Work Text:
“Will you be okay tonight?”
John sits beside him in the back of a police car, hands folded in his lap. His hair is still wet from the well at Musgrave Hall; the cool, damp scent of earth and mud and mould clings to his clothes. A different blanket from the one at the scene curls round his body to trap the heat in, draped over his shoulders as if it were a cloak. His gaze has settled on Sherlock, gentle and dark and incredibly blue, and he waits.
Pressing his fingers together, Sherlock narrows his focus onto the back of the passenger seat. He feels … raw. That is the best way he can think to describe it: raw. Open. Tender. Vulnerable. Everything is a little too bright and a little too loud and a little too intense. A dull throb pulses behind his eyes and it isn’t from crying. It’s as if someone tried to pry up the top of his skull but only managed it halfway, so they made do by digging through as much contoured grey matter as possible until they could assign a purpose to every available neuron and firing synapse.
If Sherlock is honest, he preferred the night at the pool.
“I’ll be fine,” he says. “Mycroft, on the other hand, might have trouble with nightmares.”
John isn’t deterred. “What about you?”
“Mm. Can’t say. Been a while since I’ve had nightmares. Though I imagine if this particular ordeal could be called anything at all, ‘nightmare fuel’ would certainly be accurate.”
“That’s not what I meant.” John makes a noise, exasperated yet concerned. “It’s just, you know, you’ve been through a lot these past—Jesus, I don’t even know how long it’s been. Twelve hours? Sixteen? Longer? I’ve no idea. Look, the point is you’ve been through hell and back tonight, almost literally, and that has to be … difficult.”
“Difficult.” Sherlock gives a considering nod. “Also accurate. A bit of an understatement, but accurate nonetheless.”
“Right, I know it’s an understatement. Just wasn’t sure what else to call it. You’ll forgive me if words aren’t exactly forthcoming right now.”
“I think you mentioned torture at some point,” says Sherlock.
“Right, and you said, ‘It’s not torture, it’s vivisection.’”
“Indeed. Torture, vivisection, nightmare fuel, difficult, hell. It’s all correct to some degree. At this point it’s just arguing semantics.” Sherlock focusses on the pressure of his thumb sliding against his forefinger and tries not to imagine John at the bottom of a rapidly filling well with chains clasped round his legs. “Regardless, I’ll be fine. Even if nightmares do happen tonight, they’re only nightmares. The real one has already passed.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose it has. Thank God.” Relief limns John’s voice, soft and palpable, and it eases the tension coiled in Sherlock’s chest.
Several minutes pass before the lights of London start to skip through the darkness. They wink beyond the car windows in the far distance, soon unfurling into a xanthous patina over the approaching cityscape. The murmur of the engine and the faint susurrus of the police radio provide a comfortable, familiar quiet. The officers in front exchange words amongst themselves, but nothing more.
A small courtesy, he supposes. This was supposed to have been a traumatic event, after all.
Unbidden, he thinks of Victor. He thinks of the childhood friend he could never remember, of the little boy his mind had masked into something that was not a boy at all. He thinks of him down, down at the bottom of a well, damp and dark and with a rising water line that a young child would find far too much to overcome. Small body, smaller lungs, a fraction of an adult’s stamina; if it was not hunger or exposure, it would have been the water.
Not a short death. Not a kind one, either. Victor would have been terrified until the very end.
Sherlock shuts his eyes and attempts to box the imagery away. It feels incredibly tender, like if he looks at it too much it might bruise into permanence. With a clenched jaw, he keeps himself still and tries to wade around it because he knows dwelling is presently useless. He has confronted the memory through force; it already exists. Now he just needs the time to process it.
By comparison, the existence of Eurus was far easier to process.
John adjusts in the seat beside him, untucking the blanket from around his shoulders to place upon his lap. Sherlock can hear the rustle of it pulling from behind John’s back and then the soft sweep of it ghosting across his knees. It’s an odd sound to take comfort in, but it taps into a different memory.
He recalls a cold winter night spent by the sitting room hearth’s vigorous blaze. He recalls John nestled half asleep in his chair, a blanket strewn over his legs and his computer in his lap, his fingers stilled and resting on the keys. He recalls playing the violin by the curtained window, pleasant, purposeful, a lulling nocturne for the soldier whose traumas still hunted him in dreamscapes.
