering how he could actually be real and, beyond that, how he could possibly have decided to be with John, of all people.
Sherlock caught sight of him and nodded a greeting, and just like that he resolidified back into the world and was just Sherlock again.
“Hello,” said John. “I was almost expecting to get a text saying there'd been some horrific murder and you were going to have to cancel.”
“The criminal world has been distressingly quiet recently,” said Sherlock. “Besides, that wouldn't have made me cancel, that would have just changed the nature of the celebration. After all, there was a 'horrific murder' last year, as well as dinner.”
“Yeah, that's true,” agreed John. “Are you actually going to eat tonight, then? Angelo will be overjoyed.”
“Indeed,” acknowledged Sherlock, taking John's arm as they started walking towards Angelo's. “I called him earlier to make sure he had a table, and he starting twittering about candles and romance and all that rubbish.”
“Oh god,” said John. “This is going to be like something out of a really bad rom-com.”
“Only if we let it be,” said Sherlock. “I dare say we can avoid any of the behaviour that those kinds of films espouse.”
“Hopefully,” agreed John. “Well, except for a bit of kissing.”
“That might be possible,” allowed Sherlock. “If you play your cards right, of course. I don't kiss just anyone, you know.”
“Who said I was talking about you?” said John. “I've had the hots for Angelo for a year now – I think it's finally time to make a move.”
Sherlock gave him a scandalised look and John couldn't stop himself from starting to giggle. A heartbeat later, Sherlock joined in.
“God, John, I did not need that mental image,” he said. John just laughed harder.
****
Dinner was lovely, as was going home afterwards and curling up in bed with Sherlock. Over the next few weeks, John found himself feeling more and more content with his life, even when Sherlock disappeared for the entirety of Valentine's Day without warning, or managed to explode a melon in the kitchen so spectacularly that John was still finding bits of it a week later. Those things were just part and parcel of being with Sherlock, and he couldn't imagine ever wanting to change him.
In March, they went to Dartmoor for a case, which was probably the closest they would ever get to a mini-break. There was a whole lot of nonsense with giant hounds and secret Government labs, and John got to pull rank for the first time in a long while, which felt almost as good as the look on Sherlock's face when he did it.
It wasn't completely perfect, of course. Sherlock had an emotional breakdown that involved snapping at John that he didn't do caring for people, despite all the months of evidence to the contrary. Instead of arguing back, John just took a deep breath and left him to it. There was no point in sticking around to see how many other ways Sherlock could find to hurt him in an effort to drive him away.
Sherlock found him easily the next morning, even though he'd deliberately found a graveyard to hide in, remembering Sherlock's reaction the last time they'd been faced with one. That Sherlock came in without hesitation to talk to him meant almost as much to John as his stuttered, awkward apology. He let the incident go, at least until after the case when they could have a proper talk about what was and wasn't acceptable to say to your boyfriend.
And then Sherlock decided it would be a good idea to drug John and terrify him into hallucinating a giant dog. Eating his breakfast in the sunshine after they'd wrapped everything up, John wondered if he should be angrier about that. It was clear from Sherlock's reactions that he had no idea just how out-of-line that had been, or how badly it could have ended. John's therapist might have been wrong about her PTSD diagnosis, but there was no denying that the war had left him with at least some psychological trauma, of the kind that didn't really go well with messing about with psychotropic drugs.
He waited until they were on the train home to bring it up again. Sherlock was in one of his post-case contented moods that would likely last right up until they got home and he realised there was now nothing for him to do.
“You said once that you would never hurt me,” started John.
Sherlock looked at him. “Yes,” he agreed. “And I haven't,” he added.
“Yes, you have,” said John.
Sherlock's face creased into a frown and he looked John over as if he might have missed some injury. “There's nothing wrong with you,” he said.
“Sherlock, over the last two days, you've said deliberately hurtful things in order to get me to leave you alone, and then subjected me to an experience that terrified me, and could easily have had long-term effects on my mental health – which has already proved itself to be a bit dodgy after traumatic experiences, if you can remember what I was like when we first met. Hurting me mentally, and emotionally, is just as bad as doing so physically.”
Sherlock frowned. “I already apologised for what I said and besides, I was under the influence of an hallucinogen at the time. You can't hold that against me. And I needed to make sure there was a drug – that was for the case.” He said that as if no one could ever argue against that, as if anything was acceptable as long as it was for a case. It probably was, in his world.
John sighed and wondered how he could possibly explain this so that Sherlock would understand. “I know your work is important to you,” he said, “but you could have done me serious damage, Sherlock. If you meant 'I'm not going to hurt you, unless I think doing so will help with a case', then you might as well have not said it.”
Sherlock sat in silence for a few minutes, frowning slightly to himself. John left him to it for a bit, telling himself that letting Sherlock think it through on his own was best. If John kept pushing, he'd get stubborn and defensive, and nothing John had said would get through his head.
Despite knowing that, he couldn't resist adding, “And if you want me to leave you alone for a bit, you should probably start with asking me if I will, not with trying to being cruel to me until I can't stand it.”
Sherlock looked at him with narrow eyes for a moment, then turned to look out the window. John kept silent after that, hoping that something of what he'd said would sink in. For all he loved Sherlock – and he did love him a frightening amount, far more than he'd ever be able to tell him – he wasn't sure he'd be able to stay with him if he kept doing things like this.
They were back in 221B before Sherlock spoke again. John had made tea when they got in and was just settling down into his chair with a little sigh at being home again.
“John, when I said I wouldn't hurt you, it was a reaction to Donovan's accusations – do you remember?”
“Yeah,” said John. “You know I've never worried for a second that you'll turn into a serial killer, though.”
“Sherrinford, Mycroft and I all had different fathers,” said Sherlock, looking at the skull rather than at John. “Our mother was not a particularly good woman to be in a relationship with. In fact, you might say she was rather cruel. None of them survived for much longer than a handful of years. My father didn't even last until I was six months old.”
John felt frozen in place with shock. He had never thought Sherlock would ever open up about his childhood, and to hear him actually volunteering details without prompting was almost as shocking as the actual things he was saying.
“When Donovan said those things,” continued Sherlock, still avoiding looking at John's face by focussing on Sherrinford, “it was that I thought of. I don't remember any of our fathers, of course, but I had heard enough stories of how Mummy treated them to know that it's the last thing I would ever want to do to you.”
Oh Christ, John had stumbled over an emotional minefield on this one. “And you haven't,” he said. “You weren't being deliberately cruel. I know that.”
“The motivation is immaterial if it ended with you in pain,” said Sherlock, finally looking away from Sherrinford to focus on John. “I- John. You know that emotions and empathy are not my forte, and I don't always understand what it is to hurt someone emotionally. I can't promise that I never will, not in the same way that I can promise never to hurt you physically.”
“I don't need you to promise that,” said John. “You wouldn't be able to keep it, anyway – no one could. I just want to know that you won't do it on purpose, for petty reasons.”
Sherlock nodded. “I can promise that,” he said. “John, I will not hurt you on purpose, either physically, mentally or emotionally.” He paused, and then added, “Not unless it is completely unavoidable.”
John smiled. “That's more than enough for me,” he said. He held out a hand to where Sherlock was hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Come here.” Sherlock stepped closer to him and took John's hand. “I promise the same,” he said. “I'll do my best not to hurt you, Sherlock. At the end of the day, that's all two people can say to each other.”
He gave Sherlock's hand a little pull and Sherlock allowed himself to be folded into John's lap, where John was able to press a kiss to his lips.
“I may need you to tell me if I do hurt you,” sad Sherlock. “I don't yet have a complete data set on what upsets you and what doesn't. You occasionally defy all expectations.”
John's smile grew and he pulled Sherlock in for another, longer kiss. “That, I can definitely do,” he said. “I'm not expecting miracles, Sherlock.”
Sherlock smiled back. “That's good,” he said. “I'm afraid I am far from holy enough to grant them.”
John laughed and kissed him again.
****
Everything had been going so well, thought John as they ran from the police still handcuffed together. That should have been his first clue that something awful was about to happen. They'd had a whole series of interesting cases, things between them were so good that John couldn't imagine spending his life anywhere other than at Sherlock's side, and Sherlock had even managed to do the washing up last week. It had felt like everything was finally working the way it was meant to and John was happier than he could remember being, which was naturally when Moriarty came along and tipped it all over into darkness and chaos.
Sherlock became more and more closed off as the web that Moriarty had woven around him tightened. By the time they were holed up in Barts, trying to come up with some solution that didn't end with them both being arrested, Sherlock was barely looking at John at all, and when he did it was clear he wasn't really seeing him.
