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Sherlock couldn’t say when it had started, what subtle nuance had first tipped him off, planted the seed of suspicion in his mind. All he knew for certain was that, one day, it was just there, fully-formed and slamming his legs out from under him as it knocked the breath from his lungs.
It had been an entirely normal day up until that point, him coming back from classes and playing his violin until John returned from his shift at the hospital. Sherlock still had another couple years left, but John had graduated the previous spring, working long hours at the bottom rung of the ladder at St. Barts. He had thought everything had been going fine, the two of them working as best they could around their harried schedules in their tiny shared flat with unreliable heating and only four working outlets, but all that changed when John had arrived home that night, a little later than usual, and it wouldn’t ever be the same again.
“Hey,” he had sighed, the usual greeting, dropping his keys on the kitchen counter as he moved to Sherlock’s side.
“You didn’t pick anything up?” Sherlock had asked, and John had stalled halfway through wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist, raising a brow at him.
“It’s nice to see you too,” he’d muttered, breaking into a smile when Sherlock rolled his eyes, and had curled an arm around him anyway, pulling him in for a short kiss. “No, I figured we could just do takeaway,” he had then replied, shrugging as he moved away toward the shower, his usual after-work practice.
“Yeah, alright,” Sherlock had answered, thinking nothing of it. Not yet, anyway. “You miss your train?” he’d asked, bobbing his head at the clock when John had turned back with a frown. “You’re late,” he’d explained, and John had tensed just slightly, a fractional stiffening of his shoulders. “We didn’t have anything planned,” Sherlock had continued, initially misinterpreting the response. “You weren’t late for anything. I was just wondering-”
“No, I-” John had interjected, and he hadn’t been able to meet his eyes, Sherlock would always remember that. “Some blood test results just took a little longer than I’d thought,” John had said, flicking his eyes up to Sherlock’s for just a second as he twitched a smile, and Sherlock’s blood had run cold, his fingers nearly losing their grip on the bow dangling from them. “Well, I’m gonna grab a shower,” the blond had muttered, jerking a thumb behind him before moving quickly toward the bathroom door. “You can order, if you like. Whatever you want, I don’t really care. Just don’t get maximum spice again, alright? I’m pretty sure I’m still bleeding internally.” He’d disappeared then, closing the bathroom door between them, and Sherlock had just stood there, listening to the shower run, the tone of the splashing shifting as John moved in and out of the spray, washing his hair twice, just like always.
Sherlock had felt like he was going to pass out, and that feeling had never entirely gone away, an undercurrent of unsteady nausea rippling beneath the surface of every moment since, but those first ones would always be the worst, the world crashing down around him and knocking spots into his vision.
John had lied to him. Not looked him in the eye and lied to him, and, once he was thinking about it, he had realized it was hardly the first time. He’d been a little quieter the past few weeks, starting somewhere around the beginning of November, but Sherlock had just thought it was stress with work, the weight of the proverbial ‘real world’ pressing heavy on his just-starting-out shoulders. He’d been on the phone a little more, leaving the room when they were watching television, or temporarily walking away from the table when they were out to dinner, but Sherlock had assumed he was just trying to be polite, or was perhaps discussing sensitive details of patients and cases that he didn’t feel comfortable letting Sherlock hear.
Ultimately, the point was, Sherlock had never thought about it too deeply, never considered there was a need to think about it, to analyze every small action to piece together the bigger picture, because it was John, and the bigger picture with John was always just the same picture blown up larger. At least, it always had been, but now, adding the lying on to everything else suddenly slamming into Sherlock’s mind, he realized he had miscalculated, the evidence pointing to only one logical conclusion, and, if this were one of his cases, if he were the sniveling soul sitting in the client chair sobbing out these details, he would know exactly what it meant, but it was harder now, so much harder, and, even a week later, he still had trouble processing it.
John was cheating on him.
And he didn’t have any idea what to do about it.
*****
Sherlock sat at the table, his toe scraping up and down the edge of the paperback they’d shoved under the wobbly leg as he twisted his gone-cold coffee between his palms, staring out the window at the view of grey brick from the building beside them, gradually growing lighter as the sun rose behind a sheet of winter clouds.
“You’re up early,” John remarked, scratching at the back of his sleep-rumpled hair as he padded into the kitchen, the bottoms of his too-long trousers catching beneath his heels. “I didn’t hear you get up.”