Sherlock opens his eyes once more to the inky black beyond the car, now acutely aware of the heartening presence resting at his right.
There are a great many terrible things that could have happened today, he thinks. Things that could have prevented John from sharing this space in the back of a police car. Things that could have stolen his last breaths. Things that could have made this single moment in time an impossibility.
And yet none of them did. None of them did, not a one, and he is beyond grateful. He even doesn’t know if he can express just how deeply that gratitude runs. How does one excavate a seemingly endless font of thanks for the continued existence of the single fixed point in one’s life?
Because John is a fixed point. There is no doubt about that. Since their meeting at Bart’s, Sherlock’s life has shifted to include one obstinate John Watson.
It was a gradual phenomenon at first, as the axis seemed content to inch away at its own leisure, but now it has shifted so that not only is John included, he has become central. John is the nexus, the core, the first and the foremost; John is necessary. He is a constant, a continuum, something that anchors Sherlock to the world in a way he has never experienced. John is an integral feature not unlike the limbic system and its host of inconveniences, and Sherlock would have it no other way.
I truly would be lost without my blogger, he thinks. Utterly and completely lost. Do you even know? Surely you must. I’ve told you once before, but now it’s empirical. I’ve got so much data on the matter I could drown in it.
“Sherlock?”
“Hm?”
“I’ve just thought of something. Are you—” John pauses and knots his hands into the blanket. “Have you got someplace to stay?”
Sherlock rubs his thumb across his fingers and thinks back to the flat. He remembers the drone that carried the tiny silver DX-707 into the sitting room, Eurus’s haunting voice in accompaniment. He remembers the deafening blast that followed, and then the wreaths of fire that clawed after him and John as they launched themselves through the windows. He can still feel the heat of it sweltering against the back of his neck, shards of glass cocooning his descent.
There hadn’t been much time to assess the damage. After 999 was called and Mrs Hudson had been pronounced unharmed, they’d put the next steps of their plan into motion. Still, judging from the sheer intensity of the blast, he imagines the flat is in no condition to use. The sitting room and the kitchen are undoubtedly wrecked. The bedroom might have been far enough away to remain unscathed, especially if the door had been closed.
Had he closed it? He can’t remember.
“You’re thinking of going back to Baker Street,” says John, ever perceptive. “You are, aren’t you?”
“It crossed my mind,” Sherlock admits.
“You can’t be serious. The place is in shambles.”
“Missus Hudson won’t mind a guest.”
“Missus Hudson won’t even be awake. And you are not going to wake her up at”—John leans to the side, peering past the driver’s seat to the neon numbers displayed on the centre console—“three o’clock in the bloody morning so you can have a kip on her sofa. She’s already had the flat above her explode. Let’s wait a bit before giving her another heart attack, hm?”
Sherlock considers this. “She was rather cross, wasn’t she?”
“You could say that, yeah. Though I’m sure it was more at the fact that someone tried to blow up the flat than at you.”
“Mm. She should be pleased. Blowing up a flat is one way to force renovations. She’s talked about it for ages. Patch the bullet holes, put up new wallpaper, scrub the blood out.” Sherlock glances at John, smiling halfway. “Now she’s got an excuse.”
“That she has.” A moment’s silence beats between them, and then: “You’re going to shoot the wall the moment it’s done, aren’t you?”
“Immediately.”
That has John giggling. “I hope you’ll wait on the blood for her sake.”
“Oh, that won’t be for a while yet. I’m not particularly eager to do it again anytime soon. Taking the Tube with a harpoon is inconvenient to say the least.”
“Oh, it’s the harpoon bit that’s inconvenient, is it?”
“Of course it is. Haven’t you ever tried to carry a harpoon in a packed Tube carriage? People give you the strangest looks.”
John stares at him for a moment, mirth flanking his eyes in wide crinkles, and then he laughs. He laughs, full and hearty, and Sherlock can’t help but join him.
Because in spite of all that’s happened—in spite of the rawness, the intensity, the sheer exhaustion of coming face to face with living, breathing trauma—John is here. John is here, alive, tired but persisting, and still willing to roll with every punch. John Watson: colleague, friend, forever confidant.