John wasn't sure how to deal with this version of Sherlock, the one with the face so blank that it seemed as if he'd never known an emotion, never laughed helplessly over a special club for gingers with John, or curled around him in bed and kissed him until they were both breathless and John thought his heart was going to melt with how in love he was. Looking at Sherlock now, John found himself hating Moriarty more than he had known he could hate anyone. How dare he come along and make Sherlock wall himself off behind a mask like this?
“Any ideas?” he asked.
“Nothing you'd want to hear,” replied Sherlock without looking up from his unfocussed stare at the far wall.
“Right,” said John. “Well, maybe we should go to the police? They'd probably take a while to sort it all out, but Moriarty's story can't be that solid, can it? And there's no way an investigation of your cases is going to turn anything dodgy up-”
“John,” interrupted Sherlock. “Do shut up.”
John stopped and let out a long, careful breath. Under a lot of stress, he reminded himself. He did shut up though, for the moment. Clearly, nothing he could say was going to help.
For all he intended to stay awake with Sherlock and help him as much as he could, even if it was only being there for him, the long few days they'd had, as well as all the emotional stress, caught up with him.
He woke up to a telephone call.
“Is this John Watson? I'm afraid Martha Hudson has been shot.”
His mind stilled. Mrs. Hudson was far too good, and harmless, to have been hurt by all this, surely? How on earth was it fair for her to pay the price for Moriarty's machinations?
They had to go to her. They couldn't let her die alone.
“Come on, Sherlock, let's go,” said John, grabbing his coat.
“You go, I'm busy,” said Sherlock.
“Busy?” repeated John incredulously.
“I'm thinking. I need to think.”
John could barely believe what he was hearing. “Doesn't she mean anything to you?”
“She's my landlady,” said Sherlock, and the bastard had the gall to sound confused, as if he had no idea why John would treat this as a big deal.
“She's dying!” exclaimed John. He cast around for something that might make Sherlock realise what he was saying. “Not being there with her will hurt her, Sherlock. Emotionally.”
“I don't remember promising anything to her,” said Sherlock. “Besides, what difference will a bit of emotional pain make when she's already dying?”
John gaped at him for a long moment, a thousand responses running through his mind before he forcibly shut them all down. He wouldn't solve anything by insulting Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson didn't time for him to have this argument. “Sod this,” he said, and left.
There was nothing wrong with Mrs. Hudson when John arrived, breathless, back at Baker Street. She blinked at him in bewilderment when he mentioned the phone call, and that was when John realised that he'd left Sherlock alone to do something incredibly stupid.
He promised the cab driver double the fare if he could get him back to Barts in less than quarter of an hour, then spent the whole drive dialling Sherlock's number and listening to it ring out, before immediately dialling again.
When he arrived, it was clear he was too late.
“Keep your eyes fixed on me,” said Sherlock, as if John could possibly get distracted by anything else right now. “Please, will you do this for me?”
A heavy feeling was sinking through John's stomach. “Do what?”
“This phone call, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.”
John could feel himself start to shake, but he wasn't paying attention to his body right now. Everything he had was fixed firmly on the dark figure of Sherlock, silhouetted against the skyline. “Leave a note when?”
“Goodbye, John.”
Oh god. “No. Don't do this,” said John. “Please, Sherlock. Don't. You said you wouldn't hurt me – this is going to hurt me. This is going to hurt me more than anything else you could ever do.”
“I said I wouldn't hurt you unless it was unavoidable,” Sherlock reminded him. “John. I don't.” There was a long pause, followed by a shuddering breath. “I'm a fake,” he said, those ridiculous, impossible words, as if John didn't know him far too well to ever believe it. “You shouldn't believe anything I say.”
“I always will,” swore John, with all the certainty he had.
“Don't,” said Sherlock, then, “Goodbye,” again.
He cast the phone aside before John could beg him to stop, or try and find some other way to get him to see sense, and John felt frantic panic surge through him.
“SHERLOCK!” he yelled, as if just shouting his name would be enough to stop him.
It wasn't. Sherlock stepped off the roof, and John felt the whole world tilt sideways. He pushed his way forward through what felt like porridge, barely noticing as a bike knocked him down and he was forced to pick himself up. He couldn't focus on anything else, nothing but the broken shape of Sherlock's body and the bright puddle of blood spreading out from it. He fumbled for Sherlock's pulse, then lost all strength in his legs as he realised there was nothing there. No pulse, no life, nothing. Sherlock was dead.
****
After Sherlock's death, it seemed as if the colours had faded out of the world. John sat in his chair for hours, staring at nothing while the stark shape of Sherlock's body as it fell played endlessly in his mind. He made it to the funeral, which was held at Mycroft's house rather than a church – not there was a great deal of difference between some of Mycroft's décor and ecclesiastical architecture. Still, Mycroft had insisted that Sherlock would not have wanted anything to do with a church, or even a crematorium, so instead of a traditional funeral, they'd gathered there instead. They ate incredibly pretentious nibbles, drank expensive wine, and avoided mentioning anything about how, or why, Sherlock had died.
After twenty minutes of watching people who had never really known Sherlock talking about him in grave voices, as if he was the kind of person who could be described in just a few sentences, John had to get away.
He went out to the garden and found a bench to collapse on. He put his head in his hands, screwed his eyes tightly shut as if he could block out everything that had happened, and started to take careful, deep breaths to settle himself. It wouldn't do to go back in there and cause a scene by telling everyone just how wrong they all were about Sherlock, about how amazing he'd been, and how human at times, and how none of them had a bloody clue.
There was a deliberately loud footstep and John looked up to see Mycroft watching him. He let out a loud groan.
“Can't I get a minute to myself?” he asked, then realised just how much like Sherlock being confronted by his brother he sounded. Well, Mycroft probably deserved it. John wasn't even close to forgiving him over this one yet.
“I apologise,” said Mycroft. “There are a couple of matters that we should discuss.”
John let out a long, slow breath. “Mycroft, just, not now,” he said, and he could hear the strain in his voice, the edge of the tears that had been hovering for days now but that he kept swallowing down. He wasn't sure he was ready to start crying yet, in case he couldn't stop.
Mycroft regarded him for a moment, then gave a little nod. “I shall come and visit you at Baker Street, then,” he said.
John made a face, but nodded agreement. As much as he wanted to avoid the whole thing, there was the issue of Sherlock's belongings, not to mention Sherrinford, who was still sitting on the mantelpiece as if waiting for Sherlock to turn up and play one of his concerts for him.
“Looking forward to it,” he said, pulling himself to his feet. “I'm leaving now. Tell Mrs. Hudson for me, would you?” He couldn't face going back into that room again.
Mycroft nodded. “I will,” he said, then hesitated. “John, you should know that you are not alone. If there is ever anything you need, please do not hesitate to contact me.”
John let out a bitter laugh. “Alone is exactly what I am,” he said, and he felt the surge of emotion rising up in his throat again. He took a deep breath to push it back down before Mycroft could comment on the crack in his voice. “Let me know when you're coming by,” he said, then left as quickly as he could, before he broke down entirely.
When he got home, he looked around at the clutter of Sherlock's life, all still frozen in place as he had left it, and felt all the strength sink out of him. For a moment he thought he was just going to collapse on the floor, but instead he made it as far as Sherlock's room. He curled up in the middle of Sherlock's bed, in the sheets that still smelled of him, and let the grief close in around him.
****
Mycroft didn't bother letting him know when he was coming by. John got home from a trip to the supermarket to find him standing in the sitting room, leaning on his umbrella and looking at Sherrinford.
John was unable to hold in a groan. “Jesus, Mycroft,” he said, heading for the kitchen with his shopping. “When I said 'let me know when you're coming', that didn't mean 'break in while I'm out'.”
“I didn't break in,” said Mycroft. “Mrs. Hudson let me in. She was kind enough to allow me to wait for you.”
John made a face to himself and started to put the shopping away. “I suppose you've come for Sherrinford,” he said.
“Actually,” said Mycroft, after a moment spent looking at the skull, as if meeting its non-existent gaze, “I shall be leaving him here.”
“What?” John said. “Mycroft, come on. It's your brother's skull, not mine.”
“Yes,” agreed Mycroft. “However, I rather think you are in need of him more than I am. Sherlock's skull, unfortunately, is not in a fit state to be given to you.”
John gaped at him, and then the thought of just how broken Sherlock's skull would have been after a fall from that height broke through his incredulity at the statement, and for a moment the room wavered. “Jesus Christ,” he said, leaning back against the counter behind him. “Jesus fucking Christ, Mycroft. Only a Holmes would have said that. Why on earth would I want Sherlock's skull?”
