Chapter Text
Part 1: John
Chapter 1
“Perhaps, Dr. Watson, you might consider holding a conversation with someone who actually talks back?”
John didn’t turn his head to face the voice behind him.
“Piss off, Mycroft.”
“I don’t think so.”
Shit. There was no use to stay here, then. He wasn’t going to keep talking to Sherlock when Mycroft bloody Holmes was loitering about.
“You’ve some boxes at 221B. Personal items you left behind.”
“Toss them, then.”
“Alright. If you insist. You do know what’s there, don’t you?”
John gritted his teeth. Yeah. He did know. He also knew Mycroft wasn’t likely to toss it all, either. “Ship them to me, then. I’ll reimburse the cost. I’m right in thinking you’ve got my new address, yeah?”
“John.” The name - his given name - came after a considerable pause, a pause in which John continued to stare at the black headstone – what the fuck could be more cold and lifeless than a block of stone? Couldn’t someone plant some ivy or a rose bush? – and Mycroft continued to wait, breath barely audible, behind him.
“John…”
Great. Now he was repeating himself.
“…perhaps you’d consent to a cup of tea?”
John’s bum was cold – and damp. He’d been sitting on the ground for some time. He was thirsty. And hungry. Tea sounded wonderful – perhaps with a scone or some of Mrs. Hudson’s banana bread.
“No thank you.”
He hated how his voice cracked – just a bit – but cracked nonetheless. Discernable enough for Mycroft, who was a Holmes, after all.
“John – he’s been gone three months. I feel it my duty – as his brother – to remind you that he wouldn’t want you like this. He’d want you to move on.”
“Liar.” John said the word, quietly but audibly, with absolute certainty.
Mycroft had the good grace to laugh. There was something about that laugh that jarred against John’s mood, settled uncomfortably under his skin. Worse, it felt like a shared laugh, a shared sentiment. An acknowledgment, of sorts, that they both knew – had known – Sherlock all too well.
“He wouldn’t want you like this, though. You can’t argue that point.”
“He doesn’t exactly get to weigh in on that, does he?” John responded. He’d had every intention of ignoring whatever else Mycroft had to say, or at least keeping his mouth shut, but the retort slipped out with all the venom and bitterness he’d been holding inside. “What – you have CCTV cameras here, too? Spying on people who are actually alive getting too dull, is it?”
He hadn’t expected Mycroft to react. The man was nothing if not remote, surgical, when it came to human relationships. But only a moment later, he was looking down at the man’s polished shoes, no more than a foot to his left. A gloved hand touched his shoulder.
Jesus bloody Christ no.
“Get your hand off my shoulder.”
He spoke the words slowly and quietly, without flinching, the threat behind them loud and clear.
Mycroft’s hand immediately fell to his side, but he remained where he stood, his shadow falling across John’s crossed legs, stretching nearly to the tombstone.
“I have in my pocket a card, and on the card is the name and number of a someone who can help you move through this. This person specialises in trauma and PTSD and works only on referral. All expenses will be paid by Sherlock’s estate, but you will have to make the call to schedule an appointment – she requires that of her patients – at least those capable of speech.”
He moved forward then, and laid a card on top of the stone, then drew a coin out of his pocket and placed it atop the card to weigh it down.
He turned, and John had his first glimpse of Mycroft Holmes since the funeral. He looked no different than he’d ever looked, really, though his face betrayed a certain concern that John had never seen in Mycroft Holmes.
“I’m not interested,” John responded automatically.
Mycroft shrugged. He gazed past John, toward the drive where a black limo was surely waiting for him, and raised a finger, then dropped his hand to his side again. “It is, ultimately, your decision, John.” His hand strayed back to the card, and he tapped it lightly with his finger, then looked up again. “Dr. Wohlberg was Sherlock’s therapist for a time – a particularly difficult time in his life.”
John laughed. It was not a pleasant sound, but rather one of dry disbelief. “Sherlock’s therapist? Right.” He shook his head. “Piss off, Mycroft.”
“You might ask that DI you’re so fond of - Lestrade, yes?” His gaze was unwavering as he fixed it on John. “I believe the initial referral came from his office.”
He stood there, gazing at John, for a few seconds more, then touched the card again as he gave John one last look, and set off back to the car.
John waited ten minutes before he moved.
Thinking. Always thinking. He was tired of thinking - of trying to understand. Tired of coping. Of dealing with it. Tired of trying to get on with his life. His life had been boring and without direction before Sherlock, and after Sherlock it was - well, pointless, really.
And that made no sense.
Because Sherlock was - no. Sherlock wasn’t - no. Alright - Sherlock wasn’t his whatever the fuck people thought he’d been. His lover? God no. He hadn’t wanted that from Sherlock - hadn’t felt the slightest bit like knocking him against the wall and snogging him. Knocking him against the wall - yes. But not the rest of it. And he knew that with absolute certainty, didn’t he? He’d had his hands on Sherlock dozens of times. Stitching him up - head, shoulder, even his arse. Checking for injuries. He’d stripped him down a time or two to get him out of sodden clothing in the middle of winter, and had shared a bed with him in a crowded inn that had botched up their reservations. And not once had he had that feeling - that urge. It was Sherlock, for God’s sake, Sherlock. Not Sarah, or Rebecca, or Naomi. Not any of the women he’d dated those years at 221B. Not that any of those relationships had gone anywhere, not with Sherlock and his total inability to pick up on social clues.