Sherlock lets his head rest against the seat, and he laughs with the man he is so very privileged to call his best friend.
When everything settles and the corners of his eyes sting with tears, Sherlock coughs and turns his attention out the window. They’ve encroached upon the outskirts of London; the lambent haze of lights blots out the constellations marbled overhead. The motorways are barren save for the occasional car, the asphalt a deep obsidian scored with stripes of shimmering white paint.
It won’t be long until they reach John’s flat. In light of Baker Street’s condition, he supposes he ought to make his way to Dagmar Court or Kew Gardens. It would be an uncomfortable arrangement, but it would leave him the rest of the morning to think.
Alternatively, he could have the officers drop him by Mycroft’s house, as abhorrent as the idea sounds. He and Mycroft will have to coordinate on the matter of Eurus and their parents, and he’s sure Mycroft will want to address it once the dust has settled. Sherlock knows it’s better to have a plan sooner than later when it comes to these sorts of things.
Then again, Mycroft is likely to be indisposed for a while. Perhaps going to his house is a good idea after all.
“You know, you didn’t actually answer me.”
Sherlock glances over his shoulder. “Sorry?”
“I asked if you had a place to stay. Somewhere other than Baker Street.” John licks his lip and keeps his focus on the back of the driver’s seat. “I’m going to assume that’s a no.”
“I’ve got a few bolt-holes here and there. They should suffice.”
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock steeples his fingers. “Mycroft’s.”
“Mm, no. Don’t believe that. You can barely stand to be in the same room as Mycroft let alone spend an entire night in the same house. Er, recent brotherly bonding aside.”
“Right. That’s why the bolt-holes are first.”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” John heaves a long-suffering sigh and scrubs at his face. “You are not going to curl up in a bolt-hole.”
Sherlock raises an eyebrow. “I’m not?”
“No, you’re not. You’re— I do have a flat, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“And you do know you can stay there.” John levels him with a tentative gaze from across the seat. “You don’t need to go to Mycroft’s or one of your bolt-holes or anything. You’re— You’re welcome to stay.”
Startled, Sherlock takes a moment to study John in the dark.
Anyone might make an offer out of courtesy. Tone and delivery can convey courtesy, but this isn’t courtesy. No. No, this is more complex: body language, station, tells. John’s stiffness implies equal parts obstinacy and nerves (because John shies from emotional intimacy; he avoids and evades and fidgets), but his eyes are forceful, intent: We were soldiers today.
The passing lamps from the road chase dappled daggers of shadow across the lines of John’s face—younger, older, doctor, soldier. Facets. Gem cuts. John through a prism.
This is sincerity, Sherlock realises.
He would reply if the words hadn’t snagged back behind his molars.
“Well, if you think you can handle Rosie and her fussing, that is,” John amends, directing his attention back toward the seat. “She sleeps through most nights, but every now and again she fancies getting up at three in the morning to test her lungs.”
“Ah.” Sherlock’s throat feels dry. He doesn’t need to touch his wrist to recognise the leap in his pulse; the mild, thumping ache hastening between his temples is all the proof he needs. “That part’s already past, then.”
“Technically, yeah,” says John, mouth turned in a light corner smile. “She should be quiet the rest of the night. Fingers crossed.”
A familiar swell folds itself inside Sherlock’s chest. “Thank you, John. That’s a very kind offer. You know you don’t have to—”
“I know I don’t have to,” says John. “I know I don’t. But I am.”
Sherlock says nothing because he can think of nothing to say.
When the police car finally pulls up to John’s flat, the childminder is already waiting for them. Rosie is in the crook of her arm, the large bag of her supplies placed on the pavement by her feet. A pair of policemen wait with her, chatting amongst themselves; Greg’s doing, no doubt.
John exits the car, blanket discarded, and makes straight for his daughter. After a brief word with the minder, he scoops Rosie into his arms and stands there in the ethereal halo of the streetlamps, swaying back and forth, nose buried in her blond hair. He compacts around her as if his body were a shield, solid and strong, and a visible tremor wracks him through.
Sherlock watches from the safety of the car. He knows this is an intimate moment. There were too many times John Watson could have died in the past—
God, John is right. How long has it been? Twelve hours? Twenty? Twenty-four? Twenty-four should be a safe estimate, shouldn’t it?
