Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Prologue

Three Months On

John Watson knew London was full of the dead. All of them walking about, grayed-out versions of who they used to be, who they wanted to be, who they imagined they'd become.

He was one of them now. Not quite there. Not quite alive. Still moving, still talking but mostly just a shadow person who existed out of habit as opposed to any real passion.

He didn't know if it made him unique or not; the fact that he was a ghost that had its own ghost. But there it was.

"Mary" accompanied him.

Not always there but sometimes.

More often than not and never enough.

He wasn't quite stupid or mental enough to truly believe she was a ghost. But the language of his situation could be diced so finely, brought into such focus that it pained him to look at it straight on.

He was 43 years old.

He had a new daughter to whom he was having difficulty feeling any attachment.

He needed to pick up milk from the store.

He wished some days and especially some nights, that Sherlock had shot him stone dead when Eurus had given him the chance.

He needed to check the model on the car seat to make sure it wasn't one of those he'd heard was recalled this morning.

He needed to add funds to his Oyster card.

He was passively suicidal.

His wife was dead.

He had a toothache in that molar that was always giving him trouble.

These were the facts and no matter how he rearranged or reshuffled them they remained the facts.

It was easy then to dilute it. Not just easy, preferable.

You didn't even make it to your first anniversary, John.

Shit, does Rosie like the bananas or the pumpkin?

You failed. You failed just like you always do.

What about a nanny? How much would something like that cost?

She died. And to make things just a bit worse she died believing you were a good man.

How much holiday time did he have left? It felt like he hadn't been to work in ages.

You with your secrets and your secrets and your secrets and your secrets and your secrets and your-

Had he finished off all the wine or was there another bottle somewhere? Can't remember. Can't remember.

She died with praise for you on her lips and your lies in her head. Lies. Lies. Lies. That's all either of you ever gave the other.

What about moving? What about just leaving London? What about leaving the country, forgetting all of this, forgetting everyone?

What about your gun? What about dropping Rosie off with Janine, going back home writing a note - That's what people do, isn't it? Leave a note? - slipping that pistol between your lips and pulling the trigger? Painting the pretty insides of your big, pretty empty house with the inside of your skull. Bright and red and thick dripping down the walls-

But that wasn't "Mary's" voice. No. Not at all. “Mary’s” wasn’t the only voice that had been in his head, not by a long shot. But this one, the one that was decidedly not her, the reigning narrative was far darker, far more truthful and the only one left.

The cables of his existence were bound to snap and eventually they did.

His life was tied together like that now. Bundled up with cello tape, wires, strings, ropes, all of it binding him up like a scarecrow. He was stuffed full with the scraps and shreds of his old life. His insides had been scooped out, weighed and discarded. He had been autopsied alongside Mary. She had gone into the ground and he'd been sent on his way. He was an effigy of John Watson. An unconvincing dummy who wasn't fooling anyone, least of all himself.

Yes, the cables were bound to snap, however, he hadn't wanted them to snap where they did or in front of who they did.

Chapter Text

Two Months On

Things with Sherlock were slowly coming back together. The coldness had felt wrong but it was, in truth, the only emotion he could feel that wasn't debilitating. His fury at his best friend had been fueling him but even that was dying out. Exhausting itself and all he was left with was the morass of grief.

Still though, he'd missed him. Even in his rage he'd missed the comfort Sherlock could have provided. It was at moments like this when he realized he was almost as isolated as he had been when he'd returned home from Afghanistan. What was his life? Where were his friends? Where was his foundation? His support?

The answer to that was the same it had been five years ago; with Sherlock Holmes.

But Sherlock had been suffering too. The detective had wrung himself out at the behest of his wife on John's behalf. He had dragged himself on hands and knees through hell and had almost died in the process.

He nearly died, John, another one you almost killed.

John wasn't ready for things to return to normal but Molly had come to him in that determined way of hers and said "It's your turn."

"It's my turn for what?"

"To look after him."

"I can't see him. Not yet. It's different when it was a case...the pursuit and danger of it all but-"

"Enough. I know you're hurting. I know. But he...you...the two of you, you make things so complicated all the time. I'm not sending you to sit with him just because he needs it, even though he does. Even those he's too stupid and stubborn to ask. I'm sending you because you need it. You're drifting away, John. We're standing on the shore and you're just floating farther and farther away."

He'd liked the sound of that. He wanted to badly to drift away.

"So you're going. You're going to take your turn like the rest of us and you're going to anchor yourselves to one another."

It was probably the most words Molly had ever said to him and in her earnest, quiet yet commanding way she humbled him. They weren't friends. Not really. Acquaintances at best. Aside from Sherlock, he didn't have friends. He realized that now. But that was no reflection on whether or not she was a good person

He'd nodded and agreed and that was how he'd found himself back at Baker Street.

Within fifteen minutes, he'd wanted to leave.

He recalled reading something not that long ago. The forests around Chernobyl had caught fire. They had turned red after the '86 disaster, hence the name, the radiation soaking into their bark and roots, killing them along with nearly everything else in the area. The funny thing was, these trees weren't decaying, the microbes that would normally devour them having been eradicated in the accident. Even the ones that had fallen onto the ground three decades prior were largely unscathed, preserved in their death throes. An entire swath of land turned into waiting kindling. What scientists feared might happen did; a fire. All that debris, caught up in a blaze not simply dangerous because of the fire but because of all the toxins contained in those never-rotting corpses that might be released in the air. Eventually, the fire brigade contained it but the men emerged with a strange and unnerving tale. It felt like battling a regular fire, of course, but on top of that there was this tingling, itchy sensation, crawling over their skin, pins and needles all over their bodies. That was the radiation. Strong and sick and crackling and silent and very much still hanging in the air, coating everything for as far as the eye could see. The disaster never really stopped. Not really. The Red Forest was there waiting. Waiting to itch and scratch and scrape and claw at your skin. Ready to melt your insides and multiply your cells and burn you from within to without.

That story had given him nightmares.

That was what he had felt being this close to Sherlock again. Radiation. Danger. Not from the man himself. But from being this close to feeling something again. Caring.

He had finally come to agree with his mate; caring was a disadvantage.

As John scolded him about not biting the bullet and taking a chance with The Woman it occurred to him that perhaps they had finally traded places. Sherlock, reborn, maybe, just maybe on the verge of truly letting someone into that final place in his mind, his heart, his life and he, John Watson, willing to close up shop for good.

He hadn't really meant Irene. That was why he'd never said her name. For a myriad of reasons it shouldn't be Irene, not the least of which being, she was a lesbian. And though he wouldn't presume to know what was best for Sherlock he would prefer he be involved with someone a bit less likely to be targeted by a terror cell or cause an international incident. Also, actually being interested in men might be helpful. 

But then again, what did he know about relationships or sex or love? He usually managed to fuck those things up quite royally.

But she was The Woman and in that way, John used her to represent any woman, every woman, every person, chance, opportunity. Sherlock wouldn't, didn't text if he wasn't interested. In fact, the only other person he texted with any frequency was John himself.

His friend, and yes, he was still his friend, was so close, nearly there, just on the edge. And if a push towards an entanglement was what he needed then John was happy to provide the shove.

He meant what he said. Neither of them were getting in younger. In fact, John felt old, terribly old and he imagined there were days when Sherlock felt the same. Life had recently taught him that time was running out. Time was always running out.

"Mary" had been there, through it all, encouraging him to stay, to speak and he had. He had cajoled his friend and he had confessed like a guilty penitent to the hallucination of his dead wife.

And the guilt and the pain and the anger at her loss had caused him to shatter.

And he crumpled in on himself and raised his hand to his face shielding his eyes.

And he'd cried, that weary cry where your limbs felt weak and your legs threatened to buckle because there was nothing inside you left, not really, not anymore, no frame, no skeleton, no heart, only grief. Black and poisonous grief. That was all that animated you. That was the ghost in the machine.

He hadn't heard Sherlock approaching him but he had felt that tingling sensation rising on his skin.

He didn't have time to process the embrace as it happened. But later he would wonder at how stiff, it wasn't. How awkward, it wasn't. How it was natural and protective and how out of all those who had touched him after Mary had died, this touch was both the least and most painful.

"It's ok."

"It's not ok."

"No. But it is what it is."

That answer. So Sherlock. So unlike the platitudes that had been shoveled upon him until he felt he couldn't even breathe. But here was the answer that fit, like a key in a lock and he broke down even further against him.

How does one keep track of time in the middle of a total collapse?

He didn't know how long they stood like that. He was so tired and he felt he was shrinking underneath his own gravity, un-existing, de-existing, folding in on himself like time. Sherlock's hand on his back, his neck, encircling him, shutting everything else out and letting him disassemble in warm, loving privacy. He was even ashamed to cry in the loneliness of his house but he didn't feel that same shame here.

Sherlock smelled like clean clothes and a combination of that shampoo he used and the detergent Mrs. Hudson was fond of. He'd been smoking but somehow the scent was fresh and sweet, like new tobacco and not the ashes.

He hoped he wouldn't fling himself back into cigarettes or worse. And then there it was again, that prickling sensation, stronger. His mind and heart rebelled against being pulled in again.

You know where this leads. He warned himself.

But he was pulled in, in every way he could be. And it was working to calm him. The whole situation worked to calm him and finally, he pulled back to stare up at his mate.

Sherlock's face was tired. Even more exhausted than John had first noticed. The stubble, the circles, the bloodshot sclera. But he was smiling and his hand was resting kindly on John's cheek.

John mirrored the gesture.

"I'm so fucking sorry, Sherlock." He whispered. "I'm sorry, mate."

"I know you are." He said matching John's volume and tone. He knew what the apology was for. It didn't need to be said. Still, the images flashed through John's mind. The punches landing. Then Sherlock landing on the ground. Then kicking. Fuck. Kicking him again and again until he was pulled away. The worst bit not that he saw fear in his best friend's eyes; but acceptance. Acquiescence. Agreement.

"You didn't do this. You didn't kill her. I had no right."

"So you said and I heard you." Sherlock's eyes were locked with his. "John, I heard you. I accept your apology without reservation and I thank you."

"Don't thank me. Please don't thank me."

"I believe you and I think we have proven time and again that we are larger than the sum of our parts and the sum of our actions. I say this not out of benevolence or martyrdom but because I mean it. I forgive you. I forgive you, as is my right and my right alone. All that's left is for you to forgive you."

John found it impossible to agree to those terms in that moment. He didn't have it in him to forgive himself.

They'd stood like that, so close, so pressed against one another. Their own event horizon. No light. No air.

John's hand had crept to the back of Sherlock's neck. It wasn't until later that he remembered kneading the skin there softly.

"Will you be alright?"

"You said Molly was coming round. I'll be fine."

"No. I don't mean right now. I mean...I don't know what I mean." He said with a sigh. He hadn't been able to pull away from the other man's eyes. There were nebulas bursting around the edges of his pupils. How had he never noticed that before?

"I'll be alright if you are." he answered and almost immediately a look passed across his features that he'd said too much.

"I need you to be alright, Sherlock." He said in a harsh whisper and that feeling of pins and needles was almost unbearable. "Someone has to survive all this."

He was pulling him in. Pulling him closer and encountering no resistance. "I need you to be alright...I need you..."

And then their lips were touching.

And there was less sound than no sound.

And less air than no air.

They were kissing and his hand was in Sherlock's hair and Sherlock's hand was on his cheek, the other on his waist just resting, only resting. It was like someone had paused every rampant thought in his head and he was only living in this kiss and the moments between each beat of his heart. This was all there was and he was existing without hating existence.

I must taste like tears. John had thought.

He pulled away just for a moment, just for air. Later he would wonder how far he'd intended to go. But it didn't matter because they could both hear Molly's footsteps on the stairs.

John stepped back and wiped at his face, not his mouth, with his sleeve. Sherlock, for a brief moment, held his position, hand where John's waist had been, palm where his cheek had rested. Like a mannequin.

"Hope I'm not late." Molly said entering the flat with a voice a bit too bright and a smile a tad too forced. This had all been wearing on her as well. All of it. Jesus, she needed to get far, far away from them both.

She stopped, sensing the tension in the room, the tears and perhaps something else she couldn't put her finger on even though they'd broken apart before her arrival.

"Everything ok?" She asked.

"Yeah. Fine. I've got to get going. Rosie..." He said vaguely. He couldn't look at Sherlock. All he could see was a new wave rolling in from the distance. A new guilt. Jesus Christ. Christ on his throne what had he just done.

"You could stay, John. I brought some takeaway, plenty for three." She said watching him as he quickly passed.

"No, sorry, gotta get going."

"John." Sherlock called from behind him. "Will you come back tomorrow? Please?"

"I'll try." He said shortly.

He was already out of the door and on the stairs.

He'd started walking. Fast. "Mary" had joined at his side easily keeping pace. But then, she would, wouldn't she?

"I hope you didn't cut that short on my account."

"It was a mistake. I'm sorry that happened. Oh, God, I'm sorry."

And he was. Sherlock was not a sexual being, not remotely. Not to mention the fact that John wasn't attracted to him. Not at all. Not in the least. He was straight. He was a married straight man. Widowed. Widowed straight man. He didn't know why he had kissed him. Now, after the fact, the move baffled him. All he could come up with was that it was just a strange part of what he feared was the start of a mental breakdown.

"John, I'll say this as many times as it takes for you to hear it. I'm dead."

"Please stop."

"There isn't time for this, John. No, look at me, you look at me now."

He did. Briefly.

"There isn't time." She reiterated. "Waiting out some sort of mourning clock out of a misguided idea of respect? Is that what you're doing?"

"You're in my head. You're not real. I want you to be but you are not real."

"No, I'm not real." She said sadly. "Mary is decomposing. Unlike your red trees. Mary's spirit, if such a fanciful thing exists, has gone on to the next step. I am a creation of your mind. But you know what? I'm a damn good one." She raised a wry eyebrow before continuing. "You may have cast me a bit more benevolent and forgiving about the texting than I would have been but you're not that far off. I have as much truth about me as she would. Far more truth, it seems, than you'd like to hear."

"Please...please leave me alone. Just for awhile. Please."

"Alright. I'll leave you be. I love you. But you listen to me, John Watson, if there is a hereafter, I would suggest you not piss me off by shitting your life away. I imagine I'd be a right bitch of a ghost."

In a way, he had been glad everything with Eurus had happened. He needed a distraction and she was a mighty one.

It had felt so good to come so close to sampling a swift death. Not the well. That creeping, slow moving danger had felt too much like his own regular life. The steadily rising water, the inevitability of it all.

No, but being in that room with Sherlock, with a gun in his hand. Having to make that choice. John using all of his will to not burst out with "Pick me. Please, God pick me."

It was good and fast and there was no time to breathe and no time to talk about anything, least of all a kiss.

He didn't want to talk about it or think about it. He only wanted to settle down with a drink in his hand and forget it had ever happened.

Chapter Text

Three Months On

He had a dream.

Mary had sent another video.

Mary; warm and bright and smiling. Encouraging. So encouraging.

They, he and Sherlock, had rebuilt Baker Street together. Rosie was there in Sherlock's arms.

Oh, there's Daddy!

Lovely. So warm. A break in the clouds. A future to look forward to. Sunlight and promise and hope even in the face of all this.

And then everything muddled together, a mixture of the past and the never-was.

I'm not the man you thought I was;

Well, you listen to me: who you really are, it doesn't matter.

I'm not that guy. I never could be.

I know you two; and if I'm gone, I know what you could become. Because I know who you really are.

But that's the point. That's the whole point.

I know who you really are. Get on with it.

Who you thought I was is the man who I want to be.

Get on with it.

He'd awakened with a start to find "Mary" sitting on the edge of the bed looking down at him with concern.

"I think what confuses me...her...me the most is that you think I didn't know. No, not confuses me. Saddens me. She knew. I knew. I knew it the first time you told me about him on our 3rd date. If you close your eyes and go back in your memory you'll see it. It passes over my face. A moment. A flash. But you learned observation from one of the best. From him. You saw it, John. You saw it register. And when he came back. You wanted to tell me, to prepare me. To explain. You did tell me. I knew. And I didn't run. I loved you and I stayed. I knew. I know."

"Know what?" He'd asked feeling utterly confused.

"Oh, John." She'd replied but hadn't said anymore.

He'd gotten out of bed and gone to the kitchen. He grabbed a glass from the cupboard, the vodka from the freezer and a Coke from the fridge. After adding a bracing amount of alcohol which calmed the caramel colored fizz he'd downed the drink.

"Mary" frowned but he cut her off before she could say anything.

"Will you lie down with me, please? Let me put my arms around you?"

"You won't be able to feel me, John." She'd said sadly.

"I'll put pillows in your space. I'll close my eyes and pretend. You just keep talking to me and I'll pretend."

"Ok. Ok, love."

When Rosie cried he would pick her up.

When she was wet, he would change her.

When she needed comfort he would rock her.

When she seemed to require stimulation he would play with her.

But to his shame, to his horror, he was feeling less and less about his daughter.

He'd counseled new mothers on bonding, walked them through the steps to improve it, explained postnatal depression and tried to alleviate their guilt. Just because it wasn't spoken about didn't mean it wasn't normal or natural. It happened. Bonding took work.

But for him, this made no sense. When Rosie was first born he was enraptured, everything about her was perfect and worthy of documentation and praise. He loved her. He loved spending time with her. Showing her things. Kissing her, tickling her, holding her. He loved to imagine what kind of toddler she be, what kind of little girl, what kind of teenage and woman. So many plans. So many things he wanted for her.

But slowly the color and joy of it all had drained out of his world and he hated himself for it. He started passing her off to whichever eager woman in his life would like to take her for an afternoon, an evening, a weekend...or more.

It felt wrong but not as wrong as having her in the house.

He had had his fill of therapists, especially since the last one had tried to kill him.

So like everyone else he found himself turning to the internet

I'm finding it difficult to connect with my baby, what can I do?

I'm unable to bond with my new baby. What's wrong with me?

I feel indifference towards my child.

I'm worried I don't love my daughter.

How to proceed with giving up my parental rights

UK adoption.

He felt awful. Ashamed and awful. "Mary" was glaring at him. He chose to ignore her.

"What are you doing?"

"You know what I'm doing. I never signed up to be a single father, Mary. I can't do this. She'd be better off with someone else."

"She'd be better off with you. If you'd make an effort."

"Piss off, Mary. Piss right the fuck off."

He closed his laptop, ordered Chinese takeaway, ignored a call from Sherlock and opened a beer.

He'd cut down his hours at the clinic to the bare minimum knowing full well it was a shit thing to do. Now they were trying to make do without Mary or himself and he felt guilty for it. Then again, he felt guilty about a lot of things these days.

Working hours he spent with Sherlock. Which was good and bad all at the same time. Sherlock provided normalcy and stability. Things made sense in Baker Street like they did nowhere else. But there was still discomfort. His friend still stirred up so many things he would rather keep still and buried. It wasn't just the kiss. It was more the feeling of being anchored to this world in a way he no longer wanted. It wasn't the kiss.

Speaking of the kiss, they had never discussed it and John was glad. He didn't understand it and didn't want to talk about it. He didn't want to understand.

The good news was that there were cases and cases and more cases. He felt invigorated by each one. He started taking more chances. He didn't want to wait until tomorrow to pursue someone, to check out a lead, to run someone down on foot.

He started carrying his gun with him as well.

In fact, Sherlock was now more often than not the person trailing behind him, calling his name, asking, demanding...pleading with him to stop.

He didn't get left behind anymore.

"John?"

"Hmm?" He asked coming back to himself having no idea how long he'd been gone. He was even a bit surprised to find himself sitting in his chair at Baker Street. Time was blending into itself again. One day bleeding into the next. That is when it wasn't backtracking to the previous one.

"Are you alright?"

"Yes, sorry. Was that what you asked me?"

Sherlock frowned and studied him.

"No, it wasn't. But it's what I'm asking now."

"I am...like I always am. I'm managing."

"I don't think you are. You have circles under your eyes, along with burst capillaries. You're taking longer to answer questions, unable to concentrate or focus and-"

"Are you deducing me? Now?" He asked testily.

"And you're prone to emotional outbursts. Well, more than usual. You're fatigued, you've failed to notice you need a haircut and you've already worn that shirt once before this week."

"Well, I'm sorry if my fashion sense and grooming skills aren't up to par for you." He said rising to his feet. He was trying to keep his anger in check. Heading to the fridge he opened it and leaned in. "Want something to drink?"

"Tea would be fine, it's already made. I think there's just enough left for two cups."

"I'll put on a kettle if you'd like it fresh but I'm fine with a beer."

"We don't have beer."

"I brought some over."

Sherlock was likely on the verge of saying something but a knock on the door diverted his attention.

"Yes?"

In walked Lestrade and John immediately noticed the furrow to his brow.

"Good, you're both here."

"Did you bring the files I requested?" Sherlock asked holding out his hand with the assumption the answer was yes.

"Yeah and there's stuff we need to go over. But first, I need to talk to John."

John kept his face neutral as he stood in the archway of the kitchen eyeing the detective.

"What about?"

"We've got a bloke came down the station and said he was roughed up. Pistol whipped as a matter of fact. Says it happened the same night you both were chasing him. Says this is all a part of systematic harassment by law enforcement about the Gomes case."

"Well, I'm not law enforcement." He said offering a tight smile.

Lestrade paused.

"Are you saying you did it?"

"Lestrade, don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said quietly but John's eyes instantly went to him. There was something in his tone. Something just slightly unsure.

"And you know he didn't do it?" Lestrade pressed.

"Of course he didn't do."

"And you were with him all last Tuesday night? That's when he says it happened."

"He was by my side the entire evening. Never out of my sight. You know my methods and you know his."

There it was. Sherlock had lied for him. They'd split up that night, multiple times to cover more ground.

"John, I'm asking you straight, mate. Did things maybe get a bit out of hand?"

John stared at him for a moment, his fingers idly tapping the neck of the bottle he was holding. He was thrumming with anger, sharp and hot and for a moment he thought about cracking the lager over the other man's head. Instead, he offered him a tight smile.

"No, Greg, of course not."

"Yeah, yeah I didn't think so."

"Though if you expect me to shed any tears because a rapist got a few bones in his face broken you came to the wrong guy."

Both men stared at him but he only laughed in return. For a moment he wasn't sure if he'd be able to stop laughing.

"I didn't say anything about his face." Lestrade said.

"Well, where else would you pistol whip someone? You want to make a point. Hmm? You want to make sure it's seen; by them every time they look in the mirror and by anyone they associate with." His words came out more venomous than he expected but it was too late to pull them back.

"John." Sherlock said and there was a warning in it so subtle he was sure Lestrade hadn't noticed as he spoke at the same time.

"Thought a lot about it, have you?"

John shook his head before slamming the bottle down on the counter.

"You want to arrest me, Greg, go ahead." He said as he stalked up to the man and held his wrists out. He was daring him, daring him to do something; ready to rage if he tried or triumph when he didn't.

"Now because we're friends-" Lestrade began but John interrupted him.

"Are we friends?" He asked cocking his head to the side.

"Because we're friends," He reiterated. "and because I trust both of you and your work, your word means more to me than a felon who may have upgraded from rapist to murderer. And because of what happened with Mary but-"

"What happened with Mary? Oh, do you mean when she was murdered? Do you mean when you stood there and let a mad old bitch aim a gun at Sherlock and then shoot Mary in the chest without doing anything about it? Everyone always talks about "what happened" well, let me tell you what happened.

Mary was struck in the chest which shredded her pulmonary artery. Now as the bullet attempted to exit her body it essentially destroyed all the tissue within about a 4-5 inch radius before eventually lodging in her spinal column. After this her heart, in a futile effort to save her started pumping blood at a frantic rate which caused her body to flood with adrenaline as her lungs filled with blood. This, at least, gave her enough time to say goodbye to me. After those few seconds, she suffered catastrophic hemorrhaging and lost consciousness as her brain began to die from loss of blood pressure. Shortly after, she expired. That was the end of my wife. Oh, I forgot to mention a handful of minutes after that blood began to pour out of my dead wife's mouth and nose. I see it every night. Every time I close my eyes. And I wish you could see it. I wish to God above you could see it, Greg."

He spat out every word, every syllable never letting his voice rise, never shouting or yelling. He was too enraged right now to shout. Too close to tearing this man apart with his bare hands.

The room was dead silent and Lestrade had gone about three shades whiter than normal.

"John..." Sherlock began again and the doctor was certain he would now be asked to leave. "Would you like to stay here tonight? Your room is as you left it. Perhaps if Rosie is taken care of for the evening you might be able to get some rest at Baker Street."

The invitation touched the part of him that could still be touched. Which only made him angrier.

"No. I'm going home."

"Let me call you a cab." Sherlock said.

"I can give you a ride." Greg offered and his voice sounded strangled and frankly like he'd rather do anything but.

"I'll walk. I feel like walking." He grabbed his bag and shoved his laptop in it before downing his beer and heading for the door. "Leaving now, you can commence talking about me in whispered tones once you hear the door shut."

With that, he walked out of the flat, down the stairs and away from Baker Street as fast as his feet would carry him.

He thought about walking, thought about hailing a cab and then noticed the pub.

That idea trumped any other and he went in.

There were 15 text messages on his mobile when he awakened the next morning...more like early afternoon. Most from Janine but a few from Sherlock as well.

He crawled out of bed and swiped at the bottle of paracetamol that he kept nearby. He was just about to down it when he realized it would likely just come back up again.

After a thorough retching session in the loo he brushed his teeth, swallowed the pills and set out to retrieve his daughter.

He expected to meet with Janine's fury. He hadn't called or texted. He had left her completely high and dry.

But instead she was pleasant.

"There you are!" She said brightly. "Sorry to hear about what happened."

"Yeah..." He said having no idea what she meant.

"Are you sure you're ok to take her now. Sherl told me you got a bit of food poisoning and spent most of the night in the toilet."

Well done, Sherl.

"Yeah, last time I go for vendor food."

"You still look a fright, John." She said with concern. "I can look after her if you're still on the mend."

Janine. So pretty and kind. So good. She'd even forgiven Sherlock for what John felt was nigh unforgivable. Janine was a good person and John determined he should exit her life as quickly as possible.

"No, I've imposed enough. I'll take her."

Janine motioned him inside and he stepped into her foyer reluctantly.

"Can I make you a cuppa? Would you like to talk?"

'Would you like to talk' always meant would you like to talk about Mary. And no. No, he didn't.

"No." He said doing his best to keep the sharpness from his tone. "I've really got to go." He said adding a forced chuckle.

Janine nodded and left briefly to grab Rosie and all the bags and toys that were part and parcel of any visit.

"John, she is an absolute dream." Janine said giving his daughter several rapid-fire kisses on the cheek. Rosie squealed with delight in a way that she never did with him. Janine then handed her over. "Every time she's here I have half a mind to run away with her."

"Say the word and she's yours." He answered quickly. It was an off the cuff comment that was 100% true. She sensed it and he noticed the frown pass over her face. "Kidding, you'd have to pry her away from me."

"You know, if you two ever need anything I'm just a ring away."

"And I appreciate that. Thanks so much, Janine."

"Anytime, John."

He carried Rosie to the car. She'd been fussing and crying ever since Janine had passed her over. Strapping her into her car seat he then started to drive home.

He pulled out his phone at a stoplight and dialed a rarely used number.

"Hey, yeah...yeah it's me. I know..yeah, I know. Mmhmm. Yeah, good to hear your voice too. Listen, I was wondering if you might have some time later on in the week to get together. No, we can go out to dinner or I can make something. Yes, yeah. Alright great. Yeah, bye, Harry."

Harry didn't drink anymore. This time it seemed the rehab had stuck. With this in mind, John decided to have a glass of wine before she arrived for dinner...which turned into three.

They'd opted for something more casual, a meal at his house. After all, she wanted to see her niece. Which of course was perfect for his purposes.

"So I see you're wearing your ring again. You and Clara back on?"

Harry smiled a smile he hadn't seen in years. She was holding Rosie who seemed calm, friendly but indifferent; neither put out by the new person nor mesmerized.

"Yeah, we're making a go of it. I've moved back in, I'm a year clean. I feel cautiously good. It feels good to feel good."

"That's great, Harry, it really is." He smiled and hoped it looked sincere. He was happy for this news but somehow it was hard to feel it.

His sister observed him in that way that always made him vaguely uncomfortable.

"How about you, big brother?"

"I'm...coping ." He propped his head on his fist as he rested his elbow on the dining room table. The wine was making his head feel just this side of swimmy, pleasant enough, coherent, relaxed but not drunk.

"I was really sorry about Mary. I should have gotten to know her better. I should have made it to your wedding-"

"Well, you made it to the funeral. That counts for something, right?" He said hoping to get off the subject.

Harry gave her head a little shake. He knew that shake, it was the Same-old-John, headshake. That was fine, it was all fine because he had a similar Same-old-Harry head shake of his own that he employed usually when he was getting some notice about her DWI's.

"And how about looking after this little dear?" She asked turning her attention to Rosie, her face softening. "You never exactly were the family type."

He inhaled through his nose sharply.

"Took care of you, didn't I?"

"What? Making me a cuppa every now and then and a bit of toast while we watched cartoons?"

He frowned and leaned across the table to stare at her to see if she was joking.

"How about making you breakfast, seeing that you had a lunch when you went off to school, tucking you in at night, reading you stories, making sure your homework was done and you had clean clothes and-...you don't remember any of this?"

"That weren't you, that was Dad." She replied like he was spinning the most outrageous tale.

"Dad?" He asked incredulously. "Dad was usually too off his arse drunk to put his key in the door."

"There you go, going in on him again."

"Going in on him...Harry? Jesus Christ, are you telling me you don't remember any of this?"

He needed to confirm this. He needed her to say it because she was starting to make him feel mad.

"You're going to get the baby upset." She said in a hushed voice holding Rosie closer. She did seem on the verge of pitching a fit. "What I remember is the two of you fighting all the time."

"Fighting, is that what you call it when he hits a 10-year-old so hard they go flying across the room."

"That never happened." She insisted calmly but she wouldn't meet his eyes.

"It did happen, Harry. It most certainly did happen, it happened a lot and you were standing right there almost every time. And I took it. I took it for me and I took it for you."

Harry purposefully kept her focus on the top of Rosie's head as she whispered soothing nonsense to her.

"Is that why you ran off and left me?" She asked.

"You left me long before that, Harry. And I was glad, I really was because you were out of the house and I thought out of danger. By the time I found out how deep in the bottle you were I was already headed to the Army. I wasn't going to stick around and follow you."

"Seems like you're about to follow me now." She muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, John."

He sighed, frustrated with her but more so with himself for having gotten so far from his point. He needed her to agree to this.

"Look, Harry, I know you think I'm a family-abandoning bastard and that's why we've never gotten on-"

"That's not the reason we never got on, John. But if it helps you sleep at night..."

"Nothing helps me sleep at night. But please enlighten me."

"Alright." This time she did meet his eyes, squarely and she spoke as if she'd been planning this speech for years. "You're black and white. Completely. You are a right and wrong adherent and there's no gray for you. No room for maybes, no place to allow people to stumble. You are the most unsympathetic, unforgiving man I have ever met. I lost your good opinion long ago and I don't ever expect to get it back. Even when you say you forgive and forget it's a lie. It's always there in the back of your mind and it informs every decision you make. You have no mercy in you, John. None. If Mary found it, if she cultivated it in you, then good, I'm glad someone could."

Her words hit him and hit him hard. They sounded familiar, terribly familiar but yet he couldn't put a voice or a face to them. He swallowed and tried to speak. His hand twitched. He wanted a drink, he wanted to something to make the sharp edges of this conversation and this night dull and safe.

"Why did you invite me here, John?"

"I need your help." He said simply.

She scoffed but waited for him to continue.

"I have to ask, forgive me but I have to. You're sober, clean and sober? You're straight?"

She laughed.

"Yes, John, I'm straight." She looked at the twitching of his hand. "Straighter than you."

"And if I called Clara she'd give me the same story?"

"Yeah, what is this about?"

"It's about Rosie." He sighed heavily. "Because you're right. I'm not the family type I never wanted to do this alone. I can't do this alone."

Her features softened immediately.

"Oh...well, you need help? I can make myself available, take her a bit here and there. You should have said something sooner, John."

He scrubbed his face with his hands and groaned before continuing. When he removed them Rosie was looking at him with interest.

"Not here and there, Harry. Permanently."

Harry blinked, looked at the baby as if for answers then back at him.

"What?"

"I...don't...want her." He felt a pain in his heart as the words left his mouth.

"You don't actually mean that. Your wife died. You're likely still in shock, you're grieving. I think a bit of disconnect is only natural."

"This isn't a bit of disconnect. I look at her and I know how I'm supposed to feel but I just don't. I don't feel that way about her or anyone anymore. I can't...access anything anymore, Harry."

His voice wavered as he spoke and he clamped his mouth shut tightly.

"John I...what about your friends?"

"She's been bouncing back and forth with friends while I work and try and figure things out but she needs something permanent. If I can't love her at least I can do the loving thing for her. I am hard on you, Harry. I'm hard on everyone. I am a bastard. But I know you're a good person and so is Clara. I'm trusting you to do this. I looked into adoption but the process seems too daunting and I'd rather she was..." He trailed off as the tears threatened again. 

"You're serious."

"Quite."

Harry sighed and looked at Rosie again.

"I'll have to talk to Clara. This isn't like bringing home a puppy."

"Yeah, of course."

"This wouldn't be permanent. I'm not going to take your child from you, John. There is going to come a time where you will want her back, need her back. If Clara says it's alright, we'll look after her until then."

He sighed a ragged breath of relief and rising from the table made his way over to hug her.

"Thank you, Harry." He whispered to her.

"Poor, Johnny." She said as she hugged him back.

"Maybe taking her with you tonight might help talk Clara into it? Could she say no to this face?" He said as he pulled back.

"No, I don't believe she could."

Within an hour he had Rosie and enough nappies and clothes and whatnot packed for an overnight trip and she and his sister were gone.

He took a bottle of wine from the fridge, walked past "Mary" where she stood in the hall looking devastated and crawled into bed. In the end, he cried and drank himself to sleep.

Chapter Text

Four Months On

"Why you? Why are you my conscience?!" He asked her angrily one afternoon.

"Because I'm the only dead person you trust. You've only ever truly trusted three people, John. Me, Sherlock and Sholto. You have kept your life very, very bare. Spartan, I'd call it. Never too many possessions or roots or obligations. You dreaded having coffee with Mike Stamford that day. You play things close to the vest and you live like you are bivouacking. Sherlock and I let you persist in this fantasy that you were subconsciously drawn to us but it's not true. My life was littered with hints that I wasn't giving you the full story."

"You're blaming me for not interrogating you!?"

"No! I am blaming you for being so relieved that you didn't have to. I'm blaming you for saying one thing and meaning another. No...no, wait, that's not true. You said what you meant."

"What did I say?"

"The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future are my privilege. That's all I have to say. That's all I need to know."

"What wrong with that? What was so fucking wrong with that? You seemed happy at the time."

"I was. Until I thought about it. And I'm sorry, John, but I'm not your conscience, I'm your tell-tale heart and I won't be here for much longer."

"Why is that?" He felt panicked at the idea which surprised him. He thought perhaps he'd have felt relieved.

"Because you're killing me."

"What? How am I killing you?" It hurt to even get the words out.

She laughed mirthlessly.

"Have another drink."

"Please don't think of this as a here's-your-hat. What's-your-hurry? Sort of moment but, don't you have to pick up Rosie from Janine? It's getting late. I can finish up here." Sherlock said quietly.

"Janine doesn't have Rosie."

John had been dreading this moment. Besides "Mary", there was only one person on earth whose words about this could pierce and hurt him anymore. He'd been leaving early from Baker Street under the pretense of picking up Rosie from one place or another. Or at least he let Sherlock think that. Anything to avoid this conversation.

"Where is she?"

"Harry. I gave her to Harry."

"Gave her? As in, she's looking after her for the night?"

John summoned his courage and raised his head to meet his mates eyes.

"No, as in she is looking after her indefinitely. Perhaps...permanently. I haven't ironed everything out yet."

There were few times Sherlock was hit with something he didn't expect. This was one of those times and his face registered only shock as he blinked, trying to summon the words.

"Your daughter...you...?"

"Did what was best for her. What was best for the both of us. That's my job, isn't it?"

"Your job, I imagined would be to raise her." He replied narrowing his eyes.

"Are you giving me parenting advice? Calling on your vast experience?"

"I've kept my distance while you have taken your time and your space and juggled what I imagine is a very complicated schedule not to mention the demands I place on you, by having Janine and Molly and even Mrs. Hudson care for her. But it was always meant to be temporary. She needs you, she needs her father. For that matter, she needs her father sober. And I would hazard a guess that you need her as well. Not to mention-"

"Don't Sherlock."

"You promised Mary."

He gritted his teeth.

"Tread lightly, mate."

"You promised Mary. I was there and you swore to her."

"DON'T TALK TO ME ABOUT PROMISES!" He shouted and then shut his eyes. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to scream at Sherlock. He leaned as far back in his chair as he could as Sherlock leaned forward. When he did, that prickly feeling started to rise on John's skin.

"I was always here to talk to. I still am." He said quietly putting a hand on his knee. "You can move back here and I will take care of you both."

"You don't know what you're saying, Sherlock. You have no idea the level of responsibility this requires." He said scrubbing his face both touched and frustrated at his friend's naivete.

"You're right. I don't. And I won't know fully until we've begun. Call Harry, tell her in a week you'll need your daughter back. Sell the house and come back to me."

Come back to me. John closed his eyes at the intimate language. Sherlock was barely speaking above a whisper. He could feel the heat of his hand and every hair on John's body was standing on end. The kiss came back with clarity.

"Can't do that." He said with a short shake of his head.

"John, I believe despite your reluctance and my hesitance we need to discuss what happened. We need to talk about the kiss."

"Sherlock..."

"If you believe that by moving in here I would try and force you to..." He faltered. Sherlock rarely faltered. "I wouldn't...things would remain strictly friendly and professional."

Fuck. He was blaming himself. Fuck. His parents were nice but bloody hell they'd done a number on him if he could twist this in his brain to be his fault. Sherlock, truly upper class, truly a posh boy, somehow managing to apologize even when he had been done the wrong. So very, very mannerly in the face of John inexplicably yanking him in for a-

"I am so sorry that I did that to you. Brought you into my madness like that. It was borderline abusive, mate. But that seems to be all I can dole out lately; abuse."

"The work made you happy. Come back and immerse yourself in the work. We'll hire a nanny, I'm sure we can find someone I can tolerate in small doses. We will break down each and every problem, grind it to dust until we find the solution."

Jesus, his sweetness about all this was starting to make John feel sick. It was too nice, so nice, so terribly nice and he didn't deserve it, not any of it.

"You lied to Janine about where I was and why. You lied to Lestrade...you know you did."

John hadn't been able to meet his eyes but now he did and was surprised by the layers of pain he saw on his best friends features.

"I did."

"Why? Why protect me?"

"I will always protect you, John. I promised that I would." He said as though it were obvious.

"Alright, I absolve you of any promise or vow you made at my wedding. How about that?"

"I made the promise long before your wedding." He said quietly.

John wanted, needed to put some space between them and so he stood and stepped away to stand by the fireplace.

"You've mentioned my drinking now twice."