Sherlock smiled thinly as John looked at him, the expression dropping as soon as the boy turned to the fridge, Sherlock’s eyes scanning down his back, tracing the wrinkles of the fabric and wondering if Someone Else had seen them, had had John in their kitchen after a nap or something even more unthinkable while Sherlock had been here believing he was on call. “Couldn’t sleep,” Sherlock replied, staring down into his coffee as the bottles in the fridge door rattled.
“What the-” John muttered, taking a step back, and Sherlock looked up as the blond turned to him, brow furrowed above brilliant blue eyes. “Did you-Did you clean this?” he asked, pointing inside the appliance, and Sherlock nodded, looking past him to the nearly bare shelves. “When? Why?” John spluttered, turning back to shake his head wonderingly over the milk, jam, and takeaway boxes.
“Yesterday,” Sherlock replied, swallow moving slow down his thick throat, “when you were at work.”
John hummed, not appearing agitated, so maybe that one had been true, maybe he really had needed to stay late to wait for a patient to get out of surgery, but Sherlock wasn’t so sure he could tell the difference either way at this point, unable to even look at John’s face long enough to read it anymore. “Why?” he asked, pulling out the jam before moving to the counter and rattling free a slice of bread from its bag.
Sherlock shrugged, stomach clenching as he blinked down at his hands, which trembled faintly around his mug. “I was done with that experiment,” he lied, everyone doing that now, apparently, “and I know you don’t like it.” He turned his head, watching through his lashes as John moved to the coffee maker, pulling down his mug from the cupboard and pouring out a portion.
“Well, I’m not sure anyone likes having human heads beside the milk,” he chuckled, and Sherlock flinched, looking once more to the table, “but you didn’t have to get rid of it for me. I know your experiments are important.”
Not as important as you.
“I was done with it anyway,” he dismissed, and John’s toast popped, the man quickly scraping strawberry over it before dropping into his adjacent chair.
“Well alright,” the blond muttered, crunching at a piece before washing it down with a swig of coffee. “Would’ve liked a chance to say goodbye, though,” he joked, smiling around the lip of his mug. “I’d grown rather fond of him greeting me in the morning. Even named him. Ferdinand.”
“Ferdinand?” Sherlock mocked, lifting a brow, heart twisting as John’s eyes danced with jest. “He did have a name, you know,” he reminded, and John’s brows flicked up, eyes looking away as he quickly swallowed down the rest of his toast.
“I know, but that would be weird,” he replied, lifting his coffee to his lips, blowing over the surface a bit before taking in a gulp.
“Weirder than giving his severed head its own name?” Sherlock quipped, and John chuckled, draining his cup and scraping his chair back.
“Well, obviously,” he muttered, smirking as he passed, his mug clinking into the sink before he brushed past Sherlock, a hand grazing down his neck and shoulder, and Sherlock leaned into the touch, drawing it out as long as possible. “I’m gonna get in the shower,” he informed over his shoulder, giving a brief smile when Sherlock nodded, and then left, Sherlock staring at the empty doorway until he heard the water start.
He sighed, pushing his coffee aside as he hung his head in his hands, elbows propped up on the table, but his arms still shook, tremulous breaths hissing through his fingers.
He was trying, he really was, but, with only a few weeks left until Christmas, there was only so much he could do, John likely to make his move any day now. He hadn’t done anything to suggest he was leaving yet, but, then again, it’s not like he would have much to pack, the two of them living a pretty barebones existence in the university apartment, the neighborhood not good enough for them to trust bringing their nicer things, which were stored at Sherlock’s house on the outskirts of the city.
What would they do with that if John left? Would Sherlock have to get it, bring him his things in a cardboard box like some pathetic lovelorn teenager from a television drama? Their lease was up soon, Sherlock knew that much, but he had no idea if John had renewed it, that sort of thing always left to the blond, but, surely, he wouldn’t leave Sherlock stranded. Whether he wanted to continue dating him or not, he would tell him if he needed to find another place to live after New Year’s, but, then again, Sherlock apparently didn’t know John Watson after all.
Three years. He had known the man three years, ever since a chance meeting outside a shared professor’s office, and had been dating him for just over two, the two of them taking a rather embarrassing amount of time to finally mutually acknowledge their feelings, but there had been feelings, hadn’t there? It couldn’t have all been a lie: the sudden and shy first kiss on John’s doorstep; the awkward first time having sex, Sherlock unable to stop rambling and John unable to stop laughing at him; the key John had hidden at the end of a rather ridiculous scavenger hunt four months in when he’d asked Sherlock to move in with him, the best birthday present Sherlock had ever received. It had to have been at some point, right? Some of it? Any of it?