“Why wouldn't you?” asked Mycroft, than gave a little shrug as if to put aside the line of conversation. “At any rate, I came to give you this,” he said, picking a file up off the desk and holding it out to John.
John flicked it open and skimmed over the information it contained. “What is this?”
“I should have thought that was obvious,” said Mycroft. “I have transferred Sherlock's accounts into your name.”
“That's a lot of money,” said John, flipping the page. “Oh Jesus, there's more.”
Mycroft lifted one shoulder elegantly. “We have always been rather good at making investments,” he said. “Sherlock wasn't particularly interested in all that, of course, but he was wise enough to allow me to make some on his behalf.”
“Right,” said John, still staring at the figures. “Okay. And it's all mine now? Surely if it's family money, you should have it?”
“I have more than enough of my own,” pointed out Mycroft. “You do not. Besides, Sherlock wanted you to have it.”
“Oh,” said John. “Right.” He turned back to the first page, trying to get his head around all the different accounts, shares and investments. Apparently, he was rich now. Ridiculously rich. Why the hell had Sherlock needed a flatmate if he'd had all this? And what on earth was a OEIC? “Christ, I'm going to have to get a degree in finance just to work out the interest.”
Mycroft cleared his throat. “I can continue to look after it for you, if you want,” he said.
“I'm sure I'll work it out eventually,” said John, although he doubted it.
“It would be a pleasure,” said Mycroft. “I rather enjoy it, to be honest.”
John finally looked up from the file in order to stare at him. “After a long day of running the country – and probably half the rest of the world as well - you like to relax by working out compound interest and playing the stock market?” he asked.
“I really only occupy a very minor role in the government,” said Mycroft.
John snorted. “Right, of course,” he said. He shut the file and put it on the table to be puzzled over later. “I suppose if you actually understand it all, you might as well keep an eye on it,” he said. “I can't imagine I'll ever use any of it, though. Not unless I get a sudden yearning for my own aircraft carrier.”
Mycroft nodded. “Then there is just one more matter,” he said. “Sherlock has left you all his belongings, which I doubt comes as much of a surprise.”
It was, actually, because it meant Sherlock had considered his own mortality for long enough to make some sort of Will. Unless he had done it knowing that he was going to jump, in which case there should have been other signs that he was thinking of suicide, ones that John had missed. He cut off that train of thought and took a careful breath. Guilt and recriminations could wait until after he'd got rid of Mycroft.
“However,” continued Mycroft, “I was going to ask if I might take his violin.”
“His violin?” repeated John, glancing over to where the case was lying next to the music stand in the corner, as if just waiting for Sherlock to reappear and launch into some fiendishly difficult solo.
“Yes,” said Mycroft. He hesitated, then added, “I can still remember him getting it, you know. How very pleased he was, and how quickly he mastered it. Besides which, a violin of that quality requires regular upkeep that I am sure you do not know how to provide.”
John thought for a moment. He was extremely reluctant to let any of Sherlock's possessions out of the flat, especially not something he had prized as highly as his violin, but he supposed Mycroft deserved a memento of his brother, and it wasn't as if John would ever be able to play it. “Yeah, okay.”
Mycroft nodded. “Thank you,” he said as he picked it up.
It was only after he had gone that John realised he had been completely distracted from the issue of Sherrinford. He looked at the skull and thought about putting it in Sherlock's room, or boxing it up and sending it to Mycroft, but something about that didn't sit right. It had been the silent observer of so much that had happened between John and Sherlock, things that now only John remembered. Getting rid of it would feel as if he was trying to get rid of those memories.
“Fine,” he said out loud. “But if I end up talking to you...” He trailed off when he realised he was doing exactly that, and resolutely returned to the kitchen to put his shopping away.
****
Chapter Four
*
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Word Count: 10,294 words this chapter (60,024 total.)
Summary: Sherlock's refusal to talk about his past hides far more skeletons than John could ever have guessed at.
Halloween-esque AU. Actually a fusion with another (well-known) fandom, but I feel that knowing which in advance spoils some of the story, so putting it behind a cut: The Nightmare Before Christmas. I don't feel it's necessary to have knowledge of that fandom to read this fic.
It should be noted that I have ignored some aspects of canon, particularly S2 canon.
Masterpost: HERE
| Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six |
A week later, John woke up in the back of an ambulance with a paramedic bent over him. He groaned.
“Easy,” said the paramedic. “You took a nasty hit there.”
John could have guessed that much himself. The world was spinning and foggy around the edges, nausea rolled through his stomach, and his head felt as if it had been split open. He had vague memories of a plank of wood coming at him and Sherlock calling his name, but everything after that was blackness.
Sherlock. He tried to sit up, but the movement caused an explosion in his head.
“Best to stay still for now,” said the paramedic.
“Sherlock,” managed John. “Is he okay?”
“Oh, he's more than fine.”
John became aware of a commotion outside the ambulance, and heard a familiar voice raised in protest. “I know he's awake. Let me past!”
“Let him in,” he croaked at the paramedic, who hesitated. John could see the thoughts roll through his mind, the same ones he'd have had in his place. He had a patient who needed quiet and calm and a madman who was creating an uproar, it wasn't hard to guess that he didn't want them in the same place.
“If you tell him I need quiet, he'll shut up,” said John. “As long as you let him in.”
The paramedic sighed. “If he gets in the way-”
“Yes, yes,” agreed John. “Just- please.”
It was enough. The paramedic stood up and moved to the back of the ambulance, opening the door to talk to whoever was out there keeping Sherlock back. A minute later, Sherlock climbed in through the door. He fixed his eyes on John with enough strength to tell John how worried he had been.
“Hey,” said John, managing a smile.
Sherlock's look changed to a glare, but he didn't say anything. Obviously, whatever the paramedic had said to him had had the right effect. Instead, he just came and took John's hand and squeezed it tightly, not letting go while the paramedic ran through some basic checks.
“Right,” he said. “I think we're ready to take you in.” He glanced at Sherlock. “I suppose you'll want to ride with us.”
Sherlock nodded very firmly and added another glare in for good measure, but still didn't speak.
“You don't need to be completely silent,” said John. “Besides, I need you to tell me what happened.”
Sherlock's scowl transferred back to John. “You were hit with a plank,” he said.
“Yeah, I remember that much,” said John. “What happened after that? Did they get away?”
They'd been after two potential kidnappers, having ruined their plot to force an heiress to marry one of them.
“No,” said Sherlock. “They-” He stopped, then said, without meeting John's eyes, “Someone came out of nowhere and attacked them. They're being taken to hospital, under guard.”
John stared at him. “Someone?” he repeated. He might not be a Holmes-style genius, but he could guess who that someone was, and he wouldn't have come out of nowhere. Sherlock met his eyes defiantly.
“Were they badly injured?” asked John.
“Not really,” said the paramedic. “More shaken than anything, though they'll have some very nasty bruises. Whoever it was terrified them though – one of them kept going on about the shadows coming alive.”
“The shadows?” repeated John, looking back at Sherlock for an explanation, but Sherlock was apparently too engrossed in studying the back of John's hand to even look at him. He'd have to wait until they were alone to get the full story out of him.
Sherlock didn't leave John's side once they made it to hospital, and only let go of his hand long enough to let them take an x-ray of John's skull to make sure he hadn't cracked it.
The doctor bought the x-ray with him when she came to tell them that John had been given the all-clear and would be able to go home. Sherlock's eyes riveted on it.
“May I see?” he asked, holding his hand out as if there was no way the doctor would refuse him.
The doctor glanced at John, who shrugged his permission, then she handed it over.
Sherlock finally let go of John in order to hold it up and look at it. He spent several long seconds in contemplation of it, until John cleared his throat.
“I think he needs that back now,” he said, glancing at the doctor apologetically.
Sherlock didn't look away from the image. “You have an astonishingly attractive skull,” he said in a voice tinged with wonder.
John had no idea how to respond to that. “Ah, thank you?” he offered.
“Look at how graceful the curve of your parietal bone is,” added Sherlock in an awed voice, tracing his finger over the x-ray. John did look, but he couldn't see any real difference between his skull and any of the hundreds of others he'd seen over his years as a doctor.
Sherlock continued to stare, apparently transfixed, until John cleared his throat. “This is the kind of thing that makes people think you're creepy,” he said. He glanced over at the doctor, who looked as if she was already mentally filling in the forms that would section Sherlock.
Sherlock shot John an uncomprehending look. “How is it creepy to find a part of my partner attractive?”
“It's a bit different when it's part of my skeleton,” said John.
Sherlock made a disdainful noise. “It's an integral part of you,” he said. “And it has an extremely pleasing symmetry.” He looked at the doctor. “Would I be able to get a copy of this?”