"That's because I fear you are spinning out of control. I had foolishly believed that given time you might stop on your own. I let my esteem and affection for you cloud the fact that you too are an addict. And while alcohol was never a problem for you before an addict is always in pursuit of a new way to get high."

"It's just to sleep." He said far more feeble than he thought he would.

"It's always just to sleep until it isn't."

He couldn't talk about this with him. It was snowballing and he was feeling terribly trapped.

"I don't know that I should be doing this anymore."

"Doing what?"

"You know." John said quietly.

"Us?" Sherlock asked and the personal way of phrasing what they had created at Baker Street surprised him. He had expected him to call it "the work" or even "my work" or "your little helpful blog" but he called it us and John wanted to sob. This, this entanglement was everything he needed to get away from right now. It was too much, too thick, too deep. Oh God, how it hurt.

"I'm getting sloppy. I'm not sleeping, I'm not thinking. I'm not helpful. You're slowing down, you're doing most of it for me. My blogs have turned to shit." He concluded with a shy and bitter laugh.

"John, I cannot do this without you." Sherlock said and the pain and shock in his eyes was more than John could bear to witness.

"Sherlock, you could always do this without me. But I thank you for letting me tag along all these years. Mycroft was right. How did he put it? 'Nothing more than a distraction; a little scrap of ordinariness for you to impress, to dazzle with your cleverness. You'll find another.' He was right, Sherlock. You'll find another."

Swiftly John made the decision and walked towards the door. Sherlock was hot on his heels.

"He was acting...badly. Putting on a show. He admitted that. And even if he had been telling what he thought to be the truth he was wrong. I decide what you mean to me, your value to me. Your priceless value."

"He was still telling the truth. Look, mate, we'll still be friends. Best friends. You are my best and only friend. And I love you. But I can't do this anymore."

He put his hand on the side of Sherlock's face and both saw and felt his jaw working as he struggled to find the right words. John felt guilty on so many levels for putting him through this but it was all for the best.

"As you know, I'm terribly inadequate when it comes to expressing myself. I can't easily find the words people deserve to hear. There are things I want to say. Things I thought there'd be time to say. All I can say to you is please don't go. I swear to you I won't let you or Rosie down ever again."

"You never let us down, Sherlock, not ever. This isn't punishment." He tried to reassure him. "But I have to go, for your sake as much as mine. Maybe even more. Give my best to Mrs. Hudson. She was so angry the last time I didn't tell her goodbye." He mused.

"John?" And the helpless timbre of Sherlock's voice briefly made him want to take it all back.

"Hmm?"

"I...love you too."

"There was a time you couldn't say something like that." He said with a sad smile.

"There was a time you wouldn't do something like this."

He gave him a short nod before exiting what used to be his home, 221B Baker Street.

"Times change, Sherlock."

Chapter Text

Six Months On

He'd dream of the forest at night, dry and silent. All around him are felled trees and trees so tall and sturdy that he imagines they're rooted to the core of the earth. But they're all still dead. Burnished red and dead and warm to the touch. The fact that they're warm disconcerts him more than it would if they were hot. Warm implied something slow burning and sustainable. Hot would mean flaring up but ultimately fading away. He starts to feel ill. He reaches up and runs a hand across his scalp and pulls back to find a handful of hair. His skin starts to tingle, then metastasize, then burn, then cascade off his limbs, he falls to ground, the forest closes in and he wakes up screaming.

His anniversary came and went. "Mary" had long since gone mute, as she promised, and then vanished entirely. He tried to summon her up on the 18th of May. He apologized and pleaded but it seemed as if she were gone for good and he used it as a reason and excuse to drink himself into oblivion.

Her voice may have been gone but the other one was still there.

He'd sit there sometimes, watching telly, the gun to his left side on the bed and whatever alcohol he'd gone with that day, he wasn't picky, to his right.

Why don't you just do it? What are you waiting for?

"I'm taking my time."

Why? You have no reason to stick around. Are you afraid?

"Of course I'm, afraid. Do it wrong you end up a vegetable or shoot off your jaw."

He placed a sign on the front door. "Concerned friends are kindly requested to please Fuck Off". But still they came. Like ants marching in a row, one by one they came to "help".

He kept the conversations short when he bothered to answer the door at all.

Is this about goodbye notes? You only need to write one to him.

"I know that."

And he did. But he couldn't. He didn't know how to say goodbye to him which was admittedly a very stupid reason to hang around.

He set himself laughing one night as he imagined standing at the top of Barts and calling him. Calling him to apologize for everything, saying everything that needed saying and then plunging off.

Wouldn't that be a fine coda to their dance? To his life?

No malice, truly, no malice at all. Though he realized plunging off the roof would probably send the opposite message. It was just a stupid fantasy, anyway.

He had no ill feelings towards Sherlock and that was what made it harder to leave and harder to stay.

Someone, (Sherlock) was mysteriously paying his bills. He'd been fired from the clinic and with all his pension money going toward alcohol or crap food or just sitting in his account the electricity should have been turned off long ago, as should his mobile and landline.

Sherlock called every night. Every single night. It always went the same. John feigned annoyance that was half real and half performative. And then once those preliminaries were over they just talked.

It was always late, very late, typically around 1 or 2 am but Sherlock always sounded wide awake and John, though piss drunk was always coherent enough in the beginning.

"John?"

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"How are you passing your evening?"

He always asked that and John sighed and gave him the standard answer.

"A bottle of wine and reality TV. Duncan is just about to confess to Marielle that he had a three-way with Trudie and Perpetua. But Marielle has secrets of her own."

"Are there no books in your home?"

"The words swim in front of my eyes."

"How much have you had?"

And this wasn't just a passing question that could be satisfied with a breezy, Who knows? No, John had come to learn that Sherlock expected an answer.

For some reason, John always did his best to give him one.

"Are you my Mycroft?" He would slur. "Shall I leave you a list?"

"How much, John?"

And he would tell him. The numbers stayed essentially the same. Enough to stop the pain of waking up, enough to stop the difficulty of going to sleep, enough to make it one more day. He would then translate that into bottle or liters or whatever his friend needed.

"Let me get you some help."

"Mmmm no, don't need any help. Just fine. Thank you for your concern."

"Is this what Mary would want?"

"Sorry, Sherlock, you told me repeatedly you don't believe in God or an afterlife or any such nonsense. Mary's wants are irrelevant because Mary no longer exists. Mary has long since putrefied. Do you know what happens to the body after death?"

"Of course I do."

"Of course you do."

Their conversations were much the same every late night and early morning. John wondered how Sherlock managed to set aside this time. It must have been a sacrifice, a disruption to his thinking process. He wondered why he bothered.

"Am I meant to just watch you die?" Sherlock asked one night and it was one of the rare times John heard anger during their talks.

"No one is forcing you to call, mate."

"So that's a yes, then."

"Come on, Sherlock...watching someone die is easy. You just look up and you watch them fall to the ground. Then you rush up and you get to see all the bits of brain and blood on the pavement."

"In the train carriage...you said you forgave me. You said 'Of course I forgive you.' Did you mean it?"

John inhaled slowly before releasing it. He wanted to disappear into the tv show or the wine bottle, either would be fine.

"Course I meant it. I'm just having you on." He said dully.

"May I come by to see you?"

"You always come by and I never let you in. You come by every day."

"John, I haven't been to your house in two weeks."

John felt his eyelids grow heavy.

"Always here...thinking I don't see you." He slurred.

"That was your imagination, or the onset of paranoid hallucinations. May I please come by?"

"No."

"Please." He said and the plaintive tone made John close his eyes and rub his arm fiercely trying to banish away the tingling sensation.

"I gotta go. Tired."

"Alright."

"Alright then."

"I love you."

It still jarred John to hear it.

"I love you too." He replied. He always replied to that. And hung up.

Funny how much they said it now, now that they were farther away from one another than ever before.

He suspected that Sherlock felt freer saying it to a drunk man who wouldn't remember hearing it the next morning. And John supposed he felt safe saying it for the same reason.

But they both did remember it.

And if that was Sherlock's reasoning it didn't explain why he'd said it when they were both sober and John told him goodbye at Baker Street.

It didn't explain a lot of things.

Chapter Text

Eight Months On

Molly was a persistent little shit he had to give her that.

He had yelled, he'd roared when she came and the most she'd done was flinch before barging into his house.

While he'd stood there, unsteadily, she gone about flinging open the curtains and opening windows to, as she put it "Clear out some of the rot."

The last time he'd seen her this angry was when Sherlock had been back on the sweeties.

"Sit down." She said sternly and mostly because he didn't trust his balance he did.

In silence she went about conducting a brief exam.

"Well, your blood pressure is through the roof, your heartbeat is irregular, your hands are shaking and-" She unceremoniously poked his side and he cried out in pain. "Your liver is tender."

She reached for his arm and after swabbing it clean rather aggressively drew blood.

"Ow! Goddamnit, Molly!"

"I don't know why I'm even bothering with this. I know what the results will say. You, Doctor Watson, know what the results will say. You are still a doctor, aren't you? Or have they revoked your license? Doesn't matter. The test will say you're killing yourself."

"Did he send you?"

"Who? Sherlock? You think I'm here at the behest of Sherlock Holmes? He's not in a position to send anyone anywhere these days."

He frowned but she continued.

"I'm here out of respect for Mary. I may not have known her very well but I know she loved you. I'm here out of concern and care for that little girl that you abandoned. I'm here because even though you and I have never been close friends, I care whether you live or die."

"What did you mean about Sherlock?" He pressed trying to clear his muddied thoughts to remember what it was exactly she'd said. Whatever it was, it unnerved him.

But she wasn't looking at him anymore.

"Is that a gun, John?" She said motioning to the pistol that sat on the table nearest his chair next to a bowl of day old cereal and soured milk. He'd wondered where that cereal had gone.

"It's my gun. Now, what about Sherlock?"

But she was shaking her head and far faster that he could react she had grabbed it and emptied out the bullets. Vaguely he wondered where she'd learned to do that.

Without another word she stood and left the house. It was so abrupt he didn't actually know what to do.

"Molly, give me my gun!" He said hurrying after her. But she was fast and by the time he hit the pavement she was already in her car, windows rolled up and doors locked. "You've had your fun now, give it back and leave." He said arriving at the door and smacking the glass with the palm of his hand.

It was at this point he noticed she was on her mobile.

He could just hear her and made out that she was giving his address.

She had just said "Hurry".

He hit the glass again and she flinched for the second time that day but even as she hung up he knew the damage had already been done.

"GODDAMNIT, MOLLY!"

He turned away from the car, only now realizing he'd exited the house with no shoes or socks.

John knew all too well what was coming next. The neighbors were peeking out of their windows, some of the had already stepped outside. He decided to hurry back in and slammed the door behind him but not before flipping off everyone in sight.

He was sweating, breathing heavily and his chest hurt a bit, from anxiety or anger he wasn't sure but he slid down the nearby wall and drew his knees up to his body. Waiting.

Most of what happened over the next few days was a blur.

The police arrived along with the press and everyone got nice view of him being lead away in handcuffs. He already knew he was being sectioned so it was no surprise when they took him to the hospital as opposed to the station.

He met with a series of doctors and answered their questions as calmly and professionally as possible. He knew he needed to do this if he was going to be taken seriously. He addressed them as colleagues. He explained his recent troubles, he admitted to a dependency on alcohol and swore that he was researching treatment methods. He explained that his friend, Miss Hooper in her concern for his safety has seen his weapon as far more than it was. He presented himself as what he was a medical doctor, veteran, a grieving widower, a father trying to piece his life back together. Sad, yes, well of course, but not someone who was in any way in the throes of incapacitating depression or harboring suicidal thoughts. 

It wasn't exactly easy. Molly was a respected and talented Specialist Registrar, a doctor in her own right and her opinion carried weight. That opinion was likely damning. If he were her he would recommend the patient be kept under a doctor's care, held for observation and placed under suicide watch. No way in hell should he be allowed to leave under any circumstances.

He worried he was likely not helping his case very much due to his appearance. He assumed he looked a fright but even he was surprised at just how bad things were when he finally stared into a mirror that night in his locked room in the locked ward. Honestly, seeing that made him doubt how his entire performance had gone over. He'd laid it on thick but it likely didn't look like the words were coming from someone in their right mind. Shit.

But, to his surprise and pleasure, he was rushed through the system, especially once his connection to Sherlock was discovered. Think of the publicity. Far too much attention, nothing any hospital actually wanted. He was before a magistrate and released on his own recognizance before his DT's got really bad. But they were bad enough. He stood there, waiting to collect his belonging from the desk agent, trying to hide the shaking and sweating and the painful surges in his body as it screamed for even a swallow of alcohol.

They even returned his gun.

All in all; a minor hiccup.

He had the cab from the hospital pull into an off license and wait while he stocked up.

He was dropped off at home and relieved to see no neighbors, press or other unwanted people.

He stepped inside, went to the kitchen and set down the bag full of alcohol.

John's heart nearly stopped working when he noticed the man sitting casually in his chair in the living room. The man was, of course, Sherlock.

"Jesus...Sherlock...for fucks sake!" He paused clutching his chest. This had happened before, or at least he thought it had. It seemed that once "Mary" had left Sherlock would occasionally take his place. He'd see him. or think he saw him, just briefly, just a flash, sometimes just the whip of his coat as he turned a corner. It was disturbing and unnerving and it also made him feel terribly barmy and terribly lonely. How many nights had he spent talking to "Sherlock" only to discover he'd never been there at all. So many ghosts. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

"I don't doubt it." He said before rising to his feet and joining John in the kitchen.

He imagined the lighting wasn't doing either of them any favours but he could only see his friend and not himself, and his friend looked awful.

For a moment everything, absolutely everything was forgotten and he only stared at him. Sherlock looked pale, there were circles under his eyes. He was still dressed impeccably as always in those finely tailored clothes that John never actually saw him take to get tailored. He never saw him buy them as a matter of fact. But everything else about him looked faded, dry, tired.

"Is it really you?" he asked. He raised his hand to reach out and touch him but ended up faltering. Sherlock bridged the difference and grabbed John's hand before it dropped to his side, squeezing it with reassurance. "It's really me."

"You alright?" John asked. "You look awful."

His friend looked at him uncomprehendingly appearing both confused and exhausted by the question. In the end, he just ignored it.

"You were in and out of hospital before I could see you. I was coming."

"I know you were. But I'm a respected citizen, they couldn't keep me there." He said with weary amusement. "No matter what Molly told them. And if you came here thinking you could get my gun off me, you can't. I'll tell you what I told her. That's not why I had it out."

"Why did you have it out?"

Ignoring the question, John opened his refrigerator to slide in some wine and was surprised to see it full, practically bursting.

"You went shopping for me?"

"Yes."

"You found a store and went shopping?"

"Yes, John."

"You found a store, remembered where your bank card was, made selections of food, stood in a line and-"

"Yes, John." Sherlock said with exasperation. "I choose to ignore the dreary boredom of everyday life but I am not incapable of dipping a toe in when needed."

John closed the refrigerator door and leaned against it closing his eyes.

"Please stop being so nice to me."

"No one's ever said that to me before." He said with a chuckle and John joined him.

It was nice. He didn't laugh much anymore.

"Well, are you hungry?" He said trying to shake away the burning in his eyes and on his skin. He wouldn't cry and he would try not to recoil.

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

"Molly said something the other day. Said...you were in no position to send anyone anywhere or something like that." Before his mate could answer Sherlock's mobile buzzed in his coat pocket. "Your phone." John says motioning towards him.

"It's Mycroft."

"How do you know?"

"Because it's always Mycroft these days."

"What's he on about?"

"You."

John frowned.

"Me? What about me?"

"He thinks you're killing me."

John studied his friend closer a horrifying thought creeping into his mind.

"Are you back on-"

"No." He said with a dry chuckle. "Baker Street is addict free. Unless you count Mrs. Hudson. My brother has a flair for the dramatic. He sees any show of concern as a potential downward spiral."

"You look awful."

"So you said. May I stay for a bit?" He asked trying to keep the hopefulness from his voice.

John sighed. Sherlock's company was everything he did and didn't want.

"Yeah, sure, why not turn a B&E into a nice sit-down?"

"I didn't break and enter, your door was unlocked."

So they sat down and they talked and except for the alcohol and the location of the elephant in the room that was John's wreck of a life, it was normal.

He laughed and he laughed again and he listened to Sherlock's cases and interjected every now and then. It felt good, in a much purer way than the drinking felt good. Though this would bring its own hangover. It always did. His body reacted badly to Sherlock's absence, it revolted and protested and he was just as useless as if his organs were soaked in alcohol.

Sherlock made it so hard to fully escape this world, to truly disconnect. It was impossible to shake him from his head or his heart.

"I'm sorry I hit you." He said apropos of nothing sometime later.

"You already apologized for that, John. I already forgave you, long ago."

"You looked scared." He had his head propped up on a closed fist, it was a sloppy position and some of his hand muffled his words. "You never fought back. Jesus, Sherlock you should have hit me back."

"You want to make it up to me?"

John nodded.

"Go into treatment."

For a split second, he actually considered it.

Those tears he thought he'd battled back in the kitchen were starting to rally.

"I just...I don't care anymore, Sherlock. I wake up, I got to bed, I wake up the next day and it all just bleeds one to another to another. It's not just depression, it's not just being sad. I don't have any interest in my life anymore. I don't care." He said and his voice cracked.

Sherlock was sitting in a chair across from him, similar to their old Baker Street setup. He leaned forward now and grabbed one of John's hands.

"I'll care for the both of us. Until you come back to yourself again."

Pins and needles. Red Forest.

He pulled his hand away slowly, regretfully.

"You should head back home, Sherlock."

"Alright." His friend agreed after a long and regretful pause. "But your gun, John. Give it to me."

"Molly took the bullets. You can ask her. It's just a conversation piece now."

"Just the same." He said and with irritation, John placed it in his hand. "Thank you."

"Really," he began and the word was punctuated by a sniffle. "You need to go."

And he did, but not before hugging him and not before lingering in the doorway and not before telling John that he loved him.

Sherlock promised to call him tomorrow.

John promised to answer.

Chapter Text

Ten Months On

What does it mean to put your affairs in order? John wondered.

People always said it but no one ever explained what it meant.

In the end, he wound up printing off a list from the internet which was as funny as it was pathetic. He and Mary had updated their wills prior to Rosie's birth. A few amendments and that was prepared.

What little money remained, of course, went to his daughter. He left the house to Sherlock, trusting him to see it would be sold and whatever funds could be gotten also left to Rosie and Harry for her care. He willed most of his possessions to Sherlock and few to his daughter. She wouldn't grow up knowing him so he saw little reason to leave her impractical junk. No need for sentimentality. No need to feign love for the man who left her.

He put down his advance directive notices ensuring that no extraordinary measures be taken to save his life. He gave power of attorney to Sherlock as well, knowing that he wouldn't allow sentiment, no matter how strong to get in the way of doing what John asked. As for a memorial service, he truly didn't care, but he'd rather people not put themselves out or kick up a fuss.

In the end, he just didn't want to be a bother.

He printed up a note and taped it to his front door.

Call 999 and wait for the police if you must enter.

I'd rather you not enter at all. There's nothing you need to see.

After they've removed my body call this number:

He'd then added a number for a local crime scene cleaner. The gun, the new gun that he'd gotten from a pawn shop, would cause a mess, there was no way to avoid that. He purchased tarps to help make things easier but...it was at that point that he'd started to realize it might be hard to sell a house with even a hint or memory of blood splatters no matter how well cleaned.

In the end, he'd stepped outside and rather than write a new note he'd just scratched out the second part and written;

After they've removed my body call this number

Never mind about the number. I didn't use the gun.

He'd gathered together all the pills in the house, old pills from old prescriptions for depression, for pain, for insomnia. He'd filled the prescriptions but never taken any of them. He wondered why then had he kept them?

Perhaps this was the way things were supposed to be.

Based on dosage strength, his current weight and assumed alcohol consumption he figured out what he believed would be the correct amount to do the deed.

His last act would be to write a letter to Sherlock but he still didn't know what to say. He decided to just sit in his chair with a pad and paper and wait for his call.

He felt a wave of relief, knowing it would be over soon. Knowing that he could finally close the book on the uneventful life that was John Watson.

He'd once, a long time ago, mused that nothing ever happened to him. Then something did. Then everything did. And all this destruction was the result.

He'd kept his drinking slow and steady this evening. The pills then the final push of booze but only after the call. Not before. He didn't want to be too drunk or too out of it to say goodbye or pen his real farewell.

Sherlock called not long after 1:30 AM.

"Hello?"

"Hello, John. How are you passing the evening."

"Very well, as a matter of fact. And yourself."

There was only the slightest of pauses.

"I'm well also. How was your day?"

"Surprisingly busy. Yours?"

"A bit dull, actually. Did some last minute shopping which I loathe. Though I would like to give you your gift in person. I'm off to Mummy and Daddy's tomorrow. You're, as always, welcome. I'd like you to come..."

"I'll be busy." He answered. Sherlock didn't often take the time to visit his parents. John wondered what the occasion was. Maybe he just needed to recharge and feel safe. That thought of course brought with it waves of guilt. 

"I asked several times if I might come over this evening or if you'd like to join me at Baker Street, like the good old days. Both offer still stand. I realize it may sound a bit sentimental for me but I...I can't bear the thought of you being alone tonight."

John closed his eyes trying not to let the emotion of Sherlock's words seep in.

"No pending work to do bringing the criminal element to task?" He said pushing ahead.

After a deep sigh, his friend replied.

"There seems to be a shortage of cases nowadays."

"Maybe you've rid London of crime." He said with a fond smile in his voice.

"Couldn't have done it without you."

"Do you think you'll always do this? Will you always be Sherlock Holmes with the coat and the cheekbones and the mystery? I hope so."

"I don't ever see retirement in my future if that's what you mean. This keeps me sharp and I expect it will continue to do so well into my dotage."

"You do love it, don't you?"

"Who said I loved it?" He snapped and John was surprised by the venom.

"You said that, all the time. I thought it was your passion."

"Passion isn't love. Even I know that. What good does passion ever do anyone? Give me that man that is not passion's slave..."

John emptied the rest of the wine bottle he'd been nursing into his glass.

"That's a quote. I know that, what's that from? Finish it...how...how does it end?"

John squinted and then shut his eyes tightly after a moment. A peculiar sound had arisen and he couldn't place where it was coming from. He stuck a finger in his ear, moving it around a bit. There was a vague distant noise of ringing, like someone blowing a whistle a few houses down. Like a train or something...maybe. 

"It doesn't matter."

"I..." he started to talk but seemed unable to force the words out. He looked at the bottle accusingly. He was trying to recall if he'd had more than he remembered. Bottles did tend to get lost, overlooked. This was all wrong. He was ruining it. If he passed out now then he couldn't do it tonight. If he passed out for too long the postman was bound to see the note on the door, call the police and he'd be back in the hospital again. It was unlikely that any slick talk would get him out this time.

"I..." he tried again but the ringing was louder, assaulting both ears and he couldn't make it stop. And Christ, but who was shining that light in his eyes? Was someone inside? Had someone broken their way in?

"Sherlock, stop fucking shouting!" He finally managed out with some effort because he only now realized his friend had been yelling his name over and over for probably a good 20 seconds.

"John, how much did you have to drink today?"

"Fuck, do you hear that? That clanging?!"

"How much to drink, John? How much?"

"Are you my Mycroft? Should I leave you a note?"

"What did you say?" There was a strange sort of horror in Sherlock's voice that John couldn't understand. But as he noticed the tremor in his hand his interest was diverted.

"I said, are you my Mycroft, should I leave you a list?"

"You said note. John? John!"

But he'd already dropped the phone, it became too difficult for him to hold as the convulsions started. He pitched forward from his chair landing on the floor, his body tight, alternating only between contracting and contracting harder. His legs shot out knocking into the table sending the empty wine bottle and the glass crashing to the floor. The ringing in his ears, now accompanied by a pain in his head was unbearable and he might have whimpered if he could but his throat was tight and dry.

There were no visions of his life flashing before his eyes. It was too fast. Too immediate. Too final.

The world grayed, then pinpointed and just before it blackened for what he assumed was for good, he did have a final thought.

It had been ten months since Mary died. It was Christmas. December.

The ringing. The noise.

Maybe they were jingle bells?

Chapter Text

Day 00

He awakened to the sound of Sherlock's voice, angry and hushed.

"No, you will do this Mycroft and you will do it today."

"Sherlock, as I am forced to remind you repeatedly, neither I nor the British government is your personal valet."

"No, but I believe both you and the British government owe me multiple favours. And if you choose not to believe that then at the very least, you owe him. He has kept me alive as you requested of him on your first meeting. He has looked after me and ensured my safety and we have both ensured the safety of London and the realm. Please, Mycroft..."

John frowned. Even in his groggy state, he realized he had never heard Sherlock take such a conciliatory tone with his brother.

"Please, as I said to you once, he is family, just as much as you are."

Silence followed.

"I'll make some calls." Mycroft stated and John heard the sound of his footsteps as they retreated.

John tried to move his arm and winced before he'd raised it half an inch, the IV needle stabbing from inside. He felt awful, his entire body ached, his head throbbed, his throat was sore, the lights were too bright and he had the most awful sour taste in his mouth. He could go on and on and on but at that moment Sherlock, wearing a sling on his right shoulder, entered the room and froze in his tracks his eyes going wide. Seeming to regain his bearings he rushed towards the bed and smiled.

"You're awake." He said sitting delicately on the edge of the mattress. "Hello, John." 

He tried to smile in return but couldn't quite do it. The realization was suddenly hitting him that he was still here. He'd failed in the most absurd of ways.

"I had a seizure." He said, his voice craggy. He tried to raise an arm, the one not attached to the IV to touch his throat but something stopped him.

"Yes, two seizures, actually. One whilst we were on the phone. Another on the ambulance ride. Don't struggle. You're strapped down." Sherlock said quietly.

"Why?" he asked more embarrassed than offended.

"Because you tried to kill yourself, John." As he spoke his Adam's apple bobbed in his throat and John felt a horrible pang of regret. "They weren't sure how many pills you took so they pumped your stomach on arrival." His friend looked awful, worse than when he'd last seen him. His hair was dirty, his face, that which wasn't covered by a full beard, was mottled, his eyes were red and accentuated by the circles and bags beneath them.

"Did you find me?" He asked ashamed, unable to look him in the eye.

He nodded.

"You saw the note I left?"

He nodded again.

"You broke down the door with your shoulder. That's why the sling."

"Excellent deductive skills." He said his face blank but haunted. "Was our phone call your goodbye?"

"No." He said forcefully. "I was going to write you a note after we hung up. A note explaining everything and apologizing for everything and begging you to go on and have a good life. One full of passion and happiness."

"And then you were going to do the Dutch. How thoughtful," Sherlock said shortly and John watched as his anger flared. "Mrs. Hudson and several others are waiting outside to see you. They'll be pleased that you're awake."

"Wait, Sherlock, I don't want to see them yet. I'm not finished talking to you, please." He said raising his head off the pillow and inclining it towards his friend. He hoped they were still friends. He tried to reach for him with his limited mobility but Sherlock made no effort to bridge the distance.

"I believe you meant to say all you wanted to say last when we last spoke. You meant for all us of to go about our day today not wondering where you were because you have strategically removed yourself from all of our lives. You meant for me to call this evening and get no reply. To call again and still get no answer. Then to rush over, see that ghastly note, break your door down and find your corpse, rigor mortis already well set in, some 20+ hours in, I imagine. That was your intention, John!"

He spat the words and the doctor recoiled as much as he could on the bed. He felt helpless, small, frightened, and so, so stupid. He couldn't deny any of Sherlock's words and he was entitled to his anger. He was entitled to his wrath.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry." He said brokenly.

"You're sorry you were unsuccessful in your attempt to end your life. You're sorry you're still here. You're sorry you now have to face the consequences of your actions. You're sorry you have to bear witness to the pain you've caused m- ...us all. Or would you like to tell me my deductions about you are wrong?"

There was nothing in his words John could deny. And so he didn't.

"Yes, well that would have been a first."  Sherlock stood there, chest rising and falling rapidly before he exhaled harshly through his nose. "Well, I'll be off."

"You're leaving?" John asked incredulously.

"As I said, you wanted a farewell between us. Perhaps you'll have it." Sherlock took several steps back, eyes focused on John. "Goodbye, John. Swift recovery. I'm sure you'll be back on your feet diving to the bottom of a bottle in no time flat."

With that, he left the room.

John lay there in muted silence too stunned to do or say anything.

He closed his eyes.

The tears came later.

Chapter Text

Day 03

As it turned out he had been unconscious for well over 48 hours and in that time he'd gone through the worst of the DT's. Thank God for small miracles.

He had several visitors over the days that followed his return to lucidity. Harry and Clara had called and asked if he'd wanted to see Rosie but he immediately said no. Other than that he hadn't said much. Mostly he just offered apologies. 

He'd spoken to doctors and psychiatrists and had test upon test both psychological and physical. Eventually, the straps had come off and again he'd presented himself as a normal, semi-functioning man. Or at least he'd tried. He admitted to severe depression. He admitted that he was passively suicidal but that it wasn't serious stressing he hadn't actually taken the pills. Though, that argument was lessened by the note he'd left on the door. He claimed this was a wake-up call and he intended to seek out treatment and he was grateful to still be here. Of course it was a lie but in the end, they couldn't keep him. He was no longer a danger to himself. He was sober-ish. He was free to go. He was alive.

Now he was left to contemplate what exactly "alive" meant. Did it mean anything more than it had before? His situation hadn't changed. Except, the seizures had frightened him, truly frightened him which was silly when you considered how badly he'd wanted to die. Death sure. Convulsions, well, now hold on just a second.

They'd given him his phone and he'd immediately gone to the Daily Mail to have his worst fears confirmed.

Sherlock Sidekick Nearly Kicks Bucket

Pictures of him. Pictures of Sherlock. His busted down front door. The note, they had a picture of the note.

Jesus...no.

They were harassing his friends, his ex-co-workers and worst of all, Sherlock.

Picture after picture in paper after paper of him avoiding the press, looking tired, looking angry and sleepless and sad and just a little ill.

John had tried to plan for every eventuality but he'd been stupid enough to miss this one. What this would do to Sherlock's career.

As he sat on the edge of the hospital bed he watched the blood thicken and dry on his arm from where the nurse had removed his IV.

He was so lost in thought he didn't hear the man approach.

A sharp rap on the open hospital door made him jerk his head up.

There stood Mycroft looking ever so Mycroft.

The elder Holmes carried himself with a similar air of confidence as his younger counterpart, thought while Sherlock's confidence seemed cultivated, Mycroft's was inborn. He moved through the world as one largely untouched by the emotional trappings of mere mortals. His only vulnerability was Sherlock. Just beneath the surface of their petulant bickering was the obvious truth that a good deal of Mycroft's machinations, no matter how hamfisted were to protect his little brother. Which also meant that if he was here now, it was likely in some way, at Sherlock's request. Still, seeing him in this context, this normal setting was oddly surreal.

"Doctor Watson, might I have a moment of your time?" Mycroft asked the question but like everything he said beneath the smooth tone, there was a command and not a request.

"Is Sherlock with you?"

"No, I told my brother I was coming and he declined to accompany me." He said pulling up a chair.

"Oh." John said in a small voice. Sherlock's absence was cavernous; there was no way around it or through it. Instead, he was sat in the middle of it, unsure and barely caring which way to go.

"I'm here to offer you an opportunity, Doctor Watson and as it turns out a very hard wrangled opportunity at that. You have waiting for you now a private room at the best and most exclusive treatment facility in the Western Hemisphere. I attempted to get Sherlock to go to The Location several times in the past but to no avail. So, you'll have to tell him all about it."

"Exclusive sounds expensive. I couldn't afford a place like that even if I wanted to go. Which I don't." He said.

"Let's just say it's been taken care of out of petty cash. Everything, in fact, has been taken care of including all pertinent information, your medical history, etc. which has already been shipped to The Location."

"You keep calling it "the location". Why won't you name it? I'm a doctor I've likely heard of it."

"No, I doubt you have, because if you did you would know it is simply called The Location. I am going to admit something to you, Doctor Watson. My brother's affection for you has at turns baffled me and...admittedly made me jealous. When he cares he cares fiercely, recklessly. In that way he hasn't changed much since he was a small boy." John noted the fleeting look of reminiscence and regret on Mycroft's face before he continued. "So very careless with his heart."

He cleared his throat before continuing.

"In any case, he is, at the moment, both wounded and loyal. He asked me to secure your residence at The Location and it is in all sincerity that I suggest you take it."

"Why do you care?"

"I don't. I only care for my brother. And I have seen him embark on a dizzying spiral downwards since your own decline began. In some ways, I find it more frightening than his usual addiction. That asserts itself in bursts, it is chaotic but in its own way controlled and can be predicted. Though it can rage it can also be doused and subdued until the next episode. This is entirely self-contained, it is a slow burning fire with no release, no conclusion, no relief and I fear in the end it may kill him."

John swallowed, it was everything he'd feared and thinking back to what Molly had said, how Sherlock had looked in the kitchen and how he'd looked days ago, thin, pale, eyes rimmed red, it made perfect sense.

"We have never been what you might call friends, John. But I have respected you, your limited talents and your place in Sherlock's life. You had value to him and so you had value to me. When you lost your wife and your grip, your value to my brother held steady but for me it began to depreciate. It now sits at zero. I do not care if you choose to take your life. I do care if you choose to take my brother with you. This is your opportunity to right what you have wronged."

Mycroft leaned forward, narrowing his eyes as he spoke.

"He called me from the ambulance in near hysterics as they were bringing you in. He was demanding that I wake the best doctors available and summon them here. And I did. He further demanded that I procure for you lodgings at The Location which boasts a 98% success rate. And again, I did. Favours are not unlimited, nor is my ability to redeem them. It would be the height of foolishness and hubris for you to decline this offer. Your life is not your own. Keep your hand off it. It is rather a series of lessons, with the greatest for the last. Only the dullest of men rush toward that end when it is already moving toward us all so expeditiously. I do not believe you to be a dull man, Doctor Watson."

Mycroft gripped the handle of his umbrella and John saw conflicting emotions play out on his face. He seemed...to perhaps be regretting some of the harshness of moments before.

"I avoid the entanglements of which my brother has grown so fond. The web of human interaction. Not simply because I cannot bear the majority of people infesting this planet but because of how it all ends. You, your wife, Moriarty, Eurus, Sherlock. What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? What is the point? And why on earth would anyone become more ensnared in it than need be?" 

"For once, Mycroft, you and I are in agreement," John said his voice gravelly, weary and mostly unused. "Why would anyone become more ensnared?"

Mycroft observed him briefly then clearly feeling he'd been far too candid he quickly rose from his seated position and handed John a card with a number on it. No name, no other information. Just a number. "Soldiers today." He concluded and with that, the elder Holmes swiftly left the hospital room.

“What is the meaning of it, Watson?” said Holmes solemnly as he laid down the paper. “What object is served by this circle of misery and violence and fear? It must tend to some end, or else our universe is ruled by chance, which is unthinkable. But what end? There is the great standing perennial problem to which human reason is as far from an answer as ever.”

-"The Adventure of the Cardboard Box"

Chapter Text

Day 04

John stood outside of a McDonald's across the street from the hospital. They'd insisted on wheeling him out in that damned chair and as soon as the nurse had let him be he darted away.

He was staring at his phone and had been for the past 10 or so minutes. He hovered between calling the number on the card Mycroft gave him and calling Sherlock.

He honestly wasn't sure the detective would answer and he thought it might break his heart to find out for certain.

He'd heard two competing narratives in his life when in came to addiction, mostly about his sister.

The first, the oldest, the one most tried and true, let them hit rock bottom and realize they need help.

The second one, newer, but compelling; create a false bottom and get the person into treatment whether they admit they have a problem or not.

He supposed he should feel he was at rock bottom. But he didn't. He supposed he should feel that now was the time to get help. But he didn't. He supposed he should regret what he had tried to do, wanted to do, but again, he didn't. He only regretted what it had done to Sherlock.

Which brought him to the idea of a false bottom.

Maybe...he just had to go. Maybe he didn't have to mean it. He didn't have a plan beyond that, but he needed, at the very least, to distance them both. It was the least he could do.

He'd made a few friends at the papers over the years and he called a contact he was sure would answer.

"Yeah, it's John Watson. Yeah, I know. I'm infamous these days. Look, can I dictate something to you?"

Once done that left two options then.

He decided on the hardest one first and phoned Baker Street.

"Hello?" The voice that wasn't Sherlock said.

"Hi...um..Mrs. Hudson?"

"John! Oh, John it's so good to hear from you. I was going to come to hospital to see you today, are you out?"

"Yeah, yeah they let me go."

"John, I was so worried, you must promise to never, ever do something like that again. I know I'm not your mother but if I had lost you..."

She then went off into a wave of tears and unintelligible speech and he felt the guilt swell in him again.

"Mrs. Hudson...Mrs. Hudson...I'm sorry, I really, am sorry. I didn't..um, look is, Sherlock there?"

She sniffled and he could still hear her breath hitching but there was the subtlest of pauses.

"No, dear, he's not here."

That, of course, meant he was there. Sitting at their, his, mess of a kitchen table. Or sitting in his chair opposite from what once was John's chair. If he hadn't moved it, thrown it out with the trash.

"No, no of course not." He sighed. He made a decision. After all, what was the worst that could happen? It's not like he couldn't check himself out. "I hate to ask you this but, I think I left some clothes there in my old room. Would you mind packing a bag for me. I'm...I think I'm off to get some help."

"He told me to tell you if you called that it's all settled."

He frowned.

"Who told you?"

"Mycroft. He was here and he told me that if you called to say everything was taken care of even clothes. I didn't know what he meant. Oh, John, are you really getting treatment?"

"Seems so." He said.

"I'm so proud of you."

"Well...let's see if I can hack it first, eh?"

"You can! I know you can."

"All right, I should get going, I suppose."

"I understand, dear. Nothing but the best of luck. You're a very good boy."

"Thank you. I'm sorry for scaring you. And...if...when you see Sherlock tell him...tell him thank you."

"I will, John. All my love."

"Love you too."

Hanging up with Mrs. Hudson he immediately pulled up Google Maps on his phone and typed in "off license". There was one not more than a block away. He walked there and bought two smallish bottles of Jack Daniels, slipped into an alleyway just behind the shop and took several, long satisfying gulps.

With a shudder of pleasure, he wiped his mouth, inhaled, pulled out the card and dialed the number before he could change his mind.

He heard the sound of someone pick up the line almost instantly.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson. A car will be there presently."

And then the line went dead.

Chapter Text

FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

To anyone it may concern I would like to announce that I am entering treatment for alcohol dependency coupled with depression.

Since the death of my wife, I have had difficulty coping and this past Friday morning, Christmas Day, I sought out an extreme solution. Thankfully, I was unsuccessful.

I would like to convey my gratitude to all those who have expressed concern for my health and well-being.

I must now ask for privacy for myself, my friends and my family during this difficult time.

I would also make it clear that I am no longer partnered with Sherlock Holmes and haven't been since the start of January 2015. I would hate for my behavior to cast a shadow on his work and talents. His value to London, to Britain and the world, cannot be overstated. 

To prevent any further unintentional damage to his good name I wish to publicly disassociate myself from Sherlock Holmes.