Either way, John almost died far too many times within the past twenty-four hours, and this right here is the moment of decompression, of acceptance, the quiet moment in the aftermath where one comes to terms with all that could have been, and Sherlock knows he does not belong in it.
So he watches and he waits, fingers locked and legs crossed. He watches as John gives Rosie a kiss on her head and then on her nose, and then as he addresses the minder with what Sherlock assumes to be a profuse amount of sincere thanks. She makes a placating gesture with her hands, sympathy contouring her countenance, and says some sort of platitude—“It’s quite all right, Doctor Watson,” he imagines, “I’m just glad everything’s okay”—before gathering up her handbag and heading off into the night. The pair of policemen approach John as well, but only to spare a comment or two before returning to their patrol car.
“Mister Holmes, sir,” says the policeman in the driver’s seat, “will you be needing a lift elsewhere?”
John’s gaze locks onto Sherlock as he picks up Rosie’s bag with his free hand. His forehead furrows a moment, and he then gestures to his side with a brief jerk of his head.
Come on, it says. What are you doing? Get over here.
Sherlock notices a distinct kick in his chest. “No. No, here is fine.”
He gets out and shuts the door behind him, affording a perfunctory nod of thanks to the officers inside. John trots over to meet him, his breath uncurling in a translucent puff. He mutters something about having to find another minder for Rosie—unfortunate, that—but it’s something that will have to wait until morning. Or until the end of the week.
John shakes his head, dark prints of exhaustion framing his eyes as he leads Sherlock down the concrete stairs. Christ, what day is it?
After a moment of fumbling for his keys (and Sherlock taking Rosie’s bag), John shows him in. It hasn’t changed much since Sherlock saw it last: minimal, functional, open, clean. The hardwood floors are spotless beneath his mud-touched shoes, so he shucks them off at the rug by the doorway before he proceeds. John mimics him as he locks the door, swapping a sleepy yet grumpy Rosie from one arm to the other, and then crosses the room to head upstairs.
“Just going to put her down,” says John. “Won’t be a moment. Pop that on the sofa, will you? Yeah, just there’s fine. Thanks. Back in a minute.” And with that, he disappears up the staircase, murmuring soothing things into Rosie’s ear.
Sherlock places Rosie’s bag on the charcoal sofa across from the telly and takes a seat. He glances round the room, absorbing the environment in which John and Rosie Watson live.
The bike John uses to commute (three days per week) lies propped against the wall by the entryway. A couple of newspapers (six days old), books (John’s), and magazines (from the post) make their home upon the pinewood coffee table. Miscellaneous baubles of varying sorts (Mary’s) nestle amongst themselves in the nearby shelving. Various glasses and dishes (purchased two years ago) have been situated in the cupboards in the floral-patterned wall behind him along with other unrelated trinkets and knickknacks (purchased on a whim) and a bottle of whisky (purchased out of grief).
It’s strange to be here at night. He has only ever been to John’s flat during the day, and only inside when Mary was still alive. It seems a different world now, replete with long, lissom shadows and the delicate stillness that slinks in on the coattails of absconding midnights. The extraction hood lamp from the kitchen beyond offers a pale blade of otherworldly light; it’s as if this single space steeped in the cold dark of early twilight has been preserved between a set of specimen slides, forever crystallised between a waning moon and a waxing dawn.
How empty it must have felt, he thinks, dragging a hand beneath his Belstaff to press against the seam of his scar. How heavy and crushing it must have been. John is such a stalwart figure, showing only the most steadfast resolve in the face of danger, and yet the absence of a single person in his life had begun to weather even him to ruin. Sherlock once thought grief a foreign concept he could only imagine, but tonight has proven it’s a concept with which he is all too familiar—so familiar that he’d managed to rewrite his own childhood memories—and he doesn’t know what he is supposed to do.
How does John stand it? How does he endure? Is there some sort of trick to putting oneself back together again? Is there a silver bullet to reconciling the forgotten secrets tucked away in one’s past? Anecdotal evidence suggests there isn’t, but that doesn’t stop Sherlock from wondering.
How do I begin? he wants to ask. How do I even start?