Sherlock blinked down at the table, frowning as he realized something was amiss, and, after a moment, he lifted his chin, looking toward the bathroom door. The water was running, but it was too steady, as if John wasn’t even in there, and, slowly, footfalls silent on the stained carpet, Sherlock crept toward the door, leaning his ear in toward the wood.
“I understand that, but-” John’s voice snapped, dropped low so as not to carry, and Sherlock’s heart stalled out. “No, of course I don’t want that, it’s just very short notice, alright? I don’t know if I can- … Tonight!? But that’s-”
Silence a moment, Sherlock’s eyes burning as he clenched his fists, fingernails digging crescents into his palms.
“Fine,” John sighed, and there was a soft thump, like he’d fallen back to lean against the counter. “I’ll figure something out. Should I just come to the flat? … Alright, see ya then, probably be around 4. … Okay, bye.”
A few seconds later, the shower curtain pulled back, the sound of the water finally fluctuating as it shifted around John’s body, and Sherlock leaned against the wall, breathily raggedly up at the ceiling.
His lungs burned, his heart ached, and his eyes stung, blinking furiously as he tried to quell the rising salt, but it spilled over eventually, and he lifted a hand, bunching up the sleeve of his dressing gown to swipe away the moisture tracking down his cheek.
There was a part of him that wanted to burst in there, to shout and scream and break things until the world made sense again, but, in the end, he knew it wouldn’t do any good. What was the point of knowing the truth when you couldn’t change it?
He breathed up at the ceiling for a long time, gradually steadying his pounding heart, and then, clipping a nod of solidarity at himself, he turned, opening the bathroom door and stepping into the warm mist.
“Sherlock?” John asked, his blurry figure visible through the periodic table shower curtain he’d picked up while grabbing milk a few months ago on his way home from work, pulling it out of the bag like he’d brought Christmas early.
“Yeah?” Sherlock replied, swallowing down the creak in his voice, but John didn’t appear to notice, returning to shampooing his hair.
“I gotta work late again tonight,” he said, and Sherlock grabbed onto the edge of the counter, his knees threatening to fail. “Just got a call from the hospital. They had a few people call in sick, so we’re a little shorthanded.”
Sherlock nodded, a fire set loose in his chest. “Okay,” he replied, hands beginning to shake as his mind raced, and then settled on something a little crazy, but, hell, he’d take what he could get, and he was going to explode just standing here.
Forgoing the usual routine of brushing his teeth and shaving while John showered, he instead stripped out of his dressing gown and pajama trousers, grabbing the mouthwash from beside the single sink and doing a quick swirl before spitting it out, wiping a hand across his mouth as he turned to the shower.
John startled with a small yelp as Sherlock peeled back the shower curtain, climbing into the spray behind him, and then just blinked, letting his hands fall from his now-clean hair. “What are you-” he started, but Sherlock cut off the question, stepping forward to pin John against the tile wall as he tilted his chin up, smashing their lips together. John was still a moment, and then eagerly pressed back, slipping his tongue past Sherlock’s teeth as he gripped a hand to his hip, pulling him in to thrust their naked bodies together, his cock already half hard.
Sherlock didn’t feel so much aroused as desperate, but his cock didn’t seem to care, and he ground up against John’s abdomen, the blond groaning against him as he slid a hand down Sherlock’s bare chest, gliding slowly across the slick muscles before grazing fingers across the twitching length. Sherlock gasped, mouth pulling away from John’s, and then latched on to the man’s neck, sucking hard and sudden over a collarbone.
John moaned, head lolling limply back against the tile as he blinked water droplets out of his eyes, and Sherlock slowly dropped to kneeling in front of him, trailing tongue and teeth down John’s damp skin until he reached his flushed cock. “Sherlock!” he groaned as Sherlock swallowed his length, wasting little time with foreplay, and John’s fingers came up to grip loosely into his damp hair as he began bobbing his head, hands sliding back between the man’s balls to the smooth skin beyond. “Fuck, Sherlock!” John gasped again, and there was a heavy thunk, his skull no doubt slamming once again to the wall, but Sherlock wasn’t looking, his focus narrowed intently down at his work so he could pretend there was nothing else.
He was grateful for the water, his eyes burning so badly, tears just must be spilling over, and he decided he would blame it on soap if John noticed, if he looked down and saw the state of him, but, for now, he swirled his tongue over the tip of John’s cock, relishing the shake of the man’s knees, the cry from overhead, and hoping, somehow, his silent pleading would seep into John’s skin.
I love you. I love you. Don’t leave me.