Chapter Text

Day 05

He had been wrong, as it turned out, with regard to the DT's. The cramps, headaches, nausea and vomiting he suffered after just a half hour in the back of the limo made him think he had been coasting on adrenaline. More than once he'd had to request that they pull over to a rest stop or worse just on the roadside so he could do an undignified evacuation from one end or the other. Just another layer to the disaster that had become his life. The remaining Jack Daniels helped a bit and though he sipped at it clandestinely he knew A) the driver was aware and B) didn't seem to care.

Though he hadn't provided the voice on the phone with an address of any sort soon after the call disconnected a limo pulled up alongside him. The driver got out, opened the back door and smiled at him as he dithered about getting in.

"This is, um...setup by Mycroft?"

"Yes, sir."

"This is going to take me to The Facility?"

"The Location, yes, Doctor Watson. If you'll just get inside, sir, we can be on our way."

Against his better instincts, he did just that.

Since The Location was a mystery he wasn't sure how they'd arrived. He hadn't been too surprised when the limo had arrived at an airport. He slept on the plane ride, exhaustion hitting him like a hammer. A respectful tap on his shoulder what felt like five minutes after he closed his eyes let him know they'd arrived.

He disembarked and it was back into another vehicle, this time an SUV and he promptly went back to sleep again. When he did finally arrive he was surprised to see snow, surprised to see mountains and surprised to see that it was just about sunrise.

The driver, a different one, came to his door and opened it. The chill of the air struck his face and he squinted as he stepped out. He was stiff and sore and an attempt to stretch only brought on a muscle spasm in his back so bad he wished he hadn't tried.

Near the door of what looked like an enormous resort was a woman.

"Hello, John." She said striding towards him and greeting him with a firm handshake.

"Hi." 

"My name is Nora. Welcome to The Location. I'm sure you must be exhausted from your trip. We just have a few questions and formalities and then we'll see you to your room. I'm sure you're eager to get to bed."

He nodded and as she started walking fell into step at her side his feet crunching in the snow.

"We're very happy to have you here." She said with a practiced smile.

"I can't say I'm overjoyed to be here." He looked around. "Are we in Switzerland? Somewhere near Zurich, maybe?"

She smiled again but offered no reply.

"The mountain range..." He said gesturing essentially all around them.

Still, she didn't reply and instead held the front door open for him to enter.

"You don't happen to have a mysterious sister named Anthea, do you?" He joked as he stepped inside.

The facility looked more like a chalet than a place for drunks and druggies to get treatment. Outside the lights shined brightly into the rosy darkness, reflecting off the snow. Inside was reminiscent of a ski lodge, spacious, clean and impersonal.

This place was expensive. Posh, secluded and expensive. The sort of place Her Majesty might come if the royal We were suffering from a nasty addiction. He immediately felt out of place.

"Just in here, John." She said motioning to an open door.

He wanted to tell her "Doctor Watson". He wanted to cling to his title because it felt like all he had left. He wanted to hold it out in front of him like a shield. God, but did that sound pathetic. He kept his mouth shut.

He entered the room seeing a desk, two chairs and a very large man in the corner. His hackles were immediately raised.

"It's alright, John, this is Frank and he's just going to give you a pat down, inspect your pockets, that sort of thing. It's standard procedure. If your bags hadn't already been shipped we'd have done that too. But it's all taken care of. If you'll just step towards Frank.

John cleared his throat and did as was asked of him. Frank wasn't the gentlest sort but at least it was over quickly. Nothing in his pockets but some gum, a tissue, and his hospital bracelet. Without comment, Frank removed the two, now empty, Jack Daniels bottles from his pocket. John silently cursed himself for not leaving them in the limo or asking the driver to dispose of them but it was done now.

That done Frank nodded to Nora, exited and John took a seat.

"I understand that can feel a bit intrusive." She said as she started to shuffle through paperwork.

"Well, at least he warmed his hands first." He said trying for a joke and not sure if he succeeded. His head was starting to ache again and that sour taste in his mouth was returning.

"Now, we're a residential inpatient treatment facility specializing in substance abuse, PTSD, depression, mental illness, and trauma. This program is 90 days and you are expected to remain in the facility on the grounds for the duration. Is all that clear to you?"

'Yes, yes it's clear."

90 days. Jesus. Three fucking months in this place. he was already starting to feel antsy and despondent."

"Good. I'll have some papers for you to sign at the end. But first, I just need some basic information. Employer name?"

"Rossmore Clinic. Or rather, that is my previous employer."

"Job Title?"

"GP."

"Emergency contact?"

He paused...he wasn't sure how to answer that question. Or rather, he wasn't sure if the answer remained the same as it had been.

"Can we come back to that one?"

"Of course." That practiced smile again that revealed absolutely nothing. "Is this your first treatment program?"

He nodded.

"I'm sorry to be so rigid, John, but I'll need a yes or no. A bit like court."

"Yes, yes it is." he said and cleared his throat.

"What is your longest period of sobriety?"

An answer immediately sprung to his lips and he was horrified at the truth of it.

"Um..I...well, since I started drinking regularly, I suppose a few hours. I mean, prior to this year, alcohol was never a problem for me. I'm sure that everyone who comes in here probably says some variation of that."

She nodded confirming that was indeed true.

"What helped you to remain sober?"

"I was generally sleeping at the time." He replied.

"Does your family have a history of addiction?"

He bristled. The answer was so predictable, so typical he felt embarrassed by it but he answered anyway.

"My sister is a recovering alcoholic and our father was a raging drunk."

"Do you have any current legal problems?"

"None that I know of."

"Are you on any sort of pain medication or are you in a pain management program?"

"No, I was prescribed pain medication because of an injury to my shoulder I suffered in Afghanistan but I never took them."

"And what were they?"

"Oxycodone and Hydrocodone. But, as I said I didn't take them." He watched as she typed on her computer not looking up at him. "You're typing an awful lot just to say I never took them."

"Are you on any other medications?"

"No, I am not on any other medications. I'm not on any medications at all. Are you listening?" He snapped. He was already growing tired of this line of questioning. They'd promised him a bed and if he couldn't get a drink then he at least wanted to retreat under the covers.

"Have you experienced any of the following while drinking or when you attempted to stop drinking? Falls?"

"No."

"Blackouts?"

"I...no. No, I don't believe so." He paused and frowned. "I guess. I'm not sure."

"Hot/Cold sweats?"

"Yes."

"Hallucinations?"

He didn't really consider "Mary" a hallucination and the truth was she was there before he really started drinking. But there were other instances. Times when he was sure Sherlock or someone else had been by. Times when he was sure he heard someone knocking at his door, peeking in through the windows but when he checked no one was there. But it felt extreme to call them hallucinations. Crazy people had hallucinations.

"I've never seen bugs crawling under my skin if that's what you mean."

She looked up from her computer and eyed him and for a moment the veneer dropped.

"John, you are a medical professional. I think you know precisely what I mean. Hallucinations?"

"Yes." He answered feeling small and chastised.

"Nausea and vomiting?"

"Yes."

"Seizures?"

"I had two seizures four days ago."

"Was this due to withdrawal symptoms brought on by an attempt to stop drinking?"

"No...no it was an alcohol consumption induced seizure." He said finally feeling the shame of those words wash over him.

"We'll make sure you're monitored by a doctor just as standard procedure. Are you currently under the care of a psychologist, psychiatrist, therapist or counselor?"

"No."

"Have you ever thought about, planned or attempted suicide?"

"Yes to the first two. I had intended to kill myself four days ago. But the seizure put a spanner in the works." He rubbed his forehead, the headache was bad now. He closed his eyes to stop the sudden swaying motion of the room but it didn't work. Sweat started to bead on his skin and his mouth felt like it was coated in paste.

"I'm sorry...I think I'm going to..." He couldn't finish his words and instead reached for her waste bin and retched into it violently. His stomach clenched and he dry heaved again. He hadn't eaten anything and the alcohol had long since soaked into his system. It was mostly thick, repugnant bile and he heaved once more before he felt slightly confident in lifting his head from the garbage. Tears were streaming down his face and that vile flavor was in his mouth and nose.

"I'm so sorry." He said again but when his red and bleary eyes met hers she looked completely unfazed and though this happened every day. Perhaps it did.

"Seems to me as though that was a well-timed seizure."

He shrugged his shoulders in no mood to agree.

"If you say so."

The door to her office opened and Frank wordlessly stepped in, grabbed the waste bin from his hands and exited.

"We hope by the end of your stay here, John, that you'll agree with us. Now, are you currently suicidal?"

"I ask this, in all sincerity," He began as he reached for the tissue box on her desk then paused to silently ask for permission. He had a feeling this was going to be his life for awhile, asking Mother May I? Raising his hand like a child in school. She nodded and he took one and blew his nose. "What does that mean?"

"It means, do you wish you'd succeeded? If given the means and opportunity would you try again to end your life?"

"Yes." He said after a long pause.

"And why is that?"

"Because I have nothing to live for. Because I don't want to be here anymore."

"Why are you seeking treatment today?"

"I honestly don't know. I don't expect this to help me, I don't even know if I want it to help me. But it may help my best friend...my emergency contact...we used to be best friends, at least."

"And who is your emergency contact? And if necessary, may we contact them."

"Sherlock Holmes. And no, please don't."

Chapter Text

Author's Note: Just a bit of a warning, in this chapter I reference a very controversial 1932 pre-code horror film by Tod Browning called "Freaks". As Wikipedia states "the eponymous characters were played by people who worked as carnival sideshow performers and had real deformities." "Freaks" was a box office bomb which ruined Browning's career but in the past 85 years, it's become an odd classic. I wanted to stress John's horror for a moment and this came to mind. But, without reference, it may go over some readers heads. Now, you have the choice not to watch the original film clip. If, after reading this or the Wikipedia description you decide not to watch it, that's totally cool. It is not integral to the plot.  

I'm giving you fair warning as some people can find it disturbing and as I really don't want complaints afterward about no trigger warnings.

If you'd like to watch it, click here. If you do watch, you'll likely notice quite a few similarities between "Freaks" and the characters in American Horror Story: Freak Show.

However, as this is a cult classic it has been parodied multiple times and you can see a non-disturbing supercut of many of those parodies here.

Ok, consider yourself sufficiently warned.

Day 07

After he'd left Nora's office he'd been escorted to his room which he was too tired to even give a once over. As he was getting undressed someone knocked on the door and with irritation he invited them in.

As it turned out it was one of the staff doctors there to give him a look in. He took his blood pressure, performed a brief physical and drew some blood. Before he'd even left John was lying on the bed arm stretched over his face to block out the sun.

"John, the room does have blackout curtains." 

John had removed his arm to look at him barely understanding what his words meant. The doctor approached and reached for a remote on the nightstand. "See, you just tap this button and..." 

The doctor pressed the button and a slight whirring accompanied the movement of the curtains and soon the room was plunged into blackness. John sighed with relief, the tightness of his headache already loosening. 

"Thank you." He said softly.

"My pleasure. Most new patients sleep for the majority of their first day. Someone will bring in food a bit later. Your private bath is just there." He said and having taken out a small flashlight he used it as a pointer in the darkness. "Your clothes are in the cupboard there and the bureau there. And if you need anything there's a call button just there. Pleasant dreams, John."

That was basically the last thing he remembered. A full 24 hours later he was awakened by someone lightly touching his shoulder. The someone introduced themselves and for the life of him, he couldn't remember her name a few seconds after. He was politely but forcefully urged out of bed and given a polite but forceful tour. He feigned interest as best he could but he was still nauseous and exhausted. 

He'd never visited Harry in rehab. They had been long estranged by the time she'd checked herself in some place. He had seen places on TV but they looked nothing like this. In the end, he'd been dropped off in a meeting already in session. He took a seat in a metal folding chair and quietly observed. 

He looked around his group and was surprised to see a few faces he recognized, some from the crap telly he'd watched and others quite a bit higher up in the celebrity echelon. Again he felt out of place. He didn't belong here and not because his addiction was so unique. But because these people were bloody stars; some of them a bit B or C list but there were a few A's as well. This was absolutely barmy. He didn't belong with people whose publicists reported to the news they were being treated for exhaustion. He was ordinary and wasn't this experience supposed to at least put him with his peers. But why the fuck was he freaking out about this? He didn't care about their good opinion or what they thought of him? And still, if it was meant to be a support group how could he expect support from and to trust people who so clearly weren't similar to him at all? There were also a handful of faces he'd never seen before, definitely not celebrities, quietly sitting, perhaps trying to stay anonymous. He thought for a minute perhaps they were like him but then he looked at their shoes, easily calculated the price and decided they weren't. His mind and his anxiety felt all over the place and he swallowed hard, tugging at the collar of his shirt which suddenly felt too tight.

"Alright, before we get continue we have a new member. My name is Reggie, I'm the group leader. Would you like to introduce yourself?"

"No, but I will," he said shortly. "Um, hello, my name is John."

"And?" Reggie prompted. "We believe in honesty here, John and that means you need to admit your problem."

He cleared his throat and looked around at them all staring at him, some dumbly, some keenly.

"I'm John and I'm...I'm an alcoholic." It sounded strange to say it out loud. Was this the first time he had? It felt like someone else's words and not his. Alcoholic? Alcoholic.

"Holy shit, it is you." A skinny young man said leaning forward, cigarette in hand. "John-Fucking-Watson. I've seen you in the papers."

"Carl, we don't use last names." Reggie corrected him.

"Yeah, me too. With that shaggable looking tall bloke, Sherlock Holmes." A woman with an enormous amount of hair extensions said. She was also smoking. It seemed like everyone there was smoking except him. "Not that you're not shaggable. Hi, I'm Jenny, big fan of meth and a bit of a sex addict. Nice to meet you."

"You tried to off yourself. Saw it on the news. Not so easy is it?" Another man said.

"I tried reading your blog. It's better than his blog but still a bit boring. I was following your mate on twitter for awhile but he mostly just likes slagging people off. He stopped tweeting a few months back so I unfollowed him." Yet another woman said. This one was a bit older than the first and he recalled seeing a trailer for a movie she had coming out next month. "Do you have an Instagram. I follow back."

It didn't stop there and he found his gaze ping-ponging back and forth as person after person related seeing him on the news, in the papers on the internet. The group leader tried to regain control but it wasn't difficult to tell that authority was fairly lax.

"Glad you're here, mate. I'm tired of stories of people falling out of their limos or forgetting to put their knickers on and showing up at Cannes with fresh powder under their noses."

"That was one time!" The actress with the upcoming movie shouted. "You're a fucking cock, Rob."

"I'm just saying, finally we've got an interesting celebrity instead all us boring lot."

Celebrity? Celebrity, him?

John thought back to the old Tod Browning horror film from the 30's, and the chant the characters break into "We accept her! We accept her! Gooble-Gobble-Gooble-Gobble we accept her! One of us! One of us!"- started playing in his mind.

He felt like screaming.

One of us! One of us! One of us! One of us!

Celebrity.

That was when it hit him, much to his horror...they were right. For better or worse they were right.

He had been wrong. He wasn't any better or any different.

He was exactly where he belonged.

Chapter Text

Day 08

His second night was spent much like his first; in the silence of room nicer than any hotel he'd ever stayed in.

He'd been in firefights, been wounded in battle, had explosives strapped to him, almost been burned alive and on and on and on and on. And still, right now, in the apparent safety of this place he was terrified.

There was a certain sensory deprivation to this experience. No outside influence. No phone. No newspapers. Nothing to distract and he knew that was, of course, the point. This was solitary confinement in the nicest of confines. He was meant to think these thoughts, let his mind wander down these dark paths.

At least he had the privacy to cry. Which he did. He'd never been much a crier. He'd gotten smacked around for it as a kid and one certainly didn't cry in the army. You also didn't cry around Sherlock Holmes. Well, not the Sherlock Holmes that he initially met. He wouldn't not credit his rather amazing growth when it came to emotion. But still, John had kept them to a minimum until it was as if they'd dried up.

He supposed, when he thought about it, the tears had returned with the "death" of his mate. Before he lost Mary, he couldn't recall a time when he had wept that hard or that long.

The nightmares that plagued his sleep for those long two years were a special kind of horror. Picking up a ringing phone and just hearing "Goodbye, John. Goodbye, John. Goodbye, John." Over and over and over again. Some nights it's was just the thud. The rough, wet, flat smack of a body connecting with cement.

Then those horrors broke free from his dreams. He'd start to sweat and feel ill if he saw anyone standing on a roof or washing windows. He'd once walked past some men unloading heavy bags of cement from the back of a lorry on a rainy day. Smack-smack-smack the bags hit the wet ground. He'd had to break away from Mary's hand and duck into an alley to vomit.

So close to breaking down there, he was so, so close. But he'd held it in and held it together.

Mary was nothing but sympathetic but he'd still been embarrassed. He used to be awakened by memories of the war, shots fired, shouting, running, chaos, injury. He'd shoot up in bed, heart racing both panicked and from and desperate to return to the action.

Then it became memories of Sherlock that woke him up. The only wish was to reverse that day, to stop him before he did it. And maybe to finally understand it.

When Sherlock came back the dreams stopped. And for awhile, for just a bit, but not nearly long enough his sleep was untroubled.

Then, of course, they switched to Mary and some of the things he dreamed up may have been far worse than what was likely on the A.G.R.A. drive. Horrible imaginings of whoever was likely had to be after his wife coming for her, tracking her down. Magnussen. Others. A never ending line. Too many for him to defend against. Killing Mary, the baby, Sherlock.

No matter the nightmare, though, no matter the scenario; it's never him. It's only the people he loves the most who suffer, who are punished. He always lives. Always. They die and he is left alone, mourning and frightened out of his wits.

It was the same now with the red forest. Then endless Red Forest with it's humming and tingling and death and it's inability to decay.

One night, mid-dream he realized it was like him, the forest. Alive but dead. Dead but unable to die.

And he woke up screaming.

Chapter Text

Day 13

Everyone smoked here but he'd never developed a taste for the habit and he didn't intend to start. There were teas and fizzy drinks and milk and juices and bottled water and just about everything else under the sun. And while his taste for coffee had always been take it or leave it, here it suddenly became much more take it. His body ached and itched and creaked and clenched and demanded alcohol and though the caffeine was nothing of the sort it did soothe, just a tiny bit.

"John, there's acupuncture, later on, today. You might be interested in that as a stress reliever."

"John, don't forget about recuperative horse riding later this afternoon."

"John, can we interest you in creative art therapy?"

"John, Thai Massage?"

"John, Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing?"

"John, Neurofeedback?"

They wanted him to participate but quite frankly none of the things that had been offered to him on his arrival had seemed like a good fit. But he had to pick something so he was told.

He flipped through the glossy brochure and finally made a choice that was admittedly solitary. The facility had a full-service fitness center and that seemed like as good a place as any to start and maybe disappear for awhile.

His days were structured and he found the familiarity of it both annoying and comforting. The army had taught him the value of having a carefully planned out day and he wasn't exactly opposed to disconnecting into that monotony.

8:00 AM was deemed Reflection Time.

He was usually up around 7:30-ish so this gave him time to shower and shave in his bathroom and prepare for the day.

He wasn't exactly sure what to do during reflection time. They'd provided him with a journal and pens so he could write down his thoughts.

"I hate this. I should have used the gun." He wrote and closed the book, lying on his bed with his clothes and shoes on until it was time to head to the commissary.

8:30 was Breakfast with a dizzying array of food. Pancakes, toast, eggs any way you wanted them, regular sausage, veggie sausage, porridge, tomatoes, pudding, beans, every kind of fruit etc. etc. ad infinitum.

John usually just settled for some milk, a few slices of toast and a soft boiled egg.

9:30 was Active Lifestyle and taking out his map, and yes, a map was required given the scale of this place he set off in search of the gym. John noted on his first day there that everything, as expected was state of the art. He'd made his way to the locker room and changed into workout clothes but not before stepping on the scale and then having a good long look in the mirror. He'd avoided this and it turned out he had good reason. He looked flabby, out of shape, the alcohol having taken its toll around his middle. His skin looked dry, patchy. He'd even put off looking at his face except what was required when he shaved. It seemed even worse. Pale, drawn, bags and circles under his eyes, the lines on his forehead standing out. He looked old. He looked like he'd aged about 7 years over the past 11 months.

He'd decided it might be a good idea to grow a beard.

John attacked the treadmill like he hadn't spent the last 300+ days destroying any physical fitness he'd built up. Running next to Sherlock, scaling buildings and hustling down staircases seemed like a lifetime ago. His body let him know how foolish he was being by forcing him to rush off the treadmill before he vomited all over the machine.

Consequently, he'd spent 11:00 Morning Processing Group in a foul mood.

Lunch was just as opulent as breakfast and following that it was time for one-on-one therapy sessions.

The second day he'd met Hanah who was to be his psychiatrist. She was American, board-certified in both general psychiatry and addiction psychiatry, she preferred to be called Hanah as opposed to Doctor Beckett and she always had sweets at her desk "More for me than for you." She'd said with a smile.

"Now, John they've told me a bit about you and I've looked over your file, your medical history, your military service, and everything you mentioned at intake."

"I'm sorry, who is they?"

"The people who considered your candidacy."

He looked at her blankly.

"Of course," She said with a nod. "You didn't actually apply yourself this was done on your behalf. In any case, I think I have a good solid foundation with which to start things off. I'm just going to begin with some questions. You take your time and answer them as fully as you'd like. You mentioned upon arrival that you didn't know why you were seeking recovery. After a few nights sleep, which I'm not foolish enough to categorize as a good nights sleep, do you have an answer?"

He cleared his throat and looked around her well-furnished office, it was comfortable and far more normal looking than any other room he'd been in since arriving. He had to admit, it was nice.

"No, not really. Or rather I haven't found a reason for myself. I don't expect to." He rubbed at his temple trying to quell the ever-present headache.

"You have a reason, not for yourself?"

"My best friend...what I did, trying to kill myself it got a lot of publicity. His business, which I used to share with him, I suppose for lack of a better phrase, might suffer. The least I owed to him was to try and right what I'd done wrong. I took responsibility for my actions and made it clear that we no longer worked together and that what I did had nothing to do with him."

She nodded and scribbled down notes.

"But no reason strictly related to you?" She asked.

"Nope."

"Do you believe you have a problem with alcohol?"

"I believe I'm an alcoholic. That's a quantifiable medical condition. But do I believe I have a problem, no. A problem would be a disruption to a life. I don't feel that I have a life anymore. There's nothing to disrupt."

“When did your drinking start?”

He flashed a bitter smile.

“If you have my file you know when it started.”

“I do. But that doesn’t mean I don’t need to hear you say it.”

“It started not long after my wife was shot and killed.”

“By Vivian Norbury.” She said with an understanding nod.

John frowned.

“That wasn’t in the papers.” He said sitting up straighter and suddenly feeling very on edge.

“No, but as I said I have your file. Your real file. I imagine you may have walked in here thinking you’d need to sanitize certain stories for me, John. That isn’t necessary.” She smiled, leaning back in her chair. “I’m guessing this place must appear cartoonishly opulent to you?”

“A bit, yes.”

“More focused on pampering than helping.”

“Absolutely.”

“It’s meant to give off that appearance. But the patients who come here know what they’re in for. You’re all a special breed and yes, I can see you cringe at being lumped in with some of the other patients. But, I don’t quite mean that. When public servants, politicians, people involved in the inner workings of your government or mine need help they have to come to a special place where they can be completely honest. That's where you fit in. I have a suitably high clearance level that allowed me to be specially chosen to help you. I was hand picked by Mycroft Holmes.”

“Jesus.” He said rubbing at his temple. “You understand that makes me a lot less likely to trust you?”

“Why is that? Mr. Holmes set this up.”

He truly didn’t want to delve further into that at the moment.

“Are you saying that everyone here isn’t what they seem. That the coked up woman I know was from Real Housewives Of Wherever is actually a coked up, tortured super spy?”

Hanah laughed.

“No, most of the people here are exactly what they seem. Some of them are playing a part, unable to appear here under their own names so they only drop the facade in their therapy sessions. Some are so deep undercover they can't remember who they were. The point is we’re here to help everyone that we can and The Location has a damn good success rate.”

“So, your other patients-”

“I don’t have any other patients, John. I am here strictly for you.”

He sat back and folded his arms. On one hand, the idea of this woman knowing everything, the truth about Mary and her past, the real facts of the cases he’d solved with Sherlock. All of it, everything, was horrifying. But on the other, if he was to do this, actually engage, there might be no better time. The things he’d had to keep from Ella... After a while, he’d started to wonder if there was even a point to therapy. Ultimately he’d decided there wasn’t.

But maybe, now...

“Everyone who needs it deserves this kind of help, John. Everyone. It is focused and intense and it works if you work it. Unfortunately, we live in a world where even finding a place to get better not to mention affording it is an impossible task. Which is to say nothing of a facility the offers private rooms, catered food and horse riding lessons. You don’t feel it now, and that’s ok, but you’re lucky. You are very lucky to be here. I'd also like to add that Ella Thompson does good work. So your familiarity with this process will be helpful."

"You know her?"

"I know of her. I've read several of her papers. But no one can help you if you're not honest with them. And you won't let anyone help you if you don't trust them. I'm going to work to earn your trust, John. Hopefully, you'll feel comfortable being honest with me, eventually." She said with a smile. "Ok?"

"I'm not promising anything." He said shortly.

“Fair enough. Shall we continue?”  

He’d never been the religious sort so the 12 Steps, or rather that one particular part about a higher power chafed at him. He sat silently in the meetings, listening to the others. Some of their stories were like his. Some wildly different. But he listened.

His thoughts did wander, though. He thought about Sherlock, wondered what had gone through his mind when he’d seen the press release. He wondered if he hated him. He wondered if he’d deleted him.

“John, would you like to add anything today?”

They asked him that every day and he would only shake his head politely. This level of public sharing was beyond his capability. He imagined it always would be.

After 12 Steps came dinner and after dinner, there were chores; the second set for the day. In the morning between group and counseling, he might be assigned to wash dishes or sweep up. After dinner, he might be in charge of stocking shelves or the cleaning out the refrigerator. He didn’t mind it. The order felt familiar and good and he could vanish inside his head during these mindless tasks.

After chores was social hour; everyone either huddling together in groups and disappearing into great clouds of smoke or lining up at the front office to retrieve their cell phones to call home.

Some privileges he still had to earn but everyone got phone time from day one.

He hadn’t made a call. There’s wasn’t anyone to reach out to and even if there was, what could he say?

Usually, he chose this time to head back to his room. Someone, Mrs. Hudson, maybe...Mycroft...maybe even Sherlock had packed at least a dozen books for him. All from his shelf, all things he’d meant to read and never gotten around to. Someone had even dug out his old iPod so he could have a bit of music. He was grateful for these creature comforts and returning to bed to read a book and wall out the world with music was one of the few things he looked forward to all day.

After a check by one of the medical staff, it was time for reflection then bed.

Then the next day it began all over again.

He didn’t sleep well.

His cravings felt worse than they ever had at home but logically he knew this was because when he was there he had always given in to them immediately. But that didn’t stop the pain, the discomfort, the frustration and that feeling that just made him want to scream.

Actually, craving sounded too mild, too minor, almost charming in its minuscule nature. There was nothing small about this...this roaring need and his inability to satisfy it made him want to climb the walls.

He wasn’t alone. At night there were disturbances. The sudden clatter of something being overturned, fighting, shouting, screaming, crying. It was like being stuck inside a madhouse. Sometimes he covered his head with his pillow, sometimes he joined his voice with the noise yelling for them all to kindly “Shut the fuck up!”

Sleep was elusive.

He missed the predictability of passing out.

Chapter Text

Day 15

“I’d like to talk a little more about structure,” Hanah said as he sat stiffly through another therapy session.

John cleared his throat. “Ok.”

“Would you say that your life as a child had structure?”

“Absolutely. There was no chaos to my father’s drinking mostly because it was constant. There was a pattern to it. I could predict it so I knew how to behave accordingly.”

“And how did you behave?”

“I started off thinking that if I just did the right thing, said the right thing. Made sure the house was clean and dinner was made and the beer was cold and Harry was quiet then things would be alright. I learned that wasn’t true. I adjusted accordingly.”

“How did you learn that?”

“The fastest and clearest way possible, a smack to the face.” He said with a short laugh.

“John, when we talk about your father and the fact that he was physically abusive to you, well, you say it very casually.”

“Yes. I’m not sure how else to say it.”

“But when we talk about Harry, there’s a heightened emotional component.”

“Harry was a kid. She needed someone to protect her. He scared her so badly, so, so badly she would just cry inside this cupboard. Our mother had this enormous cupboard with sort of an armoire top and these three shelves on the bottom. After she died I kicked out the bottom of the first two top shelves and when things got bad, Harry and I had a signal. If I gave the high sign, she was supposed to run and go hide in the drawers.”

“But you didn’t hide? Weren’t you afraid too?”

“I didn’t have time to be afraid. That was a luxury. When I dawdled or waited...there was this one time-” But John stopped short. His mouth was starting to run away to a place his mind had no desire to go.

“There was this one time..” She prompted.

“I hung around after class with some of my mates. I just got distracted and I got home too late. I was always supposed to be there. I made sure Harry was out of the way by the time he got home but this time I hadn’t. He came home and he picked a fight with his eight-year-old daughter. By the time I got there she was under her bed. I coaxed her out and saw she had a bloody nose. I asked her what happened and she said he backhanded her in the kitchen. She was shaking. I’d never actually seen anyone shake before. I’d read about it in books, you know, someone trembling in fear... Anyway, I cleaned her up and I said I was sorry over and over and over again. Thank God, nothing was broken. And I told her I’d never leave her alone again. I made her dinner, tucked her in. Dad was gone down the pub and when he got back I made dinner for him. Spaghetti. And when he sat down at the table I poured the boiling water on his hand. I told him that if he ever touched her again he’d get worse. I told him next time it would be his dick while he slept.”

Hanah looked troubled but the memory actually brought John some comfort.

“Did he ever hit her again?”

“No, he did not.”

“But what about you?”

“Oh yeah, once his hand healed he hit me all the time. Way more than before. It was like the last barrier between us had fallen. I’d usually lose at that age but he knew it was going to be a fight and he started having to ask himself if it was worth it. The older I got, the less worth it, it became.”

“Did you or your sister ever receive counseling for what you experienced?”

“I didn’t. I know that when were kids, she didn’t. Can’t speak to what’s happened since.”

“How do you feel that you resolved these issues, John?”

“I grew up. Went to med school, went to the army, never looked back.”

“How do you think relations with your father colored the rest of your life?”

“It hasn’t. It didn’t. It was a point in my life that happened, I lived through it and now it’s over. I learned how to survive it. I knew what certain days meant, what certain drinks meant. I could tell you by the way he slammed his car door whether it was going to be an ordinary night, a bad night or one that ended with the police being called.”

“Did you have to call the police on your father many times?”

“I never called.The neighbours did every now and then.”

“Can you tell me why?”

“Because my father was a cop.” He said crossing his arms. 

“Did you ever speak to your father once you joined the military?”

“No, we never spoke again.”

“Did you attend his funeral?”

“No, I paid for it though.”

“Are you afraid?”

“Nothing about that man frightens me now and not just because he's dead.”

“But he terrorized you as a little boy.”

“I’m not a little boy anymore.”

“But that little boy is you, John. He’s still inside you.”

“Childhood trauma is predictable and boring.” He said quickly.

“That doesn’t sound like you.”

She was right, of course. It didn't. It sounded like someone else entirely. Someone who had wheelbarrows full of his own childhood trauma that he'd ignored and deleted.

“Who else would it be? Look can we just...can we be done for today?”

“Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“Yes.”

“That means we’ve hit something. I have some assignments for you. First off I want to write down every time you feel the urge to drink and what you think brought it on. Second, I want you to write a letter to your father. What you should have said, what you needed to say.”

He shook his head slightly.

“There’s nothing I have to say to him. There’s nothing I have to say to the past.”

“The past is talking to you each and every day, John. I think you should start listening. I think you should have a conversation. Now, I’ve given you homework before and you haven’t completed it.”

She was right, she had given him assignments here and there and despite his outward petulance, he did leave her office intending to do them. But once he sat himself down before the notebook, pen in hand...he just couldn't.

“Don’t...don’t talk to me like I’m a child.”

“Then act like an adult and do the work.” She said with finality. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Chapter Text

Times I Wanted A Drink

7:32 AM - Moments after waking up

8:19 AM - Listening to the chatter in the commissary whilst trying to read. Could have used a shot of vodka in my orange juice

11:50 AM - Joann unironically used the word "Hashtag". Her entire speech was rotten with it.

2:30 PM - 3:30 PM Before, During and After one-on-one therapy

5:45 PM - 12-Step Group

10 PM - until I drift off

I don’t find things to be any easier. I find myself wanting to change my mind, break out of here, leave this place.

Alcohol, want of it, need for it consumes my every waking hour. I am disgusted with myself.

Chapter Text

Dear Dad,

I think this entire charade is bullshit but here we are, I was asked to write a letter to you so I will.

I'm in rehab. I am a worthless, drunken piece of garbage just like you were. All that talk, all those times you used to ask me "So, you think you're better than me, eh, Johnny?" Turns out, I'm not. I never was.

The truth is I’m glad you’re dead. Your influence on Harry’s life was nothing but disastrous. You turned her into a drunk who at 41 is only now getting her life sorted.

I don’t know what you did to me. I suppose that one of the things my therapist is going to tell me. I think I escaped largely unscathed. But I don’t know that I really want to know. I don’t want to learn what awful seeds have been sown into me. And even if I could handle what your nature has wrought, I don’t want to know what your “nurturing” has done.

What I hate the most is that I fear I’m seeing things in myself that remind me of you. You were a rigid, self-centered, inflexible subhuman man. Lower than trash. Someone who only dealt in lies, someone who physically hurt people you were supposed to care about, someone who couldn't make or keep a friend to save his life, someone who, from the stories I heard from family, was a lout of a husband. Someone who was a terrible, terrible father.

I did that. I hurt people, I lied to people. Maybe I lied to myself too. I can't make friends or at least keep them. I am recalcitrant, self-obsessed, violent and I was a miserable husband. I was a terrible father. In one way or another, I have failed at everything I have attempted to do.

You'd be so happy that I turned out just like you.

I don’t know what else I’d even want to say to you.

I think we're done here. I think we were done a long time ago.

I hope it was a painful death.

Your son,

John

Chapter Text

Day 16

John had stopped into his room after lunch to grab his notebook before therapy when a knock on the door surprised him.

"John Watson?"

He turned to see a man of an average height and average build with average dark hair standing in the doorway a box in hand.

"Yeah, that's me."

"Mail for you, mate." He said holding the package out.

John frowned. Other people got mail and care packages not him. Still, he walked forward and took the box from the man's hands.

"Thanks." He was both in a hurry to open it and no rush at all. Unopened it could be filled with anything, unopened it was perfect.

"I've seen you around. You always eat every meal alone. I'm James." he said extending his hand.

"Nice to meet you."

"John and James, ten more and we could have a full set of Apostles, eh?" James said.

John smirked at the joke. "I feel as though we'd have a hard time finding anyone named Judas Iscariot."

"And if we could would we want him to join?"

John smiled again, surprising himself.

"Well, I'll be off." James said. "More packages to deliver. Maybe I'll see you at dinner."

"Yeah, maybe."

"Is this when I hand in my homework?" John asked as he settled into the seat in Hanah's office.

"That assignment was for you. I won't be reading it."

"Well, how will you know I even did it?" He asked with confusion.

"You just told me. I trust you. You don't trust a lot of people, do you, John."

"That hasn't worked very well for me in the past, so no, I don't."

"Tell me about what you wrote and what, if anything, you learned."

"I...I learned that I want to drink all the time, apparently."

When he'd gone over the brief chart for the day that he had filled in so flippantly he didn't like what he saw. Not that it surprised him, but, it appeared far more hours of his day were taken up by him wishing he had a drink.

"What were some of your triggers?"

"That's the thing, on one hand, it was people talking around me, and on the other it was the silence when I'm trying to sleep."

"Some people drink so they can socialize easier. Some people drink for just a generalize dose of liquid courage. Some people drink out of habit. When you drank, what was your goal?"

"To obliterate myself. To not have to hear people talking to me or at me. To not have to deal with my own thoughts anymore. To be unconscious."

He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. These memories were painful, unpleasant and vivid and going back to them always made him feel a bit queasy.

If he closed his eyes he was back in the church at Mary's funeral. The same church they were married in. He was sat alone in the widower's row, Rosie on his lap, screaming to high heavens. The previous days had been a blur of people gently hugging him, gently touching his arm, his elbow, his shoulder. He had feared the entire process might have been drawn out for days, perhaps even a month given the circumstances of Mary's death but someone, who he suspected to be Mycroft had expedited the process. Her death was registered, after what was likely the hastiest coroner's report on record. It was likely just to save the government from any possible embarrassment and not out of good will, but John was grateful whatever the reason.

He held it together for most of the service. The ridiculous service with the fake biography and the people in the pews who'd known her less than a decade. There was a point where he wanted to laugh. Wanted to jump up on his seat and proclaim his wife was an assassin and everything they thought they knew about her was a lie.

But that wasn't the truth. It wasn't that simple.

Ye gods, but death made everything seem so fucking trivial. He knew as much about her past as he'd wanted. All that mattered now was that Mary was gone. His Mary. Mary, the first person that had captured his attention since Sherlock's "death". Mary, the one he'd casually asked the clinic secretary about just to figure out if she was seeing anyone before he expressed interest. Mary, who he kissed in the snow. Mary who he'd pledged fidelity to and...

Sherlock, of course, wasn't there. John had barred him from the funeral as he had barred him from his life.

He held it together until the service ended. Then he stood at her casket and place his hand on the smooth wood of the lid. She was there. Inside. Sealed off from him forever. He burst into tears for a moment but no one rushed to his side. If Sherlock had been there...

John had pulled himself together and then he, David; the bloke Mary's used to date, Major Sholto, Mike Stamford, Greg and Janine wrapped their palms around the brass handles of the casket and lifted it up, carrying it at waist level. A female pallbearer was odd, but not unheard of. If things had been as they should have been Sherlock would have been the sixth. If things had been as they should have been Mary wouldn't have died.

He had made it clear that he didn't want people congregating at the house after the burial. He couldn't stand it. Couldn't imagine dealing with his home bursting at the seams with all these people and their apologies and their sympathies and their bereavement tropes. Instead, he stayed at the graveside while they dispersed, while Molly took Rosie for the night and while he tried to understand how his wife was in a box in the mud. How this box was then going to have more mud shoveled upon it, then flattened. And how a stone was going to be erected month's later that would serve as a period to her life. Once and for all. This was death and that was the night that a drink no longer became an option but a necessity.

Less than a year ago he'd been choosing wedding invitation font. Now for the second time in his life, he had chosen a tombstone for someone he loved.

"Everything can't be my trigger. Silence and noise, company and solitude, it doesn't make sense." He said to Hanah. "So maybe it's me. Maybe I trigger myself." The idea of that terrified him because how, exactly, could he divide himself from himself. It felt hopeless but his therapist smiled.

"Now, that's what I call a breakthrough. Congratulations."

"Well, are you going to enlighten me?"

"I want you to think about it after our session today. We're going to come back to it tomorrow. Now, the letter to your dad, how did that go?"

She had thrown him off by bringing up the entire issue with triggers only to leave him hanging but he moved forward.

"Um...as I expected it to go. It was a chance to tell him to piss off, I suppose."

