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John doesn’t come.
Sherlock spends a great portion of the day with an ice pack on his face, lying on the sofa. Not that he’s vain or in that much pain, but he finally can recuperate without worrying about being attacked or having to move on. It’s a nice change.
Plus he doesn’t feel up to settling in yet, dealing with the reality that’s so different than what he imagined; the vision of Baker Street he used as a bribe, as a siren song to enable him to complete his mission. John wasn’t waiting. John isn’t here now. He will deal with that. Just. He needs some time, first. As anxious as he is to see his things, to have his life — well, it’s not quite the life he wanted. But.
The time away gave him a chance to reflect on what he did, what he could have changed. This time, now, lets him review his further missteps.
He has underestimated John once again. He’s always doing that: one of his biggest faults, and he doesn’t know if he can get over it. If he’ll have a chance.
It’s unlikely that John completed his proposal last night: if nothing else, the mood was not conducive. However, it’s quite likely that he’ll get engaged before he sees Sherlock again.
If he sees Sherlock again.
Fuck. There’s no one to blame for this mess. It’s entirely of his own making.
He doesn’t bother to get up when dusk plunges the flat into an early darkness; the deep blue shadows suit his melancholy.
He allows himself the one day to sulk. There’s a bone-deep ache in his chest that he suspects will always be there, now, marking John’s absence. The only reason it doesn’t incapacitate him is that he’s had two years to get used to it.
Mrs. Hudson brings him tea in the late morning. She tuts at him (Oh, Sherlock) but doesn’t stay. He gets up. He has things to do. The weather is delightfully crisp, and it’s a perfect day to wander around and start reestablishing his connection to London. Hopefully she’ll be more welcoming than John.
The flat is dark and cold when he returns.
#
He is so deep in his Mind Palace that at first he assumes the steps coming up the stairs are ones he’s conjuring.
The tread is lighter; not only is John not carrying anything (oh, his foolish and hopeful heart) but John himself weighs less. Sherlock closes his eyes. So many lingering affects from his (as he now knows) ill-advised plan.
John knocks. His heart flops. Since when has he knocked? He should fling the door open…
“Come in.” He can’t bear to sit up.
The door creaks open, and John’s soft footfalls provide the path he takes: hanging up his coat, a moment where he takes a deep breath, preparing, and then turning and heading towards Sherlock.
Sherlock opens his eyes. John doesn’t falter under his stare. His face remains immobile, and Sherlock cannot read his gaze. He can barely bring himself to deduce. John’s taken some care with his appearance. His face is smooth again and he’s wearing nice clothes, good clothes, as if to go to an interview or on a date. Both hands are steady as he walks towards the sofa, so he’s expecting a confrontation of sorts.
Sherlock doesn’t have it in him to fight.
John doesn’t pause by his chair but stops in front of the sofa. Sherlock sits up, gaze locked with John’s.
“Sherlock,” John murmurs. Then, “You’re real.”
A tiny nod. A breath. “Yes.”
His hand stretches out, and fingers lightly glide over his occipital lobe. “Sorry about that.”
“I… may have miscalculated,” Sherlock admits.
“You think?” John doesn’t move his hand, leaves his fingers gentle against his face. Sherlock leans into the warmth. He can allow himself this little bit. It won’t drive John away, because John is already gone.
“On several fronts.”
John gives him the Bit Not Good look and lets his hand drop away. He backs up and sits on the coffee table, never letting his gaze drop.
“I’m sorry, John. I didn’t realize…” But he can’t bring himself to admit it, say it. I didn’t think you’d miss me. I didn’t think I mattered, not that much. Not really. Pathetic. Stupid.
Entirely too revealing.
“That shattered me,” John whispers.
Sherlock nods. It rent both of them. “I had no choice.”
“Why not?” John asks in his quiet voice, the voice that’s scarier than any yelling could be.
“Moriarty had snipers. It was either me or you.” Because honesty seems important right now, he adds, “And Hudders and Lestrade.” Less than twenty words, hardly more than a breath, to encompass the tragedy and the terror, the sheer impossibility of the choice.
“Snipers.” John sighs, closes his eyes.
“They had to think I was dead before they’d stand down.”
John nods. Outside, the blare of a car horn rises above the regular growl of traffic. “Two years?”
“Ensuring they were dead.” There’s so much more, of course, but now doesn’t seem the time to get into details.
John takes a deep breath, and Sherlock readies for a scolding. He’s had two years to think, and he still doesn’t see how John could have come with him. How he could have told John. How anything could have changed.
“Idiot.” John’s voice is soft and fond, so fond.
“I wanted you there every day,” he offers, because it doesn’t matter, does it? John will end up leaving anyhow. “I thought of what you’d say to me all the time.”
A sigh gusts out, and John sags. “Someday you’ll tell me?”
“Of course. Everything.” Someday means John will talk to him again. He’d promise anything for that.
John glances around the room. “Mycroft kept this for you?”
Sherlock nods. John sighs, but doesn’t comment.
“He didn’t think it would take as long as it did. Neither did I.” He doesn’t add that Baker Street is Mycroft’s way of telling him he thought he’d succeed: he’d never say as much.
“I moved out after a month,” John says. Sherlock doesn’t protest the stupidity of such an action: there’s likely a sentimental aspect he doesn’t understand. “I kept expecting you.”