*****
To his credit, it was the week before Christmas before Sherlock broke and snooped, taking mental pictures of every drawer before riffling through them, setting everything up just the same when he was done. He checked everywhere, everything, and was just beginning to doubt his own sanity even more so than usual when he found it, zipped inside the pocket of John’s gym bag, the one he took to his rugby practices with the hospital league, the closest thing he could get to competition after graduating university.
Sinking down on the bed—their bed, the bed John had spent two hours picking out trappings for while Sherlock whined and reorganized the store’s towel display—he stared at the piece of paper in his hand, a small card that didn’t have any right to be so earth-shattering, sickly shade of yellow that it was. The change of address card was only half filled out, just their current address scrawled on the lines in John’s cramped doctor handwriting, but where he was moving was hardly the point, and Sherlock closed his eyes, a gust of an impending sob shaking past his lips.
He swallowed, desperate to get ahold of himself as his hands began to tremble, and then, quickly, before he couldn’t pull it back anymore, he gathered all the roiling emotion up and pinned it inside a box in his head, a trick he’d used for years, and a trick he thought he’d never have to use with John. However, sorrow temporarily stalled, anger rose up thick and hot in his throat, and he leapt to his feet, shoving the card back where he’d found it before flying across the room, dropping to his knees and fishing his suitcase out from under the bed.
Part of it was childish, he supposed, his stubborn pride insisting he be the one to make the decision that, logically, had already been made, but there was another part of it, an energy vibrating beneath the surface of his skin that demanded he run, pack up and flee and never see this flat, or London, or a single corner of the world that could in any way remind him of John Watson ever again, so, lungs heaving over haggard breaths, he emptied his drawers, tossing his wet toothbrush and shampoo bottles atop his dress shirts before quickly zipping the bag and dragging it into the living room. He didn’t have much else, a few loose items he very quickly threw into the cardboard box they’d kept for some reason after receiving their electric kettle from Amazon, and was just doing a final check, grabbing his coat and scarf from the closet when the front door opened, and he froze, eyes wide as he listened to John’s keys drop to the table just inside the next room.
“Sherlock?” John called, home early for the first time all month, and Sherlock stepped near the doorway, listening as John’s footsteps stopped.
Face pinching in a wince, he took a deep breath, moving out into sight in the corridor, and John turned, eyes pulling away from Sherlock’s suitcase on the floor.
The blue scanned up and down Sherlock’s body, taking in the coat and scarf he was now wearing, and there was a small sound of breath as John looked back up, face shifting through several different expressions much too quickly for Sherlock to decipher them. “What-What are you doing?” he stammered, voice shaking, and Sherlock swallowed, adjusting the folds of his scarf as he looked away to the wall beside him.
“I’m leaving,” he replied steadily, forcing everything else back into boxes, into cargo crates, into entire rooms, houses, palaces, because there was so much of it, too much of it, and he just couldn’t feel anything right now, couldn’t afford to.
“Well, yeah, I can see that,” John joked feebly, waving a hand down at Sherlock’s luggage as he took a tremulous step closer, “but where are you going? I- Are you going home?” he asked, voice brightening just a little, and Sherlock peered up through his lashes, a spike of pain slashing through him at the weak hope in John’s eyes. “Because I thought- I thought you guys weren’t doing the family Christmas party this year, but, if you are, I-I’ll go with you. I’m sure I can get someone to cover for me, and-”
“No, John,” Sherlock interjected, because, even if all of it was only lies, it still hurt too much to listen to. “I-I’m leaving,” he repeated, stressing over the word as he slowly turned his face to meet John’s eyes. “Permanently.”
John’s eyes blinked wide, lips quaking as they parted, his head shaking in dazed disbelief. “What?” he whispered, chest visibly rising and falling as his breaths quickened. “Why? What-What- Sherlock-”
Sherlock shook his head, cutting the blond off. “I just- I can’t,” he pushed out, swallowing hard as he forced himself to meet John’s eyes, and the boy’s face crumpled, blue turning frantic as it searched Sherlock’s face. “We-We don’t work anymore, John,” he said, going for vague, because, even now, he couldn’t bring himself to say it, to hear it go un-contradicted. “We want different things.”
“What do you want?” John implored, eyes beginning to glisten as he stepped forward, and Sherlock turned his face away. “I- I mean, I know I’ve been busy with-with work and everything, but-”
“It’s not that,” Sherlock murmured, shaking his head at the floor, but John only stepped closer, tipping his head into Sherlock’s line of sight.
“Then what!?” he demanded, voice rising along with his desperation. “What is it, what do you want? Because, whatever it is, I-I can do it, I- Just tell me! Tell me what I did!”