"Anything else?"

He frowned and shifted again in his seat.

"I told him he'd wrecked Harry's life and she was only now getting it back together."

"What about your life?"

"I told him that...that I worried we shared some similar qualities. That disgusts me. It truly disgusts me."

"Which qualities, John?"

"He was short tempered, he was always angry, prickly, solitary except at the pub. And this is all, of course, besides the alcoholism and the violence. Even sober, stone cold sober there was just something about him that people didn't like. He rubbed them up the wrong way."

"And you think that's you?"

"Yeah...yeah, I mean I've heard it enough, you know."

"Do you blame your father for your sister's alcoholism?

"Everybody...everybody is responsible for their own actions but...yes, yes, I blame him."

"Do you blame him for yours?"

"No."

"Why does your sister get a pass and you don't?" She asked curiously.

"She doesn't get a pass. Every time she chose to pick up a bottle that was her hand, not our father's but...he created a life, an environment that necessitated escape hatches. She used alcohol as a way to escape."

"What was your escape hatch?"

"University. The army. My escape hatch was literally escaping."

"Was that all?"

"I'm not counting the drinking because it happened decades after I left. I may have taken more quickly to booze because my genetics started screaming out for it once I started but it wasn't him."

"So, would you say that you were sober from childhood on, essentially up until your wife's murder."

"Yes, of course." He said with a disbelieving shake of his head. "Do you think I'm lying to you."

"No, John, I think you're lying to you. I have a short quiz that I want you to take, ok? It shouldn't take more than 15-20 minutes." She handed him a piece of paper and a pencil as she rose from her chair. "I'm going to grab a cup of coffee, would you like one?"

"No, thanks, I'm fine." John was surprised that she was actually leaving. He couldn't help but compare her to his experience with his last therapist. His last real therapist. Ella hadn't exactly been one to let him get away with things but she was far less combative than Hanah. Maybe combative wasn't the right word. Forceful. Direct. He couldn't dodge answers with Hanah, he couldn't put things off until later. She kept him on unsteady ground, trying to maintain his balance and he found himself almost forced to answer lest he tip over.

"Great, I'll see you in about 20."

And then she left the room. Taking up the pencil he inched closer to her desk to take a good look at the test.

1.

A. I like "wild" uninhibited parties

B. I prefer quiet parties with good conversation

Oh God, but this was ridiculous.

He chose B and moved on.

2.

A. There are some movies I enjoy seeing a second or even third time

B. I can't stand watching a movie that I've seen before

Why would anyone want to watch the same movie over and over? B.

3.

A. I often wish I could be a mountain climber

B. I can't understand people who risk their necks climbing mountains

I don't want to be a mountain climber but..."can't understand people risking their necks" is painting with a bit too broad of a brush. A.

4.

A. I dislike all body odours

B. I like some of the earthy body smells

He recalled a time when he'd spent the day at the beach with Mary. A long, warm day, in and out of the water, running through the waves, rolling in the sand. She'd smelled of salt water and sweat. By the end of the day any trace of that sunscreen scent had been stripped away and she just smelled like her. The smell she left on their sheets, warm and enticing and so bloody sexy. They rolled around a bit on the blanket and he'd copped some rather obvious feels that made her giggle given how public they were. To give the appearance of propriety, under the guise of watching the sunset they wrapped up in the blanket. In reality, he'd really just wanted and taken the chance to slide his hand into her swimsuit and bring her to a shuddering orgasm just as the rosy sun dipped into the water. He'd brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them salaciously. They packed up their things quickly, rushed back to the car and he'd gone down on her in the back seat. There was another scent he loved; sweet and fragrant and heady and all his. He'd driven as fast as the law would allow and they'd jumped into bed and fucked spiritedly at home and then after a breather opted for another go and that time they'd made love. And he'd laid there after they were done happy and relaxed and feeling decidedly lucky as he breathed deep of a life that was perfumed by ocean water and Mary.

He then remembered holding Sherlock or rather being held by him. Sweat again, salty and clean, the drugs having finally worked their way out of his remarkably efficient system. That shampoo, the detergent, fresh tobacco, the tea he could smell on his breath. Sherlock, everything that was Sherlock. Everything he couldn't describe but just knew to be him. He just knew. He could walk into a room and know he'd been there. Blindfolded. He knew him blind. He could tell anyone how he moved, how he sat, how he walked. How the skin around his eyes crinkled, how he pulled his head back when he laughed. The constellation on his neck. Orions Belt, just there, just below his left ear, three little freckles and when he was close enough to see them, to smell him, no cologne, just Sherlock. Sherlock never wore cologne he just smelled like himself...

B. Yes, of course, only some sort of lunatic would pick A.

5.

A. I get bored seeing the same old faces

B. I like the comfortable familiarity of everyday friends

A.

6.

A. I like to explore a strange city or section of town by myself, even if it means getting lost

B. I prefer a guide when I am in a place I don't know well

A.

7.

A. I dislike people who do or say things just to shock or upset others

B. When you can predict almost everything a person will do and say he or she must be a bore

Non-sequitur; A has nothing to do with B. But B, nonetheless.

8.

A. I usually don't enjoy a movie or play where I can predict what will happen in advance

B. I don't mind watching a movie or play where I can predict what will happen in advance

A.

9.

A. I have tried cannabis or would like to

B. I would never smoke cannabis

A.

10.

A. I would not like to try any drug which might produce strange and dangerous effects on me

B. I would like to try some of the drugs that produce hallucinations

B.

The questions went on like that, some ridiculous, some not nearly as cut and dried as they might seem. All in all he finished and waited for her to return.

"All done?" She said as she re-entered with coffee in hand.

"Yeah...is that Starbucks?" He asked motioning to her drink.

"Yes, there's one on the third floor. Haven't you been?" She asked with surprise.

"I..."

"I'm teasing you, John. It's a ceramic cup." Hanah replied giving it a resounding flick with her finger before adding. "There hasn't been a Starbucks here in years. Now, what did you think of the test?"

"It was...fine. Bit simple, I guess."

"Good." She said picking it up. "Mind if I go over it a bit?"

"Be my guest."

He watched her even though he tried not to as she scanned the page, her eyes moving rapidly down the paper.

"Ok." She said after a few minutes. "Good, well done. So, that was a test created by a man named Marvin Zuckerman and it's called the Sensation Seeking Scale. It's a psychological instrument used to measure a patient's sensation seeking behavior."

"A personality test to determine who is and isn't an adrenaline junkie and how much of a junkie they are."

"Exactly." She smiled.

"So, how much am I?"

She exhaled and her eyebrows darted up briefly.

"A pretty damn big one. But I already knew that. And what's more, you already knew that too. Now, I think has been a pretty full session. You're free to go for today. Keep noting the things that trigger you to drink and we'll talk more tomorrow."

He nodded and made to stand up, both eager and hesitant to leave.

"I want you to sit with some of these thoughts, John. It looks like you have a lot of questions but you're not exactly sure how to ask them. It'll come, alright? Give it some time. I'll be here for you tomorrow. But, in case you ever need me sooner..." She reached into her drawer and gave him a card. "This is my direct number. You can call day or night. And you're right on schedule, this is about the time during treatment where patients ask how they can reach me if they need to. We're starting to dig deep into some stuff that's been long undisturbed. It might bring up unsettling memories and thoughts. That's what I'm here for."

"But I didn't ask." He said.

"You were going to."

She was right. He had only been trying to work up the nerve.

When he got back to his room for the night he'd completely forgotten about the delivery.

For five solid minutes, he sat on the bed just staring before deciding to open it. The first item was ensconced in so much bubble wrap he could barely make it out. Once he finally tore through he discovered it was a lovely electric tea kettle along with his favorite kind of tea. She'd also included his favorite mug with the Royal Army Medical Corps insignia. It came of course courtesy of Mrs. Hudson with a note attached.

Wishing you all the best, dearest John! We're all thinking of you and hoping for your health and happiness. We love and miss you and we'll be waiting when you get home!

It was signed by all the people he had so recently hurt and assaulted with his behavior...except one. The rest of the box was filled with snacks and sweets and a few books.

The gesture did not go unappreciated, however, no matter how he turned the box over and searched inside there was nothing to be found from Sherlock.

So, it was to be like that. Better to understand it now, to grasp what he had apparently lost than to persist in the idea that their friendship was salvageable.

Surely Mrs. Hudson had told Sherlock she was sending a package and asked him, likely pleaded with him to add something and he had declined.

Well, it is what it is. He thought.

He went to bed listless. No forest dreams that night. Instead he was back in his childhood home, standing in the kitchen. Facing the stove, his back to the small table where they ate meals. His father was behind him, seething. He wasn't speaking. He didn't have to. John could feel him, boring holes into the back of his head, practically huffing, like a bull pawing at the ground before a charge.

"Always thinking you're so much better." Came the voice from behind him.

"I know I'm better." He replied before he could stop himself.

John couldn't tell if in the dream he was a child or a man. Sometime he felt like one or the other but by the time the blows came it didn't matter.

His father hit him hard in the back and his knees buckled, slamming into the linoleum floor tiles. He tried to scramble to his feet but a kick sent him over onto his side. He knocked into the stove disturbing the pot full of noodles on top which then fell wetly onto the floor. There was a small space between the stove and the wall and as a child he'd scooted in there many a time. It was just out of his father's reach and he could usually ward him off with kicks to the shin until the sot got tired.

But this time he didn't or couldn't make it to the space. Instead, his father grabbed him by his hair yanking him forward and out into the open. No protection, no help, no footing because of the wet, starchy floor. His father, however, was quite sure footed and with nothing standing between them now he continued his assault. Blow after blow landed on his face. He tasted blood before he saw it spray out. He felt his cheekbone fracture, then his jaw, he felt the cuts in his mouth from the shards of broken teeth, he felt his left eye go blurry then black.

Through his right eye, he was able to discern something he hadn't noticed in the dream before.

His father looked a lot like him.

Chapter Text

Day 18

"How are you today, John?" Hanah asked as he seated himself in his chair.

He ran his nails through his beard. He was in the itchy stage but it was sure to pass soon. At least he was a bit better able to bear looking in the mirror these days.

"Fine. Good. Yeah."

"Alright, good. Anything you'd like to talk about? How are you sleeping at night?"

"Fine. Uneventful, you know."

"I don't know unless you tell me." She said with a smile. "Pleasant dreams? Sad dreams? Dreamless? Nightmares?"

He didn't want to tell her about the forest. He couldn't put his finger on why but somehow it just felt incredibly private.

"I always have nightmares." He said casually. John picked up the bottle of water he brought with him and took a long swig.

"When you say always do you mean since you've arrived here?"

"No, I mean, always as in always. For as far back as I can remember. My favorite nights are nights when I don't dream." He frowned a bit as he realized how that must sound but Hanah didn't recoil so he tried to put it behind him.

"What did you have a bad dream about last night?"

"My father. I was back at our old house. I'd done something to set him off and he came at me."

"Did you physically fight?"

"Not exactly, I must have been a kid. I couldn't tell but I was mostly trying to get away from him. I was trying to hide but he grabbed me and pulled me out." He looked down at his hands and saw that he was miming the motions.

"Is there anything else unusual about the dream, John."

"You're going to read too much into this." He said shaking his head.

"That's my job. I read too much into things they even gave me a few degrees for it." She said with a chuckle.

John had decided she was annoyingly disarming.

"My face. My dad had my face. And if this is the part of the conversation where you tell me I need to forgive him so I can move on and get better I think we've hit a wall. I'm not going to forgive him. I'm glad he's dead. Some things you do in life...they're beyond forgiveness."

Hanah waited patiently as he finished his impromptu rant.

"I wasn't going to ask you to forgive him, John. If that's something you want to explore during our time here, I'd be happy to go down that road. But I think there are more important factors we need to address first. The truth is your father has physically been out of your life for over two decades. As formative as your time with him was, and we will be addressing that, mending your actual relationship with him is not essential to your recovery. Understanding how he factors into your life now, is. Ok?"

That hadn't been the response he'd been expecting and all he could do was give a silent nod of agreement.

"In the dream, were you frightened?"

He swallowed hard.

"Terrified. He was bigger, stronger than I remember him being. All the spots that I used to aim for to get him to let me go; his wrists, his shins, none of them were working."

"Are these dreams consistent? Do you often have nightmares about your father?"

"No, honestly haven't had them for years. I assume it's because we've been talking about him recently."

"So when you arrived here is when they started back up?"

"No..." He flashed back briefly to the morgue. "I don't want to talk about that just yet."

"Alright, not until you're ready."

"Thank you."

"Have there been times, recently, where you've felt that kind of fear?"

"I set out to make certain I never felt that kind of fear again."

"Is that why you joined the army?"

"I never really thought about it that way." He said. "I wanted to serve my country."

"So, you were a staunch supporter of Operation Enduring Freedom?"

"Meaning?"

"Meaning your wife, your best friend, your sister, your landlady and all of your girlfriends have all voted either Lib Dem's or Labour."

He frowned suddenly incensed at the violation.

"Voting in the United Kingdom is done by secret ballot. You shouldn't know that." He said and cleared his throat.

"No, I shouldn't. But, like I said, very high clearance. You and your sister, what sort of terms are you on now?"

"Only necessary terms. I asked her to take custody of my daughter."

"So you trust her."

John thought for a bit. Trust and Harry had not been two words that typically went together. It was odd to have them linked now.

"In a way, yeah I do. I trust her with Rosie, certainly."

"Do you think if Mary hadn't died that you might have felt like mending fences with her on your own?"

"Doubtful. We had a few false starts over the years but it ended up being one fucked up Christmas and one missed wedding too many for me. I was going to lie and say yes, we would have found a way to get back together. But... the truth is, no. I wouldn't. Harry and I are very different, we always have been. If we weren't family I don't think we ever would have been on the other's radar."

"What makes you so different?"

He laughed shortly.

"Where to begin, um...she's...she's just spoiled. She's always had someone to come around and clean up her mess. She always had this army of friends who would party with her and see that she got home alright. Then when they all got sober and she didn't they staged intervention after intervention to try and get her right. When she got her license taken away they'd drive her. When she lost her job and her flat they'd let her crash on their couch. Every hellish move of her life was backed up by someone ready to break her fall. Then somehow during on of those little corridors of sobriety, she met Clara. This amazing, saintly woman who stepped in and picked up the absolute mess that was my sister, set her right. And what did she do? She threw it away."

"You mentioned that she and Harry were patching things up."

"Well yeah, now. At the moment. But everything is always in flux with Harry. Plus...some things you do in life you can't undo. She's had these stretches of time where she was clean and looked like she was finally getting her shit together. She had a good job and a flat and that freedom. She had a little bit of money she was talking to Dad a lot less. Then it all goes up in smoke."

"What freedom did she have, John?"

"Sorry?"

"You mentioned that she had freedom and I was just wondering what you meant."

"The freedom that comes with being the baby of the family, I suppose. I don't know."

"I want you to be aware of something. It's about the language that you use. Clara = Saintly. Harry = Hellish. You do the same when you're speaking about yourself or Mary or your father. It's an incredibly binary speech pattern."

"Alright, so I'm slightly prone to hyperbole."

"No, it's not hyperbole, it's black and white thinking. It's actually something called splitting. People are either good or bad. Actions are either pure or sullied. Heaven or hell, devil or angel. The words we choose affect how we see the world, how we move in it and how we color it. What about gray?"

"What about it?"

"Is there a place for gray in this world?"

"I spent years in the army, my most recent job was hunting criminals in the heart of London and when I wasn't doing that I was telling people they either had cancer or they didn't. I don't do gray." He replied derisively.

"Why are you upset right now, John?" Hanah asked calmly.

He hadn't realized he was upset but when he looked down at his hands his right was curled into a fist while his left was flexing intermittently.

"I'm not upset." He lied.

"Your world view is being threatened and you're angry and I want you to explain why."

"Because gray allows for mistakes and deception and it leaves you unprepared!"

"So?" She asked calmly.

John looked at her in disbelief.

"W-what do you mean, so?"

"I mean, is a world full of mistakes and occasional deception and unpreparedness so unbearable?"

"Yes!"

"People are either good or evil? Situations are either win or lose. There is no in-between?"

He stood up from his chair suddenly unable to remain sitting. He felt agitated, cornered and lost as to where she was going with this line of questioning. The room was large enough that he started to pace a bit.

"What are you getting at?" He asked her.

"Your father, was he evil?"

"Yes." he said with an emphatic head node. "Yes, he was evil. he was an evil man. I have no problem saying that."

"So if he was evil and your mother was already dead, what was she?"

John paused and thought back. Thought about the few pictures he'd seen of her. Tried to remember her face. He'd been five or so when she'd died. Everything he ever heard about her was good. Everything he ever thought about her as well.

"I always thought...I thought that if she were alive, she'd take us away from there. She'd gather us up in the middle of the night and spirit us away to somewhere safe." He inhaled sharply. "Yeah, she was good. She was very good."

"Ok, so with her gone that left who to be the adult? You, right? You were left to care for your sister and yourself."

"Yeah, alright, fine. I was the grownup."

"So you had to be a contrast to him, the exact opposite. Which meant you had to be good, saintly and good and make no mistakes. But what happened when you did make a mistake, John? What happened when you were 10 or 11 or 12 or a teenager or a young man and you made a mistake, what did you become?"

It was like the wind suddenly got knocked out of him. Pacing no longer felt good, in fact, it felt as though his legs might give out. He slowly walked back to his chair and sat down.

"Like him, I became like him. Faulty. Deeply, deeply faulty and flawed. Useless. Alright, so you're saying one of my problems is that I put these unrealistic expectations on people. I put them in a narrow box and punish them when they don't behave?"

"That is one of my points. But John, these sessions aren't just about how you treat the people in your life it's also about how you treat you. From a very early and impressionable age, you adopted the philosophy that only by making no mistakes could you be a good boy, a good man. That to do anything other than that made you faulty, broken and yes, even evil. I've been doing all the talking today, I want you to say something. Argue with me or confirm it but say something to this."

He went silent for a bit...thinking.

His sister, just a few months back had accused him of being a black and white thinker. Sherlock telling him a long time ago "Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist, and if they did, I wouldn't be one of them." His own thoughts as he'd searched for his mate in the crack den among the "scum of the earth". He was that scum now.

"I think you're right." He said and swallowed hard. His throat had suddenly gone dry and he reached for his water again, drinking it down. "I...want people to be easily categorized. I like yes or no. I like an uncomplicated life." He stopped and started again, looking her directly in the eye, he had been looking at the palms of his hands. "You don't believe that."

"I haven't said a word. This is your time to talk. This is all your time to talk."

"You think I only want to want an uncomplicated life."

"Is it important to you that I believe you, John?"

"What kind of question is that? Who wouldn't find that important? Yes, it's important that you believe me but I'm not going to turn somersaults in here to make it so!"

"Alright, I'm sorry for upsetting you." She replied.

John shook his head dismissively.

"That's ok."

She was silent again before speaking.

"But it's not ok with you, is it?. Do you often tell people you've forgiven them when you haven't?"

"What?" He asked a bit dumbfounded.

"I believe you heard the question. People often say what to buy time when they don't want to discuss something uncomfortable."

"It's a societal nicety. It doesn't mean that you actually forgive someone it means for the sake of things you're letting it pass."

"A societal nicety. Interesting." She said and scribbled something down on her notepad. She'd been writing a lot during this session he noticed. "Ok, there's something I want you to read. I've marked the chapters and I want you to really think about how it might have relevance to your life, alright?"

He nodded but didn't speak.

She handed him a book and he read the title aloud.

"The Ego's Defense and the Defense of Ego. By Arnie Saknussemm. Not very catchy title."

"Before you go, John, I need you to hear something. I understand it may be difficult to accept or even digest at this point. But that's what therapy is, digesting the hard bits."

"Ok, what is it?" He asked itching to leave.

"Do you understand that you were abused as a child?"

Before she'd even finished the sentence he'd started shaking his head.

"No, Harry was abused. She was a kid, she was helpless, she was hurt."

"So were you. Your father physically and mentally abused you and emotionally terrorized you. Now we're going to keep moving forward during these sessions but that is our starting point and we will always circle around to it."

He knew she wanted a reply but John didn't currently have it in him. He felt emotionally wrung and so terribly tired. He felt like he was coming down with something. 

The best he could manage was to tuck the book under his arm, mutter a hasty "See you tomorrow." and hurry from the room.

Chapter Text

The Ego's Defense and the Defense of Ego

Chapter 10: Splitting: The defense mechanism of those who feel defenseless

It cannot be overstated that for the depressive the act of splitting is first and foremost a survival technique. The compartmentalizing of individuals and their actions are common in childhood, however, as the child ages, they typically develop the skills required to view the complexities of people and situations.

Children that suffer emotional, physical or sexual abuse are often unable to cultivate this skill which in turn skews how they view the world around them. Depression, which is common in such situations, if left untreated, rarely, if ever, resolves on its own. This can lead to the initialization of the defense mechanisms of Idealization and Devaluation. From the subject's point of view, people are either exceptionally good and worthy of praise or exceptionally terrible and worthy of ridicule. Splitting and idealization/devaluation allows for no middle ground.

The depressive adult is more likely to suffer from splitting and its associated symptoms. Splitting can affect all aspects of the individual's life including work relationships, friendships, and romantic relationships.

In addition, the damage to self-esteem often manifests in an emotional amplifying cycle. Thoughts that focus strictly on an all-or-nothing, black or white, good or evil philosophy repeat endlessly through an individual's head. This is especially dangerous when dealing with an unmedicated person on one not under a doctor's supervision and can lead to eating disorders, substance abuse, violence, self-destructive behavior as well as suicidal thoughts or actions.

When an adult struggling with splitting is faced with the dichotomy of individuals in their lives or a dichotomy within, they can suffer severe emotional distress sometimes resulting in a mental break, either minor or severe. Cognitive behavioral therapy including an exploration of the roots of the splitting as well as an understanding and merging of the divided sense of the external and internal is essential to both growth and healing.

Chapter Text

Day 20

"Mind if I sit down, mate?" James asked pulling John out of his musings unexpectedly. He'd been lost in thought at a table in the commissary, a forgotten book in one hand and an apple before him. He'd taken exactly one bite out of the fruit, apparently, though he didn't remember doing so. He couldn't even taste it on his tongue. The white flesh had already turned a dark caramel brown giving him a little insight into how long he'd been distracted. It was hard to eat here. He never really had an appetite. But at least he'd lost quite a bit of that beer, wine and takeaway weight he'd put on.

"Yeah, sure, have a seat," John said motioning to the empty chair across from him. Some people in the commissary paired up or ate in small groups but there were others like him who ate alone. He didn't really like being there it felt exposed, forced. It felt like primary school.The only reason he was there was because they didn't allow people to take their meals to their rooms.

"I'm not disturbing you am I?" James asked nodding towards the book in his hand.

"No, no, just um...therapy homework. I'm sure you know how it is. Honestly, I'd read through what she assigned me, I was reading ahead."

"Oh yeah? How was it?" James said cracking open a soda and guzzling it like water. That was another funny thing about being here, It was as if everyone's addiction saw that a place had opened up and they all moved one step up. Like the Mad Hatters tea party; fresh cup, move down! Sugar and cigarettes barreled to the front of the line and few patients were ever without a candy bar, cig or both.

John thought for a second. He wanted to be glib, a part of him was screaming to dismiss the question and the text with something clever and light. But he couldn't.

"I haven't made up my mind yet." He said neutrally.

James nodded and opened a bag of chips from his tray.

"So what are you in for?" The other man asked.

"Alcoholism...maybe some other things. Maybe depression."

"Why just maybe?"

"Because honestly, I'm not comfortable with the label. Not sure it fits. What about you?" John pushed the book aside, raised the apple to his mouth then put it down without a bite.

"Heroin addict. Not so comfortable with that label either but the shite shoe fits. Why do they think you're depressed?"

"Probably because I tried to kill myself a few days before winding up here." John said and for the first time in a while, he laughed at the absurdity of it all.

"That would likely do it." James said chuckling along.

"Yeah, it might do."

"You know we worked together before." The man said pointing a finger in his direction.

"We did?" John asked, trying to place the man by his features.

"Well, indirectly. Foiled terrorist attack in 2014. I was working at Box 500."

John's eyebrows raised in surprise.

"Ah, you're one of them. My therapist said not everyone here was a reality star or celebrity gone wrong. I was starting to think she was kidding. You're with MI5?"

"I am...or I was. I hope to be again, if I can sort my shit, you know. Yeah, we were told we were coordinating with a "private office". I learned later that private office was Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

"Well, nice to meet you finally," John said.

"Likewise. Does working as a private dick make you rich? Is that how you can afford this place?"

"No, um...let's just say I have a generous benefactor."

"Yeah, me too, it's Her Majesty's government. It's not the first time I've been in a rehab but it's the first time I've been in one as nice as this. I may come home clean and completely ruined. Bedsheets back at my house are going to feel like sandpaper." He laughed before sobering. "If I still have a home. Her indoors...she's not too happy about all this as you can imagine."

"Yeah, I get you."

"You got a home to go back to?"

John thought for a minute about the house sitting empty but full of ghosts, milling about waiting for his return. Or had his absence exorcised them. He didn't even know if he wanted to go back there when he got out of here. And then he realizes...he was thinking about the future. A future. His future. It filled him with a certain portent of dread and he pushed the apple further away.

"I guess, yeah. Don't know that that's what I want, though."

"They say that you know?" James nodded. "Rehab can be this great storm that sweeps everything away."

"What do you mean?" John asked curiously.

"People come here sometimes not just to save their life but to save a relationship. But then they get here and realize they don't want to save the relationship after all. Or the person they left at home starts to get along just fine without them. So many people come in here with the wrong idea, assuming this place will mend their lives back together if they just fix themselves. Rehab can rend you, it can tear you and your life to pieces. Then you have to figure out how to put something new together with the scraps they hand you on your way out."

John inhaled sharply, a lot of James words were thoughts he himself had had.

"Well, there's a testimonial for their next brochure, eh?" He finally said and James laughed again.

"Oh God, sorry, I say things like this in group and people look at me in horror. Especially the new people. I made that girl from Britains Got Talent cry, I swear I didn't mean to!"

"But you're right this place...this place is a benevolent meat grinder. All of you just gets eviscerated and masticated and packed back together into some sort of meat patty. You get your certificate and you get called human again, but what are you? What are we going to be when this is over. What if by dredging the bottom of who we are, we come out worse?"

"Yeah...we should absolutely do the PR for this fine establishment," James said before slapping the table with the palms of his hand impatiently. "Christ, I'm not really even hungry. Have you been outside this place?"

"What you mean out there?" John asked motioning towards the huge windows that lined the wall of the dining area. They were frosted over in some places and fogged over in others. A few panes, however, remained clear.

"Yeah, out there." James laughed. "Just out in the snow. There are some chairs and stuff. It's cold but a coat will do."

"Why should we go outside?" John asked a bit perplexed.

"Cause it's pretty," James replied simply and with a smile.

The answer came from him so easily and was so compelling John to agree to join him. They parted only briefly to retrieve their coats. James also wanted to grab a pack of cigarettes and they stepped outside. It was a cold night, but every night here was cold. Sometimes it looked soft, (and John could only say "looked" because he hadn't been outdoors since his arrival) because snow was falling and everything was still. Sometimes it looked harsh because a light snow had turned into a blizzard strong enough to make the electricity above him momentarily dim.

Tonight it was clear. No snow, no clouds, biting cold but no wind. Still, the first breath he took out of doors seems to head straight to his lungs, irritating them with it's cleanliness. He coughed once or twice and so did James.

"We're the picture of health." the other man joked.

The sat down on the stairs to the entry way, lights shining behind them but not nearly enough to battle against the night sky above. And what a sky it was, more rich and full than he had seen since he'd left Afghanistan. London had too much light pollution, you could stare upwards until the end of time and never catch so much as a twinkle. But here, everything was bright and glimmering with splotches of color he imagined were nebulae, a dotting of planets and a dome of stars. 

It was indeed pretty.

"That's Orion's Belt." James said pointing up. "That's about the only constellation I know."

"Yeah me too." John said gazing upwards.

"It's the only one that actually kinda looks like what it's meant to look like. I mean, you look in a book and it'll say; The ancients believed this grouping of stars clearly depicted a bear riding a lorry through a garden while shooting a bow and arrow. Orion is the only one that makes sense."

Orion is the only one that makes sense, John thought but didn't say. Instead, he asked;

"You ever missed a session? Therapy, I mean."

"Not so far. You?"

"Yeah, I skipped out on it today. I couldn't face it, or face her."

"You going tomorrow?"

"I guess. It's not like I got anything accomplished today."

John thought back to sitting in his room, watching the clock wondering what she was thinking as it became clear it wasn't just late but that he wasn't going to show. It was cowardly, nothing but pure cowardice and he wouldn't just show up tomorrow he would apologize. But the idea of dealing with another onslaught of questions and it did feel like an onslaught made his nauseous. There were no time-outs in her office. It was always just like jumping on a speeding train and holding on until it was over. He hated feeling that way or at least he hated it when he hadn't initiated it. The splitting thing...had really unnerved him with how close it had hit and he'd found himself reading the chapter before and the one after just trying to find something to disprove what he'd read. Something so unlike him he could point to it emphatically and say "See! That's not me!" So far, page after page after page had yielded nothing of the sort.

"How did you try to do it?"

"Hmm?"

"Kill yourself, how did you try to do it? If you don't mind my asking."

John thought about it. It embarrassed him but he didn't mind.

"I was going to use pills and a lot of alcohol. I thought that would do the trick."

"You were going to?" James asked curiously as he took a long drag from his cigarette.

"I had a seizure." John snapped his fingers near his head for emphasis. "Light's out. Didn't get a chance. Woke up in the hospital and was persuaded to come here. What about you? How did you end up in this lovely prison?"

"Bacterial endocarditis. I think I'm saying that right. Everybody around me had been fighting the flu, right? So I didn't think too much of it when I started to feel sick. Chills, fever, muscle aches, you know. But it kept going on and on. I started losing weight and getting these shooting pains in my abdomen. Finally one night it was bad enough that I had to go to hospital. It all came out then, of course. What I'd been doing...again. It was bad. They had to do heart surgery, replace some of my fucked up valves."

James unzipped his jacket and pulled up his shirt to show John angry and fresh looking scars.

"It hurt but not as bad as how fucking disappointed in me she looked. This is kind of my last chance with her, I think. It might be over anyways, who knows. I'll feel her out when she comes for a family day. You married?"

John swallowed.

"I was. She um...she died about a year ago."

"I'm sorry, mate."

John nodded and almost didn't say anything. This had gotten so real so quick but he forced himself to reply with concern and empathy he really did feel.

"I'm sorry too. I mean for you, what you've been through, I'm sorry."

"Thanks." James leaned back against the stairs and stretched out. "How much would you kill for a drink right now?"

John laughed.

"Fuck me...right now? I'd walk over those fucking mountains like I was a Von Trapp if there was proof of a pub on the other side. Climb every fucking mountain. Ford every fucking stream. How much would kill for a hit?"

"I'd walk over these mountains carrying you on my back, mate."

They shared a laugh which echoed out into the night.

"You think anyone has ever tried to escape from here?" John asked.

"Mmhmm, I heard all about it at lunch the other day. The bird said that she knew someone who had been here way back when it first opened. It was much harsher back then. And this guy had been accused of smuggling in contraband and then trying to escape. So when the birds friend arrived for his stay they brought out the contraband bloke as an example, completely starkers and just threw him into the snow. She said that her friend said he died right there. I honestly don't know what to fucking believe. I mean, I have pretty exceptional clearance, right, and I had no idea a place like this existed. Who knows, crazier things have happened."

John was silent for a moment absorbing all James had said before he spoke.

"That's from Star Trek." He said after a moment.

James paused and looked at him.

"Fuck off, it is not." He laughed.

"No it is, Kirk and Spock and McCoy get sent to Rura Penthe, the penal colony...God help me I remember the name. I took my sister to see that movie a thousand years ago. I think it's VI? Yeah. Star Trek VI."

"Wait, that's the one with David Bowie's wife!" He exclaimed as he started to remember.

"Right. Iman. But she's a...a shape-shifter."

"Right! Well, fuck me, they're keeping us here with a fucking movie myth." James took another drag. "But you're wrong. Spock's not there. He's back on the ship with that bird from Sex And The City.

This suddenly struck them both as riotously funny and again they both laughed, loudly, happily. It was ridiculous. This was all so fucking ridiculous.

"So, we're not going to escape, we're not going to scale the mountains and we're also not going to pretend we're in a Klingon penal colony. What do we do?" John asked.

James shrugged before pointing his second cigarette of the evening skyward.

"I guess...we just keep looking up." He said.

John agreed. It was as good a plan as any.

"Yeah, keep looking up. Cause it's pretty."

"Yeah, cause it's pretty." James agreed.

And it was.

Chapter Text

Day 21

He arrived at Hanah’s office the next day not just punctual but early.

He knocked, she said come in, he entered and stood awkwardly in the middle of the floor.

John cleared his throat, looked down and cleared it again.

“The first thing I want to say is I owe you an apology. I’m sorry for not showing up yesterday. You’ve been nothing but kind to me, hard but kind and you don’t deserve to be ignored like that.”

She smiled and nodded.

“Apology accepted, now have a seat.”

He didn’t know what he’d been expecting. Maybe to be scolded which he felt he deserved for his rudeness. But that didn’t seem as though it was forthcoming.

“I understand needing a break, John. This is an artificial environment in many ways. Not the least of which includes daily therapy sessions. That likely wouldn’t occur in the outside world. Now, I know it’s a harsh schedule and I completely understand that you might have to take a day or two off. I require two things; the first being, you tell me you’re not going show. You can knock on my door, you can slip a note under it or onto my desk. That’s all acceptable. OK?”

“Yeah, yes, ok sounds fair.”

“Good. The second condition is that in our next session we discuss why you couldn’t show up for the one you missed. We don’t gloss over it and pretend it didn’t happen. You’ve glossed over enough in your life. Deal?”

“Deal.” He said with a nod.

“Ok then, so let’s talk about what you couldn’t face yesterday.”

He took a deep breath. “There were parts of this book that made a lot of sense whether I wanted it to or not. And I really didn’t want it to.”

“You read more than just what I assigned you?”

“I always do.”

“I was counting on it. I figured your curiosity wouldn’t let you stop. So how far did you get?”

“I finished it. The whole thing.”

Her eyebrows darted up in surprise.

“Oh. Well, tell me what you thought.”

He tried to gather his thoughts on the topic but it wasn't easy. There was so much emotion swirling about but all he wanted to do was speak plainly.“I don’t like it. I don’t like that it’s me but it is. I guess I have this tendency to see things in black and white; people, situations, myself. The book talked about how it was a survival mechanism. I guess that’s true. I mean, growing up there wasn’t a lot of room or space for nuance. I categorize people as friend or foe and that’s sort of it.”

“I don’t like it. I don’t like that it’s me but it is. I guess I have this tendency to see things in black and white; people, situations, myself. The book talked about how it was a survival mechanism. I guess that’s true too. I mean, growing up there wasn’t a lot of room or space for nuance. I categorize people as friend or foe and that’s sort of it.”

“When was the last time you found yourself doing that?”

“I do it all the time. I did it with you when we first met. I did it with James, this other bloke who’s in here. We had dinner together yesterday then went out and looked up at the stars.”

“That sounds nice.” She smiled and put her pen to her lips thoughtfully.

“Yeah, yeah it was.”

“So James is a friend?”

“I mean...yeah, in a basic sort of way.”

“How fast would you say you make that decision?”

“Pretty quick...I guess.”

“I’d like to talk about your friendships, have you had many close friends over your life?”

John cleared his throat and looked at his cuticles. Reading the book she’d given him had brought all sorts of memories to the surface. In certain ways, he was seeing his life from the outside. A lonely little boy turning into a lonely teenager and then young man until...

“Uh...no, not many. I always had acquaintances, mates, a group I hung around with even if it was just on the periphery. But I had responsibilities, I had to get home to my sister, eventually, I had a part-time job. Friendships, like any relationship, require commitment. I’ve never been very good at commitment.”

“What about adult friendships?”

“Well...for the longest time my best friend was a bloke named Duck. That was his nickname, that was what we called him. I didn’t find out why until later.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “I assume you’ve seen my CV?”

“I’ve seen all your forms, John.”

“Then I assume you’ve noticed the little gap?”

 “Of course. Between secondary school and university. What were you doing during that time?”

“I was with Duck. He and I didn’t go to the same school we actually met at a park near my home. He was hanging out with a group of other blokes, clearly holding court. They were all older than me but it was one of those rare times where I had this powerful urge to just belong. By this time my sister was older and spending less time at home so I didn’t have to be there immediately. I think I was just skulking about, hoping to be noticed. God knows what they were talking about, I can’t remember, but I guess I made some smart comment, clever enough to get Duck’s attention and he asked me my name.”

John chuckled at the memory.

“I thought about making up something flashy, something dangerous but I froze in the moment and just said “John.” That wasn’t deemed too offensive and in that way that things sometimes happen smoothly when you’re 17 I was accepted.”

“Was this the first time you felt accepted?”

God, was it? That was a depressing little thought. “Yeah, I guess so. It was certainly the first time I had the means and space to put anything into a friendship.”

“Yeah, I guess so. It was certainly the first time I had the means and space to put anything into a friendship.”

“Did it change how you felt about yourself now that you had friends?”

“I guess it made me feel more normal. We weren’t a gang or anything but it did help once people started associating me with that group. I think maybe I felt safe? Even though I didn’t really think of myself as having been unsafe before.”

“You haven’t named any of the other young men you spent time with, only Duck.”

‘Well, everything was only about Duck. He was the leader of it all. Tall, ridiculous head of red hair, handsome. He’d say the most inappropriate things. Could get any bird, had everyone's respect. Not a bad student either, from what I heard, but he liked to keep that under wraps. He and I were the same age but he just seemed older, wiser, more together. I think I needed that, wanted it, maybe. I think maybe I was tired of being the older brother. I wanted someone else to do it for a change.”

“Do you think it’s your nature to want to take care of people, John?”

“Yeah, but I think it’s also my nature to want to stop. I think I get easily frustrated which makes me a shit caretaker in the end.”

“That’s a bit harsh.”

John shrugged and continued.

“When we finished up secondary school I didn’t know what I wanted to do. University just didn’t have a pull, you know? I couldn’t imagine spending even more time trapped in some building with some professor droning on. That had been the majority of my life up to that point. I guess that’s the majority of everyone's life at that point. Anyway, my sister had officially moved out so it was just me and my father. I didn’t think we could live there without killing each other and I didn’t want to find out. I knew Duck didn’t plan on uni either so I asked him if he might want to get a flat. He loved the idea. I was elated. We took what little money we had and got a shitty place together that day. I left home that night. Left my dad a note that said “It’s all yours now.” and that was that.”

“Tell me how that felt?”

John thought back to that moment. What little possessions he had and cared about shoved in one bag, his clothes in another. Grabbing the nearest sheet of paper which happened to be a receipt from a fast food place and scrawling the words on it. The rush of excitement which felt amazing, the little twinges of fear which, oddly, felt pretty good too. Effectively severing his relationship with the man he had long ago grown to hate.