So, given that Sherlock wasn’t - hadn’t been - his … Jesus! There just wasn’t a single adequate word for what he hadn’t been. Lover. Boyfriend. Life partner. Significant other. Spouse. He’d not been any of those things, yet he’d been something. Because John was mourning him. Mourning him like - Christ…like he was those things. All of them. Even someone with his emotional range - even someone with Sherlock’s - could see that they’d had something. Something - different. Special. Something that had made him come alive after a long hibernation, a cold, cold winter. It was like - well, it was like loving someone. Love without the physical want, the delicious coil of desire, the thrill of touch.
No, John Watson could say unequivocally that he hadn’t wanted Sherlock like that. Hadn’t admired his physique. That being near him hadn’t made his heart race, or his palms sweat. He didn’t like men that way - any men. Not even Sherlock.
Yet his loss had gutted him. Gutted him so thoroughly that he hadn’t worked a full day since. That his nightmares had returned. That his limp - his bloody psychosomatic limp - was back. That he’d moved back to a depressing bedsit and hadn’t seen even Mrs. Hudson in two months. All because he was grieving someone who hadn’t been anyone - none of those things that mattered.
Yet had been everyone. All of the things that mattered.
John Watson had been in love before.
Just after med school - Annie Soldano. Two years together, a year of it sharing a flat. She’d broken his heart and turned down his proposal, and he’d been devastated when she left him, because his heart wasn’t ready to give up on her yet. It was too full of her - of her laugh, her smile, her scent. The way he felt when he was with her. The thousand little things he knew about her that no one else knew, from the way she hugged her pillow at night to how she stirred her tea in a figure eight and blew on it even when it had cooled to tepid.
He knew what love felt like. Knew how thoughts of that person filled your mind at the most unexpected times, and how worry for them tore at your heart and ate into your soul. He knew the feeling of emptiness at their loss - when you couldn’t look at the home you had shared without imagining the other there.
Annie curled in her rocking chair, glasses perched on the end of her nose, head buried in a book, wearing one of his jumpers to stave off the cold. Looking up at him as he bent down to kiss her, eyes showing how pleased she was to see him, sighing into his kiss as her hand caressed the back of his neck.
Emptiness.
Like two chairs, facing each other in the shadows. Like empty staircases, hollow with silence. Like coats that gather dust in the cupboard, violins muted, tea gone cold, warm blood stilled.
God he missed him.
How - how had it happened that he’d loved Sherlock like that but hadn’t wanted him? Hadn’t felt that pull of the flesh, that ache inside, that longing?
He remembered all too well how many people had thought - still thought - that he was gay. That Sherlock was his boyfriend. Lover. How actively he’d denied it, thrown up his hands in frustration.
Hello. That’s me you’re talking about. Me. John Watson. I like women.
Not gay.
I’m not gay.
He’s not my boyfriend.
We’re not together.
It’s not like that.
All true. Every word.
Except - well, except that “together” part.
Look at yourself, John Watson. Take a fucking look at yourself you pathetic excuse for a man. Sitting here on the cold ground with your arse in the grass, staring at his name on a polished slab of granite. On leave from your job - they gave you compassionate leave - family leave - for Christ’s sake. Because you lost someone. You lost him.
He was yours to lose.
John got to his feet, slowly, favouring one leg, and brushed the grass off his trousers. His arse was cold, his leg stiff. It shouldn’t be bothering him again, but it was, and he hadn’t told anyone about it. Who was there to tell, anyway? He’d put off Greg and Molly both, and Harry, and couldn’t expect any comfort from Mrs. Hudson when he should be the one offering comfort to her instead. She’d lost a man who was as much a son to her as any man would ever be.
“No more miracles, Sherlock.”
He moved forward, and grazed the stone with his right hand as he picked up the card Mycroft had left there with his left, scooting the two pence piece onto the stone for someone else to find.
John Watson didn’t really believe in therapy, no matter that his last therapist suggested he try his hand at blogging. Not the kind of therapy that licensed medical practitioners dished out, anyway. But if Mycroft was telling the truth, this particular therapist had seen Sherlock. Had - perhaps - seen inside Sherlock. Impossible as it was to believe that Sherlock would ever have opened up to a stranger, John wanted to believe it, wanted to believe it badly enough to pick up the card and slip it into his pocket.
Mycroft Holmes was a practiced liar. But he’d offered proof of a sort - in Greg Lestrade.
John thought he might as well use him for transportation services as well and save cab fare.
-At cemetery. Could use a ride home.-
He looked at the words on the text app before hitting send. He’d been ignoring Greg’s texts for two months. He had no reason to expect Lestrade would pay the least bit attention to his pathetic cry for help now.
Except that he would.
Of course he would.
He hit send, and settled on a bench near the gate to wait for his ride.