Suddenly, Sherlock turned cold, bitter ice flooding his veins and sweeping away regret, because how dare he even now lie, lie to his face, lie and pretend he doesn’t know exactly what he did, every filthy treacherous second of it. He lifted his eyes, meeting John’s swimming ones, and the boy blinked, looking over Sherlock’s face in broken confusion, and Sherlock almost let himself believe it. Almost. “It’s too late for that,” he said flatly, and John’s eyes widened, horrorstruck as Sherlock brushed past him, barreling into the living room and grabbing up his suitcase and box.
“No!” John cried, jumping in front of him, tugging at the box in Sherlock’s hand, but Sherlock wrenched it away, black fury numbing everything else. “No, Sherlock, please! We-We have to talk about this, we-”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” Sherlock snapped, shouldering past him toward the door, but John grabbed his arm, stalling him again.
“Don’t say that!” he demanded, voice wrecked, and, when he blinked, Sherlock saw the moisture brimming at his eyes. “We have to talk about it, we-we have to fix it! Sherlock, please-”
“No!” Sherlock snarled, and John released him, staggering back against the wall. “I don’t want to fix it, okay!?” he spat, because he didn’t think there was a way to, didn’t think there were words enough in every language in every country in all the world to ever get anywhere close to fixing this. “I’m done,” he added, breaking only a little, and John gasped, wilting against the wallpaper as Sherlock strode quickly past him.
“Sherlock,” John breathed as he reached the door, fingers still on the handle as he stalled in closing the wood between them, and he swallowed tightly, eyes closing as he flinched at the ground.
“Goodbye, John,” he answered, shutting the door with a final click, and, right thing to do or not, he knew he was never getting the sound of John’s rasping sob out of his head.
*****
The first day, John called him only once, forgoing leaving a voicemail.
The second day, he called him four times, leaving two voicemails of almost identical questions and pleading.
The third day, he called him seven times, leaving four voicemails—two of them questioning, the other two reminding him of arbitrary things he’d left at the flat.
The fourth day, there were 11 calls, but only three voicemails, mostly apologizing for things he presumed to be the cause of Sherlock’s decision, but not once did he mention the affair, and so Sherlock continued to ignore him, even as the calls tapered off in the days that followed.
On the eighth day, John didn’t try and contact him at all, a strangely devastating milestone, and he’d cried all night on Irene’s couch, the woman saying all the right things—mostly profanities directed at every single feature of John she could think of, right down to how he cut his food—but nothing helped, and, going into Day 9, Sherlock was sure it was going to be the worst Christmas Eve of his life, although it was a close contest with the two-years-ago airing of the Merlin finale, which he thought showcased the horror of the situation quite aptly.
He was standing in an aisle of Tesco, staring at too many kinds of cranberry sauce with no idea which one to get, when his phone rang, and he dove for it with shameful speed, nearly dropping it in his haste, but the number wasn’t John’s, an odd disappointment rushing over him at not getting another call to ignore, but he answered it, lifting the speaker to his ear. “Hello?”
“Hello, is John there?” an unfamiliar woman’s voice asked, and Sherlock nearly collapsed, the name hitting him over the head like a club, sneaking up on him unexpectedly.
“Um, no,” he stammered, and the woman huffed, small comfort coming to him with the fact that she sounded well beyond John’s potential dating age bracket.
“Rats, I’ve been trying to reach him since yesterday! There’s a repairman coming into the flat later to look at that leaky faucet he mentioned. Would you happen to be able to get him a message? I’m sorry to bother you with this, and on Christmas Eve of all things, but this was listed as the alternate number on the lease, and-“
“Wait, the lease?” Sherlock interjected, shaking his head down at the canned fruit as he frowned. “What lease?”
“Well, for the flat,” the woman replied, Sherlock’s brow only creasing further. “I’m sorry, I probably should have introduced myself, but John’s told me so much about you, I keep forgetting we haven’t actually met yet. I’m Mrs. Hudson, the landlady. I live just downstairs, 221A.”
Sherlock slowly lowered his shopping basket to the floor, brain working furiously to catch up. “Oh, right,” he mused, still no idea what was going on. “Sorry, I-I thought the landlady was Mrs. Aberdeen,” he said, using their old landlady’s name as a prop.
“Nope,” Mrs. Hudson replied, sounding every bit the jovial grandmother figure, “just me. But there might have been a Mrs. Aberdeen before me, I don’t quite remember. I own quite a few properties around London, but I only got the Baker Street ones a few years ago.”
“Baker Street?” he echoed, puzzling the details together, and Mrs. Hudson hummed.