“It felt wonderful. One of the best moment of my life. I got a job at a newspaper, doing little write-ups of local events under the name Ormond Sacker. I chose the most ridiculous pen name I could imagine. I don’t know why. I even stopped introducing myself as John after a while. Went by just J. or that brief period where I thought Hamish might sound cool. No idea what I was thinking there.”

“Is the newspaper how you supported yourself?”

“Yes and no. I stayed there for a long while but I was antsy and so was Duck. We both wound up getting jobs at a pub as security slash bouncers. Throwing out drunks, subduing people until the cops arrived. Using a bit of force when necessary.”

“That’s a far cry from a newspaper columnist.”

“Yeah, it was, I was leading a double life I suppose.”

“How did that make you feel?”

“I loved every moment of it.” He said releasing a ragged breath. He never allowed himself to think of these times. Something about the pleasure he took from these memories disquieted him. “There was a repetition to this period that I liked. The owner of the pub was into some criminal stuff, pretty low level when we started. One night he calls Duck and me into his office and asks if we’d like to pick up some spare work on the side. Just running errands, he says. I was wary but Duck was all for it. God knows I would have followed him anywhere. So the next thing you know, well, we’re kind of enforcers for this guy, collecting cash, ferrying packages the contents of which I really didn’t want to know between people. All of a sudden we’re seeing more money than we’ve ever seen before in our lives. We move out of our flat into a better one on a better side of town.”

“What appealed to you about this life? It seems like a rather drastic turn.”

“Everything appealed to me. The money, the violence. I found that the more I hit things, the more I hurt people, the more I wanted to. I justified it by saying they deserved it.”

 He rubbed his temples before continuing.

“I hate thinking of myself back then. I hate who I was but I enjoyed it at the time. I enjoyed it so much and I’d be lying to say otherwise. I was such an outlet. I went to veteran parades or dog shows during the day so I could do a write-up of it in the afternoon and submit it. I’d show up at the pub, work the door. The pub would close around 2 or 3 and I’d spent the following hour shaking down people for the money they owed our boss. Start the next day all over again, sometimes with a black eye or a sprained finger...”

“What was it an outlet for?”

“Anger, so much anger. If I think back to it I can feel it. I think...sometimes I wanted them to fight back. I wanted them to not have the money they owed. I wanted to have a chance to...to...”

“To what, John?”

“You must think I’m an awful person. Jesus, the things I’m telling you.”

“I’m not here to judge your morality. But if you want to discuss how you’re feeling about these memories we can.”

“I don’t like them. I don’t like the person that I was but at the time I didn’t have any regrets. Good money, fast living. Just adrenaline pumping 24/7 and yet I felt the calmest I have in my entire life. All that worry, all that nervousness, and anxiety, it was gone.”

“So how or why did it end?”

“Duck was working a bit more than I was. Taking some jobs he wouldn’t let me come on. I didn’t get why and at first, I was offended and then pretty hurt. It took me some time to understand he was trying to protect me. He was in a lot deeper than I was.

One night we went out, as usual. Just a delivery, like any other night. Cash, by the way, to the best of my knowledge I never transported drugs. Things just went wrong. Wrong people, wrong night. I’m still not sure if it was an ambush or something. Things escalated, Duck and I wind up face down in an alley with guns pressed into the back of our skulls.

Up until that point, I’d never been so scared. I'd never thought about how badly all this could go. I’d never considered myself much of a religious person but I was lying there, praying “Please God, let me live. Please God, let me live.” One of them hit me with the butt of the gun and I was out. I came to and Duck was lying beside me in his own blood. I thought he was dead but a little shove and he groaned. I picked him up and half dragged, half carried him home. I tried to get him to go to the hospital but he was too scared.

I still don’t know the whole story but I have my theories. Duck wouldn’t tell, still trying to protect me I suppose. Anyway, I let our boss know what had happened. He was livid but more so at the blokes who had attacked us and the breach of some underworld etiquette. He asked to talk to Duck. Their conversation was mostly just him saying “Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah. Uh-huh.”

Again, he just wouldn’t tell me. All he did say was that we shouldn’t go to work for a few days. That was fine. I figured whatever was going on would be fixed by people much higher up than us. I kept my head down and took care of Duck. He was pretty beat up, he’d clearly gotten the worst of it and by the third day, I only had a lingering headache while he was black and blue. A week came and went and he hadn’t left our flat. Then two weeks. I stuck close. I was so worried about him and he’d gone absolutely tight lipped.

Finally, one day he sent me to the store, actually a couple of stores, but I was happy for the errand. I was happy he was back to wanting things instead of being so listless. And when I got back he was gone.”

“Gone how?” She asked with a frown.

“Scarpered. Cupboard cleaned out, clothes gone, suitcase gone, everything. The only thing he left was a note, a gun and a pile of money.”

“What did the note say.”

“He apologized for leaving but said none of this was going to blow over for him. He needed to get away and he wanted me safe. He left the money for rent and the gun for protection. He told me he loved me and that he was sorry.”

“How did you feel?”

“Is there something beyond devastated? That would qualify. Logically I knew he wouldn’t take such a drastic step unless he needed to but...but I was so hurt. I mean, maybe I could have helped. Maybe we could have left together, I thought. I loved him. He was the only family I really had left and he just abandoned me. At least that’s how I felt at the time.”

“And now?”

John chuckled mirthlessly.

“I know I should be over it but it still fucking hurts. Stupid really.”

“Did you ever hear from him again?”

“Yeah, he wrote me a letter some years later. It made it’s way to where I was staying when I was finishing up my time at Barts. He told me he had joined the army, that that was his only chance to be safe and get away. That he had done as many tours as they let him but overall he felt safer now. Might even consider coming home soon. He inquired about my health, how I was doing. He was surprised I’d jumped into med school and he hoped maybe I’d write him back if I wasn’t too angry. He apologized again and again.

I hadn’t cried in years before I got that letter, probably since he left but I took it back home and just wept in my bedroom. I was so relieved to hear from him, so happy he wasn’t dead. So fucking happy.

He signed it, Love, “Duck”. Now better know as Major James Sholto. You never asked but Sholto means “Teal Duck” in Gaelic. I couldn’t very well go around asking people to call me Teal, could I?”

Chapter Text

Day 22

"How would you describe your relationship with Duck?"

John settled back into the chair thinking of how to answer. What did that even mean? How do you describe a friendship?

"Exciting, dedicated, intense, I suppose."

"Why intense?"

"There wasn't room or time for anyone or anything else. But don't get me wrong, I liked it that way. We did everything together. No matter what else was going on neither of us would be able to even sleep if the other one wasn't safely back home in the flat. He became my family, my best mate, I...I loved him dearly. I'd have done just about anything for him." John said before adding. "He made me happy."

"Were you speaking to your sister at this time?"

"No, there was already a rift by then. She did a 180 with regard to our father...so um...we mutually decided it was best to maintain distance."

"Were you actively dating at the time?"

"I was sleeping around a little. So was Duck. No one steady, I didn't really have time. I also didn't really want the hassle."

"So he was your deepest relationship at that time. Your only relationship."

John shifted in his seat and eyed her.

"Just ask." He said tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair.

"I'm sorry?"

"I know what you're getting at, so just ask."

"What am I getting at?"

"You want to know if I fancied him. If we were sleeping together."

"Were you?"

"No, we weren't." He said testily.

"Why do you think I was going to ask that?"

"Because it's what people always asked about Sherlock. They always assumed we were at it."

"Does that bother you? That people might perceive you as bisexual?"

He paused at bisexual. He didn't recall people ever using that term with regards to him before.

"They...they always thought I was gay and no it doesn't bother me, but can't a bloke have a best mate anymore?"

"Of course."

"I wasn't sleeping with Duck and I wasn't sleeping with Sherlock."

"I understand."

"Good."

"Ok, good then. So, back to my question, he was your deepest relationship at the time."

"Deepest relationship ever up until then." John admitted. "I followed him around like a puppy. We argued and fought like siblings but usually made up by the end of the night. I made us sound like gangsters but the truth is we were just as likely to pick up some beer from the store, a pizza and rent a movie and just stay in. Women came and went but...no one mattered like him. I told him things about my father, my life, things I hoped for and wished for and wanted and he did the same. Whatever he meant to me I think I meant the same to him. It was...intimate. I hadn't been able to connect with a woman that way. I probably didn't try all that hard but I figured why bother when I had Duck."

"Did you think it would be difficult to divide your attention?"

"Of course, you..you can't split yourself like that."

"What happens?"

"You end up hurting people."

"What happened to you after Duck left?"

John thought back to the absolute hopelessness that had washed over him that day and continued for...well, he didn't know for how long. All he did know was that it was pervasive, heavy. He remembered it weighed down his limbs like ballast. When he came home and found the note and the money he'd just sort of collapsed onto their couch. He'd sat there, staring. The tears, as always, had come later. That was something to think about. It seemed the tears always came later, like he couldn't ever cry in the moment.

"For awhile...nothing. I...felt directionless. I didn't have an appetite, I couldn't sleep. A part of me hoped he might still show up, change his mind, take me with him. I discreetly asked around about him but nobody had heard anything. I think I was the only person he'd bothered to offer a goodbye to. That mattered I guess."

Hanah had been scribbling furiously in her notebook as she did now all the time. She had a way of writing without looking at the page the same way that people typed without looking at the keys. Unlike Ella, she always kept the book at a tilt so he had no hope of reading what she'd written.

"When did those feelings stop?"

He knew the normal answer was, say a few weeks or after a handful of months. But that wasn't the truth. The clouds hadn't really parted until Duck had written and he'd written back. They'd gotten lighter when he enlisted and fully lifted when he had the distinct pleasure of serving under Major James Sholto.

"It took awhile." 

"Ok," She said leaning forward. "Time for a little self-analysis. Do you think it would be going too far to say that you've dealt with depression for a lot longer than you've been willing to acknowledge."

"I-" He started shaking his head no as he scratched his beard. That was an added bonus to having a beard, it gave him something to do with his hands. "It's such a large, all-encompassing word. I think depression I think of someone who isn't able to get out of bed or function. I'll admit I was depressed, severely depressed after Mary died but..." He trailed off.

"You're right, John it is an all encompassing word and within that word is room for a lot of variations. People who are suffering from depression can manifest it in multiple forms, listlessness, irritation, violence, making sudden rash decisions. For instance, when did you choose to go to medical school?"

"About a month after he left. But you're not trying to say being a doctor was a bad decision are you?"

"I never said bad."

She had him there.

"You're right. You didn't. Sorry. Black and white thinking, good and bad."

"Exactly. Not bad, just rash, sudden."

"Ok...ok I guess I was depressed. I stopped working at the pub after awhile, it just didn't seem right after Duck left. I kept up at the newspaper because I could do that in my sleep. He left me enough money to keep the rent up for a while but I hated staying there without him. It was too quiet, too lonely. I just spent my nights in our...my flat drinking alone."

"Looking back would you say that you had a problem with alcohol then?"

"I don't know if I'm qualified to judge. In hindsight, it doesn't seem like too much. I was 19 and I'd just been dumped by my best friend."

"Fair enough. We don't have to relitigate that particular experience. But you did turn to alcohol in a time of crisis, in a time where you felt lost and that's noteworthy. So, med school?"

"Yeah, yes, spur of the moment decision. I'd always liked anatomy, done well in maths and science and one day I just said, I'm going to be a doctor."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that. I applied, was accepted, got out of our lease and that was that. The next session was just starting up and I was in."

"If you had to step back and analyze that behavior what would you say?"

He hated analyzing his behavior but he was getting better at the exercise. "I guess...it was impulsive, spur of the moment. It was certainly ill conceived. I wasn't prepared to just jump back into that life again. Go from enforcer to student but I did a pretty good imitation of it. I got good grades and 5 years later I was a GP."

"Did you just gloss over 5 years?" She asked with a laugh, a laugh he returned.

"Nothing much happened, classes, tests."

"What about a social life, friends, dating?"

"I had a mate, Mike, we were pretty close."

"But not as close as you and Duck."

John shook his head.

"I didn't want to go..." He trailed off.

"You didn't want to go through that again?"

He nodded.

"I kept my distance. Purposefully. Once bitten and all. I had a steady girlfriend for about 3 years. We talked about marriage every now and then but we were young and it was mostly talk. In the end we wanted different things."

"What did she want?"

"The house, the kids, the dream."

"And what did you want?"

He scratched an itch on his arm as he thought back to Lucy with her dark hair and that crooked smile that he loved to make appear. Clever Lucy, kind Lucy, sexy Lucy. Lucy who played the piano and was good at darts but great at football because she'd been captain of her team at her all-girls school. Lucy who liked to sleep with her head on his chest. Lucy who loved to split a full English breakfast with him but would tease him and laughingly fight him off with her fork if he tried for a bite of her trifle or sticky toffee pudding. Lucy who liked to sleep late and shower in the morning and whose favorite position was reverse cowgirl. Lucy who insisted on commandeering the left side of the bed. Lucy who tried and tried and tried until one day she didn't want to try anymore because he wasn't worth it. And he agreed. Lucy who he heard had gotten her kids and her husband and her house without him, as it should be.

"Not what she did. It didn't take long for me to realize I wouldn't be able to stand the monotony of being a GP. Emergency medicine started to appeal to me so I shifted my focus, kept training, got a few jobs, Bachelors of Surgery, trained in Trauma and Orthopedics. When it was time to reapply again for a new position, that was when I got the letter from Duck. I felt like I'd been moving in slow motion. I was good at what I did. I was a good doctor...I hope I still am. But still I was so unsatisfied, so unhappy. I thought the letter came at the best possible time. A saw a chance to enlist in the Army's surgical training program and I took it."

"How were you feeling before you enlisted?"

"Stuck, stagnant, trapped, bored.

John went silent as his fingertips worried the bridge of his nose.

He could feel Hanah's frown without seeing it.

"What is it, John?"

"Things that I thought were the opposite of being depressed that book tells me aren't. The impulsivity, the anger...I always thought of depression as something that slowed you down to a near halt. The way I was in the last few days and months before I came here. But if that's not true, if I've been dealing with this my entire life then...my concern is you're going to prescribe a lot of pills. That for me to live anything close to a normal life I'm going to have to spend it drugged up."

Hanah was silent and he finally looked up at her to see what she wasn't saying. He was surprised to find her smiling.

"What on earth is there to smile about?" He snapped.

"That is the first time in all our sessions that you've expressed any sort of thoughts or desires or worries for what might happen when you leave this place. That's a big deal, John."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, confused and angered by this sudden unbidden flow of emotion. 

But she just nodded, knowing that some part of him wanted to go on and giving him space to do so if he could manage.

"I feel like...this is an artificial environment. The grief, that just overwhelming sadness is still here." He said touching his chest and stifling a completely unexpected sob. His eyes started to burn but he went on. "But it's less. I can admit that. It is a bit less. I still cry myself to sleep nearly every night but...it's different than out there. I just don't want to get it into my head that the things I'm trying to do in here will translate out there. Do you know what I mean?"

"They'll translate if you work them. And you're right, there is a bit of the artificial to this place. This level of help and support and the fact that you can't just pop out to a store for a drink, that matters. But I also don't think you're giving yourself enough credit. Did it ever occur to you that you're thinking more clearly now than you have in over a year? That some of the effects of all that alcohol have receded? That's not artificial, that's hard and true science. That matters. And that's what you did for you. That's sobriety and you can take that with you. I swear to you, even if nothing else here is portable, that is. When you first got here you were posed with a question about whether or not you'd attempt suicide again if given a chance and you said yes. Do you still feel that way?"

"I don't want to be trapped by my answer." he said practically gritting his teeth to avoid sobbing again.

"Your answer is not legally or morally binding. But it is important especially for a man like you who does tend to shift towards the negative. It is important to acknowledge the successes just as much as you acknowledge your past failures."

"I don't see what you see or feel what you feel. If I think about the future, a future it's too much. I feel like the breadth of it all will swallow me whole."

Hanah passed him the box of tissues, a sympathetic look on her face. He knew if he accepted the box he wouldn't be able to stop the tears, all bets would be off."

He took the box from her hand with a quiet, "Thank you."

"All the literature says 'One day at a time'. And it has become such a cliche but it's still true. You're not who you were yesterday and you can't make any promises for who you'll be tomorrow. I'm only speaking to the John Watson that exists today, the one sitting in front of me. He's the only one you have to answer for. Do you want to live?"

He inhaled deeply and brought the balled up tissue to his eyes."I don't know that I definitely want to live...I just...I don't think I want to die." He paused and covered his face for a moment before speaking from behind his hands "Yes, yes, today, this day, right now, I want to live. ...I don't know about tomorrow"

"John, no one does." 

Chapter Text

Dear John,

It likely doesn't mean very much coming from me but, I'm proud of you. 20+ days in rehab is no small feat and I'm just glad that you decided to do this.

You've always been kind of cheap with you. Do you know what I mean? There's a lot of things you don't seem to think you're worth, you never have. Of course, that's just my opinion, what do I know.

I sat down to write this and I realized I don't know what to say about our recent past or our present or even our future. So, maybe I'll go back to our very distant past. I just wanted to say I keep thinking back to this one memory. This time when we were both pretty small. We were supposed to go to the carnival in town but it was raining something terrible so we were forced to stay home. I didn't even know what a carnival was but from the other kids at school it sounded incredible and I was heartbroken we were going to miss it.

Dad wasn't home, it was just you and me and while I whined and looked out of the window and tried to wish the rain away you vanished for a bit. After awhile you called me into the bedroom. You had one of our big white sheets stretched over two chairs and you told me to sit down because the show was about to start. You turned off the lights and got behind the sheet and switched on a lamp. And then you put on a show for just me, a little shadow play. You'd cut out some animal shapes with scraps of paper and the cardboard from Dad's cases of beer and you used some of my paper dolls too. You made a little circus for me, for us. You sang songs and you made the elephants jump and the lions and tigers roll and roar, you made my dolls walk a shoestring tightrope.

When the show was over I clapped and you came out from behind the sheet and said we weren't finished yet. The clowns hadn't arrived. I asked you who were the clowns and you said we were. You pulled out a little bag of flour you'd nicked from the kitchen and a tube of lipstick that I assume you'd gotten from Mum's old jewelry box. You used water to turn the flour into a paste and you "painted" your face and mine and then gave us both big red smiles and cheeks. We walked about the house making faces and, well, clowning around.

Then you said it was time for a ride but I needed a ticket. I said I didn't have one but you told me to check in my pocket. You'd slipped in a ticket that you'd made out of construction paper. "Admit One For Unlimited Rides".

You had all these pillows lining the wall at the bottom of the stairs and the laundry basket at the top. It's funny how neither of us thought this was a bad idea at the time! We both piled in and you sent it careening down the stairs and we crashed into the pillows laughing and then we reset the soft barrier so we could do it again. I lost track of how many times that happened but by the end of it all after we'd cleaned up and you helped me wash the flour off my face I knew that what we'd had was better than any carnival on earth. If I didn't tell you so then I'm telling you now.

See, it wasn't all bad, you and me.

I miss what we might have been, Johnny.

I love you and I'm cheering you on.

I remember when I was in treatment how sometimes people meant well, sending stuff from home, but it often had the opposite effect of making things worse, adding undue pressure. So, all I'll say is that Rosie is doing remarkably well. She's happy, she's saying her first words and she actually took two steps on her own the other day before crashing down onto her bottom. I've enclosed some pictures of her for you but they're in a separate envelope. You don't have to open them right now. They'll keep. But they're there for you.

I'm not supposed to say anything but you've got really good friends. 

Take care of yourself, John and job well done.

You can write back if you like. That would be nice.

Love,

Harry

Chapter Text

Dear John,

Hello, love! Oh, I miss you, but I’m pleased as punch you’re safe and sound. I’ve sent along a few more comforts from home and if you have any requests for treats of toiletries or sundries you just let me know.

I don’t want to overwhelm you so I won’t keep you long. Just know that we all miss you and send our best and look forward to you coming home.

I’m sure Sherlock does too.

Hugs and kisses, dear!

Mrs. Hudson

Chapter Text

Every day he went to the head office and got his mobile.

Every day he took it with him to dinner, or back to his room and kept it until he turned it in before going to bed.

He never called anyone or texted.

There was no one to call. Or rather no one he dared call. He wanted to phone or text Sherlock but had no idea what his friend...ex-friend would say. Rather, he had an idea what he’d say and the last thing he wanted to do was hear it.

John had no one but himself to blame.

That didn’t stop him from stalking him online and this particular evening he sat on the edge of his bed scrolling the internet.

His website hadn’t been updated in ages except for one small thing.

In the bottom right-hand corner was the message “If you want my help, write to me at 221B Baker Street, London - SH”

The six words he added not long after they met, “ or contact me through John's blog.” were gone.

It hurt more than he thought possible. But the truth was, he didn’t even know when he’d removed it.

John went to his own site to find the blog was no longer available. That wasn’t exactly a surprise as he’d let the domain fees lapse. But still...

He then went to Sherlock’s twitter account. He'd avoided his Twitter specifically, fearing what he might find there. But tonight curiosity got the better of him. 

 Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B I would like to stress that this account and DM's are to be used to contact me only when you have a potential case. 

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B In no way, shape or form is this meant to be a personal account.

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B When you clutter my private messages and inbox with inane babble you prevent those who need help from getting through.

Replying to @ConsultingDetective221B

Maisy Daisy @DeerStalker101  You used to tweet personal things

Replying to @DeerStalker101

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B I used to do a lot of things.

Those tweets were from the 20th of December.

Mar @MissyMissyMystery @ConsultingDetective221B Are you at hospital right now?

Replying to @MissyMissyMystery

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B Why would you ask this?

Replying to @ConsultingDetective221B

Mar @MissyMissyMystery I know someone who knows someone. They said they could have sworn they brought John in in an ambulance & you were there.

Replying to @ConsultingDetective221B

Mar @MissyMissyMystery Are you not going to answer?

Replying to @ConsultingDetective221B

Mar @MissyMissyMystery It’s all over Reddit now. TMZ is next. They say he tried to off himself.

Those from early in the morning on the 25th. The next was from the 27th.

Kel @ShadyGatorade @ConsultingDetective221B Sherlock, we can’t imagine what you’re going through. But please, can you tell us, is John alright? Will he live?

Replying to @ShadyGatorade

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B No. Yes.

Replying to @ConsultingDetective221B

Kel @ShadyGatorade Jesus, Sherlock what does that mean???????

He hadn’t responded to the last reply and in fact, his response to the first had been deleted. But someone has screen capped it and included it in the thread.

Some hours later a single tweet.

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B Am I to find your crying/sad face emoji's accompanied by reaction gifs from your favorite TV shows comforting? I don't. Please refrain.

Finally, a group of tweets sent on the same day John’s press release became public.

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B This will be the one and only statement I make regarding the incident that occurred over Christmas holiday.

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B As someone who has struggled privately and quite publically with addiction, I understand how it can wreak havoc on a life.

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B I am also aware that the act of seeking help is a monumental decision and one of the bravest choices an individual can make.

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B John Watson, my friend, remains the bravest man I have ever met.

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B If you think well of me, think well of him. If you think well of him and couldn’t give a toss about me, so much the better.

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B No matter what you may believe about him or his actions which have been salaciously reported in the press-

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B -I ask you to wish him well. As I do and always shall.

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B He has had far too many dark days. I hope that all those that lie before him are bright and brighter still.

That was all.

After a 2015 filled with sporadic tweeting, the account had effectively gone silent. There was nothing for the new year.

John got up from bed, left his room and dropped the phone off at the desk.

He returned to his room, turned off the light and laid awake until morning, unable to sleep, to dream or to cry.

Chapter Text

Day 30

Staring in the mirror, the incongruity of what he saw distressed him. Because of the weight loss, his clothes fit him oddly, hanging limply off his body. His mustache and beard were scraggly and unkempt, he was pale, or at least paler than normal. He had circles and bags and circles beneath his eyes to spare. On top of that, his hair was too long. Well, at least the hair issues were the one thing he could fix. He hated his reflection. Hated staring at himself for long at all so he didn't.

He'd made plans to meet James for dinner on the steps of the facility. It was one of the few things he'd grown to consistently enjoy about this place. The peace and quiet and the company.

Therapy today had been unnerving. They'd moved on to talk about the war and thoughts he'd wanted to put behind him. But then, what else was new? What didn't he want to put behind him?

"You think you're ready for combat. They train you and they tell you you're ready because they have to, that's part of the job.

But nothing readies you for the sights or the sounds or the smells. The artillery fire is loud but it's not loud enough to drown out the screams of the guy next to you who was hit. Or your own screams. And the smoke is thick but it's not thick enough to block out seeing men and women reduced to hamburger meat because of one misstep on a roadside bomb.

Mycroft said to me once...when I first met him, that I miss it. You're not haunted by the war, Dr. Watson. You miss it. To some extent he was right. I missed the adrenaline, the surety of what I was doing in the moment because in the moment there were only two options; survive or don't. I like that. But I don't miss the carnage.

When I was discharged I was referred specifically to a bedsit that housed mostly other post-war headcases like me. Thick walls. That was a selling point and do you know why? So the screams of the other residents wouldn't bother you and so your screams wouldn't bother them. It was like a mental hospital where we were all allowed to come and go as we pleased.

I would wake up and I swear I could smell that stink of burning flesh. I could hear my men shouting. Duck shouting.

I could feel the bullet rip through me, again and again, and again."

"What did you experience when you were shot. What feelings did you...do you relive?"

"Not the fear. Not so much anymore. Just the same emotion I felt at the time. Ah...here it is. That's what it feels like."

"What do you mean?"

"A part of me feels like I've been dodging a bullet, that bullet that finally got me my entire life."

They'd talked a bit more after that, about that bullet before circling round again.

"What did you have with you in the bedsit?"

"My laptop, some clothes, my service pistol."

"You were supposed to surrender that upon discharge." She said gesturing at him with her pen.

"Going to report me?" He said trying for a light reply and missing.

"Why did you have the gun, John?"

"A reminder of my time in-"

"John?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you have the gun?"

"Because I was terrified. And I can't even tell you why. I can't even give it a name. I just know I would wake up frightened out of my mind and I'd go to the drawer where I kept it and I'd sit up and hold it sometimes until the sun came up. I wanted the sun to come up but I hated seeing it rise. I hated being awake to see it rise because it was just another failure."

Hanah nodded.

"Is there anything else? What were you going to do with the gun?"

He closed his eyes and saw the circled date on the calendar in his mind. Circled in blue.

"I'd picked a date. An arbitrary date, it didn't mean anything. 8th of August 2010."

"For what purpose?"

"I think...had I not met Mike and subsequently Sherlock when I did..." He'd stopped and restarted. "I had decided that that was enough time for things to either get better or not. Enough therapy, enough civilian life-"

John had stopped again.

"Not long after I got to the bedsit There'd been a commotion, maybe about three or four nights in. The walls were thick but not bloody impenetrable. I opened my door and rushed out into the hall and I saw these people trying to break down a door. Or debating on whether to break down a door. They thought there was a resident inside who needed help. Someone had heard something heavy fall over. When they'd called for him, knocked for him there'd been no response. That was all I needed to know, I shouldered my way in and there he was. I only found out his name later. Nick." He cleared his throat. "Nick decided he'd had enough and hanged himself with a bedsheet. I ordered someone to call 999 and confirmed that they were in fact calling. I know they tell you to do that in an emergency because if you don't designate someone everybody will assume everyone else is doing it. I had another bloke come over and lift Nick up to give me some slack while I climbed on a chair, the chair the neighbor had heard fall over...that was the heavy thing... and got him down. I started CPR but...well, as I'm sure you know sometimes that's just something you do for show. For the people watching so it looks like you're doing something. And also so maybe some day in a crisis they'll actually do something that may save someone's life because they recall seeing you doing it. But I knew this kid was...gone. Long gone. He was dead when I brought him down.

That was basically that. I spoke to the EMT's when they arrived, I spoke to the police and maybe two weeks later someone else was living in what used to be Nick's flat with brand new hinges on their door. But I kept thinking about Nick and seeing his face. The longer I thought about it the more I envied him.

8th of August, 2010 I was going to put my pistol in my mouth and kill myself. I met Sherlock on the 5th.

I've never told anyone that in my life. Not anyone."

That afternoon Reggie began the meeting as he always did. 

"I'd like to welcome Amy to our little group. Amy just passed the milestone of 24 hours sober. I'm going to give her her 24-hour coin and you all should give her a big hand."

Amy offered the group a tired, grateful and shy smile as she accepted the coin. She was about to return to her seat when Reggie stopped her. 

"Just one second, we also have for you the Surrender coin. This is something everybody gets once they make a commitment to surrender their lives to working through their addiction and toward their sobriety. We've all been where you are now, Amy, and we're happy you're here. Again, let's give her a hand."

John hadn't given much credence to the "Surrender" chip. In fact, he'd hated it. Hated the name. The implication. In one of the first handful of meetings he'd actually said; "Trust me, mate, I was trying to surrender to it all but the seizure got in the way." That had gone over as well as one might imagine.

Once he'd gotten back to his room that night he'd set the coin on his bureau, untouched and ignored.

But that didn't mean he didn't clap for Amy. That didn't mean he didn't clap for all of them. When he'd first arrived he, admittedly, tuned out. He didn't want to be there, couldn't relate to some of their stories of getting munted at Coachella. But...when he peeled away their tales, when he allowed himself to look deeper at their pain, finally looking past his own, he saw they weren't as different as he had thought. To long-story-short it, he realized he'd been being an arse and upon realizing it he changed his behavior. He still hadn't shared, didn't quite know how to do so. It was difficult enough with Hanah in the beginning. Now he felt semi-at ease with her. And though he knew the people here fairly well now, he still mostly kept his mouth shut.

Amy sat and Reggie continued.

"Anyone with 30 days?" He asked. 

John scratched at his beard and looked about the room.

"John? That's you." Reggie said and John snapped his head towards him in surprise. "30 days, mate. Come on up get your chip."

For a minute he just sat there even as the applause started. 30 days. Had it been 30 days? How had he lost track? How was he not keeping track? Was that a bad thing?

Finally, he got to his feet and made his way to the front of the room. Reggie shook his hand and then placed a small coin in his open palm. It was red and about the size of a poker chip. Emblazoned on it were the words "Unity. Service. Recovery. To Thine Ownself Be True". He smiled at it, it felt like nothing in his hand, practically weightless. He hadn't thought this would matter much to him, couldn't see how. It was just a trinket. But that didn't stop the surprising surge of tentative pride he felt.

"Would you like to say something?" Reggie asked.

It was on the tip of his tongue to say, No. But then he looked at Amy. He had no idea who she was or what her story might be. She wasn't a tv or movie star as best he could tell. Maybe she was somebody's adult kid, some wealthy heiress or maybe she was Secret Service. He had no idea. But in that moment it didn't matter because she was looking at him with wonder. There were plenty of people in the room who had far more days than he did but she hadn't heard that and didn't even know their names. But the way she was looking at him told John that this, seeing somebody who'd kicked it for even a month was a big deal. Right now she likely couldn't imagine another 24 hours much less a month.

For some strange reason, he felt he owed it to this stranger, Amy, to speak.

"Um, yeah, sure." He cleared his throat and gazed at them all. "30 days...well shit." He began and it immediately garnered a laugh. "I didn't expect this. It's been hard to keep my head above water so I admit I hadn't even been attempting to count days. When I came here I didn't have much interest in getting better...in going on. But lately, with the help of my therapy, I've decided that living might not be such a raw deal after all. And if I'm going to live, then I'm going to live sober. I want to live sober. I..umm, also realize I may not have been the most receptive person in group." There were a few more scattered chuckles of agreement. "I apologize for that and from here on out I will try to do better." He looked at the coin in his hand before clenching a fist around it. "Much to my surprise, this matters to me. Ok, that's all. Thanks for listening."

He hurried to his seat amid the applause and was greeted with a few slaps on the back and murmurs of 'Congratulations, John.'.

He was glad the flush that had risen to his cheeks was mostly camouflaged by his facial hair.

John kept the chip securely in his hand, running his fingers over the raised print for the duration of the meeting.

Reggie dismissed but not before making an announcement.

"For those of you who may not know Family Day is two weeks from Saturday. It lasts from Friday evening until Sunday evening. We encourage you to let you friends and family know they're welcome here to see how you're doing, to visit, to catch up and to just tell you they love you and for you to do the same. We'll have activities, special group meetings, sessions, one-on-ones. We can obviously accommodate them here at The Location, we have plenty of rooms but if they'd prefer to stay at a hotel they'll need to make their own arrangements. Ok, have a good night everyone."

"Is your wife coming for family day?" John asked later that night, sprawled on the steps tray resting mostly untouched on his lap.

"Funny you should ask that, we just spoke before I came out here. Yeah, she agreed to come." James replied.

He seemed happy and John smiled.

"That's great."

"What about you?"

"Don't really have any family."

"Not your sister and your kid?"

"I...I can't deal with Harry right now and I don't want Rosie to see me. I mean certainly not like this. I might just lie low that weekend. Keep to myself."

"Well, forgive me if this is intrusive. But what about Sherlock? He's your friend."

"I'm not really sure if he is anymore. We kind of had a falling out. What I did, what I was about to do really hurt him. He found me. He got me to the hospital. And then I think he uh...ended things between us. Ended the friendship."

"But you don't know for sure?" James said before taking a bite out of a cinnamon roll.

"No, but he hasn't contacted me and apparently I've been here 30 days." He said holding up the chip.

"Oh, mate! You got 30 days, well done!" James said enthusiastically.

"Yeah, thanks. But, my point still stands. He hasn't written or called or texted or anything. It doesn't take a genius..." He trailed off and laughed mirthlessly. "It doesn't take a Sherlock Holmes to get that message."

"Look, I don't go in for everything they spew at us in here. I'm no holy roller. That said there's a lot of common sense advice about honesty and shit that does make sense. So I figure if you don't know you should fucking ask."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah, just like that. Ask him. Oi, Sherlock, are we mates or not? Like that."

John laughed, genuinely this time. It was a simple enough plan, but perhaps deceptively simple. Maybe he could just ask. Maybe he should. Maybe he should finally be brave enough to just get a final answer even if it was one he didn't want to hear. Then again, maybe not.

All that was what he was thinking but not what he said.

"Mate, you know anyone with clippers?

"We've really switched gears, haven't we. Like beard clippers? I was wondering when you were going to take care of that baobab tree on your face. I've got one in my room. You can borrow it."

"Thanks, James."

20 minutes after they finished dinner John walked James to his room and his friend handed him the tool. 10 minutes after that he was standing in his own bathroom in front of the mirror gingerly trimming his beard.

It didn't look too bad once he was done and he turned the clippers off and gazed at his reflection.

For a while, he just stared, dwelling on everything in front of him that he didn't like. Everything he wanted to erase.

With a flick of his thumb, he turned the clippers back on, adjusted the guard setting and brought it to his head.

The first pass was the hardest and for a second as the clump of hair fell soundlessly into the sink he panicked.

But there was no going back now and after two or three more passes he realized he didn't want to. 

When it was over he ran his hand over his freshly buzzed scalp. The hair that remained, as he hadn't wanted to go completely bald, felt fuzzy, soft. He could feel the surrounding air hitting his scalp. This was going to take getting used to but as he smiled at his reflection he realized he didn't regret it.

John cleaned the clippers of stray hairs and disposed of the tufts and strands and clumps of hair that had collected in the sink.

5 minutes after that he was back outside James door, knocking to return the borrowed item.

"Thanks, mate." He said handing it back and grinning at his friends shocked expression.

"Jesus, John what did you do!?"

"I just thought it was time for a change. You know how people shave their heads when they cross the equator? It's like a fresh start, a new beginning. I guess I just wanted something like that. 30 days and I wanted to start again. Thanks for the clippers, James. I'll see you tomorrow."

John walked away leaving the other man slightly agog.

Somehow that only solidified to him that he'd done the right thing. 

Author's Note: Edit July/2017 ** I am aware that Sherlock and John apparently met around January 2010. However, when I wrote this a few months back I was going by air dates. I may change it in the future but I haven't decided if it's terribly relevant yet. 

Chapter Text

Day 31

Hanah shutter blinked when she saw him as she took in the rather drastic haircut. He didn't mind, he'd been getting that response all day. It still didn't make him regret the decision.

"You think it was a bad idea." He said and it wasn't a question or a challenge, just a statement.

"I think it was impulsive. But I don't want you to think I think impulsive is a bad word. It isn't. Impulsivity can be wonderful. Do you think it was a bad idea?"

He thought for a second.

"No."

"What was behind it?"

"My lumpy skull." He joked. "No, I know what you mean. Um, what was behind it was the fact that I wanted a change. That I didn't like what I was seeing in the mirror and I thought taking a stab at making my reflection look different was worth a shot. It's only hair, I mean, it'll grow back."

"Fair enough. First off, congratulations on your 30 days. That's quite a milestone, John. I want to tell you this isn't just a triumph of not drinking. I have seen you grow over the past month as an individual and I hope you have as well."

"I'm trying to." He said.

"Good. Well, I think 30 days is a great point at which to do a rundown. We're a third of the way there and I'd like to hear your thoughts about what you've learned so far."

He cleared his throat and shifted in an effort to get comfortable in his chair.

"I..guess I've learned that things I thought were dead and buried with my father, especially my feelings about him aren't. I learned that I'm predictable. Maybe not just in my patterns but in the people I choose as well. Huh..." He paused. "That one is just occurring to me now. Um...what else, I suppose I'd say my ideas of depression missed the mark. I think I've been trying to deal with it or not dealing with it since I was a teenager. Maybe it's colored a lot of my life."

"That's great, it really is and I agree with you on all those points. I'd just like to set some goals for the next 30 days. As we get closed to the events that caused your most recent depressive episode you may feel a great deal of that anger return, you might even feel as though you're losing ground, but that's natural. We're going to work through that together. Now what we're going to focus on is a method called active coping. We're going to directly confront certain things specifically your PTSD, from your time in Afghanistan and Kandahar, Sherlock's suicide and return as well as the death of your wife. As we confront them I'm going to give you coping mechanisms to work through the negative emotions that arise. This isn't going to be easy but I'm very pleased with your progress. Now, how do you feel about what's ahead?"

"I feel dread." He said honestly.

"That's a normal, level headed response. I'd be suspicious if you said anything otherwise. Now, I'm assuming you know about Family Day."

"Yeah, Reggie mentioned it in group. If this place is so secluded how exactly are people supposed to arrive?"

"The same way you did. A car will take them to the airport and they'll board a specially chartered flight and once they land be taken the rest of the way by driver. Who were you thinking of asking?"

He looked at her and gave a shake of his head.

"No one."

"Not Harry? Children are allowed, and of course spouses. She could bring Rosie and Clara."

"I really don't...I just don't." He concluded and she nodded.

"What about Sherlock, then?"

He made a vague almost helpless gesture with his hand before speaking.

"We didn't end things on very good terms. I doubt he'd want to see me."

"But you don't know for sure. It's my understanding that it was his persuasion of Mycroft that got you in here."

"Yeah, that's true. But he made it pretty clear..."

"John you spent two days essentially in a coma and he spent months agonizing over you. I don't think anything is exactly clear. In fact, I imagine things are quite nebulous. It's important for people in treatment to have these grounding experiences with the people in their lives. When this is over do you want Sherlock in your life?"

His throat felt dry and hot and painful, his skin felt somehow too tight and distractingly itchy.