The doctor gave him a look that said she'd moved on to picturing straitjackets. “What? Why?”
“Because it's beautiful, and I want to be able to look at it often,” said Sherlock impatiently.
The doctor looked helplessly at John, who let out a sigh and rubbed at his forehead. This was far too much to deal with on top of a concussion. “If you can get him a copy, that would be great,” he said. “He'll only sulk, otherwise.”
“No,” corrected Sherlock “I'll only take you to Barts and make Mike or Molly do it for me.” He paused and tipped his head to one side. “That might be better, actually. That way I could get x-rays of the rest of your skeleton as well. I bet your pelvis is lovely.”
It figured that compliments from Sherlock would be weird, thought John. Still, he wasn't sure what response was normal for being told your bones were attractive, so instead he looked at the doctor. “Please give him a copy of that one, and save me from a day in an x-ray machine,” he said.
The doctor shook her head. “It's highly unorthodox,” she said.
“Orthodox is boring,” said Sherlock. “You don't have a good reason to refuse – John has given his permission.”
The doctor sighed. “I'll ask the technician to run off another copy,” she said. “This better not end with you cutting open his head to take a closer look, though.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “As if I would ever hurt him,” he said. “I am more than aware of how fragile he is.”
“I'm not that fragile,” protested John, but Sherlock just gave him a disbelieving look.
“Look at what a mere plank of wood did,” he said. “I bet you can't even stand up without swaying right now, can you?”
John scowled, and the doctor took her chance to slip out of the room.
When they got back to the flat, John collapsed onto the sofa with a groan. “What are my chances of getting a cup of tea?” he asked.
“Rather high, if you'll just wait a few minutes,” said Sherlock. He had pulled the x-ray out of its envelope and was holding it up. After watching him for a bit, John realised that he was putting it up against the walls as if measuring the best place to hang it.
“You're not going to put it up, are you?” he asked.
“Of course,” said Sherlock. “I'll get a frame tomorrow. I rather think it would look best over the sofa, don't you?”
“No,” said John firmly. “Oh no. I am not having an x-ray of my own skull up in the sitting room – we've already got Sherrinford, that artwork and the cow skull in here, don't you think that's enough bones for one room?”
Sherlock looked exasperated. “John, you can't possibly compare your skull to a cow's. Besides, I want to be able to see it.”
“Put it in your room, then,” said John. “If you really must hang it. I'm not kidding, Sherlock, I don't want to be staring at my own skull while I'm having a cup of tea. Besides,” he added, having a flash of inspiration, “do you really want everyone who comes in here to be looking at it? Don't you think it's a bit of a private thing?”
Sherlock considered that for a moment. “The idea of Anderson gawking at it is rather unpleasant,” he agreed. “Fine, then. I'll put it up in my room.”
He disappeared off with it, and John let out a sigh. That had been a bit of a narrow escape.
Sherlock made tea, then brought it in to John before tucking himself onto the sofa next to him.
John waited until they had drunk a few sips of tea before starting in on the next difficult topic. “Are you going to tell me what really happened in the alleyway now that it's just the two of us?”
He'd spoken to the police in the hospital, and they'd said that both the men who had attacked them were physically fine, but that one of them was in the psychiatric ward, still rambling about the shadows coming alive. The other was refusing to talk about what had happened at all, although he had confessed everything about their kidnapping plot, and a few other unrelated crimes as well, as if to make absolutely certain that he stayed locked away for a good long time. Sherlock had stuck firmly to his story that someone else had attacked them, although he'd been a bit vague when it came to a description.
Sherlock suddenly looked intensely uncomfortable and glanced away from John, over at Sherrinford's skull on the mantel. “You heard me give my statement,” he said.
“Yeah,” agreed John. “And it was clearly horseshit. Come on, Sherlock, you know I'm not going to get upset over you hurting a couple of thugs who'd already hurt me – I did shoot a man for you, after all. I just want the truth.”
“The truth,” repeated Sherlock, then gave a strange, almost pained half-smile. He was still staring at Sherrinford, and for a moment it looked as if he was sharing a private joke with the skull. “Fine,” he said, turning back to John. “You were knocked out, and I became a bit angry. There were certain consequences of that, then the police and the ambulance arrived and we all went off to the hospital.”
John stared at him. “That's all I'm getting?” he asked.
Sherlock gave an awkward shrug. “That's all there is.”
John studied him for a moment, taking in how tensely he was holding himself and the uncomfortable look on his face. There didn't seem any point in pressing the point when it was clearly only going to upset him, so John just nodded.
“Okay,” he said.
Sherlock blinked at him. “Okay?” he repeated, sounding surprised.
John nodded again. “If you really don't want to talk about it, then we won't.”
Sherlock stared at him for a moment, then carefully put his tea down in order to fall sideways against John, pressing his face into John's chest and clinging on to him. “You really are remarkable,” he said, the words muffled against John's shirt.
John tangled his fingers into Sherlock's hair. “I know,” he agreed.
Sherlock's only response was a snort. He stayed precisely as he was, collapsed against John's body, and John kept his fingers moving through Sherlock's hair, gently stroking it and thinking that he must have really scared him.
A couple of days later, John woke up from a nightmare to find the bed beside him empty. Not unusual, given that Sherlock still slept in his own room on occasion, and didn't sleep at all far more often than John was happy about. Still, he could have done with the reassuring warmth of Sherlock's body beside him in the wake of his nightmare. He debated just turning over and going back to sleep, but the images of Moriarty's leering face all tangled up with his worst memories of Afghanistan were still seared on his mind and he was worried that more sleep would only result in another nightmare.
Instead, he got up and headed downstairs to where Sherlock most likely was. Even if Sherlock had had one of his middle-of-the-night epiphanies and dashed off after a case, leaving John alone in the flat, he could at least get a glass of water.
When he got close enough to the sitting room though, he could hear the sound of a hushed voice, and he realised that Sherlock was arguing with the skull again.
“It just feels like he should know,” said Sherlock. “Don't you think this has gone a bit far for me to still be lying to him?”
“You're not lying,” came the response, in 'Sherrinford's' voice. It really sounded as if it was coming from a different part of the room. John added 'ventriloquism' to his mental list of Sherlock's skills. “You're just not revealing everything.”
“Well, I should be,” said Sherlock. “Isn't that what relationships are built on? Honesty and openness and all that stuff?”
What a minute, was Sherlock talking about him?
“And exactly how long do you think your relationship while last once he thinks you're delusional?” asked 'Sherrinford'.
John wondered if he should feel bad about listening in on this, but whatever it was about was clearly a big deal. He couldn't bring himself to walk away without finding out what it was.
“I could prove it so that he wouldn't doubt me,” said Sherlock. “That would be easy, even without your help.”
“Fine, then,” he replied to himself in the other voice. “And what do you think his reaction to that would be? What is the usual reaction to our kind?”
Our kind, thought John. Was this about Sherlock's ridiculous claim to be a sociopath? Or some sort of weird Holmes thing? God, they weren't Jehovah's Witnesses, were they? That would explain Sherlock's refusal to celebrate Christmas, if nothing else. Of course, it didn't fit in any way with the rest of his personality or lifestyle.
“John's different,” said Sherlock stubbornly. “You know that – you've been observing him for months. You must see that he's beyond that kind of petty-”
“Sherlock,” interrupted 'Sherrinford', which John was impressed by. Sherlock was clearly very good at ventriloquism. He wondered just how many years he'd been talking out his internal dilemmas with the skull, and felt a pang at the thought of just how lonely he must have been to do that. “What was John's reaction when he found out about me?”
Sherlock was quiet for a long few minutes. “He said it was weird and unhealthy,” he admitted.
“Yes,” agreed 'Sherrinford'. “And he was clearly thinking that it was creepy. Just like everyone else.”
There was silence again, followed by a sigh. “Sherlock, I'm sorry. John is different in some ways, and you know I like him, but in other ways he is completely conventional. You can't tell him this, you'll be putting all three of us at risk.”
“Fine,” spat Sherlock. “Fine, you've made your point. I won't say anything.”
There was the unmistakeable sound of the sofa compressing under the weight of a Sherlock-sized person. John gritted his teeth with frustration. He'd clearly just lost his chance at finding out whatever it was from Sherlock's past that he was so desperate to keep secret, at least for the moment. As he crept back up the stairs to go to bed, he tried to console himself that at least Sherlock had got as far as considering the matter. They hadn't even known each other a year yet, and had been a couple for less than six months – once more time had passed, maybe he'd feel better able to open up.