“Oh.”
“And climbing the stairs today, knowing you’d be here…” his gaze drifts around the room again, taking in the familiar shabby furnishings, the few treasured times Sherlock has unpacked (the bat, the skulls, the print), the clutter of boxes waiting for attention. “It’s almost like the first time I saw the place.”
“It’ll be nice once it’s clean,” he says, and John’s lips twitch at the memory. How he wishes John wants to stay this time.
“Still the same brilliant madman.”
“Not quite.”
“Still have your impeccable timing,” John grouses. “Already back to interrupting my dates.”
He can’t help the raised eyebrow. “That seemed like more than a date.”
John takes a deep breath. “I’m still glad you interrupted.”
Sherlock, torn between screeching What? and being struck speechless in shock, manages to squeak instead. Mortifying. By the twitch of his lips John notices, but he doesn’t laugh. Small mercies.
“I always was, you know.”
“Why do you think I kept interrupting?”
They exchange smirks. This is odd. This feels like flirting.
“At the time? Inconsiderate arsehole.”
“And now?”
“Inconsiderate jealous arsehole.”
He forgot John’s glee when he’s figured out something before Sherlock has. He looks… pleased? Happy? Neither’s quite right, and Sherlock can’t figure out why he’d feel either of those things.
Sherlock studies him. Now. Now would be the time. Why get John back just to lose him again? John is going to leave anyway; he might as well know it all. “You’re not wrong.”
“Is that the same as being right?”
Sherlock may not have revealed his hand, but he’s shown a few cards. Now it’s John’s turn.
John leans forward. “I blamed myself, you know. That I had denied too much, that you thought I didn’t even like you.”
His breath catches. Time stops.
“I told myself I’d never do that again. Never wait. Never deny.” John flexes his hands. “It’s one of the reasons things moved so fast with Mary.”
His lungs stop working.
“But it’s also the reason I’ve broken up with her.”
His brain stops working.
John grasps his hands between his own.
His heart stops.
“Now may not be the time,” he allows. “But what if I don’t get another chance? I never thought I’d get this.”
“John.” It’s the only word he is able to croak out, but it must convey something to John, who smiles and raises one hand.
“I love you,” he whispers. “I’m in love with you.”
All he can do is nod. Yes. That. Me too.
Hot tears fall out of his eyes, and John gently smooths them away.
John moves to the sofa and pulls him into an embrace. Sherlock tucks himself as close to John as possible; only the unfamiliar scents on John convince him that this is not a vivid hallucination. In no possible world would John have Claire de la Lune as part of his scent.
Tears continue to burn down, and John cards his hair, keeps a strong arm around him. Warm. Comforting. His throat is so thick with tears he can’t form words. Silent sobs wrack his body. John presses his lips against his forehead, absolution and benediction. He squeezes John’s hand, unable to put the whirling tumult of his emotions into words. A gesture is the best he can do.
The tears go, but John remains. He curls around John, placing a hand on his thigh. John leans back, placing a hand atop his.
“You’re mine?” he rasps out, unplanned. Not what he wanted to say to John at all. He hides his face further in John’s neck.
“Yes. All yours. For as long as you want me.” John squeezes his hand. “In whatever way you want me.”
“In all ways. Forever.” He sighs, relieved, but then needs to be sure John understands. “Legally. Officially. Eternally.”
“Are you proposing to me?” John chuckles, more movement that sound.
“Might be, yeah.” It doesn’t get more official that marriage, does it?
“We’ve never even kissed.” But the protest is weak. A soft hand strokes his fringe away, then stays on his cheek.
“Don’t be tedious, John.”
“You could at least ask me properly.”
“Fine. Will you please marry me?”
John laughs and nudges Sherlock with his foot. He remembers this fond gesture, meant to convey an amused frustration at something he’s done; how impossible he is, and yet how John likes him, all the same. He’s not quite sure what he’s done to earn this.
“It was a proper question,” he huffs out.
“It was that,” John agrees, eyes alive with mirth. “I was thinking a nice dinner, but… ”
Given that Sherlock interrupted such a proposal three nights ago, he doesn’t want to invoke it when presenting his own. Clearly John wants to avoid any similarities as well. “Ah. A more stereotypical experience.”
John chuckles besides him, then shakes his head. “Oh, I’ve missed you.”
“John?” He still hasn’t answered. Is the question enough, or does Sherlock need to come up with an experience to go with it?
“Yes, you prat. I’ll marry you.”
“Really?” He sits up and studies John.
“I shot a man for you the night after we met. Is it so strange that I’d agree to marry you this quickly?”
He can’t help the chuckle that escapes him, and soon John is giggling too.
“I’m going to have a lot of explaining to do,” John finally pants out. He turns his head and smiles at Sherlock. “Worth it.”
He thought he’d trained himself out of blushing; apparently not. His cheeks heat up, and he knows they’re turning pink. But he’s never quite had anyone look at him this way before. And that it’s John…
This time, when John touches him, he brings their lips together.
“We’ve kissed now,” he says when they pull apart for air.
John smirks at him. “Definitely not changing my mind after that.”
“I am right, though.”
“About what?”
“Breathing in boring.”
John is still chuckling when Sherlock kisses him.