After a few more minutes, John comes back down the stairs. The floorboards put up the occasional protest beneath his footfalls as his left hand glides down the bannister. From the curve of his neck to the cant of his shoulders to the weight of his steps, the whole of his body language reads downright knackered.
John pauses at the bottom and leans against the decorative pillar. He meets Sherlock’s eyes with a weary smile. “All right?”
Sherlock nods in answer.
“Good.” John licks at his lower lip and averts his gaze toward the kitchen. “Right, then. Well, bathroom’s upstairs if you want a shower. I’m going to have one. Don’t exactly want to go to bed reeking of old well water. We’ve got only two rooms, mine and Rosie’s, but—”
“Not to worry,” says Sherlock. “I’ll sleep on the sofa. I won’t intrude.”
John expels a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You’re not intruding. Okay? You have to know that. I’m the one who invited you. If I didn’t want you here, I wouldn’t have offered. And no,” he continues, focussing on the kitchen light, “no, you’re not sleeping on the sofa. Not … Not tonight.”
Sherlock frowns. “But what if Rosie wakes? You’ll be down here. I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed, John.”
“Not what I was suggesting.” John clears his throat, working his jaws for a moment. “Right. Well, I’m for a shower. I’ve got some clothes you can borrow after yours. Already laid them out for you upstairs. Might be a bit short, but I reckon they’re better than sleeping in a suit.”
Realisation settles in. “John—”
“No,” says John, voice stern. “No, I’m not arguing about this. Christ, Sherlock, this has been … hell. Utter hell. For the both of us. For you most of all, but it’s been hell for me, too, and—and the least I can do, the very least, is make sure you’re not alone tonight. So, no. No, you’re not sleeping on the sofa. You’re going to have a shower, change into some pyjamas, and come upstairs. Even if you don’t sleep at all tonight, you’re still coming upstairs. All right?”
There are hundreds of words that crowd the space of his throat, each vying for presence upon his tongue. They all squeeze and stretch and strain together against his Adam’s apple, things like John Watson you are a marvel and Your kindness knows no end and What have I ever done to deserve you? but all that escapes the bedlam is a low and whispery, “All right.”
John nods, satisfied. “Okay. Good. I won’t be long. Ten minutes at the most. Pyjamas are on the bed. There’s a hanger for your coat as well if you need it. Just pop it on the back of the door.” And then he ascends the stairs once more, fingers skimming up the bannister.
When John’s footsteps have faded into the bathroom overhead, Sherlock rises from the sofa. He crosses the sitting room, dips into the kitchen, and switches off the light above the hob. It takes a moment for the negative snapshot of assorted dishes and appliances to disperse behind his eyelids (because the white shapes thrum to the pain meshed between his temples, a driving and persistent pulse), but when it does, he moves past the table toward the stairs and begins to climb.
He takes each step cautiously, lifelines caught in the bannister’s smooth current. The narrow staircase makes a sharp right turn, and he follows it upward.
The top deposits him at the end of a small corridor that makes yet another right turn toward the second storey proper. Three doors branch before him: one to his right, one further down and to the left, and the last at the centre at the very end. The one to the right is closed and has a soft yellow light peering out from beneath it, the telltale sound of running water murmuring on the other side. The one at the end is closed as well, but no light (the nursery, he surmises), which leaves the one at his left, its door invitingly ajar.
Sherlock pauses upon the threshold. A dim bedside lamp illuminates everything within, revealing that John all but permeates the room.
Much like his accommodations at Baker Street, his scent, his style, and his presence have all been cloistered in this particular space. Clothes, slippers, sheets, the occasional bauble or three—everything has a tether to John.
The laundry basket to the left of the door is halfway full of John’s button-downs, vests, pants, jumpers, and jeans. The chest of drawers just after hosts a set of folded clothing atop it (tomorrow’s, he assumes) as well as a familiar bottle of cologne and a plain stick of deodorant. John’s phone charger, watch, and alarm clock sitting upon the right bedside table indicate he sleeps furthest from the door, which is an entirely new set of data for Sherlock to devour (because surely John would take the side nearest to the exit—or had Mary taken it first? Had they switched sides once Rosie came? Do people even switch sides?).