By the start of December, it was impossible to ignore that Christmas was well on its way, although Sherlock did his best to. He didn't hide indoors in the same way that he had before Halloween, but he did take to glaring at the decorations that were being put up everywhere with a look of death, and when a cheery sales assistant asked him about his plans for the holiday, John thought he was going to try and strangle her.
That evening, John sat Sherlock down and took a deep breath. “Look,” he said, “I know you don't want to talk about Christmas-”
“Then let's not,” said Sherlock, turning to reach for his violin.
John grabbed his wrist, pulling him back. “But we need to, on a purely practical level,” he said firmly. “You don't want any of the trappings of it here, right?”
“None of them,” said Sherlock firmly. “If you even think about getting me a present-”
“I wasn't,” said John. “I really have got your anti-Holiday thing now – no presents, no decorations, no glad tidings of peace and joy. Just – what are you actually going to do for the day? Are you going off with Mycroft again?”
“Thankfully, that's not necessary for this one,” said Sherlock.
John nodded. “Okay, so you're just going to be hanging out here, hiding, like you did for Easter?”
“I was not hiding,” said Sherlock in scathing tones.
“Of course not,” said John, only letting a little sarcasm creep in to his voice. “Well, Harry's asked me if I want to go to her place for it, but I could stay here instead. Not to do anything festive, just a normal day with the two of us together.”
He knew which he'd prefer – a day spent with Sherlock, even a day he was going to spend sulking over a religious festival, was always going to be infinitely better than anything with Harry.
Sherlock looked torn for a moment, then shook his head. “You should go to Harry's.”
“I don't mind not celebrating,” said John.
“You'll be celebrating even you do stay here,” said Sherlock. “Spending time with those you care about is all part of it, isn't it?”
“Well, yeah,” said John, “but it's not as if that would make any difference to you.”
Sherlock shook his head again, reaching for his violin. “Go to your sister's,” he commanded, then started playing in a way that signalled the end of the conversation.
John sighed, but left it. He could handle one day at Harry's, he supposed. After all, he did get to spend all his others with Sherlock.
Christmas at Harry's was just as bad as John had expected it to be and he left as early as he could, having drunk more than he'd wanted to. When he got home, Sherlock was nowhere to be seen and his bedroom door was firmly shut. John tapped on it.
“Sherlock?” he called.
“Not now, John,” came the reply.
John hesitated. He really wanted to see Sherlock, if only for long enough to kiss him and remind himself that nothing Harry predicted about John's life when she was drunk ever came true. “Are you coming up to bed in a bit?” he asked.
There was a pause. “No,” said Sherlock eventually. “Not tonight. I'll see you tomorrow.”
“Oh, right,” said John, disappointed. “Well, good night, then.”
“Good night,” replied Sherlock.
John gave up and went to his room, alone. He sat on his bed, rubbed his hands over his face and ran through his top ten worst Christmases. This probably came in at around eighth – no one had actually died, after all, and at least he wasn't stuck in the post-Army limbo he'd been in this time last year. Still, it seemed ridiculous that he'd had to spend the day with someone he didn't get on with when he could have spent it with Sherlock.
Sherlock, who hadn't ever got around to telling John why, precisely, he treated all these holidays as if they were tainted by evil and who hadn't even bothered to leave what he was doing long enough to kiss his boyfriend after he'd had a shit day, even though John hadn't seen him since yesterday afternoon. John thought about everyone who was convinced that there was no way Sherlock could maintain a relationship that didn't end with a murder and who so obviously thought that John was insane for even trying, and wondered if they'd end up getting proved right that this had been a massive mistake.
No, he told himself. Sherlock might not be like everyone else and he might not pay much attention to the usual social niceties, but he wasn't as bad as everyone thought, once you got know him. After his reaction to John's head injury, John couldn't deny that Sherlock cared about him a great deal – and that was without taking into account the slightly creepy compliments he had paid to the shape of John's skull.
No doubt Sherlock would emerge from his seclusion tomorrow, greet John with his usual enthusiastic kiss and tell him all about something either disturbing or disgusting, or both. That would make everything seem better, and likely always would, even if John never found out about Sherlock's past, or got to celebrate Christmas with his boyfriend.
He put himself to bed, telling himself that his current feelings had far more to do with Harry and the drink he'd had than they had to Sherlock or their relationship.
His hypothesis for Boxing Day proved to be almost correct, although it took Sherlock longer to emerge from his room than John would have guessed. It was mid-afternoon when he finally burst out of his room, spent ten minutes enthusiastically kissing John against the kitchen counter next to where John had been making tea, then dragged him into the sitting room, pushed him onto the sofa and sprawled out on top of him. He spent the next two hours detailing what seemed to be almost every thought that had passed through his mind since he'd shut himself away, as if they'd been parted for far longer than a day or two.
John listened, interposed the occasional comment, and let himself relax into a feeling of perfect contentment that more than made up for the dismal time he'd had the day before.
New Year's Eve passed in a similar fashion. Sherlock hid away in his room as if the sound of fireworks wouldn't dare intrude in there and John sat in the sitting room, watching Jools Holland's Hootenanny until it became too depressing and he just went to bed instead. He was cleaning his teeth when the fireworks went off at midnight, and he glanced out of the bathroom window as they bloomed over London. He wondered if 2011 would bring anything that could top 2010 and meeting Sherlock.
All I want from this year is to still be exactly where I am now at the end of it, he thought. That should be easy enough to achieve, surely?
A couple of weeks later, Lestrade and Donovan came over to re-appropriate some evidence from Sherlock.
“Sherlock, we've talked about this,” said Lestrade. “You can't take these things and then just forget about them.”
Sherlock let out an almighty sigh and slumped in his chair. “Yes, yes, I know,” he said. “Just get it, then get out.”
“Well, where is it?” asked Donovan, looking around the room as if she'd be able to spot anything in the piles of clutter that Sherlock kept spread out everywhere.
“Can't you even work that out?” asked Sherlock. “Some detective you are.”
Donovan glared at him. “Let's think,” she said. “Where would a freak like you decide to keep a sharpened knitting needle that's been soaked in arsenic? In the microwave? Under your pillow?”
“Close,” said Sherlock. “It's in my bedside table.”
“Why on earth-” Donovan broke off, shaking her head. “No, I don't want to know.” She strode off towards Sherlock's bedroom.
Sherlock smirked after her until he noticed the look John was giving him. “What?”
John thought about all the things he wanted to say, about how Sherlock shouldn't take evidence, especially not dangerous evidence, and how he really shouldn't leave it lying around where anyone could stumble over it and hurt themselves, but instead he just shook his head. “Just wondering how many other deadly booby-traps there are hidden around this flat that might end up killing me,” he said.
Sherlock scowled. “Don't be an idiot, John, I wouldn't risk hurting you. When have you ever been in my bedside drawer? You were perfectly safe.”
Donovan re-emerged from Sherlock's room carrying a plastic evidence bag rather gingerly. “He's got an x-ray of a skull on his wall,” she said to Lestrade. John suddenly felt horribly self-conscious and looked away, clearing his throat. “Right over his bed, where he'll see it when he first wakes up. It's creepy as hell, Sir, I really think-”
“Oh, please don't try and think,” said Sherlock. “It's just horribly painful.”
Donovan glared at him. “You've got some kind of creepy obsession with skulls and bones,” she said, gesturing at Sherrinford. “If we ever have a case where the murderer is keeping bones as keepsakes, you'll be our main suspect.”
Sherlock made a face. “Why would I want a stranger's bones?”
John almost put his hand over his face. The look on Donovan's face became even more disgusted. “Are you saying you knew the person whose skull that was?”
“Of course,” said Sherlock, then gave her a wide, smug smile. “And the x-ray is of John, of course. Who else would I want to see when I wake up?”
John was rather touched by that, even as Donovan's horror-struck gaze turned to him. “You let him put a picture of your skull on his wall?”
John gave a shrug. “Why not?” he asked. What business was it of her's, anyway?
Donovan stared, then turned back to Sherlock. “And, what, that's an ex, is it?” she asked, gesturing at Sherrinford.
“Don't be ridiculous,” said Sherlock, but she wasn't really listening.
“Christ, it's going to be your body we find with missing bones when he finally cracks,” she said to John.
“Donovan,” said Lestrade in a warning tone.
Sherlock's face had gone very white. “How dare you even suggest that?” he said, and stood up. “Out!” he demanded. “Take your evidence, and get out.”
Donovan sneered at him. “I wouldn't stay in this freakhole any longer,” she said, and stormed out.
Lestrade glanced after her, then at Sherlock and John with an apologetic shrug. “I'll talk to her,” he said.
John nodded and Lestrade left, heading after her.