“Yes, I had my eye on them for quite some time. Great location, especially for university students like yourself. John says you’re studying chemistry, is that right?”
Sherlock’s mouth dropped open, but he quickly recovered, heart picking up as his mind raced, wondering how and when John and this Mrs. Hudson had done so much talking about him. “Er, yeah,” he confirmed, tone carefully nonchalant. “Over at Barts.”
“You must be there all the time,” the woman chuckled. “I never see you, and the flat’s always so quiet after John leaves. Well, except for Mary,” she added, and Sherlock’s vision swam, London suddenly experiencing an earthquake, he was sure of it. “She makes such a fuss when he’s gone, pacing this way and that. I keep telling him he needs to take her out more, but-”
“I, um- I’m sorry, but I-I have to go,” Sherlock interjected, closing his eyes as he firmly told himself he was not going to throw up in a bloody Tesco. “Last minute Christmas shopping and whatnot. You know how it is,” he muttered, and the woman chuckled, ignorant to his plight.
“Of course, of course,” she said, and Sherlock swallowed, steadying himself for just a few seconds longer.
“I’ll-I’ll pass along the message if I see him,” he assured, phone beginning to shake against his face as his hand trembled. “Happy Christmas,” he quickly bade, and then hung up before she could finish returning the sentiment, thrusting the phone into his pocket as he turned to lean against the shelf. Heart thundering, he breathed up at the ceiling, trying to push away the emotion he’d been keeping packed so neatly over the past eight days, but now it had a name, and names give things a power even he couldn’t fight against.
Mary. Her name was Mary. And they lived in a flat on Baker Street with a charming elderly landlady and watched crap tele and ordered takeaway and probably always had milk in their fridge with no heads and she saw him make his breakfast in the morning, saw the wrinkles of his shirt and pillow creases on his face, and he hated her, hated her twice as much as he ought to have, because none of it would stick to John for some reason, not even now.
He closed his eyes, blowing out a sigh as he dropped his chin, and then just stared at the floor a long moment, blinking at the tile until his knees stopped shaking. A thought occurred to him, and he pulled out his mobile, checking the time and firmly ignoring every bone in his body that was telling him he’d regret this, but things like this don’t just happen, and Sherlock supposed he could believe in fate just long enough to take a peek, to put a face to the name that would now be haunting him.
Dropping his mobile back into his pocket, he abandoned his basket on the floor, bolting out of the store and flagging down the first cab he saw. “221 Baker Street,” he threw up to the cabbie, and then they were off, Sherlock’s knee bouncing wildly as his foot tapped against the carpet.
*****
He wasn’t quite sure what he’d expected when he pulled up to the block of flats, a single black door out of a street of them, but, whatever that had been, he was sure it wasn’t this. It looked so…normal, nothing like the sort of place where homewreckers shack up with your ex-boyfriend, but, then again, he wasn’t quite sure what that would look like, although he didn’t think a giant XXX sign would’ve been out of place.
Still—and he hated to admit it—there was something nice about, something quaint in the gold knocker and grey stone façade, and he could understand exactly why John had picked it, why he would be drawn by a place like this. It was central, but not too central; close to the hospital, but not so close you felt like you never left; and there was a park just up the road, the perfect place for those walks he was so fond of. Yes, Sherlock could see exactly why John would want to live here, but, exactly as he’d predicted, it didn’t help, standing outside the door of John’s happiness in the gently falling snow only serving to cement this Christmas Eve in the annals of the absolute worst, and he was just turning to hail a passing cab and go back to Irene’s couch when a voice stopped him, a single soft word at his back.
“Sherlock?”
He froze, heart immediately leaping into his throat, and then, slowly, he turned, breath fogging out in front of him.
John stood on the pavement, Tesco bag hanging from one hand and a stunned expression on his face, and Sherlock swallowed, the inevitable run-in easily a hundred times more painful than he’d imagined it. “What are you doing here?” the blond asked, taking a short step forward, and Sherlock slipped his hands in his pockets, dropping his face.
“I- You moved,” he remarked, not knowing quite what else to say as he bobbed his head up toward the door, and John blinked, lips pressing shut as he too turned to the flat.
“Yeah,” he replied, nodding faintly. “’Bout a week ago.”
“Wow,” Sherlock spluttered, taken aback. “That- That’s fast.”
John twitched a frail smile, half his mouth curling up, but there was no mirth in it. “Yeah, well…I’d be planning it for a while,” he answered, and Sherlock winced, feeling every grain of salt as John rubbed it in his wounds.