What comes as an honest surprise to Sherlock is that he can discern very little of Mary here. There are traces, of course, like the wicker laundry basket and the choice of dresser and wardrobe, but the small loo to the right bears more of her mark than the bedroom itself. John must have found her personal effects in their once shared room to be too painful of a reminder. Stored elsewhere, perhaps? Yes, that seems right. Stored, boxed; kept for later but out of sight.
The blue silk dressing gown comes to mind, smoothed and stored with purpose in his own wardrobe, and Sherlock understands John’s decision at once.
His attention then turns to the diamond patterned duvet and the set of blue and grey pyjamas John had left out for him. A still-packaged toothbrush has been nestled just atop the cobalt shirt, a clothes hanger set beside the trousers.
Despite all he has been through with John, this is new territory. That isn’t to say that sleeping in the same room is new, because it isn’t—past cases have brought them to the same hotel room more than once, not to mention the times they have both fallen asleep in the sitting room whilst researching—but the fact that he will be wearing John’s clothes in John’s room in John’s own bed inflicts an extrasystolic stutter upon his heart.
With a systematic carefulness, Sherlock sheds his Belstaff, slips it on the hanger, and places it onto the hook on the back of the door. He then snatches the toothbrush and peels it out of its packaging as he enters the loo. After dropping the plastic into the bin, he turns on the tap, snags the toothpaste from the shelf beneath the mirror, and cleans his teeth. Once he’s finished, he sets the brush on the lip of the washbasin and gathers up his temporary set of pyjamas.
John makes his way back into the bedroom not two minutes later, clad in his own pyjamas and smelling of soap and warmth and something unmistakably home. His tawny silver-brushed hair is dark with lingering water, his face softened and relaxed, his military posture tempered by fatigue.
“Your go,” he manages around a yawn.
Sherlock slips out the door as John rounds to his side of the bed.
The water helps his headache. It must be the drumming, he thinks. Must be the heat, the pressure. It all pours down in stippling patterns over the top of his skull, tapping and tapping like rain against foggy window glass, real enough to catch the scent of petrichor. The rich pull of steam through his lungs feels like welcome cinders to sharp shards of ice, but it’s the thawing, drumming water that really soothes.
He shuts his eyes and lets it sluice down his back, shoulders, chest, and legs, fingers sloped together in a steeple beneath his chin.
There is nothing deep here. Nothing unknown. Nothing out of the ordinary. There are no endless waterfalls or bottomless pools or fathomless oceans or flooding wells. There are no labyrinthine islands. There is only comfort like the warmth of seafoam and sand. These are the calm and quiet shallows he knows best: one obstinate John Watson and his daughter Rosamund.
When Sherlock emerges from the bathroom freshly washed, dried, and dressed, he crosses the corridor and returns to the bedroom with his discarded clothes. John dozes in the light of the lamp, hands folded over his chest atop the duvet. Sherlock can’t stop the elated swell from twisting behind his sternum, so he masks it by setting his jaw and tucking his shirt, suit jacket, and trousers beneath the laundry basket stand instead.
John perks awake at the rustling. He opens one eye and watches Sherlock drift to the left side of the bed.
“There you are,” he says. “Tired at all?”
“A little. It’s difficult to say.” Sherlock lifts the covers and crawls in. The space beneath is cool against his toes, the duvet heavy and pleasant over him. “I don’t think the hard drive has caught up to the transport quite yet.”
John leans over to turn out the light. “Even after everything? Jesus.”
“Well, I was tranquillised for some period of time when we were moved to Musgrave Hall, so it isn’t too surprising.” Sherlock watches as darkness floods in, leaving yet another set of white-shocked afterimagery. It mirrors the hastened beat of his heart. “If I could choose to switch it off for a night, I think I would. Might make things a bit … quieter.”
“Mind palace too noisy?”
“Mm. In a way.”
“Memories, then.”
“You’ve no idea.”
“I haven’t, no, but—well. I’m sorry, for what it’s worth. That all this happened.”
“So am I.” Sherlock draws a deep breath. John’s scent seems to ensconce him entirely. “But we made it through.”
“Yeah. Yeah, we did. Seems like a bloody miracle, doesn’t it?”
“For us, yes. Not so much for the others.”