Sherlock remained standing where he was, looking as if he was shaking with rage.
“Do you think 'freak' is the only insult she knows?” asked John, trying to defuse the mood a bit.
It didn't work. Sherlock spun to look at him, then strode to stand in front of his chair before dropping to his knees. He grabbed John's shoulders. “I would never hurt you,” he said. “She doesn't know the first thing about it.”
“I know,” said John as carefully as he could. “Sherlock, it's okay. I know you far better than she ever will. I don't for a moment think you'd ever actually murder anyone just for fun, and especially not me.”
“Right,” said Sherlock. “Good.”
John reached out to touch his face. “You don't have to worry. I'm not about to let someone else tell me who you are.”
Sherlock let out a long breath, then nodded in a jerky manner.
John leant forward and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Tea?” he suggested.
Sherlock blinked, then the tension fell off his face, and he laughed. “Of course, your default response to everything.” He kissed John, then added in a soft voice, “Don't ever change.”
He sprang to his feet before John could react to that. “I'll make the tea,” he announced, and disappeared into the kitchen, leaving John with a warm glow and what was probably an embarrassingly pleased smile on his face.
“I'll meet you from work,” said Sherlock as John sped around the sitting room trying to find his wallet and his keys amidst the general detritus, and wondering if any of it would ever be cleared up.
“Will you?” asked John, going through a stack of newspapers. “Is there something going on?”
Sherlock ran the bow across the strings of his violin for one, long note. “We're going to Angelo's, like we did a year ago.”
“A year ago?” repeated John, finally finding his keys under a pile of soil samples. Just his wallet to go, then. “What was a year ago?”
Sherlock let out a very long sigh and John paused his hunt long enough to actually think about it. What was the date today, and what had he been doing a year ago? “Oh,” he realised. “It's been a year since we met.”
Sherlock beamed at him as if he'd managed a clever trick. “Precisely,” he said, playing another note. “I thought we should mark the occasion.”
“I wouldn't have thought you'd be interested in anniversaries,” said John. “Given your thing about holidays.”
“Why not?” asked Sherlock. “It's not a holiday – it's unique to just the two of us. And it turned out to be rather an important event, one way or another. It deserves to be remembered.”
“It does,” agreed John. “Angelo's sounds like a great idea.”
Sherlock smiled, then nodded at the mantelpiece. “Sherrinford has your wallet.”
John turned to see that his wallet was propped against the skull. “How on earth did it get there?” he asked, grabbing it then pulling on his coat. “Right, I'll see you later, then. I'll be done at six.”
“I am aware of that,” said Sherlock. He glanced at the clock. “You're going to be late.”
John followed his gaze. “Shit,” he muttered, darted over to kiss Sherlock goodbye, then dashed off down the stairs. As he headed to the tube station, he couldn't help remembering that this time last year, he would have been limping along with a cane. He owed Sherlock a lot.
Dinner at Angelo's to mark their anniversaries was definitely a tradition that John could support whole-heartedly. Celebrations that are unique to us, he thought, remembering what Sherlock had said, and smiled to himself. Having those would go a long way towards making up for missing out on holidays. He thought about constructing their own pattern of special days together, finding moments to remember that were relevant to them and not just arbitrary days decided on by society, and decided that he rather liked the idea.
As the tube pulled in to the stop closest to the clinic, he wondered if he'd have time on his lunch break to go and pick a present up for Sherlock. A copy of The Princess Bride, maybe, although it was probable that either he wouldn't get the joke, or he wouldn't find it funny.
When John left work that night, Sherlock was waiting outside for him. His eyes were fixed somewhere off in the distance and for a moment he didn't see John, giving John the chance to take in his appearance while he was unaware of the scrutiny.
He was dressed in a wine-red shirt and a black suit, and his skin almost seemed to glow in contrast. There was something almost ethereal about him, especially with his eyes fixed on something unseen in the distance. He stood out from all the ordinary, mundane things surrounding him as if he was superimposed on the world. John found himself wondering how he could actually be real and, beyond that, how he could possibly have decided to be with John, of all people.
Sherlock caught sight of him and nodded a greeting, and just like that he resolidified back into the world and was just Sherlock again.
“Hello,” said John. “I was almost expecting to get a text saying there'd been some horrific murder and you were going to have to cancel.”
“The criminal world has been distressingly quiet recently,” said Sherlock. “Besides, that wouldn't have made me cancel, that would have just changed the nature of the celebration. After all, there was a 'horrific murder' last year, as well as dinner.”
“Yeah, that's true,” agreed John. “Are you actually going to eat tonight, then? Angelo will be overjoyed.”
“Indeed,” acknowledged Sherlock, taking John's arm as they started walking towards Angelo's. “I called him earlier to make sure he had a table, and he starting twittering about candles and romance and all that rubbish.”
“Oh god,” said John. “This is going to be like something out of a really bad rom-com.”
“Only if we let it be,” said Sherlock. “I dare say we can avoid any of the behaviour that those kinds of films espouse.”
“Hopefully,” agreed John. “Well, except for a bit of kissing.”
“That might be possible,” allowed Sherlock. “If you play your cards right, of course. I don't kiss just anyone, you know.”
“Who said I was talking about you?” said John. “I've had the hots for Angelo for a year now – I think it's finally time to make a move.”
Sherlock gave him a scandalised look and John couldn't stop himself from starting to giggle. A heartbeat later, Sherlock joined in.
“God, John, I did not need that mental image,” he said. John just laughed harder.
Dinner was lovely, as was going home afterwards and curling up in bed with Sherlock. Over the next few weeks, John found himself feeling more and more content with his life, even when Sherlock disappeared for the entirety of Valentine's Day without warning, or managed to explode a melon in the kitchen so spectacularly that John was still finding bits of it a week later. Those things were just part and parcel of being with Sherlock, and he couldn't imagine ever wanting to change him.
In March, they went to Dartmoor for a case, which was probably the closest they would ever get to a mini-break. There was a whole lot of nonsense with giant hounds and secret Government labs, and John got to pull rank for the first time in a long while, which felt almost as good as the look on Sherlock's face when he did it.
It wasn't completely perfect, of course. Sherlock had an emotional breakdown that involved snapping at John that he didn't do caring for people, despite all the months of evidence to the contrary. Instead of arguing back, John just took a deep breath and left him to it. There was no point in sticking around to see how many other ways Sherlock could find to hurt him in an effort to drive him away.
Sherlock found him easily the next morning, even though he'd deliberately found a graveyard to hide in, remembering Sherlock's reaction the last time they'd been faced with one. That Sherlock came in without hesitation to talk to him meant almost as much to John as his stuttered, awkward apology. He let the incident go, at least until after the case when they could have a proper talk about what was and wasn't acceptable to say to your boyfriend.
And then Sherlock decided it would be a good idea to drug John and terrify him into hallucinating a giant dog. Eating his breakfast in the sunshine after they'd wrapped everything up, John wondered if he should be angrier about that. It was clear from Sherlock's reactions that he had no idea just how out-of-line that had been, or how badly it could have ended. John's therapist might have been wrong about her PTSD diagnosis, but there was no denying that the war had left him with at least some psychological trauma, of the kind that didn't really go well with messing about with psychotropic drugs.
He waited until they were on the train home to bring it up again. Sherlock was in one of his post-case contented moods that would likely last right up until they got home and he realised there was now nothing for him to do.
“You said once that you would never hurt me,” started John.
Sherlock looked at him. “Yes,” he agreed. “And I haven't,” he added.
“Yes, you have,” said John.
Sherlock's face creased into a frown and he looked John over as if he might have missed some injury. “There's nothing wrong with you,” he said.
“Sherlock, over the last two days, you've said deliberately hurtful things in order to get me to leave you alone, and then subjected me to an experience that terrified me, and could easily have had long-term effects on my mental health – which has already proved itself to be a bit dodgy after traumatic experiences, if you can remember what I was like when we first met. Hurting me mentally, and emotionally, is just as bad as doing so physically.”
Sherlock frowned. “I already apologised for what I said and besides, I was under the influence of an hallucinogen at the time. You can't hold that against me. And I needed to make sure there was a drug – that was for the case.” He said that as if no one could ever argue against that, as if anything was acceptable as long as it was for a case. It probably was, in his world.
John sighed and wondered how he could possibly explain this so that Sherlock would understand. “I know your work is important to you,” he said, “but you could have done me serious damage, Sherlock. If you meant 'I'm not going to hurt you, unless I think doing so will help with a case', then you might as well have not said it.”
Sherlock sat in silence for a few minutes, frowning slightly to himself. John left him to it for a bit, telling himself that letting Sherlock think it through on his own was best. If John kept pushing, he'd get stubborn and defensive, and nothing John had said would get through his head.