“Right,” he croaked, rattling a nod, and then made to turn away, planning to run all the way back if he had to, but John called out again.
“Wait!” he blurted, and Sherlock closed his eyes, blowing out a breath before slowly turning back to the man. John’s mouth opened and closed several times, expression torn and anxious, and then he waved a weak hand up at the shiny black door. “Do you…wanna come in?” he murmured, and Sherlock blinked, pain briefly taking a back seat to shocked affront.
“What?” he questioned, shaking his head in confusion. “No, I-I don’t think-” He stopped, drawing in a single calming breath. “I don’t think Mary would take too kindly to that,” he clipped, intending to sharply remind John of just how they’d gotten into this charming little situation, and John started, lips popping apart.
“You-You know about Mary?” he asked hesitantly, and Sherlock nodded, a confidence creeping up his spine at even that small admission of guilt.
“Mrs. Hudson called me,” he snipped, and blue eyes dropped to the ground. “Seems my number’s on your lease.”
“Yeah, sorry, I-I forgot,” John murmured, swallowing down at the snow-dusted pavement. “I’ll-I’ll take care of it,” he assured, lifting his eyes to Sherlock’s with a quick nod, his demeanor seeming to harden as well, and then he turned, starting up toward his door. “You know,” he continued suddenly, spinning back, eyes shifting nervously between Sherlock’s face and the ground as he twisted the handles of the Tesco bag in his hand, “I- About-About Mary.” He tipped his free hand toward Sherlock, his throat bobbing with a swallow. “You-You can have her,” he said, tipping his head, and Sherlock was fairly certain that earthquake was now having aftershocks, “if you want. I-I got her mostly for you, anyway, and- Well, it doesn’t seem right that I just-”
“What the hell are you talking about!?” Sherlock spouted, lifting his hands in front of him to physically block John’s words. “I don’t want Mary!”
John blinked, tilting his head with a frown. “You-You don’t?” John inquired, perplexed for some unfathomable reason. “But-But you used to talk about getting one all the time.”
“Getting a what!?” Sherlock blustered, shaking his head in disgust. “I don’t want a girlfriend!” he cried, and John’s mouth dropped. “What the hell is wrong with you!? Are you- What, asking me if I wanna have a threesome with you and the girl you left me for?”
“What!?” John exclaimed, seeming genuinely shocked, and Sherlock’s fortitude faltered a moment, knowing John wasn’t that good of an actor. “Girlfriend, what are you- Sherlock, I don’t have a girlfriend! And what do you mean, the girl I left you for? You left me!”
“Because you were cheating on me!” Sherlock countered, and John’s eyes nearly popped out of his head, Sherlock suddenly not sure of anything anymore.
“Cheating on you!?” John echoed, shaking his head as he moved back down the steps toward him. “Sherlock, I never cheated on you! How could you even think that!?”
Sherlock’s lips floundered, uncertainty clawing at his chest as he looked between John’s eyes, nothing but naked shock and hurt held within them. “I- The phone calls,” he blurted, and John creased his brow. “You- I heard you in the bathroom. Planning to meet up with someone. And then you lied about working late; you lied about work all the time!”
“Oh, my god,” John muttered, lifting a hand to grind at his temples. “Oh, my god, Sherlock, I wasn’t cheating on you; I was here!”
Sherlock blinked, eyebrows twitching in confusion as he looked between John’s hand and the flat door, and then he just frowned, tipping his head in inquiry.
John sighed, leaning to set the Tesco bag on the pavement before moving closer. “I-I saw an ad for this place when I went to pick you up at the library,” he began, and Sherlock dropped his eyes as he thought, that date coinciding quite nicely with when he’d first noticed John’s strange behavior. “I figured, with me working properly now, we could afford something a bit nicer, and-and this place is still pretty close.” He turned, casting a look up at the building as he waved a hand, and a suspicion began niggling at Sherlock’s stomach, burning hot with humiliated shame. “Our lease was gonna be up anyway, so I just…took it.” He shrugged, looking back to Sherlock, who couldn’t move beyond remembering to blink and breathe, and he was struggling a bit with the second one. “I-I was gonna surprise you,” he murmured, dropping his eyes as he scraped the toe of a trainer across the damp pavement. “I didn’t have a lot of time, though—not if I wanted to get us moved in before Christmas—so I would stop by on my way home from work, pick away at setting the place up. Sherlock,” he said, shaking his head almost fondly as a gentle smile curled his lips, “that phone call was the sofa being delivered. It showed up a day early, and they needed me to be there to sign for it.”