John releases a soft exhale. “You did the best you could, you know. She— She was using that against you. It was all on purpose. Planned. Rigged. Right from the very start. There was nothing else you could have done.”
“I’m not so certain.” Sherlock flattens his hands together in the dark, savouring the pressure between his lifelines. “I keep thinking through the scenarios, trying to remember if there was something I missed, if there was something I just couldn’t see like the cipher. If there was another choice, a better one, it might have ended things that much sooner. We might have been spared Musgrave Hall. Less people would have had to die.”
“Sherlock, there was no other choice. She didn’t give you one. You know that as well as I do. She controlled every last thing in that godforsaken prison. The only choice you made beyond her control was to—” John baulks before the words. He inhales, exhales, swallows.
“Commit suicide,” Sherlock supplies.
“Yes. Yes, commit suicide.” John pulls another inhale. “Christ. You were going to do it. You really were, weren’t you?”
“I wasn’t going to allow her to force a choice between you and Mycroft.” Sherlock increases the pressure between his hands, an ache in his throat, I couldn’t bear it in trammels down below his diaphragm. “Eurus wanted me. I was the primary target. Everything and everyone else was collateral damage, the both of you included. You said every choice was under her control, all within her neatly defined constraints, and you’re correct. The only logical thing to do in that situation would be to rob her of that control. No control, no power; the game ends. That led me to choose the third option. Like the governor.”
A heaviness pours into the narrow space between them as if it were a mould. Sherlock can feel John across the mattress as he fidgets, hands locking together, shoulders nudging against the pillow.
“Out of all the horrible and terrifying things that happened there,” says John, his voice harshly quiet, “I think that’s what terrified me the most.”
Bewildered, Sherlock turns upon the pillow. “Not the well?”
“No. Not even the well.” John’s features are limned in shadow, but Sherlock can still discern the firm line of his mouth and hard stare he gives the ceiling. “It was like Bart’s again, but worse. Worse because no matter how much Moriarty tried to make it seem like resurrection is possible, there is no coming back from a bullet through the brain. You would have been dead. Permanently. No going into hiding or dismantling criminal empires. No fake identities or showing up at the Landmark two years later. You would have been dead. Very, very dead. And I—”
John halts, the edges of his voice creaking, hoarse, and he brings a blanched fist against his mouth to stifle it down.
Something sharp corkscrews between Sherlock’s lungs. “John—”
“No, no. It’s fine. It’s—” John clears his throat and rests his forearm across his eyes as if to hide. “Sorry. It’s fine. It’s just … difficult. It’s difficult to talk about this. You went through vivisection and I went through hell. God only knows how Mycroft’s dealing with it.”
“Sweets, I imagine,” says Sherlock. “That’s how he tends to deal with most stressors.”
John manages a raspy chuckle. “Well, that’s one way. Don’t know if I could stomach it all, but I wouldn’t say no to a slice of cake.”
“Ah, yes. The obligatory ‘We’re alive!’ cake, second only to the obligatory ‘It’s your birthday!’ cake. I think I’ll try the ginger spice this time. It looked quite good.”
“Feeling adventurous, are we?” Another cracking snicker. John’s arm comes away wet. “You’re buying, of course.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Tears pricking, Sherlock grins at him in the dark. “Gladly.”
It’s a good while longer before sleep lays claim to Sherlock’s consciousness, but by then he is comfortable and warm, skimming the hypnagogic edge of wakefulness and slumber where a fresh five-years-ago John talks and laughs and follows without a care. It isn’t either of the Johns who inhabit the long corridors of his mind palace, but rather the John he sees in glimpses and fragments when the sunbeams shimmer just right.
This John doesn’t wear a wedding band and he doesn’t go on frivolous dates with meaningless girlfriends. Instead, this John indulges him with ballroom dances in Baker Street’s sitting room and celebratory post-case takeaway. This John leans into his shoulder in the back of a cab, calling him “amazing” and “extraordinary” and “brilliant” with a gleam in his eyes. This John takes his hand and holds it, lifeline to lifeline, intermittent tremor evaporating with the night’s end. This John licks his lips and says, Sorry, I know you said you’re married to your work, but—
If deep waters ever come for him during the night, Sherlock doesn’t recall.
John keeps him moored closely to the shore.