Despite knowing that, he couldn't resist adding, “And if you want me to leave you alone for a bit, you should probably start with asking me if I will, not with trying to being cruel to me until I can't stand it.”
Sherlock looked at him with narrow eyes for a moment, then turned to look out the window. John kept silent after that, hoping that something of what he'd said would sink in. For all he loved Sherlock – and he did love him a frightening amount, far more than he'd ever be able to tell him – he wasn't sure he'd be able to stay with him if he kept doing things like this.
They were back in 221B before Sherlock spoke again. John had made tea when they got in and was just settling down into his chair with a little sigh at being home again.
“John, when I said I wouldn't hurt you, it was a reaction to Donovan's accusations – do you remember?”
“Yeah,” said John. “You know I've never worried for a second that you'll turn into a serial killer, though.”
“Sherrinford, Mycroft and I all had different fathers,” said Sherlock, looking at the skull rather than at John. “Our mother was not a particularly good woman to be in a relationship with. In fact, you might say she was rather cruel. None of them survived for much longer than a handful of years. My father didn't even last until I was six months old.”
John felt frozen in place with shock. He had never thought Sherlock would ever open up about his childhood, and to hear him actually volunteering details without prompting was almost as shocking as the actual things he was saying.
“When Donovan said those things,” continued Sherlock, still avoiding looking at John's face by focussing on Sherrinford, “it was that I thought of. I don't remember any of our fathers, of course, but I had heard enough stories of how Mummy treated them to know that it's the last thing I would ever want to do to you.”
Oh Christ, John had stumbled over an emotional minefield on this one. “And you haven't,” he said. “You weren't being deliberately cruel. I know that.”
“The motivation is immaterial if it ended with you in pain,” said Sherlock, finally looking away from Sherrinford to focus on John. “I- John. You know that emotions and empathy are not my forte, and I don't always understand what it is to hurt someone emotionally. I can't promise that I never will, not in the same way that I can promise never to hurt you physically.”
“I don't need you to promise that,” said John. “You wouldn't be able to keep it, anyway – no one could. I just want to know that you won't do it on purpose, for petty reasons.”
Sherlock nodded. “I can promise that,” he said. “John, I will not hurt you on purpose, either physically, mentally or emotionally.” He paused, and then added, “Not unless it is completely unavoidable.”
John smiled. “That's more than enough for me,” he said. He held out a hand to where Sherlock was hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room. “Come here.” Sherlock stepped closer to him and took John's hand. “I promise the same,” he said. “I'll do my best not to hurt you, Sherlock. At the end of the day, that's all two people can say to each other.”
He gave Sherlock's hand a little pull and Sherlock allowed himself to be folded into John's lap, where John was able to press a kiss to his lips.
“I may need you to tell me if I do hurt you,” sad Sherlock. “I don't yet have a complete data set on what upsets you and what doesn't. You occasionally defy all expectations.”
John's smile grew and he pulled Sherlock in for another, longer kiss. “That, I can definitely do,” he said. “I'm not expecting miracles, Sherlock.”
Sherlock smiled back. “That's good,” he said. “I'm afraid I am far from holy enough to grant them.”
John laughed and kissed him again.
Everything had been going so well, thought John as they ran from the police still handcuffed together. That should have been his first clue that something awful was about to happen. They'd had a whole series of interesting cases, things between them were so good that John couldn't imagine spending his life anywhere other than at Sherlock's side, and Sherlock had even managed to do the washing up last week. It had felt like everything was finally working the way it was meant to and John was happier than he could remember being, which was naturally when Moriarty came along and tipped it all over into darkness and chaos.
Sherlock became more and more closed off as the web that Moriarty had woven around him tightened. By the time they were holed up in Barts, trying to come up with some solution that didn't end with them both being arrested, Sherlock was barely looking at John at all, and when he did it was clear he wasn't really seeing him.
John wasn't sure how to deal with this version of Sherlock, the one with the face so blank that it seemed as if he'd never known an emotion, never laughed helplessly over a special club for gingers with John, or curled around him in bed and kissed him until they were both breathless and John thought his heart was going to melt with how in love he was. Looking at Sherlock now, John found himself hating Moriarty more than he had known he could hate anyone. How dare he come along and make Sherlock wall himself off behind a mask like this?
“Any ideas?” he asked.
“Nothing you'd want to hear,” replied Sherlock without looking up from his unfocussed stare at the far wall.
“Right,” said John. “Well, maybe we should go to the police? They'd probably take a while to sort it all out, but Moriarty's story can't be that solid, can it? And there's no way an investigation of your cases is going to turn anything dodgy up-”
“John,” interrupted Sherlock. “Do shut up.”
John stopped and let out a long, careful breath. Under a lot of stress, he reminded himself. He did shut up though, for the moment. Clearly, nothing he could say was going to help.
For all he intended to stay awake with Sherlock and help him as much as he could, even if it was only being there for him, the long few days they'd had, as well as all the emotional stress, caught up with him.
He woke up to a telephone call.
“Is this John Watson? I'm afraid Martha Hudson has been shot.”
His mind stilled. Mrs. Hudson was far too good, and harmless, to have been hurt by all this, surely? How on earth was it fair for her to pay the price for Moriarty's machinations?
They had to go to her. They couldn't let her die alone.
“Come on, Sherlock, let's go,” said John, grabbing his coat.
“You go, I'm busy,” said Sherlock.
“Busy?” repeated John incredulously.
“I'm thinking. I need to think.”
John could barely believe what he was hearing. “Doesn't she mean anything to you?”
“She's my landlady,” said Sherlock, and the bastard had the gall to sound confused, as if he had no idea why John would treat this as a big deal.
“She's dying!” exclaimed John. He cast around for something that might make Sherlock realise what he was saying. “Not being there with her will hurt her, Sherlock. Emotionally.”
“I don't remember promising anything to her,” said Sherlock. “Besides, what difference will a bit of emotional pain make when she's already dying?”
John gaped at him for a long moment, a thousand responses running through his mind before he forcibly shut them all down. He wouldn't solve anything by insulting Sherlock, and Mrs. Hudson didn't time for him to have this argument. “Sod this,” he said, and left.
There was nothing wrong with Mrs. Hudson when John arrived, breathless, back at Baker Street. She blinked at him in bewilderment when he mentioned the phone call, and that was when John realised that he'd left Sherlock alone to do something incredibly stupid.
He promised the cab driver double the fare if he could get him back to Barts in less than quarter of an hour, then spent the whole drive dialling Sherlock's number and listening to it ring out, before immediately dialling again.
When he arrived, it was clear he was too late.
“Keep your eyes fixed on me,” said Sherlock, as if John could possibly get distracted by anything else right now. “Please, will you do this for me?”
A heavy feeling was sinking through John's stomach. “Do what?”
“This phone call, it's my note. It's what people do, don't they? Leave a note.”
John could feel himself start to shake, but he wasn't paying attention to his body right now. Everything he had was fixed firmly on the dark figure of Sherlock, silhouetted against the skyline. “Leave a note when?”
“Goodbye, John.”
Oh god. “No. Don't do this,” said John. “Please, Sherlock. Don't. You said you wouldn't hurt me – this is going to hurt me. This is going to hurt me more than anything else you could ever do.”
“I said I wouldn't hurt you unless it was unavoidable,” Sherlock reminded him. “John. I don't.” There was a long pause, followed by a shuddering breath. “I'm a fake,” he said, those ridiculous, impossible words, as if John didn't know him far too well to ever believe it. “You shouldn't believe anything I say.”
“I always will,” swore John, with all the certainty he had.
“Don't,” said Sherlock, then, “Goodbye,” again.
He cast the phone aside before John could beg him to stop, or try and find some other way to get him to see sense, and John felt frantic panic surge through him.
“SHERLOCK!” he yelled, as if just shouting his name would be enough to stop him.
It wasn't. Sherlock stepped off the roof, and John felt the whole world tilt sideways. He pushed his way forward through what felt like porridge, barely noticing as a bike knocked him down and he was forced to pick himself up. He couldn't focus on anything else, nothing but the broken shape of Sherlock's body and the bright puddle of blood spreading out from it. He fumbled for Sherlock's pulse, then lost all strength in his legs as he realised there was nothing there. No pulse, no life, nothing. Sherlock was dead.