"Yes, I do but-"

"Then invite him. This isn't just about seeing your best friend this is about moving forward and embracing what's true and what isn't, no matter how painful. I can't guarantee he'll accept and I can't force you, but I can strongly advise that you invite him, all right?"

"I'll think it over." He was absolutely unwilling to commit to this, not with James and not with Hanah. Right now it was far too big a promise to make.

"Ok, good enough for the moment. Now, day 31, let's get started."

Chapter Text

Fuck.

Fucking shit.

Goddamn it.

You selfish, stupid prick, goddamn you.

He berated himself for taking so long to have even thought this.

Self-obsessed arsehole.

One of the first times he'd been able to sleep in weeks had resulted in nightmares of a very specific sort.

Sherlock's tweets had come back to him.

And then the absence of his tweets had come back to him.

He had all but vanished from online. The last time John had casually combed the papers there had been no hint of a crime foiled by the great detective. Not a word, not a peep.

In his dream, his mate...former mate, wasn't calling for help because Sherlock wouldn't call for help. He wasn't even there, technically.

John was back in the forest, searing red hot but for once he felt he had a purpose. Instead of wandering aimlessly he was looking for something, for someone. It had to be Sherlock. He shouted out his name. It echoed all around him, bouncing off the thick dead trees which were thicker than normal. Not just their trunks but their numbers as well. There were so many he could barely move. But he tried and he kept trying and he kept calling out his name over and over and over again but he never got a reply.

One second he was asleep and the next he was bolt upright in bed. Then his feet were on the ground and he was out the door walking, running down the hall towards the nurse's station and the main office.

He knocked on the thin glass window separating him from whoever was on duty.

The nurse opened the door with a frown and looked him up and down.

"Is there something wrong, John?" She asked.

"No, yes, yes! Actually, yes there is something wrong. May I please have my phone? I need to place a call."

She smiled obligingly but he could tell immediately she had no intent of relenting.

"You know the rules. Phones are to be returned at eight every evening and cannot be checked out again until the next day."

"Yeah, I know that but this is an emergency. I just have to make a very short call. Just a minute please."

"I'm afraid the answer is no, John." She said adding an edge to her voice. "Now, please return to your room."

"You're not listening to me." He said raising his voice. "This is urgent, this could be a matter of life and death. I need to make a call."

"John, if you don't return to your room on your own, this moment, I'm going to have to have Frank take you there."

She gestured to her right and Frank, the mountain of a bloke who'd been there when he'd checked in appeared with a less than cheerful look on his face.

John felt his frustration, his rage flare and threaten to lash out at both of them. Just like when he first arrived he felt caged, trapped.

"Fine." He said shortly. "Ok, fine. No need for Frank or anyone else. I'll go back to my room."

He turned on his heel, and furious and defeated he returned to his room. Childishly, and he knew it was childish, he slammed the door and sat on the edge of his bed.

He knew it was ridiculous. What was he even on about? He needed to call Sherlock because he'd had a bad dream? Because he had a hunch, like a psychic that something was wrong.

This isn't a hunch, John. This is your guilt coming to bear. Are you really surprised? After what you did to him? The only person left who cared about you?

It all sounded so stupid now, rolling about in his head.

Still...still he couldn't shake the need to talk to him, message him, just make sure he was ok.

Just to make sure.

The next day crawled by at slower than a snail's pace. He was distracted, short-tempered and unable to focus throughout all the days various activities.

"I heard there was an incident yesterday evening," Hanah said.

He knew it would come up and in the light of day the action, though not the urgency behind it, embarrassed him.

"It was daft, alright, I admit that. I was stupid but I...it sounds so idiotic...I had a bad dream."

"What sort of dream?"

"I'm not ready to...talk about it now. But um...I decided I needed to reach Sherlock."

"Alright."

"But I was likely out of line. I'll apologize this evening. It was impulsive, I know. I couldn't help myself."

"It's still upsetting you, you're full of anxious energy right now."

"I'm not going to feel better about it until I know he's alright."

"Why he wouldn't he be, John?"

The funny thing was once he got the phone in his hands it paralyzed him. For a good ten minutes, he'd just sat on his bed staring at the device like he didn't trust it.

He went to Sherlock's Twitter first. Nothing. His blog. Nothing there as well. As best as he could tell he had no new online activity. He scanned newspapers, searched for Lestrade's name and words like "murder" and "unsolved" and phrases like "no leads" and "seek the public's help". But there was nothing. Nothing at all.

He was avoiding actually doing it which was stupid considering the state he'd been in last night.

John went to his contacts and then clicked on Sherlock's messages to view their thread. It was enormous. He wasn't even sure if he'd ever deleted anything.

Most of it, in the beginning, had been business-related of course. Short, staccato messages which always ended in SH.

SH. As if he wouldn't know who they were from. It was so delightfully pretentious. So very public school. So Sherlock.

John felt a warmth bloom in his chest as he thought about him.

One of their last exchanges had been so average. Sherlock was both trying to pick his brain as well as spark some interest. He'd taken a picture with his phone and sent it. It was of a letter opened found at a crime scene.

But John hadn't been interested in the letter opened instead he'd focused on what he could see behind the object Sherlock held in his hand.

Is that my chair?

Of course, it's your chair.

Why is my chair still there?

You'd have a lot more space if you binned it.

Space for stalking about and playing you violin

It awaits your return.

Sherlock, I'm not coming back.

Then it's no concern of yours how I decorate, is it?

That was all. That was the last message between them. Quite honestly John didn't even recall the conversation. It must have happened when he was drunk.

Screwing up his courage he started to type.

He started with a simple "Hi, Sherlock." But immediately erased it. It was well known to him that Sherlock ignored and deleted any messages that began with "Hi".

"Sherlock, it's me."

No, that wouldn't do either. There was something about it that sounded too...presumptuous. Far too much assuming that his ex-friend had nothing better to do that hang around his phone and wait for a message that might never come.

"Sherlock, are you free?"

No, that sounded like he was in Tesco wondering if he needed anything. Too casual.

"Are you there, Sherlock? I was hoping we could talk. If you have the time. I hope you're ok."

Alright. Good enough. Send.

There it was. He'd sent it off for better or worse...and of course instantly regretted it.

Less than a minute later he added.

"It's John, by the way. In case you don't have my number anymore."

It was hard to write that sentence but it was better than receiving the spirit-crushing reply of "Who is this?"

So, with those two texts sent he sat and he waited and he waited and he waited.

He tried to distract himself, he tried to read, he tried to write a bit in his journal. But every few minutes he found himself looking at his phone, checking to make sure the ringer was turned on as well as the buzzing alert. He checked it and double checked and checked it again.

It was all in working order.

He tried to tell himself this didn't mean anything, after all, he could be busy or on a case. 

But did he even take cases anymore? Maybe he was trying to figure out what to say. Maybe he was ignoring the message altogether.

Maybe this wouldn't have a cinematic ending.

Time passed as it always did and this time the hours went by far faster than they had earlier.

Soon it was time to return his device and dejectedly he made his way back to the front office and dully handed the mobile over.

"I want to apologize for last night. I was out of line. I'm sorry if I was threatening or in any way made you feel unsafe."

The nurse smiled at him genuinely.

"I understand. Apology accepted. Have a pleasant night, John."

"And you." He said before listlessly returning back to his room.

Some things, he figured, you have to realize and re-realize, accept and re-accept. Letting go of his best friend was going to prove difficult, he imagined. There might be a great deal more banging his head against the wall before he got the message that this was really over.

Tonight had brought him one step closer.

But John quickly followed the morose notion up with, bugger that. Fuck his whinging.

The urgency had not been so he mend fences with Sherlock it had been to see if he was alright. And he still didn't have an answer to that.

And with no answer, his mind and his heart were too unsettled to let him sleep.

Chapter Text

Day 38

He'd stalled out.

And he imagined to anyone on the outside it looked like a Goddamned cliche. Hit's 30 days, gets his chip - which he still treasured, by the way - and immediately decides to rest on his laurels.

Anyone looking in would probably think if given half the chance he'd have vanished to a pub by now only repeating three words "Keep 'em coming."

Ok, so they were right about the last part but not the rest.

He would be drinking if he could, in fact, the need for it was like pain now. He hadn't expected it to come back so strong and that was probably naive, but still. His body ached and his brain felt near on fire for it and just a few mouthfuls of something, anything searing, and bracing, anything that hurt going down before coiling tight then radiating from his stomach outward would be blissful. Oh God, just a taste to make all this go away if only for a minute. Then maybe he could sleep, maybe he could eat, maybe he could look at the world through anything but tired, bleary, red, angry anxious eyes.

But despite all that, that wasn't why he stalled.

It was partially because of Sherlock, though he didn't blame him. Sherlock was a very large cog in an only slightly larger machine. A machine that was breaking down as he broke down.

He was sitting in Hanah's office with a death grip on the arms of the chair, precisely the kind of grip she was trying to get him to loosen. He stopped and wiped sweat from his brow he didn't even know was there.

"Why are we doing this?" He asked.

They were in the middle of exposure therapy, something that had left him more anxious and upset than he'd been in a good long time.

She would ask him to talk about a particularly traumatizing event in Afghanistan. He would have to put himself there, all over again. Feel it, hear it, smell it. She talked him through it, confronting his thoughts, his fears, helping him rearrange his ideas and always, always reminding him that where he was right now was safe. No matter how real things seemed when he closed his eyes, no matter how fast his pulse, it was over and it was time to put these awful memories to bed once and for all.

He was struggling with the whole scenario and had been since they'd begun a few days prior. It felt combative, it felt like poking the hornet's nest and his mind and body rebelled against summoning these spirits so vividly.

"It's part of cognitive behavioral therapy," She said replying to his question. "We need to, emotionally speaking, return you to the moments of trauma to, in effect, let you know you're beyond them."

"That's not what I mean. I mean why are we doing this, any of this? The therapy, the rehab, any of it. What am I getting clean for?"

"You're angry."

"Yes, I'm fucking angry!" He shouted. He hadn't expected it to come out as a shout but Hanah looked unphased.

"Good, it's some of the first real emotion I've seen from you in days. And I've been waiting for this question."

"Well, I hope you can answer it because I am just about ready to walk out of this place."

"I can, but you may not like it."

"Go ahead."

"First, let me tell you something which is the exact opposite of what they'll tell on the outside. I'm going run down a list of who you are not getting clean for. You are not getting clean for your daughter, you are not getting clean for your sober sister, you are not getting clean to keep some sort of promise to your dead wife, you are not getting clean because you have disgraced Duck or the army, you are not getting clean for your father who didn't and you are not getting clean for Sherlock Holmes." Hanah had put down her notebook and was looking at him critically. "You have to understand this, John and you have to understand it now because otherwise, we're going forward under a false belief. A lot of marriages don't survive rehab and do you know why? Because the process of recovering from addiction is just as selfish as being addicted. Because after months or years of the addict focusing on what they want, they now have to address and focus on what they need. That leaves very little space for anyone or anything else. People come here and they speak about saving a relationship or their family. John, right now you are not capable of saving anyone or anything, not even yourself."

"Well, that's pretty fucking hopeless." He said his voice catching.

"No, it's not. It just seems that way on the surface. I think sometimes rehab is presented as 'Get your life back.'. For some people, that's comforting and desirable. For others, it's a nightmare. Let me make something clear, John. If you want to live but were unhappy with the life you were living you don't have to take that one back."

He pulled back to gaze at her in confusion."I...I don't know what you mean."

Hanah sighed.

"I don't like to get ahead of myself but I think this needs to be said. If you're serious about giving up custody of your daughter which is a hasty decision initiated at the height of your addiction that I strongly advise against but if you're serious, you can. If you want to sell your home, you can. If you want to leave London, leave everything you know and start again somewhere else, healthy and clean and sober and hopeful, you can do that. It is absolutely in your power to make that happen once you leave here."

"It's not that simple."

"Why not? What's keeping you in London."

He faltered and scoffed, albeit nervously. He hated, hated being pressed.

"Alright, let me phrase it a different way. A way that you're not going to like. Why do you feel responsible for taking care of Sherlock Holmes?"

"What?" He asked and was immediately uncomfortable by the way his voice raised up at the end. "What on earth are you on about?"

"I need to make sure he's alright. Those were your words to me a few days back. Why do you have to do this? He has a very attentive brother. He has parents who are still vital and living."

"Mycroft can't...he's not the one for the job. And his parents..."

"But you are?" She countered quickly.

"Yes." he replied just as quickly.

"Why?"

"Because ...because he's emotional and erratic! Because he needs someone to look after him! Because I owe him! Because I broke his HEART!"

"Is that all it is? Obligation?"

"No there's..." He stopped, his mouth clamping tightly shut.

"There's what? You need to stop stifling yourself, John."

"Because I disappear down a bottle and he vanishes down a syringe and if I drove him to that...if I hurt my best friend, I will never forgive myself. I will...be crushed under the weight of that."

He leaned forward in his chair covering his face with his hand's visions of the worst of it all flashing through his head. Sherlock high. Sherlock lying on the floor in a filthy crack house. Sherlock coming down. Sherlock in pain. Sherlock pleading for a fix. Sherlock throwing himself into his work because it was the only thing that could make him ok. Sherlock throwing himself into their friendship because it was the only thing that could make him smile.

"He's a war zone," John said quietly, most of it muffled behind his hands.

"I'm sorry?"

"He's a war zone. He's constantly being torn apart, from inside and out. He just looks calm but he's not...he's not ok. He was getting there, getting better and then I had to go..."

"Do you think he might say the same thing about you?"

John pulled his hands away, shocked at the notion of comparing the two of them.

"He doesn't think that about me. He doesn't know any of the things I've told you. He's brilliant but he's a terrible liar, a ridiculous snoop and he can't keep quiet about something that's stoked his curiosity to save his life. If he had any inkling of this he would have said something."

"Have you been able to reach him?"

"I texted him a week ago...never got a reply."

"What does that mean to you?"

"On good days it means maybe his mobile is out of service. Maybe he's genuinely too busy,"

"And on bad days?"

"On bad days I assumed he looked at it and scoffed. I figure maybe he's glad to have extricated himself from this mess. On really bad days I imagine he's lying somewhere dead after one last binge, one last speedball."

"Do you think that would be your fault?"

"I know it would."

Hanah sighed and leaned back.

"I don't know if you're able to hear this just yet, John, but you are not responsible for the choices and decisions of Sherlock. I would tell him the same thing about you if he were sitting there."

"I will never agree with you on that. Love is responsibility. If it's not, then what are we even doing this for?"

"That seems to be the refrain of this session. What are we doing this for?"

"And I still don't think I have a satisfactory answer."

"Alright, I'm not sure you're in the right mindset for us to continue today so I'm going to let you go, but give you an assignment. I want you to write a letter that you're going to post to Sherlock."

"Saying what?" The idea was both daunting and terrifying.

"Everything. Everything you want to say. Everything you wanted to text him and ask him. If he's a reasonable man who cares or cared as deeply for you as I can see you do for him then he'll respond. He wanted you here and convinced his brother to make it happen. That speaks to me of a man who will answer what you ask and, if your relationship is over, be willing to give you closure so you can move on."

John had to keep his lips pressed tightly together to keep the wobble to his chin at a minimum. He had cried more in this past year than he thought possible. He wondered sometimes if it would ever stop.

Quickly he stood up from his chair and gave a quick nod to her; "I'll see you tomorrow."

He skipped group.

He skipped dinner.

He only emerged from his room to grab and then return his mobile. His message-less mobile.

For the rest of the night, all he did was write.

Chapter Text

Dear Sherlock,

I don't know exactly how to start a letter like this. Not exactly my area. I much prefer blogging about things from a distance, after the fact. This is an entirely different kind of post-mortem.

My therapist has encouraged me to be honest. I never thought honesty was all that difficult until people started pressing me on the subject. I believe it is. I believe I lie by omission and silence.

In the spirit of honesty that I am trying to really hold onto I guess I should get started.

I don't know which you is going to receive this letter.

My best mate of over 5 years, yes, I count the two you were missing. Your "death" didn't end our friendship.

Or, will it be the angry, hurt man who left my hospital room and instead sent his brother to tend to me?

I don't know who's reading this or if you're reading this at all. Perhaps it'll just end up in the bin as that's exactly what I deserve. I hope not, though. And I hope it's my best mate who's reading these words right now.

First things first I have to apologize to you for what I put you through after Mary died. From the moment she drew her last breath I lashed out, emotionally, physically. I wanted to hurt you and I did. I've been learning in here why I do those things but that's not the point of this letter. I have no right to ask you for absolution, none at all.

And even when we mended our friendship I kept on hurting you. I abandoned our work and I abandoned you.

I abandoned you because someone caring for me so, so much hurt. It physically hurt. I was so tired of hurting. I thought if I gradually pulled far enough away from you that maybe you'd forget me. Or that when I was gone, really gone, it wouldn't hurt so much.

It must have felt like an extended sort of torture for you. You a man of action, a man of results.

I don't know how many I need to say I'm sorry but I don't think I've said it enough. You must have been so frightened to find me the way you did. I imagine it's hard to get that image out of your head.

I really hope this letter doesn't bring it all back.

I texted you but didn't get a reply so my therapist suggests I reach out to you this way instead. Either it will open the lines of communication or perhaps be the start of closure. Both possibilities scare me but obviously one more than the other.

Since I'm the one who so violently pushed you away I'm the one who should beg you to come back. And I am, I'm pleading with you to come back. To be my friend again. Though I admit I don't deserve it.

I'd like to be able to talk to you, to say these things on the phone if not in person but I think that's far too much to ask.

Family day is coming up here in a week. It's actually more a weekend than a day it's the entire weekend. It doesn't sound like your kind of thing exactly but I promised Hanah, my shrink, that I would at least extend the invitation. I'd like you here. Even if you just wanted to show up to punch me in the mouth, at this point I'd welcome that.

If I have to, I'll take your silence as a goodbye, a final goodbye. I won't pester or haunt you.

I've got a little less than 60 days left here and Hanah has put some interesting ideas in my head, about not going back to a life that made me so unhappy. I may be leaving London for good. Going somewhere else, try and start again.

But the point is, whatever you answer, I won't forget what you've done for me. Up to and including getting me in here. It's a good place and they're taking good care of me as they teach me to care for myself.

I think I was more fucked up than either of us imagined I was. I'm sorry I lied to you about that.

Ok, mate, that's all. I hope to hear back from you.

I know you're going to laugh but I kept...I keep having this feeling that things aren't right with you. That something has gone wrong, that you need help. I had a ridiculous dream and...just knowing you're ok, if you're ok, would go such a long way.

I hope you're ok. Please let me know. Four words would do it; "I'm ok. Fuck off."

I'd take that, I'd take it gladly.

I miss you. I miss my best friend.

Take care of yourself.

Love,

John

Chapter Text

Day 39

He went through multiple drafts and even as he sealed the envelope he was unhappy with what he wrote.

It wasn't enough.

It was too much.

They didn't communicate like this, not ever. They had only ever done face to face or the occasional text which was three sentences at the most.

One thing was for certain; he'd taken Hanah's idea of leaving the country and run with it. It was down on paper now which made it rather real and something that needed to be considered.

The sheer simplicity of the idea shocked him. He'd never thought of it before. "Mary" was right. He did lead a life like he was bivouacking. Maybe...just maybe he could leave. His daughter would be better off without him. Maybe adoption could be arranged with his sister outright.

If Sherlock wasn't going to speak to him again then really, what was left for him here? He had no great affinity for London, not anymore. It had seemed rather magic when he was running with his mate, romancing his wife, planning a future that would never happen now. But as it stood, he didn't romanticize it the way other people did anymore. One city was as good as another, one country was as good as another.

Maybe, as much as it hurt him, his time with Sherlock and with London was over.

Maybe this part of his life was done and had been for awhile. Maybe he was just only now realizing that.

And maybe, just maybe that could be ok?

Chapter Text

Day 43

There was something about this new limbo that allowed him to refocus.

It was the same logic you used when a mysterious letter arrived in the post, or there was a voicemail from an unknown number.

It could be from anyone, it could be anything and it didn't necessarily have to be bad. He was existing now in that space between what is and what could be and he was breathing deeply as possible lest the hammer drop any day now.

Until he knew Sherlock's answer, his answer could be anything.

It was childish really but it was working so why argue?

As the Family weekend drew near the mood of the entire places changed. Everyone seemed more antsy, more upset, touchier, nervous.

James wasn't immune.

"I mean, she's been through this before, you know? This isn't the first time I've been in a place like this. I want her to know I'm serious this time. God, I just want my family back. I grouse and I run my life down to shit but I just want them back."

His friend was on the verge of tears and John put an arm around him. They were sitting outside as had become their habit nowadays, breathing in the night air. The dinner tray on James' lap was wobbling so John grabbed it and set it to the side.

"If you mean it this time, and I believe you do, then she'll see that. She'll feel it. That can't be faked, you know?"

"You think so?" He sniffled.

"Yeah, yeah I do. Just be honest. Drop any bullshit you've got scripted and be honest. That's what matters to her."

James nodded and righted himself before looking at John with pink eyes.

"You're right. You're even right about the scripted shit, I did have something sort of prepared."

"Drop it. Bin it. Just speak from your heart, as corny as that may sound."

"You know, you're pretty good at this."

"Maybe I'll take it up as a second career." He said with a smile. "Eat your dinner before it gets cold."

"You too."

"I'm not really hungry."

Chapter Text

Day 45

"Jesus fucking Christ..." He said leaning forward trying to catch his breath.

"John. John! Open your eyes. Open your eyes right now. Look at where you are. You're in my office, you're safe."

"I was right there. Right back there. I felt the bullet. I felt it."

"Your mind was there, your memories were there but you were here the whole time. You still are. You need to understand that and accept that and realize these memories cannot hurt you.

"I feel like I'm going to puke." He said swallowing hard."

She casually slid a garbage can between his feet.

"Do what you have to do. But I still need you to feel the wood of the arm rests beneath your hands. Feel the floor beneath your feet. Look at the focal point we choose, the clock on my desk. And hear my words."

He did as she asked, trying to ground himself in the present and escape the grip of the past.

He was here, at The Location, in Switzerland. He was nowhere near Afghanistan, he was not on the battlefield and his shoulder had, for the most part, healed.

He nudged the garbage can away after a few moments.

"I'm ok." He said before exhaling harshly through his nose.

"Yes, you are. Very good, John. Very, very well done. It's going to get easier, I promise. It already has."

John reached for his water bottle.

"If you say so." He replied with a shake of his head as he took a swig. He was doubtful. But then again it was a doubtful sort of day. It was the kind of day where all he felt he could do was disbelieve. The limbo he had been enjoying earlier in the week had faded almost tonight and he was on wretched ground again. Sherlock's silence was deafening. He would have gotten the letter by now. He certainly would have gotten the text. This was the message. This was it and it was "No. Not interested. Please continue on with your life, Doctor Watson and I shall endeavor to do the same." What else could it be? The reality of this had thrust him back into a rather deep depression that made him crave the simple truth of the bottle and the comfort of his bed. Dragging himself up and out today had been a chore. And then this, piled on top of it. Being catapulted back into some of the most terrifying and jarring memories of his life was the antithesis of what he wanted or needed. But his wants didn't matter much in here and while he wanted to rage at her, at this at himself, he didn't have the energy. His heart rate was returning to normal, almost there, the outbreak of sweat had slowed and stopped but his clothes still felt sticky. It had been a week of this and he was exhausted. A week of reliving battles and ambushes, terror, lost limbs, the stink of hospital bleach used to cover up blood and seared flesh and the faces of so many dead friends.

Hanah was speaking and he tried to focus on her words.

"I do. I do say so. Now, I want to talk about what might trigger these particular memories in everyday life."

"I don't know...um...metallic noises...like silverware in a restaurant. Anything that sort of whizzes by my ear too fast. Sometimes, running too hard, getting winded, I think because it reminds me of the bullet just seeming to suck the air out of my body. A car backfiring...we talked about that one before."

"How many of your meals do you eat in the common area?"

"None, if I can help it."

"Because of the silverware?"

"No, it's not just that it's the low hum of conversation. I don't know it just sets my teeth on edge."

"I want you to start eating there at least once a day. And I don't want you to zone out either. I want you focused and aware and when it sets your teeth on edge, when those memories start to arise I want you to recognize where you are, when you are and breathe your way through it."

He finished the rest of his water and nodded.

"Yeah, yeah, ok."

"Not just ok, tell me how that makes you feel."

"Wary. Unhappy. I'm not stupid I know that's the point of all of this. Getting me acclimated to the fact that these sensations are going to happen. I just...I don't think I have to look forward to it."

"No one says you have to, you just have to do it." Hanah replied with her no-nonsense smile. "I want to switch gears a bit because there's something that's been concerning me."

"I haven't heard from Sherlock." He said quickly. "He hasn't texted. I have to imagine given that it's been nearly a week he's received it by now."

"That wasn't what I was going to ask but we can discuss that if you like." She said patiently.

"No, I'd rather not. Please go on."

"You're not sleeping-"

"I sleep a bit." He protested.

"You're not eating."

"I'm just not in a feasting mood."

"I want to try medication."

"No." He shook his head fervently. "I thought we agreed that wasn't the best course of treatment for me."

"We never actually came to an agreement, John. And that was several weeks ago and while you've improved by leaps and bounds in certain areas there are others where you're flagging. You're exhausted and it shows and you've also lost weight. I understand you want to steer clear of medication but if we're unable to get your sleeping patterns and diet under control, antidepressants and anti-anxiety meds may have to come into play."

Hanah was everything he liked and trusted in a doctor...so long as she wasn't doctoring him. He listened to her words and knew she meant it. He knew he was being given a window to somehow get this shit together. He'd heard and seen what antidepressants did to people. Not everyone, just some. The sluggishness, the lethargy, the disorientation, the irritability, the flatline of it all. He wanted no part of it, at least, not if he could help it.

"Ok, I...I let it slide. I did. Neither of those things has been at the forefront of my mind, but consider them a priority. You'll see an improvement, ok?"

"Alright. We'll give it a bit. In the meantime, I have a book on recovery after rehab that I'd like you to look through. Nothing in particular that I want you to read, just, whatever sparks your interest and if you like we can discuss it."

She reached across and handed him the book with he took with much of a reaction.

"Thank you."

"Before we end for today, how do you feel about Family Weekend? People should start arriving tomorrow around mid-morning."

John shrugged.

"I...don't feel anything in particular. It won't really disrupt my routine. I'll do as I always do, maybe spend a bit more time in my room, so as not to get in the way."

"I don't believe you'll be in anyone's way, John. You'll have your regular meetings, we'll have our sessions and if you need me off hours, you know I'm available."

"You think I'm going to have some sort of breakdown?" He asked with a grin that was more hostile than sincere. "I'm not. Really, not having anyone here was my idea. I didn't ask anyone, no one turned me down you know? I'm fine."

"Sherlock-" She began but he cut her off.

"I didn't ask Sherlock. All I did was send a letter in the mail. I hoped for an answer and in a way, I suppose I got one. It's that simple. I'm fine."

"When you feel the need not to lie to me, John, I'll be here." She said not unkindly. "See you tomorrow.

That night when he was able to sleep for just a bit he dreamed of Mary. The dream was remarkably peaceful, strangely free of the turmoil he'd felt before going to bed.

"Hey...I'm so sorry I ran you off like I did." He said to her.

"You scared me. You shut me out like you always do and always did" She paused before adding. "Like I always did to you."

He closed his eyes for a moment before blindly reaching for her hand. It was small and warm and felt like it belonged there. After a minute more he looked at her.

"I think we were going to get better at that, as time went on. I've been reading a bit, you know. We weren't young per se but our relationship...our marriage was so new, so tested...so odd. I think we would have gotten better, Mary. I don't think we failed, you know? We just needed time, time that we didn't get. We didn't fail."

"That is one of the nicest things you have ever said to me, John Watson, alive or dead." She smiled and he smiled in return.

"I just feel so guilty." He said.

She looked at him curiously.

"About what?"

"Can't..."

"Ok." She said. "Ok, maybe later. John..." She started then sighed and glanced away from him. He was in bed and she was sitting on the edge of the mattress by his feet.

"What's wrong?"

"Things are going to get harder now."

"What do you mean? I mean...I got my 30 days, you know? That's good."

"I know and I'm proud of you. But you're not even close to done. You have a lot of fences to mend, our daughter to reclaim...things to admit. There's more but...

"But what? Mary, I know this is a dream, I know it's not real. While it's really comforting I know you're not here, love, not really. Even before all this, you were just a benevolent hallucination, my last scrap of sanity taking a form that I trusted trying to pull me back from the edge. You're not a ghost, you don't have precognition. And if I'm just here interrogating myself then I'd like an answer from me."

She turned a bit on the bed to look at him, bringing her legs up to fold them beneath her.

She stayed silent, neither agree to or refuting anything he said.

He found it unnerving so he kept talking.

"You can't tell me anything I don't already know. You're not Jacob Marley and you're not going to tell me about three spirits come to visit me."

"Look, John, you're a fighter but you've spent a long time fighting against and for the wrong things. You're going to have to fight now, clear-headed. You're going to have to be brave."

He tried to laugh but her words were making him too nervous. He imagined he was probably tossing restlessly in his sleep, a frown on his face.

"Do you always have to be such a harbinger of doom and gloom?"

"Dead. Ghost. Unsettled spirt. Kinda comes with the job."

"Stay with me, under the covers?" He asked as he lifted the sheets and extended his other hand.

She smiled and immediately joined him and the dream was real enough that he felt her weight in his arms and the warmth of her skin.

"I miss you so much, Mary."

"I know. I miss you too."

Author's Note - So many of you have written so many kind things about this story and I just wanted to thank you for taking the time to leave comments and kudos. I'm going to try and stop being a lazy arse and respond to as many as I can in the next few days. But I wanted this too, to serve as sort of a group thanks.

I 'm flying by the seat of my pants here, I don't plan much out and I don't have much more than a general framework of where I'm going. But I'll get there. We'll get there together. Thanks for coming along for the ride. 

Chapter Text

When he woke up the next morning it was snowing. Lightly, just a dusting and by noon it had stopped. He'd choked down both a late breakfast and a lunch he'd been less than enthusiastic about but he considered it a victory. Another victory was the fact that he'd overslept, which of course meant he'd actually slept at all.

Could he really will himself better in these areas? Only time would tell, he supposed.

He wasn't going to think of Sherlock. Not at all. He wasn't going to think about happy families reuniting. Wives coming to see their husbands. Husbands coming to see their wives. Boyfriends. Girlfriends. Brothers. Sisters. Children, running up to their fathers and mothers. Best friends.

He just wasn't.

A bit after the noon hour he'd started to notice unfamiliar faces. There was the sound of new voices, more voices, more footsteps, exclamations of surprise and welcome and tears...quite a lot of tears.

He moved largely unseen. He wasn't the only one who didn't have visitors today, not by a long shot and his 12 Step meeting had actually been filled with faces he barely recognized, piecemealed together from the fragments of other groups.

He didn't get much out of it. He was far too lost in his own thoughts.

"How hard did you fight to stay in the army?" Hanah asked in their session.

He looked at her surprised.

"No one's ever asked me that before."

"It's not a question most civilians would think about. But a wound to the shoulder is not something that would normally result in a medical discharge. What else happened?"

"My leg. It was like, right as the shoulder was starting to heal and I was getting my mobility back, everything was working, everything felt fine I got the news. They wanted me to be assessed before the medical board. I'd been permanently downgraded and they were recommending discharge."

"What did you think about that?"

"I thought it was shit. I was fine. The bullet went right through. But they said it wasn't just the injury, it was other things. I wasn't sleeping, I was volunteering for extra shifts at the hospital, extra patrols. I thought I was doing everything a good soldier would do and they found it suspect."

"You're quite angry, talking about it even now."

"Yes, I'm angry, it was a goddamn betrayal. I gave everything I had to the service and they didn't enjoy my enthusiasm for it. That was a reason to discard me? I petitioned, I stated my case, I filled out all the paperwork, I came very close to begging, I even got Duck involved...but hell, for all I know it was on his recommendation. Maybe he called himself looking out for me or some other such nonsense."

"Your efforts didn't matter?"

"No, no they didn't. I got graded P8 and that was it. Here's your hat, what's your hurry. Another part of my life just over. They shipped me home."

"Home being London."

"It was as good a place as any. Home, as a concept or location didn't mean much to me. I just wanted a place to regroup and think. I wanted a loud place where I could be quiet and get lost. That is, by definition, London."

"And then you met Mike and then you met Sherlock. Do you want to tell me about that? First meeting. First impression?"

Just that question alone brought more thoughts rushing back to him than he thought he could handle. The wave of nausea rose, crested and then, thankfully, calmed.

"Not today. It's already been far too much today."

"It's my job to push you, you know? And I've been giving you a pass recently."

"This has been you giving me a pass?" He asked incredulously.

"Indeed it has. So, Sherlock. Just tell me. First meeting."

John sighed and scratched at his beard. It had become a comforting habit, something to occupy his time.

"He did what he always does with people. He figured me out on sight. It was incredibly unnerving. I mean, by this point you know me, I like to play things close to the vest. I don't like to reveal too much. But he just saw right through me, he saw everything."

"Now, to me, that sounds like exactly the kind of thing that might make you run. You were feeling vulnerable after your discharge, you still had extreme trust issues and yet you decided to live with this man."

"Yeah...yeah, there was just something about him. Something...magnetic, intriguing. It reminded me of the way I felt when I met Duck and later, Mary. Some people, you're...you're just immediately thrust into their lives. That first night we were at a crime scene, running through the streets, I was vaguely threatened by his brother, we tracked down a serial killer." He paused, ultimately deciding to leave out the fact that he'd killed a man. "I'm pretty sure I saved his life and then we went to dinner." John laughed and shook his head in disbelief after all these years. "We went to dinner."

"It sounds like it was a strange but good experience."

"It was. And it started something incredible."

"You're smiling." She said quietly.

"That bastard always made me smile. When he wasn't making me furious...Shit. I'm going to miss him."

He blinked away tears before they fully formed and turned his gaze towards her window.

"It's snowing again." He replied softly though she hadn't asked.

John retreated to the relative safety of his room. The common area was overcrowded, the hallways were thick with people, everything felt cramped and overwhelming. It wasn't until he was in his room with his dinner that he felt able to breathe. James had spotted him in the dining hall and motioned him over but he'd begged off as politely as he could with a brief wave. He couldn't do it now. The smile on his face was already tight and alien and he wanted nothing more than to drop it, curled up on his bed, music playing softly, nose in a book.

For a while, a few hours, in fact, he was able to lose himself in it all. When one book was no longer cutting it he closed it and switched to another and another, finally settling on the post-rehab text Hanah had loaned him. Grabbing his pad of paper he began to make half-hearted notes, hoping against hope he'd feel the tug of sleep on his eyelids. But it wasn't working. If anything he found himself getting more tuned up, more agitated. He felt itchy, his muscles were twitching and he speculated that maybe his body had gotten used to his early morning exercise. He's missed out on the treadmill today due to having overslept and he figured he was paying for it now.

Glancing at his clock he saw it was nearing 2 am. 

Maybe a shower would help. Something warm and soothing. That sounded grown-up and reasonable and like a suggestion, he might have given to someone when he was a respected physician. Whenever that had last been.

It didn't help. 

Quite the opposite as he emerged from the bathroom clean but with more pent up energy than ever. His mind was going a million miles a second, jumping from topic to topic, worry to worry yet refusing to settle

He dressed quickly and headed out into the hall, iPod, and earbuds in hand. He had no idea if he was allowed to use the gym facilities in the middle of the night but it was worth a try.

The Location was as silent as one might expect this time of night and he padded softly toward the front desk. He was almost there when something caught his eye. He gazed past the desk towards the main door and the absolute blanket of white.

It seemed as though the snow that had started while he was with Hanah had only increased in the ensuing hours. That had to be 30 centimeters now, at least.

He got another idea, one that excited him but one they probably wouldn't agree to. Still, it was worth a try.

"Hi," He began flashing his best smile. "I was wondering something."

The nurse, the same as before glanced at him.

"I'm sorry, I can't give you your phone, you know the rules."

"No, of course, I understand. That wasn't what I was going to ask, actually. I see it's been snowing, quite a lot. You can barely see the walkway."

"Yeah, it's coming down pretty heavy, isn't it?" She replied politely. "What can I do for you?"

"Well, um, I overslept this morning, so not only did I miss out on exercise I also missed my daily chores." He didn't feel as though he was actually able to charm women anymore so he abruptly dropped the act. "Look, I'm feeling really antsy. I can't sleep and I was wondering...if you'd let me shovel?"

She blinked and he could tell this was the first time she'd ever gotten that request before."

"I'm not on any sort of physical restrictions." He pressed. "I'll always be in your sight line, not that someone wouldn't have to be daft to run off in this. I'll even sign a waiver if that what you need but please...I just want to maybe get a few hours of sleep. And tackling that mess out there might be the only thing that could help."

"We're not supposed to put the patients to work. Not like that, not alone."

"I know and it's not as if I think I can manage it all. I'm not going to be able to clear a path down the mountain or anything." He smiled. "Just maybe make it so you can open the front doors come morning if need be."

She looked at him curiously before picking up the phone.

"I'll need to make a call first, to make sure it's ok."

"Yeah, yeah, ok, I understand."

Ten minutes later he was standing in calf deep snow wearing a borrowed coat, gloves, boots and using a borrowed shovel. It was cold and quiet and dark...and he loved it. Putting an earbud in each ear he turned on his music and got to work.

Oh God, but this was just what he wanted and needed. He wasn't keeping track of time exactly but he knew how long an album was and then another. The gloves were thick and at this point, his hands were about the only things on his body that remained warm. The legs of his sweatpants had darkened due to the wetness of the snow. His hair had still been damp when he'd come outside and now, despite a hood, he could feel that it was stiff and frozen. His arms were starting to burn from the effort, every few shovel fulls the winds would kick up and rip the air out of his lungs. He didn't know how much longer he could go on but he was making headway and didn't want to stop. Everything was numb and painful and alive and he wanted to scream and beat his chest and work and work and work until he had dug his way all down the side of the mountain, preferably all the way to a pub. His face felt numb and inflamed but still, he kept on. 

He wanted to exhaust himself. He wanted to flare and flicker and burn out.

"Suicide by shoveling." He muttered to himself and then laughed in the darkness.

The lights in the distance surprised him but he didn’t stop. The snow made everything so echoey and he heard what was clearly the sound of a car approaching, far off now, but getting closer.

A late arrival, no doubt, a straggler.

As it had to be nearing 4 am a real late arrival.

With a bit of effort as it battled against the packed snow, the SUV pulled up to the building, idling in front. His iPod had abruptly died, due to the temperature or a faulty battery he wasn't sure but as he shoveled John heard the driver get out and circle round to open the door for the passenger in the back. 

The storm was starting to intensify something fierce and he only just heard the passengers quiet; "Thank you." as it was carried to him by a gust.

Something about that voice made him cock his head and look at them more pointedly. Or at least he tried to look through the wet sheets of snow.

The driver went to the back and removed two suitcases and hurried ahead of the passenger. He gave John a nod of acknowledgment as walked past him up to and through the doors.  

The passenger turned their collar up against the wind and lowered their head. 

No hat, no gloves, ill prepared for this weather. 

But... 

Snow quickly covered the dark head of hair which he only just caught a glimpse of in the headlights of the vehicle. 

But...