Sherlock stared at him, mouth hanging open, but there was no lie in John’s face, and, as he thought about it, it made more and more sense, and the ember of guilt in his gut grew to a furious flame, climbing up his neck to claw at his cheeks. “Oh,” was all he could say, and he barely managed that, the word warbling past his lips, but John still smiled, shaking his head down toward Sherlock’s chest.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, shrugging a shoulder as he looked back up, and Sherlock swallowed, eyes dropping away.
“I-I don’t know,” he murmured weakly, the weight of being in the wrong suddenly settled firmly on his shoulders.
John sighed, and then, miraculously, stepped forward, stretching his arm down to graze his fingers to the back of Sherlock’s hand. “So…that’s all this was?” he questioned gently, and Sherlock nodded, biting hard at his lip. John puffed a frail laugh through his nose, and then took Sherlock’s hand more firmly in his grip. “You’re completely mad, you know that?” he whispered, and Sherlock looked up, finding warm eyes fixed on his face.
Sherlock smiled hesitantly, shuffling his feet as he tentatively squeezed back against John’s hand. “I know,” he muttered, and John laughed, the sound seeming to turn the winter air to spring around him.
The flat door opened, a petite woman poking her head out in interruption, and they both turned to her, their hands falling apart as she moved out onto the doorstep. “I thought I heard voices,” she chirped, beaming at them, and Sherlock recognized the voice immediately. “What are you two doing out here? It’s freezing!” she chided, gripping around her arms to ward off the chill, and then her eyes fell to Sherlock, lingering up and down his frame as a faint frown creased her brow.
“Mrs. Hudson,” John said, shuffling a step closer as he waved a hand to Sherlock, “this is Sherlock, my…” He trailed off, turning back to quirk a brow, and Sherlock smiled, the first real one for days, and, as he moved toward the woman, he thought he might just float away with every step.
“Boyfriend,” he finished, extending a hand up to the woman as he climbed to her height on the steps, and Mrs. Hudson beamed, enthusiastically rattling his hand.
“Oh, how wonderful to finally meet you! I’ve been telling John to drag you down for ages!”
“We’ve only lived here a week,” John interrupted, drawing up to Sherlock’s side with a grin, and Mrs. Hudson was just flicking a hand at him, mouth opening to reply, when there was a loud commotion from behind her, the old woman dropping Sherlock’s hand and spinning around to the sound.
“Oh, no, John!” she cried, panicking as her wide eyes followed a red blur shooting past her ankles, and John quickly leapt back, rugby reflexes in top form as he swooped down to snatch the escapee.
“Oh, no you don’t,” John scolded, beaming as he straightened back up, his hand scrubbing over the head of a small puppy, the Irish Setter wriggling in uncontrollable delight in his hold, and Sherlock gasped, eyes widening down at the familiar sight. John looked up, smiling over the head of the puppy, who was desperately trying to lick at the bottom of his stubble-glazed chin. “Sherlock,” John clipped, shifting the dog in his arms to face him, and he was lost, insides melting to mush the second those dark eyes fixed on him, “this is Mary.”
Sherlock started, blinking up momentarily from the second greatest love of his life to the first, and John smirked, his lips twitching smugly as Sherlock blushed.
“Mary Read,” he added, turning down to the puppy, who yipped at the sound of her name, licking in the air up toward John’s grin.
“Mary…Read?” Sherlock echoed, frowning down at the dog. “As in-”
“The pirate,” John finished, nodding as he readjusted the animal in his arms. “Yep.”
Sherlock was, for perhaps the first time, struck speechless, eyes looking between John and Mary as his mouth moved futilely, but John, once again and as always, came to the rescue.
“Come on,” he beckoned, bobbing his head at the interior of the flat, and Mrs. Hudson smiled between them, dropping away from the conversation as she moved into the foyer. “You can help us finish decorating the tree.”
Sherlock hesitated, still feeling like he should say something, like he should have to work a little harder for the forgiveness John was so freely offering, but nothing eloquent enough came to mind, and so he was left just standing in the snow, mouth moving dumbly. “John-” he croaked, and John smiled, leaning back out to press a gentle kiss to his cheek, and it felt like the very first time all over again, Sherlock’s mind going blissfully blank as his knees wobbled.
John pulled back into focus, blue eyes twinkling within a frame of pale lashes. “I know,” he assured, and, somehow, that made it okay, Sherlock smiling back as he stepped past the door, closing the cold out behind him, and, as they went upstairs, Mary doing her utmost to destroy every ornament and string of tinsel John had bought, Sherlock knew this Christmas Eve would rank amongst the best.