After Sherlock's death, it seemed as if the colours had faded out of the world. John sat in his chair for hours, staring at nothing while the stark shape of Sherlock's body as it fell played endlessly in his mind. He made it to the funeral, which was held at Mycroft's house rather than a church – not there was a great deal of difference between some of Mycroft's décor and ecclesiastical architecture. Still, Mycroft had insisted that Sherlock would not have wanted anything to do with a church, or even a crematorium, so instead of a traditional funeral, they'd gathered there instead. They ate incredibly pretentious nibbles, drank expensive wine, and avoided mentioning anything about how, or why, Sherlock had died.
After twenty minutes of watching people who had never really known Sherlock talking about him in grave voices, as if he was the kind of person who could be described in just a few sentences, John had to get away.
He went out to the garden and found a bench to collapse on. He put his head in his hands, screwed his eyes tightly shut as if he could block out everything that had happened, and started to take careful, deep breaths to settle himself. It wouldn't do to go back in there and cause a scene by telling everyone just how wrong they all were about Sherlock, about how amazing he'd been, and how human at times, and how none of them had a bloody clue.
There was a deliberately loud footstep and John looked up to see Mycroft watching him. He let out a loud groan.
“Can't I get a minute to myself?” he asked, then realised just how much like Sherlock being confronted by his brother he sounded. Well, Mycroft probably deserved it. John wasn't even close to forgiving him over this one yet.
“I apologise,” said Mycroft. “There are a couple of matters that we should discuss.”
John let out a long, slow breath. “Mycroft, just, not now,” he said, and he could hear the strain in his voice, the edge of the tears that had been hovering for days now but that he kept swallowing down. He wasn't sure he was ready to start crying yet, in case he couldn't stop.
Mycroft regarded him for a moment, then gave a little nod. “I shall come and visit you at Baker Street, then,” he said.
John made a face, but nodded agreement. As much as he wanted to avoid the whole thing, there was the issue of Sherlock's belongings, not to mention Sherrinford, who was still sitting on the mantelpiece as if waiting for Sherlock to turn up and play one of his concerts for him.
“Looking forward to it,” he said, pulling himself to his feet. “I'm leaving now. Tell Mrs. Hudson for me, would you?” He couldn't face going back into that room again.
Mycroft nodded. “I will,” he said, then hesitated. “John, you should know that you are not alone. If there is ever anything you need, please do not hesitate to contact me.”
John let out a bitter laugh. “Alone is exactly what I am,” he said, and he felt the surge of emotion rising up in his throat again. He took a deep breath to push it back down before Mycroft could comment on the crack in his voice. “Let me know when you're coming by,” he said, then left as quickly as he could, before he broke down entirely.
When he got home, he looked around at the clutter of Sherlock's life, all still frozen in place as he had left it, and felt all the strength sink out of him. For a moment he thought he was just going to collapse on the floor, but instead he made it as far as Sherlock's room. He curled up in the middle of Sherlock's bed, in the sheets that still smelled of him, and let the grief close in around him.
Mycroft didn't bother letting him know when he was coming by. John got home from a trip to the supermarket to find him standing in the sitting room, leaning on his umbrella and looking at Sherrinford.
John was unable to hold in a groan. “Jesus, Mycroft,” he said, heading for the kitchen with his shopping. “When I said 'let me know when you're coming', that didn't mean 'break in while I'm out'.”
“I didn't break in,” said Mycroft. “Mrs. Hudson let me in. She was kind enough to allow me to wait for you.”
John made a face to himself and started to put the shopping away. “I suppose you've come for Sherrinford,” he said.
“Actually,” said Mycroft, after a moment spent looking at the skull, as if meeting its non-existent gaze, “I shall be leaving him here.”
“What?” John said. “Mycroft, come on. It's your brother's skull, not mine.”
“Yes,” agreed Mycroft. “However, I rather think you are in need of him more than I am. Sherlock's skull, unfortunately, is not in a fit state to be given to you.”
John gaped at him, and then the thought of just how broken Sherlock's skull would have been after a fall from that height broke through his incredulity at the statement, and for a moment the room wavered. “Jesus Christ,” he said, leaning back against the counter behind him. “Jesus fucking Christ, Mycroft. Only a Holmes would have said that. Why on earth would I want Sherlock's skull?”
“Why wouldn't you?” asked Mycroft, than gave a little shrug as if to put aside the line of conversation. “At any rate, I came to give you this,” he said, picking a file up off the desk and holding it out to John.
John flicked it open and skimmed over the information it contained. “What is this?”
“I should have thought that was obvious,” said Mycroft. “I have transferred Sherlock's accounts into your name.”
“That's a lot of money,” said John, flipping the page. “Oh Jesus, there's more.”
Mycroft lifted one shoulder elegantly. “We have always been rather good at making investments,” he said. “Sherlock wasn't particularly interested in all that, of course, but he was wise enough to allow me to make some on his behalf.”
“Right,” said John, still staring at the figures. “Okay. And it's all mine now? Surely if it's family money, you should have it?”
“I have more than enough of my own,” pointed out Mycroft. “You do not. Besides, Sherlock wanted you to have it.”
“Oh,” said John. “Right.” He turned back to the first page, trying to get his head around all the different accounts, shares and investments. Apparently, he was rich now. Ridiculously rich. Why the hell had Sherlock needed a flatmate if he'd had all this? And what on earth was a OEIC? “Christ, I'm going to have to get a degree in finance just to work out the interest.”
Mycroft cleared his throat. “I can continue to look after it for you, if you want,” he said.
“I'm sure I'll work it out eventually,” said John, although he doubted it.
“It would be a pleasure,” said Mycroft. “I rather enjoy it, to be honest.”
John finally looked up from the file in order to stare at him. “After a long day of running the country – and probably half the rest of the world as well - you like to relax by working out compound interest and playing the stock market?” he asked.
“I really only occupy a very minor role in the government,” said Mycroft.
John snorted. “Right, of course,” he said. He shut the file and put it on the table to be puzzled over later. “I suppose if you actually understand it all, you might as well keep an eye on it,” he said. “I can't imagine I'll ever use any of it, though. Not unless I get a sudden yearning for my own aircraft carrier.”
Mycroft nodded. “Then there is just one more matter,” he said. “Sherlock has left you all his belongings, which I doubt comes as much of a surprise.”
It was, actually, because it meant Sherlock had considered his own mortality for long enough to make some sort of Will. Unless he had done it knowing that he was going to jump, in which case there should have been other signs that he was thinking of suicide, ones that John had missed. He cut off that train of thought and took a careful breath. Guilt and recriminations could wait until after he'd got rid of Mycroft.
“However,” continued Mycroft, “I was going to ask if I might take his violin.”
“His violin?” repeated John, glancing over to where the case was lying next to the music stand in the corner, as if just waiting for Sherlock to reappear and launch into some fiendishly difficult solo.
“Yes,” said Mycroft. He hesitated, then added, “I can still remember him getting it, you know. How very pleased he was, and how quickly he mastered it. Besides which, a violin of that quality requires regular upkeep that I am sure you do not know how to provide.”
John thought for a moment. He was extremely reluctant to let any of Sherlock's possessions out of the flat, especially not something he had prized as highly as his violin, but he supposed Mycroft deserved a memento of his brother, and it wasn't as if John would ever be able to play it. “Yeah, okay.”
Mycroft nodded. “Thank you,” he said as he picked it up.
It was only after he had gone that John realised he had been completely distracted from the issue of Sherrinford. He looked at the skull and thought about putting it in Sherlock's room, or boxing it up and sending it to Mycroft, but something about that didn't sit right. It had been the silent observer of so much that had happened between John and Sherlock, things that now only John remembered. Getting rid of it would feel as if he was trying to get rid of those memories.
“Fine,” he said out loud. “But if I end up talking to you...” He trailed off when he realised he was doing exactly that, and resolutely returned to the kitchen to put his shopping away.
Chapter Four
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Date: 2012-10-21 04:32 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-22 10:00 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2012-10-21 06:36 pm (UTC)The scene where Sherlock was admiring the x-ray of John's skull was hilarious.
You do a great job with portraying their relationship.
Well, I guess I know how this Sherlock survives the fall (I don't think something like that can hurt him). I can't wait to see how they are reunited! I'm glad you didn't end the chapter at his 'death' or funeral and we got to see a bit afterwards.
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Date: 2012-10-22 07:56 am (UTC)Sherlock didn't think too much about poor John's hurt mind because the war with the drug thing... Even if John finally was drugged by himself and not by the sugar, but Sherlock didn't helping him at all.
I think Sherlock had to follow his hurt and told John more about him before the fall. I think John would understood eventuallu or at least would have more hope now.
Poor John this part sucks big time!!! At least he must ask Mycroft to pay the rent so he only worry for his food. He is in no state of working himself sensless in order to pay for all.
Tell me that we have supernatural hope!
Also Sherrinfold had to take pity on poor John, right?
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