The figure was approaching, erect posture, long coat, confident steps...

But...it couldn't be...

The figure walked past him, not even glancing in his direction.

John opened his mouth to speak but the wind whipped away his first attempt.

“Sherlock!?” He tried again having to shout over the storm.

The figure stopped and turned towards him. He raised a hand against the onslaught of snow, squinting against both it and the headlights.

“It..It’s John." He said to him.

If a walk and carriage could portray disbelief, Sherlock’s did right now as he headed toward him.

“No, no go on inside. It's madness out here. I’ll be there in a second. Go inside." He said waving him away.

He thought he heard "John?" In reply but it was hard to tell.

John cupped his hand round his mouth and shouted again. "Go inside! I'll be right there!"

Sherlock paused, turned and headed for the door, but he glanced back several times.

He was alone now and John needed a moment or ten to get his bearings. He’d heard people hallucinated in freezing weather before they died. Was he perhaps in actuality, curled in a snowdrift somewhere? Was his final vision before he died Sherlock coming to see him one last time?

That sounded about right.

But there was only one way to find out. 

Shovel in hand, heart pounding he started to head inside.

Chapter Text

Sherlock Holmes was waiting for him by the front door as he entered.

Sherlock.

He could see him now, quite clearly and to prolong both his anticipation and fear, John took a little more time than necessary stomping the snow off his boots in the vestibule.

Sherlock's eyes never left him as he came through the door. Finally, John swallowed hard, dropped his hood and met his gaze properly.

"John..." He said quietly and John felt those eyes roaming over him. They lingered on his face, no doubt making complicated calculations and estimations unimaginable.

Now that he was faced with him he didn't know what to do. It felt as though it had been so long since they'd stood like this, together like this. Certainly, it had been ages since John had looked at him clear-eyed. What to do? He wanted to embrace him but feared what might come of it. What if Sherlock took a step back? What if he stiffened with discomfort in his arms. Worse still, he could easily have come more out of pity than affection. Or obligation. After all who would want another one of John Watson's dreary suicide attempts on their conscience? Not that John was thinking along those lines right now. And not that he would ever blame Sherlock even if he was.

"You came." Was all he could respond as he was still having a difficult time believing this was real.

"I got your letter. You invited me."

"Yeah..yeah, so I did." John said. He wanted to smile but he was having difficulty reading his mate's face.

"I can't read your face." Sherlock said eerily as though he were, in fact, reading his mind.

"I'm sorry, what?" John asked but the nurse at the front desk interrupted.

"Mr. Holmes, I'm very sorry but we didn't know you were coming. We can have a room prepared in 30 or so minutes if you'll just come back up to the desk then. In the meantime, perhaps John, can show you where he's staying?"

"That would be fine. Thank you." He replied at normal volume where before he'd been talking quietly and John shivered at that resonant voice that he'd missed. The baritone just as warm and rich as he remembered.

John removed the coat and hung it back on the wall peg and carefully leaned the shovel against the wall before removing his boots and replacing them with his shoes. Throughout he felt Sherlock's eyes on him, puzzled, troubled.

John hurried to pick up the bags the driver had set down and turned to his friend.

"Ok, well, just follow me, then."

Back down the long silent hall, they went before arriving at his room. He opened it and motioned Sherlock enter. Stepping in after him he swiftly shut the door and locked it.

"Let me take your coat." He said at the same time Sherlock said "John?"

"Yeah?"

"You've lost a considerable amount of weight. I would estimate at least 10 pounds, possibly upwards of 15. Aren't they helping you?"

John stood behind his friend and helped him off with his coat, hanging it in the closet.

Normally...perhaps in the past, he might have been offended. But not now, not at all.

"Yeah, they're helping me, quite a lot actually." He came to stand before his friend trying not to telegraph his...what should he call it? Shyness? "Thank you for getting me in here." He concluded.

Sherlock dismissed this statement by ignoring it.

"You've grown a full beard and cut your hair." He said with undisguised disapproval or was it...distress? Or both?

Had he been so long out of Sherlock's presence that his ability to pinpoint his moods? He didn't like that idea at all.

"Yeah, I just...needed a change."

Sherlock nodded and looked about the room.

"Mycroft had every intention of putting me in here, several times. I see he didn't exaggerate its comforts. This is a fine room, John."

"It's far more than I deserve." He replied quickly.

"No." He said quickly. "On the contrary... in fact, you've always been a poor judge of what you deserve."

John gazed at him, unable to parse just what he meant by that statement but it did give him a real opportunity to look at his friend.

He had hoped to see him healthy, robust, rested. He'd hoped that time away from the turmoil that John brought, Sherlock would have settled, stabilized.

Unfortunately, it seemed the opposite.

"Sherlock...Christ..." He said and hurried to the other end of the room to switch on a second light. His friend blinked and squinted against the sudden change. "You look like shit."

"Then what a pair we make." He said wearily. "Would you mind if I changed clothes?"

"Of course not." He said motioning toward the loo. Sherlock headed to his suitcase and took out his sleepwear.

"Thank you."

"But you need to tell me why you look like that." John paused as he didn't want to have to ask the next question. "Are you using again?"

"No." Sherlock said shortly before passing him, entering the bathroom. He shut the door leaving it open a crack as he changed. "I've been working for the past two months, first in Austria, the Hungary, then Croatia." He continued.

"At Mycroft's behest?"

"No, I sought these assignments out. I only got back Thursday evening and Mrs. Hudson promptly gave me your letter as I entered the flat. I read it in the hall, packed a bag and then made arrangements to come here."

John didn't know what to say. He had never, not once, expected such effort or such an immediate response by his friend.

"When was the last time you slept?"

"I slept a little on the plane." He said coming out of the bathroom, his clothing neatly folded his arms. He was wearing a t-shirt, trousers and that well worn and consequently impossibly soft dressing gown. Placing his clothes atop the suitcase Sherlock then headed to the bed and sat down.

"You don't mind, do you?" He asked gesturing towards it. "Just until my room is prepared."

"No, of course not." John said and as he approached his mate he entered into doctor mode. Crouching down in front of him he took his wrist in hand to feel his pulse. It was the first time they'd actually touched. As his own foolhardy behavior had ramped up they become more demonstrative with one another, more physical. Hugging and that sort. And then, of course, there was the kiss...But the distance between them now made John wonder if that was over and done with. A phase now past.

"John-"

"Shhh." He said quickly as he felt the blood rushing through his friend's veins. "It's faster than I'd like." Cupping his face he gently tugged downward at the skin below his eyes. "Look up for me. Good, thank you. Dry with bloodshot sclera." He placed his fingertips lightly on each side of Sherlock's neck, just under his jaw. "Your glands are a little swollen. Is that tender?"

Sherlock nodded in reply and John sat back on his heels.

"While I appreciate you coming to see me...more than I can ever really say, you were in no condition to undertake this trip. You're exhausted and I mean that medically, you are suffering from exhaustion. You might also be coming down with something, only time will tell. Lie back, right now."

"That's hardly necessary." He protested with only a shadow of his normal indignation.

"Even in my admittedly shambolic state, I am still your doctor, hmm? So do as I say and lie back. Now."

With surprisingly little resistance Sherlock scooted further back on the bed and laid down. The relaxed sigh was audible though he likely hadn't intended it to be.

He thought his friend would protest but instead, he just gave a weary "Thank you."

"You're welcome." He said standing and gazing down at him. The relief he felt as the idea that Sherlock was here, actually here, crystallized from hope to fact almost made his knees weak. He walked over to the small refrigerator and removed a bottle of water and some string cheese and a few savory biscuits.

"Just have a little for me, ok? Just get something in your stomach."

Sherlock raised his head and started eating silently.

"I won't get crumbs on your bed." He promised and John smiled.

"I know."

"Why were you shoveling snow?" He asked.

"I couldn't sleep. I've been having trouble with that lately and I thought maybe I could tire myself out."

"Did it work?"

"As it happens I'm flush with adrenaline right now." He replied.

"Why is that?" Sherlock asked with a curious frown but John only smiled in return.

"Drink some water. I know you're dehydrated. I'm going to go change as well."

John left his friend where he lay on the bed and went into the bathroom. He changed quickly, barely sparing a passing glance to the face that grinned back at him in the mirror. He came out and closed the door softly behind him. Sherlock had neatly placed the food on John's bedside table. He'd eaten a little and that was honestly more than John had expected. But then again his friend seemed both tired and spent and that historically meant pliable.

"John...?"

"Hmm?"

"Would you be terribly offended if I didn't move?" Most of his words were muffled by the pillow beneath his head.

"Of course not. Don't be silly. The bed is yours, stretch out."

"Lie down. It's your bed."

"I don't sleep much. Not really tired. Let me just steal a pillow and I'll camp out on the floor. If I read a bit will the light disturb you?"

Sherlock propped up on an elbow suddenly and John saw the move took far more effort than it should have.

"Are you still so angry with me that you won't share this bed?"

John was flabbergasted. Angry? At him? What on earth was he... He pushed those thoughts away. Now wasn't the time to start this conversation.

"Of course not." He said quietly.

Sherlock flopped back down and closed his eyes before edging his body over to allow John more space.

"Then come to bed." Sherlock replied and his tone left little room for argument.

Switching off the lights John did just that. He raised the blankets and slid beneath them. The bed was already warm from Sherlock's body. It was usually chilly when John got in, empty and cold. Sherlock's head was pressed into the pillows, his curls, still damp from the snow, fanning out. John typically pushed that pillow to the side, as he didn't ever need it. Or some night, when he was exceptionally lonely he pretends it's Mary.

Sherlock's let out a soft little "Hmm" noise and then a warm sigh. He was more than half asleep by then and John took the moment to just stare at the face he'd missed so much. He was the same. Still the same. Always the same. And that was a relief when everything around John was in ruins.

Actually, that was more than a relief. That was home.

Sherlock's face was home.

He wasn't not sure how to do this. Face him? He did usually sleep on his right side. Or face away, with his back to him?

In the end, he decided to face away but even like this, he didn't feel as though he were missing anything. When he was last in this bed he was all nervous, unhappy energy. Now, he felt completely different, relaxed, decompressed.

The shoveling. It was the shoveling that had done it. That's what he tried to tell himself but it wasn't true and he knew that.

It shouldn't have mattered, but it did. He had gone for more than a year without the feeling of a body next to his in bed. The counterpressure on the mattress, the warmth, the company. The metronome of someone breathing next to him. Someone he cared about and loved. Someone he had deeply, deeply missed.

It shouldn't have mattered but it did.

He laid there for a good ten minutes, listening to Sherlock breathe in and out. Thinking, trying not to think but thinking just the same. Counting and recounting what he had and what he'd lost and what's he'd almost lost.

Suddenly he felt the weariness, that exhaustion dragging him down towards sleep but as it did, it weakened his defenses.

Just one crack in the dam that kept everything at bay eventually lead to another and another until he was surging away on a wave.

The tears threatened with a burn but the sob that wracked his body was already fully formed when it escaped from his lips.

He'd tried to keep it in but it was no good.

Fuck.

This was ridiculous. Crying when he was sad. Crying when he was happy. Crying when he was caught somewhere in-between. When didn't he cry? He hated it, hated what his life had done to him. Hated what the alcohol had done to him. Hated what he'd done to himself. Amid all the hate was the fact that he loved that this man was here safe and sound at his side.

Silently, so as not to wake Sherlock he swept the covers back, preparing to get out of bed. He could at leats have the decency to do his weeping in private and return once he'd settled himself. But a hand on his wrist stopped him. It traveled up his arm until it landed heavy on his shoulder coaxing him back down onto the bed. He let it happen. The next thing he knew Sherlock was inching closer, spooning behind him, raising the blankets back in place before an arm circled his chest drawing him near, long fingers of a broad hand splayed out protectively, possessively.

Every alarm in his body went off.

Remember. Remember how devastated you were at the idea of losing him?

Do you want this? To be so close? To be drawn in again? You know what happens when you tangle yourself up with people...they leave...they die.

Red forest. Burning and burning and burning and danger and don't get so close. You'll set the both of you ablaze.

"I'm sorry for-" He began but Sherlock cut him off.

"Hush. Stop running. Sleep."

Sherlock's grip was tight, secure and allowed no room for movement making it a most pleasant prison.

His friend left no space between them.

It was the most intimate, personal, contact he'd had in over a year and it rattled him to his core.

Things had felt off since Sherlock arrived. Off beat. Off rhythm. They hadn't shaken hands or hugged. Rather they'd kept an orbital distance around each other. It was painful and fast and confusing. And now all that was over. They'd never shared a bed before. Never embraced like this before and certainly never for this long. 

This was entirely new.

Somehow in the rhythm of something they'd never done before they found their rhythm again.

John put his hand atop Sherlock's which rested on his chest, his heart beating evenly beneath.

And all was right.

"I didn't think you'd come," John admitted so softly he wasn't sure he'd even be heard.

"Of course I came." Sherlock mumbled already asleep but just conscious enough to respond, though with a slight delay. He then exhaled heavily, softly, contentedly and the sensation burst across the back of John's neck causing goose pimples to prickle and rise. "I'll always come for you, John Watson."

Chapter Text

Day 47

He woke the next morning with two distinct and new sensations.

The first was that he was hungry, almost ravenously so. For John eating hadn't been much more than a mechanical annoyance for months. But now, suddenly as he thought of the ridiculous spread that awaited them both for breakfast he nearly started to salivate.

The second sensation...was the feeling of Sherlock's erection pressing hard against him as he slept.

Their positions during the night hadn't changed and in fact, his friend was still there heavily at his back.

John almost...almost chuckled. There was something delightful about confirming the great detective was just as human as any other man. After all, it was a natural occurrence, it didn't mean anything. It was normal morning wood. He closed his eyes and sighed. Again, it wasn't like it meant anything. It was just part of the experience. It wasn't as if he was turned on. He was warm and happy and untroubled for once and he didn't want to analyze why.

If there was one thing, one small positive thing that had come out of the turmoil of this past year it was that when it came to how his relationship with Sherlock was perceived, he just didn't care anymore.

He didn't care what people thought or whispered about or believed. He had never really cared all that much, to begin with. Alright, that wasn't entirely true. He had cared, once upon a time. Sometimes the questions and assumption from people, especially just after he and Sherlock had first met did raise his heterosexual hackles. But as the years had passed it mostly just vexed him when it came from friends and family. It played on issues he struggled with of believability and lies. He didn't want people to think he was a liar. That included Hanah and what he felt were her suppositions about he and Duck.

Now, largely, he was untroubled.

Not to jump too far ahead of himself, but if he and Sherlock happened to return to Baker Street together and people assumed they were a couple, so be it.

He was tired and wounded and hurt. He'd just had the best nights sleep since 2014 and it happened to be in the arms of a man. And he didn't intend on wasting one more breath shooting down rumors about whether or not he and his best mate were sleeping together.

Who the fuck cared? They were two straight men in bed together. What of it? Hang-ups were boring and for some reason, right now as Sherlock's hand rested warmly on his stomach the red forest was far, far away.

"What was your nightmare?" his Sherlock asked suddenly. The sleepy voice just in his ear made John start slightly out of surprise.

"You were calling for me. Like you were lost. I'm not big on premonitions or anything but I couldn't shake it. And after you didn't reply to my text-"

"You texted me?"

"Yeah, a while ago."

"I didn't have my phone. It would have been a liability so I left it at Baker Street and got a burner."

He hadn't been ignoring him. Not at all. All that worry for nothing.

"So...are you alright?" John asked tentatively.

Seeming to notice the placement of his hand and perhaps the placement of other things Sherlock moved just slightly away from him in bed.

John wished he could have found the words to tell him to stay.

"I couldn't remain at Baker Street. I couldn't focus or concentrate. You became...indispensable to me somewhere along the way. I already knew that to be the case in my personal life. But I didn't realize it extended to my professional life as well. I cannot seem to do this without you." He said sadly.

Sherlock had rolled over onto his back and John turned over too so as to face him.

"I'm sorry." John replied and it sounded as woefully inadequate as it felt.

"I know." He said simply. "So, after accepting that as a reality I asked Mycroft if there was anything a little dangerous, all-inclusive, time consuming, what have you that I could do. He gave me an assignment, or a half dozen actually."

"That's all very interesting and I mean it sincerely but you still didn't answer my question. Are you alright?"

Sherlock turned to look at him, eyes bright with their ever changing blue to green and green to blue.

"I'm fine." He said softly.

John nodded. He was fine. Sure. Of course, he was.

Perhaps how he really felt would come out later.

"Are you hungry?"

"I'm still rather tired, actually."

"I can bring you something. I'm famished. Anything, in particular, you'd like?"

"I trust your decision making."

John knew him well enough to know while it wasn't an emphatic yes, that wasn't a no either.

He made to get out of bed then stopped himself and put a hand to Sherlock's forehead.

"What are you doing?"

"Confirming whether or not you have a fever...which you don't. Ok, I'll be back soon. Just sleep."

With an undeniable spring in his step, he headed to the commissary and began filling a tray with all the things he knew Sherlock enjoyed.

This time when he spotted James he did join him briefly. He smiled and met his wife, shook his hand, talked him up a bit and then hurried back to Sherlock.

His friend was still asleep when he arrived and try as he might, he couldn't tempt him to eat.

John still maintained that he wasn't sick, just exhausted and God only knew what he'd been through lately. He ate his breakfast quietly and after tucking Sherlock in more securely and telling him he'd be back soon he headed off to morning group. When he got back he was still sleeping and after a quick change John headed off to the gym for a jog before chores.

When he arrived back a third time Sherlock was awake, dressed, looking refreshed and nibbling on a waffle.

"Hey, you're up. How do you feel?"

"Tolerable. I think I just needed some uninterrupted sleep. I appreciate the use of your bed, John. Thank you."

"Of course. So, um, would you like a tour of the place? I know it's not exactly your thing but-"

"I'd very much like a tour." He said sincerely.

"Oh...oh great, ok. Um, well let me grab a shower really quickly and we can get started."

Not long after they were walking down the hallway with John directing his attention to a few points of interest. Sherlock was watching everyone who passed by but if he was deducing them he was doing so silently. In fact, he was largely silent. Not cold just...quiet.

"Hang on a moment, I just want to speak to Hanah."

"Of course."

John knocked on her office door and from inside she said: "Come in."

He stepped inside but just barely.

"Hey, Hanah, um first, I wanted to return your book. And second, Sherlock, arrived late last night so I was wondering if maybe we could take a break from the session today."

"Is he with you now?" She asked with a raise of her brows.

John paused and glanced over his shoulder him.

"Um...yes."

"Bring him in. Sherlock?"

John felt Sherlock move close behind him forcing the door open a little more.

"Yes?"

"I'm Hanah, I'm John's therapist. It's a pleasure to meet you."

Sherlock eased past John and walked over to her desk, extending his hand.

"A pleasure."

"So, we're just going to head on out..." John said trying to keep things moving. "I'm going to give him a tour of the grounds."

"John, is this when your normal therapy session would be?" Sherlock asked turning to him with a slight frown.

John opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again.

"Yes, yes it is." He finally replied.

"I didn't come here to disrupt your schedule or your treatment. I think you should continue as normal."

"Well, I don't think-" John began but Hanah cut him off.

"That was exactly my line of thinking as well. Sherlock, would you be opposed to joining us? This is typically the time where we encourage family and friends to become more involved in their loved one's mental health struggles and their sobriety."

"If John has no objection I don't."

This was all moving too fast for John, way too fast and he had a ridiculous impulse to run out of the room. He didn't want this, didn't want to be so exposed. He had no idea what sort of question she might ask him in front of Sherlock or worse what she might ask Sherlock directly.

"John, you're hesitant, I understand." Hanah began soothingly. "But this is a safe environment. I think I'm right when I say that you trust me."

He cleared his throat.

"Yes, yes I do."

"And you trust Sherlock."

"Absolutely."

"You believe that we both want the best for you as you want for yourself?"

"Yes, I believe that."

"Good, because that foundation is what Family Weekend is based on. It's meant to occur when you've built enough trust in your therapist, the program and yourself. It's also meant for you to face head-on the effects of your addiction and behavior on the people you love most. It's going to be hard but I think you're ready for this and I think it's a good thing."

Damn her for being calming and logical but most of all damn her for being right.

"Ok, alright, you're right."

"Good, alright, have a seat gentlemen."

John sat down in his usual seat keeping his eyes on his friend who seemed quite unperturbed by the change of plans.

"So, " She began as she set cold bottles of water before them. "How are you today, Sherlock."

"I'm well. John was kind enough to offer me the use of his room to get some rest as mine hadn't yet been prepared."

"Good, I'm glad you got some rest. And emotionally, how are you feeling right now?"

Well, if nothing else, this would be both uncomfortable and entertaining as Hanah tried to break through.

He narrowed his eyes briefly.

"I don't follow."

"How did it feel to see John again today, it's the first time in several months."

"He's my best friend. We were separated by necessity so he could get better. He appears to be on the correct path."

"Interesting but still not an answer. How did it feel?"

It was good to see Hanah was just as hard on everyone else as she was on him.

"Upsetting." He said finally and John frowned as he looked at him.

"Why upsetting?" Hanah asked before he could.

"Because it was rife with uncertainty. I didn't know what I might find, what state he might be in. I didn't know how he would receive me or how I'd receive him."

"That's all very normal," Hanah replied but Sherlock made a small disbelieving grumble in his throat.

"How did you feel seeing Sherlock, John?"

He wanted to match his friend's reserved tone, maybe even echo some of the fear in it but he couldn't lie, or rather he didn't want to.

"Elated." He said and felt his cheeks burn with the admission especially when Sherlock glanced at him. "Nervous, hesitant but more than anything just elated that he'd come."

"Ok, ok good. Now, tell me how would you describe your relationship with Sherlock?"

"Uh, good...really good, until I mucked things up."

"I think you know I'm looking for more than just good." She replied with a smile.

"Intense. Complicated. Loving." He faltered finding it harder than he ever expected to sum the two of them up that way. "Probably quite peculiar looking from the outside in."

"Sherlock, how would you describe it?"

John expected his friend would have equal difficulty with such a question and while avoiding looking at him directly he reached for the water bottle set out for him.

"The single most important relationship I have ever had in my life."

The bottle didn't make it to John's lips, instead, it just hovered in mid-air, untasted. He looked at Sherlock dumbly, surprised by the straightforward reply.

"Tell me more about that." Hanah responded.

"When I first met him I lived a very solitary life. Little contact with the outside world save for my brother or the people I met briefly who came to me for help. I had acquaintances but no real friends. Friends were something other people had and I had certainly made no attempt to make myself friendly or like other people. He changed that."

"Would you say John was friendly? Open?"

"No, not at all." He responded and John let out a short bark of laughter. He wasn't wrong.

"Sorry, please go on."

"I mean, he was not friendly or open in the conventional sense. He doesn't go around grinning like an idiot and shaking everyone's hand. But there was something about his demeanor that seemed welcoming. He wasn't initially put off by me as so many people are. It confused me. We took a cab and his reaction to some of my deductions was just...respect...admiration. I supposed it softened me, Made me pay more attention to him beyond what I could determine from his clothing. The way he dealt with me changed the way I dealt with him. Our friendship grew rapidly and naturally from that."

"What effect did he have on your life?"

"He...improved my work. He centered my thoughts, he sent me down paths I wouldn't have considered. I never thought of myself as needing a partner of any sort and now I find myself quite lost...without my blogger."

John watched as his friend's eyes clouded over sadly. This was both a lovely admission and a weakness Sherlock was bearing badly. He had never wanted to be dependent on anyone. In fact had structured his life so it would never be an issue. And then along came John, disrupting a lifetime of plans...and then not bothering to stay. The guilt of it made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. It was only alleviated slightly when he realized Sherlock had done the same to him. Gotten him accustomed to them, just the two of them together and then he'd taken a dive off a building.

"Would you describe the relationship as intense?" Hanah asked.

"Yes. But not unpleasantly so."

"That intensity did it have an effect on your other relationships once they came into being. Your relationship with your brother, for instance? Other new friendships? Romantic relationships with men and women?

Sherlock sighed thoughtfully and crossed his legs and in hindsight, John would realize he was deciding something.

"It chafed at Mycroft as he loves nothing better than being the primary influence and antagonist in my life. He's never been one to play second chair, he'd sooner gas the entire orchestra. I believe it improved my relationship with Lestrade, my contact on the police force. It may have altered things will Molly as well, maybe even Anderson once it was all said and done. As for dating, I never had an instinct or interest. So, nothing to report with men. But, were I to be interested in a romantic relationship, women wouldn't be part of the scenario as I'm gay."

John bobbled his water and subsequently spilled it over his lap.

"Shit!" He swore before turning fully to Sherlock. "Wait...what? Why would you say that?"

Sherlock turned to look at him.

"Because it's the truth. I'm homosexual."

"You're gay?" John asked in disbelief.

"Yes."

"You are? And you're just now telling me?"

"You never asked. Though I think I've been fairly clear. Women are not my area, didn't I say that multiple times?"

"And from that, I'm meant to glean that men are?"

"John, " Hanah began. "Why does this upset you?"

"It upsets me because he's my best friend and he never bothered to tell me. Had I know I would have-"

"You would have what?" Sherlock pressed quickly.

"Well, I wouldn't have been pestering you to call Irene Adler... Jesus Christ, nights of passion in High Wycombe. You must have thought I was such an arse. Does Mycroft know?"

"Wouldn't is a negative contraction denoting what you would not do or have done. Would is a verb expressing a positive inclination so technically you didn't answer my question instead you changed it midstream. But to answer your question, to hear Mycroft tell it he deduced it whilst I was still in my cot. In any case, he knows."

"Sherlock, are you ok?" Hanah asked with concern. "Coming out is an important step."

He waved his hand dismissively.

"I'm not emotional about this. I realized my same-sex attraction decades ago. It is a point of interest neither propelling nor guiding my life. It is a fact, that is all. Facts are not emotional."

"Facts aren't emotional? That's nonsense. You know, you could have talked to me." John said leaning toward his friend, holding his eye contact.

"Could I have done, John?" He replied and there was just the hint of bitterness to his words.

"Yeah. Of course, you could."

"I had no desire to be your project, not then and not now. Despite how much you think it would complete me as a human being."

"You're angry." John said incredulously. "Why did you never tell me you were angry about this?"

"I'm not angry." He snapped.

"No, but you are. I didn't mean it that way Sherlock, I didn't mean to imply you were broken. I thought..."

"You thought what?" He asked flatly.

"I thought you were lonely. And while I couldn't see my way clear to ever placing myself in that position again I didn't want my bitterness to rub off on you. Sour you on a possible relationship when maybe, just maybe you were close. I just wanted you to be happy and if that nutty beauty would have done it then I wanted you to go after her. I've always, always only wanted you to be happy. I see now I was wrong."

"Yes, you were very wrong."

"I'm sorry."

Sherlock nodded shortly and looked to Hanah clearly expecting her to somehow take the reigns.

"John, I want to ask you the same questions. What effect did Sherlock have on your life and relationships?"

John was still reeling from the last five minutes but did his best to regroup.

"He...um...changed it for the better. I was very confused and angry and lost when we met. Purposeless, I think would be the right word. I hadn't had any real connection with anyone since Duck-"

"Who's Duck?" Sherlock asked.

"Uh, Sholto, that was the nickname we all had for him."

"Duck." Sherlock repeated just a touch derisively under his breath. 

"Do you want to tell him what you told me?" Hanah asked gently.

John glanced at his friend.

"Maybe this isn't the best time."

"It's a fine time. Tell me." Sherlock said.

"Alright, well, I met you on August 5th and just before that I had decided that on August 8th I was going to kill myself."

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, his mouth dropping open.

"So...this wasn't the first time you'd..."

"No, it wasn't. What I think I'm learning in here is that I have...issues handling certain situations. I get depressed and sometimes I can shake it off, sometimes, I can just live with it. But a lot of times it...it gets bad. That was one of the worst times, actually. But I met you and suddenly things didn't seem so bleak, I had a purpose again. And, um, August 8th came and went."

"John, I'm..." Sherlock trailed off searching in vain for the right words.

"Hey, it's alright. You saved my life and you didn't even know it. That's nothing to feel bad about or apologize for."

His friend nodded but clearly, the information had shaken him.

"Say what you're thinking, Sherlock," Hanah said quietly.

"I'm thinking that I had no idea what you were struggling with. I was clumsy and inattentive." He shook his head with frustration.

"Hey, so was I, hmm? I think I just demonstrated that. You want to forgive each other, if you're ready that is? I've learned not to push. Forgiveness comes in its own time."

"Of course I forgive you."

"Thank you and of course I forgive you." John said with a smile that Sherlock returned. Some of the uneasiness and tension seemed to leave the room and John took a deep breath to steady himself.

"You two make my job easy," Hanah said. "Ready to go on?"

"Not much time to savor a breakthrough." John joked.

"Miles to go before we sleep." She replied. "Tell me about how this affected your relationships with women, John."

"Well, uh, they didn't like him very much." He said with a laugh. "They thought I was only focused on him, devoted to him, willing to drop anything for him. They thought there was no way I could ever put them first."

"Was that true?" She asked.

"Yes." He stated with more emphasis than he intended. That being said he didn't want to take it back. "The only one that understood, the only one that encouraged it, the only one that liked him and that he liked, was Mary. They got on before he and I ever mended fences. Peas in a pod, they were."

"Did Mary's acceptance of Sherlock increase your affection for her?"

"I don't know, I'd already made up my mind to propose before he came back. But, did it help, yeah. I don't need his permission to do anything. But I often feel just a bit happier when I have his blessing."

Sherlock ducked his head suppressing a small smile.

"Get him and that self-satisfied look." John teased hooking a thumb in Sherlock's direction.

Hanah smiled and asked. "Sherlock, how heavily does John's good opinion weight on your actions?"

"Well, I wouldn't say-" Sherlock began but John interrupted him.

"He took down ash."

"Beg pardon?" Sherlock asked but John saw the blush creep to his cheek.

"You took down "Analysis of Tobacco Ash". After I teased you about it, you deleted the entire blog post. "

"That was a bandwidth decision."

"Oh, I'm sure it was."

"I think highly of John." His friend replied, ignoring him. "To have his good opinion and to maintain it is no small feat."

"Alright, let's get down to it," Hanah said leaning forward. "Do you both want to maintain this friendship? To be honest and forthright and to work through things that may have been holding you both back?"

"Yes, I do." Sherlock said without hesitation.

"Absolutely." John replied.

"Good, now no one has to wonder where the other stands and we can really get down to work. I want to take advantage of the fact that we have you here for the weekend, Sherlock. Would you be willing to come back tomorrow?"

"Yes, of course."

"Fantastic. But don't get me wrong. We're not even close to being done for today."

He'd left therapy sessions feeling exhausted, even weak before but this took the cake.

Sherlock too seemed more rattled and less poised than normal.

"Is it always like that?" He asked.

"Um, yeah, yeah it can be. Not for the weak of heart. And Hanah's a real ball buster."

"You like her." Sherlock said and it wasn't a question.

"I do. I liked Ella as well but there wasn't much she could do for me because I lied to her at every turn."

Sherlock turned to him as they walked and John could read his gaze without seeing it. It was the honesty that was taking the detective off guard. It gave John both a surge of pride and shame, pride that his friend had noticed and shame that it was rare enough to be worthy of note.

"Are you hungry? One dry waffle can't have been enough to satisfy you." John glanced down a his pants and decided the water stain had faded enough to look respectable. "Shall we grab some dinner in the lunchroom?"

"Wouldn't you rather eat in the privacy of your own room or mine?"

"I would, but I promised Hanah I'd have at least one meal a day in the public area. It's part of my therapy."

"How so?"

"The um...I..." Why was this all suddenly so embarrassing. Maybe because every suggestion, every conversation somehow lead back to recover or recovery issues. He hoped this wouldn't be what life was like from now on. "She diagnosed me with PTSD and part of exposure therapy is to..well, expose myself to situations and sounds that cause me stress." Before he could ask more John connected the dots. "The open floor plan of it all, the way the voices all merge together, the clanging of the silverware...that kind of thing."

Sherlock was silent as they entered the common area, silent as the got their trays and silent as they moved from station to station to station to plate their food. John didn't say much either except to make the occasional recommendation as to what was good and what could be avoided.

They chose a table somewhat off to the side and sat down.

"You're getting a few stares, I hope that doesn't bother you too much. The people who know you, know you. The ones who don't, well I think they're just surprised to see me sitting here with anyone other than James."

Sherlock had both hands on the table, palms face down. He inhaled, exhaled and spoke acknowledging none of what John had just said.

"There's a great deal we've never told one another isn't there? I didn't imagine until now."

John stopped chewing and looked at him.

"You mean like, you had a mad murderous sister and I had a father who used to beat me? Yeah, I guess so." Sherlock blinked in shock at that but John pressed on. "To be fair, you suppressed the sister and I would do just about anything to not mention my dad. On top of that, we got busy. We got complicated. We got afraid. We got protective. It happens, you know?"

"I don't want us to drift apart. Certainly not due to misunderstandings and half truths. You can tell me the truth, John."

"Sherlock, I know that, I do. There will likely be more things to come up in the future but I can't just...I can't just dump them on the table like that. They're old and complicated and half-buried just the way I wanted them. But I'm trying to face them and not to run away or run to the bottle. That's pretty easy in here. Not sure what it'll be like out there though."

"I'll help you as best I can."

"Thank you. I'm sorry I was too dull to miss the clues you dropped that you're gay. I feel like a shit."

"Does it change anything for you?" He said tracing a pattern in the wood grain with his finger on the table top.

"No, no of course not."

John saw something pass over his friend's face that he couldn't categorize. He expected to see maybe relief or confirmation of a suspected belief that it, of course, wouldn't matter. But no, there was something else...what was it?

"I thought perhaps you might feel odd or misled especially as we just slept together...shared a bed together!" The last bit was tacked on hastily but it didn't stop the blush from rising on his friend's neck.

"I knew what you meant." John grinned. "And it's all ok, all of it. And I know you know it's ok but I need you to know that I know it's ok. Ok?"

"Ok and I'm glad." He said softly before picking up a fork.

"Yeah, me too...Thanks for coming."

"You're welcome, John."

That peaceful feeling had returned and John poked happily, distractedly at his food before glancing at the large windows off to his left. It was still snowing steadily. He wondered if it had stopped all day?

"They won't have you shoveling again, will they?"

John laughed.

"No, not tonight. So, um, we could move your stuff to your room after dinner, if you like. Or, if you wanted you could stay with me again."

"I...fear I already imposed on you too much. I'll sleep in my own room tonight. Don't you agree?"

John as a point of fact didn't agree at all but he nodded his head anyway.

"Yeah, of course, whatever makes you comfortable."

They spent the next few hours together, taking a dessert of biscuits and tea to John's room and just talking. Sherlock caught him up on all the goings on with Lestrade and Janine and Mrs. Hudson, et. al. They stayed away from anything personal, anything about the two of them. They were rung out from the session earlier and decided to tread lightly without Hanah being around. That was fine by John, he was just happy to be here with him. Happy to laugh with him and to make him laugh. Happy with the warmth he brought to the room. He tried to hide his disappointment when Sherlock rose to go. He wasn't sure if they would hug before he left.

They didn't. But that was ok.

After reading a few chapters of the novel nearest to him John turned off his light and settled down to sleep.

Hours later, how many hours he was unsure, he heard a knock on his door. It took awhile for the reality of it to penetrate through to his dreams but eventually, he croaked out a "Come in?"

The door creaked open and Sherlock's unmistakable frame was backlit from the hallway just beyond him.

"John?" he whispered softly.

"Yeah?" John sat up and pawed at his eyes. "You alright then?"

Sherlock hesitated in the doorway and for a moment looked as though he was going to change his mind and shut the door.

Wordlessly John raised the covers in welcome.

The figure of his friend visibly relaxed and entered the room heading towards the bed. John inched back a bit to let Sherlock join him. This time he was the one behind, with Sherlock in front, their bodies pressed against one another. Once his friend was comfortably settled John pulled the covers back over them both.

Sherlock sighed so softly it could have gone unnoticed. But it didn't.

Whatever had driven his friend from the comforts of his own room and bed, he didn't know and he wouldn't press him for answers.

Instead, he mimicked the position Sherlock had taken the night before, resting a hand on his chest just above his heart, just above his scar. Sherlock put his own larger hand atop John's, securing it there.

A deeper, lovelier, heavier sleep was pulling him down and he gladly let it happen. 

Sherlock was still, peaceful and whatever troubles had arisen to drive him here were now forgotten.

John fell asleep to the comforting feeling of his friend's heart beating evenly beneath the palm of his hand.

Chapter Text

Day 48

"Who's James?" Sherlock said apropos of nothing as they lay in bed the next morning. His face was smashed in the pillow, words nearly swallowed up by it in fact. Sherlock had the rather silly habit of looking as though he were dropped from a plane directly onto his bed. He slept compactly, he wasn't a sprawler but he slept hard, body solidly pressed against the mattress.

"Hmm? Oh, James. He's a friend I met here. MI5, we apparently worked with him indirectly at some point."

John still had his eyes closed, in no hurry to move. They were both in that delightful point of existence between sleep and wakefulness, hovering at the boundary just as likely to go in one direction as another. This night of sleep had been even better than the previous one and neither he nor Sherlock had moved for the duration.

"Mmm." Sherlock said in reply.

"Want to join me today or wander a bit for yourself and cause trouble?"

"I don't cause trouble, John."

"Whatever you say." He smiled drowsily.

"I'd like to investigate a little I suppose. This place is intriguing."

"As you like, but you're welcome to spend it with me if you want. It is your last full day here."

The truth of that make John's stomach sink and he frowned and opened his eyes. Why was it only just occurring to him now?

"I wouldn't count on it." Sherlock said.

"What do you mean?"

"The snow hasn't stopped since before I arrived. I anticipate an announcement, later on, today stating we are in fact snowed in."

"Do you really think so?" John asked trying to keep the excitement out of his voice and failing.

"I do, indeed."

Perhaps he sounded pleased about it too.

John's hand still rested on Sherlock's chest and he gave it a slight pat.

"Want some breakfast, a cuppa? Anything?"

"No thank you, I think I'll sleep a bit longer. I'll thank you not to let me adopt this lazy habit when we return home." He stopped perhaps hearing what he had said. "When I return-" Realizing that didn't make things much better Sherlock shut his mouth entirely.

John let it pass. He wasn't sure of what to say anyway. They hadn't discussed it. They hadn't discussed a lot of things. Perhaps a snow-in would allow them more time. Much needed time.

"Ok, enjoy. I'll be in and out and if we don't meet sooner, see you at Hanah's." He whispered close to his ear.

In a moment he was out of bed, not long after he'd dressed and started his day.

Breakfast. Gym. Chores. Group. When he'd become such a creature of habit or better put a creature who enjoyed this type of habit he didn't know.

"Today's topic is trust." Reggie began once they'd settled in their seats with their coffee, tea, and workbooks. "Now, that's trust we've lost, trust we gained and trust we hope to get back. Does anybody want to start us off?"

The group meeting today, was, by John's estimate, twice as full as normal. There were, of course, the regulars but they were now accompanied by their parents spouses, family, friends, and significant others. He didn't realize how much he'd grown to depend on these people, these faces until he was thrust into the reject meeting the other day. He'd been uncomfortable and a little lost. And now, though he was without Sherlock, he still felt better to be among those he knew. When had that happened? Then again, why question it?

His mood was so good in fact he decided to speak first.

"I'll go, if that's ok?"

"Yes, of course, John, please." Reggie beamed. He'd been trying to get him more involved since day one and always liked when John volunteered.

"Ok, hi, my is John and I'm an alcoholic." he said, the words coming out easier now.

"Hello, John." They intoned.

"So trust...yeah, I guess what I realized just yesterday, in fact, is that I trust you lot."

He paused for the small wave of laughter.

"I skipped our regular group and wound up with a lot of people I didn't know, in one of the other wings of the building, actually. They were nice and attentive and welcoming but, um, we were all hesitant to speak openly and honestly and just a little wary in general. So it didn't go anywhere. Plus I was, um, rather down and didn't feel much like participating in any case. I guess it made me realize that I actually do trust you all. I know we don't really know each other, I know we might never see or speak to each other again when we leave here. But right now, in this space, seeings your faces feels good. Not all the time, mind you." he added with a smile. "But every now and then. Ok, that's all."

The group laughed and Reggie gave him a round of applause which he found incredibly embarrassing.

"Thank you, John, John brings up a good point. When you all leave here our group will be broken apart. This is something we've all had to face in bits and bobs as people join us and others leave. But one of the things we must acknowledge even if some of you have hated every moment of this is that AA provides at least two important things; stability and trust. Now, you all had to gain trust in here from one another. You had to listen to each other, understand one another's stories, find commonality and build a relationship. You may find that surprising, you may not think you've built anything with anyone here. After all, you're not obligated to spend time with your fellow residents, you don't have to eat together but you may feel the loss when you leave here for good. That's not a reason to become disheartened but it is a warning sign that you need to find a new meeting and a new group that you connect with. AA isn't perfect but it is the best thing we've got and if you work it, it works.

So group. That's your first safety net. AA and NA meetings are like buses there is always another one you can catch. You can always another one going on somewhere if you miss your first choice. But I urge you to find a first choice and then stick with it. Don't let missing out on one be an excuse to flake on the rest.

We'll talk about sponsorship more in depth later. While it is not essential it is highly recommended and again this is about trust. Finding someone you trust who can keep you on the straight and narrow, someone you can talk to when you're considering getting that drink, getting that high. Now, I'm sure some of you may be thinking, but isn't that what my family is for, my friends, my partner?

They are there to support and love you but, if you'll allow me to bastardize a quote from Philippians 2:12 you are to work out your own recovery with fear and trembling. Because if I know you, and I do know you because I know me, you have put them through an awful lot."

John looked around the room, he'd been riveted to Reggie which honestly didn't happen very often. He realized now that was because Reggie wanted them to have the floor, to speak when and however long they needed to about whatever was on their minds. But when it came time to command a room, to take center stage, he could.

Every face mirrored what John felt; hopeful, afraid and chastened. This was all so much, too much. He wanted to get out of here, every moment of every day he dreamed of hitting day 90 and heading home. But...but another part of him was terrified of that outside world, with its temptations and consequences and structureless days. The outside world with all the people he'd hurt and abused and generally fucked over. He shivered at the thought but when he looked around he didn't feel so alone.

"Addiction at its heart is betrayal; betrayal of self and betrayal of loved ones. It may be difficult for them to trust you again. You should be prepared for that. You should be prepared for flare up's, angry conversations that may seem to materialize out of nowhere. But they're not out of nowhere, are they? You know that. We all know that.

Conversely, you may have a hard time trusting them. There may have been ideas or buried facts or truths that have come up for you in your time here and you may be angry with them. You may not trust them or their motives. This can bring things to a standstill but it doesn't have to. Time for some hard truths. Not all relationships are meant to work, not all marriages are meant to stick, not all friendships are meant to last. But I encourage you to prioritize a return to trust, a new relationship, a new pact built on an old one. Even if it doesn't work, if you want it to work you still have to try."

"What about sex?" Carl asked and the assembled giggled like schoolchildren. John cracked a smile. It was a fair question.

"Sex, excellent question. So trust is something you'll likely have to get back in all forms of your life, especially for some of you who are in romantic relationships and possibly, especially in the bedroom. Now, we'll talk more about this later but re-starting an intimate relationship with your partner won't just happen. It might take time to rebuild that bridge. You can't and shouldn't just hop back into bed. For those of you not currently in a relationship the recommendation is a year of celibacy-"

This was met with a chorus of shocked gasps and even a few playful boos.

"That's right a year of celibacy while you get yourself sorted out. This is a little flexible and largely depends on how your relationship with your addiction and sex has intertwined. For those of you currently involved, well, it's just going to take time. Vexing, yes but also perhaps the best thing for the two of you. You'll have to work up to it, with dating, conversation, gestures, touch, attention. It can be as simple as a good night kiss, a stroke of a cheek, a head on a shoulder. Remember the simple things, remember every time you hold a hand, embrace, feel a heartbeat you're rebuilding your life together. That's worth the effort and it's worth the wait.

Re-establish the bare bones of intimacy and build from there. You'd be surprised at what can be achieved from just lying in bed and holding one another."

Author's Note: Not too much tonight after yesterday's rather large chapter. Just a snack of sorts to tide you over, but still, something that I believe moves the story along. I'm hoping to get more done over the weekend but those are famous last words aren't they?

Your reviews have all been so lovely and detailed and wonderful. I am truly overwhelmed to be fortunate enough to wake up nearly every day to such kind words. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

Chapter Text

"We've got a unique opportunity here." Hanah began. "Sherlock, I had intended on discussing these things with John anyway but to have you here and receptive I think will make the process that much more useful. First, we're going to talk about your "death"."

Sherlock inhaled through his nose and then nodded resolutely. He'd arrived before John had and was seated comfortably when he'd entered. For a moment, just a flash he'd felt nervous, wondering if they'd been talking about him before he'd gotten there.

"John, this isn't going to be easy but it is the next step in your exposure therapy. I want you to start at the beginning, January 15th, 2012."

"I'm just...I'm uncomfortable doing this in front of him, you know?" He said gesturing to his friend while looking at Hanah. "It's all kind of raw."

"I realize that. And I think that's just the reason we should tackle it right now."

"OK.." he sighed heavily. He was holding a tall disposable cup, filled with tea between his hands. It was warm, hot if he held it too long in one place. He concentrated on that and not the road that lay ahead. "Just, Sherlock, don't interrupt me, ok? Just, let me get through it all in one go."

"I won't say a word." He promised.

Clearing his throat, he began."When I saw you last, before the rooftop of Bart's we were in the lab and I got the message that Mrs. Hudson had been shot. Now, clearly, in hindsight, this didn't make any sense, this was all orchestrated by you to get me out of the way." He jutted a finger at Sherlock surprised at how things anger rose so easily to the surface, surprised and a little frightened.

"John," Hanah said quietly. "To me, direct this to me, not to him. Not just yet. This is you and me, like always."

But he already felt too far gone to abide by her directions now. Honestly, he wasn't even willing to try.

"I got to Baker Street, she was, of course, ok, thank God and then I realized you'd played me for a fool again."

John saw Sherlock open his mouth to speak but he cast him a warning glance to stop any and all words.

"So I got to Barts, got out of the cab and you called me. You direct me to look up and you start spouting off these lies. Awful, awful lies really, one after another. You were a fake, you looked me up, it was all a trick, etc. etc. And you were crying. See, I'd heard you upset before, frantic, lost, scared but I never heard you cry. Not ever...and I wanted...I felt so helpless. I avoided getting close to people because that helplessness is always, always part and parcel. And here it was again. I couldn't believe what you were planning.

Keep your eyes fixed on me. That's what you said. I hear that, in dreams, I hear your voice.

And might I just add, if that was your note, it was the most impersonal piece of shit I have ever heard. So thank you for leaving me with that."

"John, take a breath for me. Take a sip of your tea and take a deep breath."

"No, you see that's a pause button and he doesn't get a pause button. No, he doesn't, I didn't get a pause. From the second he called me from Barts I didn't get a pause. That reel just kept playing and playing, it never stopped. I didn't get to take a break when I lived it for two years and he doesn't get one hearing it now."

He set his tea down and steepled his hands in front of his face before speaking again.

"Do you know what happens when a body hits the ground? It bounces. It bounces, because you know, at the end of the day we're just meat. Meat that in this case just threw itself off a building. When it hits, after that initial bounce, of course, it can just fall apart, I mean it just falls open and you see how raw inside we all are. Just raw fucking meat that used to be someone you loved but has now, just like that, ceased to be anything at all. 

The skull of an average adult human male is 6.5 millimeters thick. It can withstand 520 pounds of force, that what's needed to crush a skull. Now, that's a lot of force but from where you jumped, the height, the rate of acceleration...well that was easily achieved. So when I got there your skull had fractured like an eggshell. Bit's of you just floating in this ever growing puddle of blood. Skull...brain matter."

John made a gagging noise as the sounds and the terror and the pain and the sight and the smell came back to him all at once. Hanah nudged a bin towards him but he waved her away.

"I'm fine. Copper...pennies...I could smell your blood and it smelled of copper pennies. You know I don't even keep them? When I get them back as change from a store I put them in the Take-A-Penny-Leave-A-Penny thing or I just drop them on the ground outside. I can't bear that smell on my fingers. I can't stand it. In an emergency, if someone needs help, I'm fine. But I can't just casually smell that anymore, hmm? Your hair was just soaked with it. Soaked with your blood and when they moved you it just left this streak on the pavement, like an artist's brush soaked in oil paint.

They rolled you over and your eyes were open, just frozen, just staring, there was blood spattered over your face. They put you on a stretcher and took you away. They checked me out, Lestrade questioned me then got me out of there before I had to face the press. And that was it. You were dead. No suspense to that you were just...dead. I went back home to Baker Street but I didn't make it there before Mrs. Hudson found out. Because you see the paparazzi were camped out at her door. Someone snapped a photo on their phone of you on the concrete and uploaded it to Twitter, the photog got it from the internet and showed it to her just to capture her reaction when she saw it. I had to give her a tranquilizer that night just so she could calm down and get some sleep. As for me, I sat in my chair and stared at your empty one until the sun came up. I don't know if I had ever felt so thick, so stupid because I was just going round and round trying to figure out what had happened, what had you done, what could I have done to stop this? Why you would tell me what you did?

I still don't know what that was...I don't...I don't understand that part. After all this time why try and make me believe something you know, you know I wouldn't. Paper after paper, bullshit column after column in the Sun and the Mail and the Telegraph and I never doubted that everything we'd seen and done was true. Why that part? They weren't listening to the phone they were only watching. So why that? Hmm? Why that extra nail in the coffin? Why that purposeful attempt to hurt me? To devalue everything we'd done together?"

"I thought...I would help you to let me go." Sherlock replied as it turned out, unwisely.

"I told you, not a word!" John roared. "Now, I have been stifled in this long enough, by you and by Mary, not anymore. I have been told that my feelings on this don't matter. Well right now, today, for once, they do. For once, finally, I will have this out with you.

You were shit at human emotion, Sherlock. You were shit at supposing what I'm going to do when it really counts. And you were shit at trying to make me believe something awful about you that isn't true. Mary always said you were a terrible liar, like a fucking child. Like a 4-year-old covered with paint still professing innocence as to how the wall got to look that way. And she was right, that's what you are, a fucking lying child." John spat.

"Did you think it was ok, to do that? To piss all over my memory of you?. I didn't care about the papers, or the reporters or the knobheads taunting me in the street. Your suicide would have caused that anyway, that was completing the narrative. I get that. What I care about is that you tried to put it in my head. How dare you. How dare you do that us and do that to me."

"John-" Hanah began but he ignored her.

"You wanted me to grieve you as a liar and I hated you for that. I hated you for trying to take away someone that I loved twice over. Once by plunging onto the pavement and once again in my memory. You had no right to do that to me! No! Fucking! Right!"

John wasn't sure when he had started shouting again but rage was burning hot in his chest. He stood up suddenly.

"I need some air. I can't just sit here. I need a break. And I'm-I'm not asking. I'll be back in 5 or 10."

Without giving either of them time to agree or protest he left the room the door shutting behind him.

Chapter Text

God but he wished he smoked. All the commercials and magazine ads from when he was a child said it was just the thing to even out moods and soothe jangled nerves and anger and anxiety and every other frustrating, annoying to-be-avoided emotion.

But he didn't smoke. Honestly, couldn't stand the taste of it so instead, he found the nearest exit, walked out and crouched by a wall. He felt both ashamed and justified for everything he'd just shouted at his friend. It was all true, all of it, and he had kept it inside just letting it fester. But wasn't it better in there? What good exactly was going to come from Sherlock's shell-shocked face. Because though he'd tried to ignore it that's what he'd seen. Sherlock; pale, speechless, terribly apologetic and hurt. How was this supposed to solve things?

This had been the wrong day for this sort of session. Maybe he should have put a stop to it. Ever since leaving group he'd been in a less than good mood and he couldn't put his finger on why. The conversation had devolved from the overarching topic of trust to questions about sex. It was as though once the floodgates had been opened people couldn't stop themselves. Query after query about 'What if this happens...', 'What do I do when..' 'What do I do if she...' 'What do I do if it won't'...

It just made him uncomfortable. He didn't know why. He certainly wasn't squeamish about sex but after Mary died he'd conveniently put it away. It wasn't like they'd been having sex before she died anyway. The six-week moratorium had just passed but they hadn't exactly been eager to jump back into bed together. They hadn't been that active before Rosie was born either. Though he'd been more than willing because truth be told he found it kind of sexy. Though she wasn't really enjoying her body all that much. And on top of that she'd often get fed up with all the maneuvering required around her belly. He'd offered oral as a compromise and wanked enthusiastically as he enjoyed the taste of her. Not the most romantic outing but it had been nice. It had been something that they'd both needed.

God, was that the last time? Was that really the last time they'd been together? If he'd known, if he'd only known. But he hadn't known and instead his most recent sexual memories involved sexting with Sherlock's mad-as-a-hatter sister. Jesus...

So, by and large, he'd packed sexuality and desire and everything that came with it away. Packed it up like a box to be shoved into an attic. The truth was he didn't quite feel the urge anymore. Memories of Mary still made him happy but that visceral pleasure was for the most part gone. In the early days, back home, in the suffocating quiet of his room he'd tried to have a wank to no avail. Whiskey dick was a stone cold fact whether he drank whiskey or not.

Initially, it sort of panicked him. This part of him should work. It needed to work. It always worked, come hell or high water. He didn't have the nickname Three Continents Watson for nothing. Whether partnered, solo, or that one ill-conceived threesome it always worked. But not then.

And not now either.

He'd given it a go more than a few times here at The Location but had always wound up stopping when his cock had no interest in being anything other than limp. It was maybe too early to panic. Erections didn't just come back once you got off the booze. It took time. As a doctor, he knew there could be temporary nerve damage and serious changes in his hormones to repair and it wasn't as if the depression had just gone away or the anxiety with it. The penis is such a simple, stupid thing...except when it's not.

But, not only was it perhaps too early to panic...but he also didn't feel like panicking. He didn't know what life was going to be like once he left here. But he was having a difficult time imagining dates and trips to the cinema, first kisses and snogging and hopping into bed. It all seem so trivial and so distant. It seemed like something that was part of a past life.

But he'd had to sit there in group and feign interest and listen to all their nervous, hopeful questions and Reggie's reassuring answers and wish to God he was somewhere else.

He was tired of talking about it, tired of thinking about it.

It was funny too, but all the things Reggie mentioned, the last time he'd been in bed with someone he cared about, the last time he'd held someone or had been held...

The last time he'd kissed someone where it had mattered...

It had all been with Sherlock.

Except it wasn't funny and he didn't laugh. Instead it made his head hurt.

"You need to go back in there and finish this." "Mary" said.

"Why are you here right now?" He said glancing up to see her standing against the wall by his side.

"Because you called for me." She said simply. "Whether you know it or not. When you call for me I come."

"I didn't call for you." He said feebly.

"You did, John, and we're running out of time. You're right, you know. It will take time because you are still stressed and you're still anxious and you're still grieving and lost and lonely but those are not the only reasons why you can't get it up. There's one more big one. And if you don't face up to it-"

"Mary" paused and looked at him critically.

"Get up. Go back in there and say everything you need to say to him. Say it right now, because if you don't it's the equivalent of only removing half of an infection. And these feelings of rage have been infecting you since before we ever met. It's killing you, John. And it's efficient and multi-pronged because it's using the alcohol and the depression and the panic and the denial. Go in there and finish. Get it all up, like a child who's sick. Get it all up. Then you sit there and you listen while he has his say because if for one moment you think he can't give as good as you just did and with just as much ammunition you are sorely mistaken."

"When is this going to stop being so hard?" He asked.

"John..." She said as she mimicked his posture, sliding down the wall to be at his side. She raised a hand to place it on his cheek.

For a moment he almost felt it. The much-missed caress.

"John, do you have any idea how lucky you are? Do something while there's still a chance because that chance doesn't last forever. It's gone before you know it. Before you know it."

"Me quoting me back to me. New depths." He said with a sniffle and she wrapped an arm around his shoulders and lay her head against his.

"Please, John, please." She begged him and after pretending to draw strength from the pretended pressure of her small frame against his, he rose.

"Ok, I'll go back."

"Alright, love. I'll take what I can get...for now."

He smiled down at her, at his Mary before heading back inside.

He knocked on the door to Hanah's office and waited to be invited in. As he entered he noticed Hanah's eyes were on him while Sherlock's most definitely were not.

"I am sorry." He began before she could speak. "I know better than to behave like that. My emotions got the better of me."

"I don't think you should apologize," Sherlock said, his baritone having a bit more of a waver to it than normal. "Those are your feelings and you're entitled to them."

As Sherlock continued to speak John stepped further into the room and reclaimed his seat, turning it just slightly so he could better face his friend who continued speaking.

"I admit...I counted myself lucky that I had avoided your rightful anger. I thought, 'How convenient. Everything has been compressed and accelerated because of the terrorist attack and the bomb on the train. We've fast forwarded and all is well.' But it wasn't well." Sherlock looked up at him. "You weren't well. I suspected it and it was solidly confirmed in the morgue. That wasn't about me pulling a knife on Culverton. It wasn't about the drugs. I don't even know if that was about Mary, not only, not just. It was about this."

But John shook his head emphatically.

"No, no, mate. I make no excuse for that. None. I let you get that way. I let you sink so far and that's what allowed that creature to prey on you like he did. I did that. Me. I did that. I can't excuse hurting you like that, I won't.

"If I may step in," Hannah said. "I don't think he's asking you to excuse it, John. I do think he's asking you to acknowledge where it came from. You can do one without the other. Try it, try it now."

John had no desire to go back to that moment, in fact, he'd been actively avoiding it but against his wishes, it came rushing back anyway.

The anger, the disgust he felt looking at his former friend, out of his mind, high, mad, hysterical, perhaps on the point of violence. The one thought he'd had back then so clear and loud was...

"This is what it's always like. Pulling him back from the edge. Keeping him calm, keeping him in line. Keeping the mad genius with his feet on the ground and I'm sick of it. I am sick to death of babysitting this child who never ever has to face the consequences of his actions. Who is always bailed out by me or his brother or sheer fucking luck. I am sick to death of it and I am sick to death of him. And I want to hurt him until he wakes up. Until he wakes both of us up. How much more do I have to suffer for him? How much more do I have to lose on the altar of Sherlock Holmes?"

John didn't realize he'd been saying all this aloud until the echo of his voice caught his ear and immediately rushed to take it all back.

"No," Hanah said firmly. "Leave it there. That is the point of this. Not to make admissions and then retract them. You can tell what you believed was the truth and still regret it but it doesn't make it any less true for you. You are an angry person, John. That is something I have been trying to get you to face since day one. Now, whether you are disgusted or content with your past actions you have to face them and acknowledge why they happened. Do you understand that?"

"How can I say such terrible things to him and not apologize?" He asked incredulously.

"Have you apologized to him about these incidents in the past?"

"Yes. I mean, all but what I said just now about his suicide because I'd never spoken of it before."

"And for the things you had told him and apologized for, did he accept?"

"Yes, he said he did."

"Did you believe him?"

"Yes, I believed him." John replied not entirely sure where she was going with this.

"Sherlock, did you mean what you said when you forgave him? Do you harbor any negative feelings toward John about what happened in the mortuary other than the simple fact that it happened at all?"

"I forgave him long ago." He intoned.

"As I suspected, which means your constant apologizing and your unwillingness to let it go, is vanity, John."

He scoffed in reply but she continued unfazed.

"No, I know you don't like that because you don't consider yourself to be a vain man. But languishing in apology after apology while never A) clearing the air about what you were actually angry about and B) not accepting forgiveness when it had been given is vain and self-serving. It avoids doing the work in favor of lamenting past work undone. We're here for truth, John, you and Sherlock and me. Truth about why you really assaulted him, truth about why you drink, truth about why you felt unable to vent your anger about your best friend to your best friend. We've done a bit of that today and it's to be celebrated and not swept under the rug with more apologies whose time has long passed. Don't you think he deserves to hear it? What the consequences of his actions were? Don't you think he deserves an explanation for your actions?"

"Yes..." he said with exasperation. "It's just hard. I want to let all of this go."

"No, you want to pretend as though you let all of this go. That's not healing, that's malignancy. Malignancy only feels better in the short term. This hurts, yes, because resurrection, I imagine would hurt. You want to resurrect, you want to come back to life. There is a difference in acknowledging your anger and justifying the actions that sprung from it. You can do one and not the other. And you can be angry John but you can't make your home there."

He'd never heard it put so succinctly and still, it made him bristle. It also made him sound like a drama queen something he'd accused Sherlock of on more than one occasion. He wanted to take umbrage at the idea that he enjoyed being trapped in an endless cycle of guilt and forgiveness but he wasn't sure it could stand up to the harsh light of reality.

"Alright, you sit with that for awhile," Hanah said. "We'll come back to it. For now, let's move on to the two years before Sherlock returned. I want you to tell me how you coped."

"Work, alcohol and then more work and more alcohol. All coupled with cutting people out of my life that reminded me of what was now over. Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson."

"Bivouacking," Hanah said.

"Bivouacking." He agreed. "I thought it was best to just leave everything behind and I was almost successful but one person kept popping up."

"And who was that?" She asked.

"Him." He said hooking a thumb in his friend's direction. "Always there, always adding in his two cents whether I wanted to or not. I thought I had let him go but he was still there. I mean, I know it wasn't him..."

"You saw me like you saw Mary?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John winced fearing he'd revealed too much and suddenly worried his therapist might think he just casually hallucinated and had never bothered to mention it.

"You speak to Mary?" Hanah asked.

"Not exactly, I realize...I understand she's not there, she's not a ghost, she's a creation of my subconscious. But in the past, it has helped me. I mean everyone talks to themselves now and again, don't they?"

"John, you look as though you're frightened I'm going to have you sectioned. I'm not." She smiled. "Yes, we all talk to ourselves and yes, it is a valid coping method. If I thought I was seeing or hearing something that hinted at instability I would let you know and we'd persue it. I don't so we won't. Now, what did you say to Sherlock?"

"I told him that I missed him, terribly. I told him he left too soon, we had so much more to experience together. So many more adventures. I told him there were so many things I wanted to say to him that I couldn't now."

"Have you told him any of those things?"

"Some of them. Not all." He said honestly.

"What's preventing you now that you've been given a second chance?"

"I...I don't know."

"Would you like to tell him now?"

"No." He said quickly.

"Alright. I want you to tell me about when these flashbacks occur. What brings you back to the point of Sherlock's fall?"

"They don't so much happen anymore. It's pretty rare nowadays. They flared up recently when I was worried about him. The last few months before Christmas were...awful. But, umm...hearing about a suicide on the news. Seeing something topple from high above out of the corner of my eye. Construction sites with people on beams, those can set me off. I told you earlier, Hanah, about that sound that the wet cement bags make when they hit the pavement."

"What happens when an incident like that occurs?" Sherlock asked and John felt a pang at the concern with which his voice was laced.

"I sometimes start to sweat, get short of breath...just your run-of-the-mill panic attack, I suppose."

"Don't minimize. Say what you mean." Hanah replied.

"Alright, it's bad. It feels bad, it gets bad. I feel like I'm back there again, my heart starts racing, I can't breathe...it's visceral."

"Does it also interrupt your sleep?"

"Yes, quite a bit."

"How have you been sleeping lately? I feel as though the last few days you've seemed better rested."

John glanced at Sherlock and then away again.

"Yes, it's been better, better since seeing Sherlock."

"So both times that he's come back and you've let him in the episodes have lessened?"

"Yeah, quite a lot actually. They became essentially non-existent. But that makes sense, doesn't it? It's not so much him anymore, it's the ones from the war and Mary. Relieving what happened to Mary."

"Ok." She said scribbling something down in her notebook. "Sherlock, is there anything you'd like to say to what you've heard."

"Yes," He said before clearing his throat and sitting up straighter. He what been slouching. Something John had never known him to do. "I know that you know I had my reasons for leaving you out of the loop before I went to the roof. My pride, my hubris made me believe that I had beaten Moriarty at his own game. I didn't send you on the chase after Mrs. Hudson to keep you completely away. It was only to delay your arrival if I needed backup. I trust you, John." And at those words he made eye contact, steady and sure. "I trust you but Moriarty...he threw me and I didn't want you there. I didn't want to run the risk he would use you as a pawn. As it dawned on me that I had been out played I knew what I had to do to keep you safe. Obviously, I'd anticipated this possibility. If I hadn't I wouldn't be here today. I didn't mean for you to see it. I didn't mean to leave so quickly, so callously." He took a sharp deep breath and John watched as he blinked away tears. "There was a part of me that thought and hoped you might be ok...better off. Better off without my madness..."

"You stupid git." John said affectionately. "So bloody stupid."

Sherlock gave a weak smile before continuing.

"I thought about you every day. I thought about the time when I could come back to you, come back home. But I didn't allow myself to think about how what you'd seen might affect you. I purposefully didn't allow that. To hear what...what you go through...what I did...I'm so...sorry. I am so, so sorry, John Watson. I am sorry."

Before the first tear could fall John was on and covering the distance between the two of them. Crouching down he pulled Sherlock into his arms, cradling the back of his head. He kept his words soft, far too soft for Hannah to hear.

"It's ok. It's all ok, I promise. I forgive you. I forgive you, love." Sherlock nodded against his shoulder as John held him closer. "It's done, you hear me, hmm? It's over, all that, all of it is over. I forgive you and I don't blame you."

Sherlock mumbled something into his shoulder that he couldn't understand.

"What was that?" He asked quietly.

"You mean it this time." He said as he pulled his head back and it wasn't a question but a statement. John wasn't sure exactly what he was referring to but he just nodded in agreement.

"Yeah, yes, I mean it." Turning behind him briefly he grabbed the box of tissues off Hanah's desk and taking a few began to dab at Sherlock's face.

The detective laughed, a watery chuckle still thick with tears.

"The only other person who's ever done that is my mum."

"Well, then I'm in good company," he said drying his friend's cheeks. Once done he followed an instinct he couldn't trace and bringing his mates face close to his, he planted a kiss on his forehead.

Rising from his position on the floor he noticed Sherlock looking at him curiously but he offered no explanation for the kiss as he didn't have one. Instead, he balled the tissues up and tossed them in the bin and took his seat.

"Is that all for today, Hanah?" He asked.

She was about to answer but as her mouth opened she was interrupted by an alert on her phone.

"Excuse me one moment." She said picking it up. "It's on silent except for emergency announcements."

She read quickly and then nodded.

"Well, it looks as though family weekend has been extended. The roads are impassable and the flights are grounded. We're snowed in."

John glanced at Sherlock who having regained his composure was wearing a small smug smile.

"What did I tell you?" he said.

"So," Hanah began. "To answer your question, John, I'm going to leave it to you. We can stop here and come back tomorrow or we can push on. I have some questions I'd like to ask Sherlock."

"I'd just as soon continue if it's all the same to you both," Sherlock said quickly.

John was a curious combination of exhausted but exhilarated. There was a momentum in the room and feared it's dissipation if they broke for the day.

"I'm with him." John replied.

"Good, then we're all in agreement. Sherlock, your turn."

"Ominous." He replied.

"Perhaps. I want to know what you consider to be the last truthful conversation you had with John?"

John could tell Sherlock who prided himself on being several steps ahead hadn't been expecting that question and neither, frankly, had he.

"I.." he sniffed before continuing. "I believe that would be at Baker Street, when I was home from hospital, recovering. He was...babysitting me as I couldn't be trusted alone. We were talking about the future and the past, about a woman, about Mary and as he started to cry. I stood and embraced him. Rather like he just did to me. He apologized and I forgave him. He asked me if I would be alright and I told him I would be if he was. He reiterated that he needed me to be alright. And then-" He stopped short.

"Yes?" Hanah prompted.

John had been sitting there frozen. He hadn't know Sherlock would choose this moment. He hadn't known he had believed this was the last time he'd been forthcoming. He also didn't know what was worse, the fact that Sherlock was going to reveal what happened after that or he fact that he was going to tell it wrong.

"And then I kissed him."

He told it wrong.

"No." John said. "That's not what happened."

"John..." Sherlock began and there was no mistaking that tone. Sherlock thought he was going to deny it, deny it ever happened. It was just this side of heartbroken. He didn't think for a moment it had been something romantic to his friend, that would be silly. Sherlock didn't do romance. But it had been a moment, an important and private moment between them and it meant something, even if John still didn't understand his impetus.

"I kissed him. He didn't kiss me." John stressed.

Hanah turned to him and where he thought he might see surprise on her features there was none.

"On the forehead, like now?"

"No, on the lips. I don't know why, exactly. I'm not sure but...he's been blaming himself for it since it happened. Thinking maybe he tricked me or took advantage of me or some other such nonsense. He didn't, I kissed him and then he kissed me back."

Sherlock looked positively shocked but not angry or hurt and John would take the former look over either of the latter two.

"Alright," Hanah said before turning back to Sherlock. "Please go on."

"Um, yes, that was, I believe our last truly honest time with each other. There were moments of honesty over the months that followed but as time went on he closed more and more of himself off. After that it was just deception after deception."

"Be specific, what was he lying about?"

"Everything, how much he drank, how much he slept and ate. He lied about the work, about how he got a confession from a witness."

"Do you believe he's telling the truth now?"

"Yes, for the most part."

"When was the last time you believe he lied to you?"

"In the letter he wrote."

John had withered under Sherlock's assessment but kept his mouth shut. But at this he had to say something.

"What are you talking about?" He asked.

"That wasn't you." Sherlock said plainly. "I said I came because of the letter and that was true. I came here to see what exactly was happening to you."

"What does that mean?"

"It was full of platitudes, greeting card sayings. There was very little of you in that note to me, John. You should have gone with your first copy."

"My first-"

"The impression you made from your first drafts bled through and could still be deciphered on the one you sent me." Sherlock said before he started to recite what John had clear memories of setting down and then binning, from memory.

Dear Sherlock,

I don't know what to say in this bloody thing. I fucked up. I fucked your life up and mine in the process. Jesus Christ, if I hurt you, if I've sent you off the rails I am so so sorry. I wish to hell you'd answer your fucking phone, write me, call me, tell me to piss off, tell me you miss me, tell me you'll come see me. This limbo is killing me. You're killing me which I suppose is fair since I may have nearly killed you.

I'm sorry. I love you. Please get in touch with me.

Love,

John

"I came because of that letter, not the drivel you wound up posting. I came for that John and to see if he was alright."

John lowered his head. Sherlock was right, of course. That was the truth, short and bittersweet. Why hadn't he sent that one? It seemed so long ago he couldn't recall.

"You're right and I'm sorry. It was...it wasn't all that I wanted to say."

Sherlock nodded shortly and returned his attention to Hanah.

"When you first suspected that John was drinking too much what went through your mind?"

"He'd never had a problem with alcohol before, to the best of my knowledge. I thought if he wanted or needed to indulge he was entitled. I believed it would pass. I didn't think life would be fine but I did believe it was a phase of sorts."

"And when you found out it wasn't?"

"I was frightened. I am a recovering user, I don't subscribe to the word addict, though my recovery had had quite a few false starts. But I know how quickly things can spiral out of control. It became apparent fairly soon that that was precisely what he wanted."

"When did you feel you knew that for sure?'

"When he gave away Rosie." Sherlock replied and John could see the muscles clench in his jaw. Had he been that angry at the time? John couldn't recall, so much of it was lost in a fog. "I knew when he gave away his daughter he was cleaning house. Slowly, taking his time, mind you but ready to ratchet it up at any second. I sought help, I told our friends to be wary and be on watch. I made sure to stay in contact with him, visit him, care for him as best I could. But he was bloody determined."

"You sound angry."

"I was angry. I am angry."

"Tell me." Hanah prompted.

"I am angry that he never turned to me for help or accepted my offer to move back to Baker Street so I could care for he and Rosie. I'm angry that he could be so blind so un-self-aware as to see what's right in front of his eyes. I'm angry that he stopped fighting and that he shut me out. I am angry that he lied about forgiving me."

Sherlock turned to look at him.

"When you just said it now, you meant it. I believe you. I believe it was different from all the other times. But before, when I would ask you, it always came after you referenced my fall."

John, of course, knew exactly what he was talking about.

"Come on, Sherlock...watching someone die is easy. You just look up and you watch them fall to the ground. Then you rush up and you get to see all the bits of brain and blood on the pavement."

But that wasn't even the worst one. He knew the worst one but only in retrospect. He would swear on a stack of bibles he hadn't meant it at the time, that it had been a slip. But even now he wasn't quite so sure.

"Are you my Mycroft? Should I leave you a note?"

"What did you say?"

"I said, are you my Mycroft, should I leave you a list?"

"You said note. John? John!"

All the little awful callbacks, meant to needle and hurt.

John opened his mouth to apologize but only got so far as "I-"

"Let him finish, John. This is his time. Go on, Sherlock."

"I am angry that he would ever think I would stop being his friend. That he holds me so cheaply as to believe I would walk away after all this. That anything on this earth could compel me to walk away from him."

"How did watching his change effect your life?"

"I was suddenly unable to concentrate. I still kept on with the work but I found that my mind was sluggish, for me, at least. There were constant intruding thoughts I couldn't control. Which is to say nothing of Mycroft, the most intruding thought of all."

"What happened with Mycroft?"

"He became increasingly worried and agitated by my behavior. He never has or will consider me to be the reasonable, stable one out of we two but he does have a chart, a level of his own creation that he uses to determine if I am what he considers to be ok. I had fallen far below his markers on that chart. This made him hover almost incessantly, it made him hostile to even the idea of John, unshakeably and revoltingly paternal towards me. And worst of all, it made him offer his assistance on my cases. I could not shake him or his neverending calls and texts."

"Was he worried you might start using again? To cope?"

"Yes, as he never failed to remind me."

"Did you start using again?"

Sherlock paused and in that moment John's heart simply stopped beating.

"No...I thought about it but ultimately made the decision it would be unwise. I was of course using prior and during everything that went on with Culverton but I stopped once that busines was concluded."

"Thank God, for that." John said under his breath.

His friend continued on either not having heard or choosing to ignore him.

"I thought about it, as he pulled further and further away but decided against it. Not for me, but in case John decided to come round it wouldn't do him any good to find me wrecked with a needle shoved up my arm."

"Are you sober now? Attending NA meetings?" Hanah asked.

"I am clean and sober. I have not nor do I have any intention of attending meetings. I'm pleased if they help people. Doubly so if they help John. I, however, have no place there."

"So how are you taking care of yourself?"

"Work. I've been out of the country recently working and it helps to keep me right." He sighed as if debating on whether or not to add something else and John looked at him with interest. "Occasionally I have dropped by to see Ella. Usually when I've been having nightmares."

"Ella, my old therapist?" John asked with surprise.

"Yes. It initially began early last year, after Mary's death. I was asking for help with regard to... how to...what to do about you. But I still visit...occasionally. When I need to. I don't know that I would be able to do this," He gestured vaguely with his hand at their surroundings. "If I wasn't already somewhat used to it."

"Ok, that's good, I think that's very good. It concerned me that you weren't looking out for your own mental health and well being and it seems as though you are. I'd be happier if you had regular appointments with Ella but for now, this is good." Hanah added with a smile. "Now, is there anything you need to say to John? If so, say it directly, say it now."

Sherlock angled his body toward him but began by looking down at his palms.

"Do you know what it's like to hear what you suspect are someone's last gasps for breath over the phone? All throughout asking Mrs. Hudson for the use of her car, driving to your home, running stop lights, bursting through your door I kept my mobile to my ear talking to you, trying to comfort you, trying to keep you here with me. Thinking the entire time that I had heard you take your own life."

He was looking at him now, straight on. Though John wanted nothing more than to look away from his piercing gaze he owed him this moment. This was the least of what he owed him.

"I am truly sorry for what I did to you, John. I could not be more apologetic or regretful of the horror my actions caused you. That being said, after being confronted with what for all intents and purposes appeared to be your lifeless body, your head lying in a pool of your own vomit, your trousers soaked with urine, your racing pulse, your pale, sweaty skin, your intermittent full body tremors, after stepping through a floor strewn with broken glass and alcohol bottles and pill bottle and after rolling you over to thump on your back and then clearing the puke from your mouth and throat to perform CPR, after riding along in the ambulance, holding your hand while they tried to revive you and figure out what happened and of course after that FUCKING NOTE ON THE DOOR-" Sherlock stopped himself, breathing deeply, clearly trying to regroup before speaking again. "After all that, I believe, in terms of trauma inflicted, we are even."

John noticed the tremor in his own hand now as he raised it to his eyes. He had long imagined the scene Sherlock had walked in on but never with such clarity. He'd been glad to keep it vague in his mind but he no longer had, and had never deserved that luxury.

"Would it be alright if I said something?" He asked tentatively.

"Of course." Hanah replied.

"I've apologized for a lot of things, but never that, never fully that. I, um...put you through months of systematic torture, didn't I? Just forcing you to watch as I got closer and closer to the edge. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I am sorry. Looking back on my behavior, on what I did to everyone but especially to you, I can't even begin to tell you how sorry I am. I was fucked, I was so fucked and I thought if I just left it would make things so much easier, for me and for you. But I didn't mean for you to hear that last bit that happened and I didn't want you to have to walk in on that scene. I am so sorry. You are more than a friend to me and beyond family and I...I am so sorry for all of this."

He crumpled in his seat, leaning forward and resting his face in his hands as he sobbed. So much crying it was a wonder he had tears left.

This time it was Sherlock who bridged the distance between them. He gently lifted John to his feet and the latter stood there limply.

"And I forgive you. I just needed to get that out as you likely needed to get your part out. It's gone now, alright. It's gone. If you want, we are as we always have been. Sherlock and John, no longer with the ugly unsaid and unforgiven between us. Alright?"

When someone breaks a bone sometime the pieces heal together quite nicely, no intervention needed. Sometimes the alignment is off and a doctor will have to reset the fragments to get them back where they belong so as to heal properly. Reset is a pleasant, sterile word when the truth is the bones often have to be rebroken. Pressure has to be applied, manipulation too and then snap! But it's a good break, a healthy and needed restructuring of something that had gone wrong. It was the only way to start to heal.

At Sherlock's words, something inside of John Watson broke.

But it was a good break.

He embraced his friend with a sob and a nod of agreement. It was a clumsy and heartfelt hug. The taller man drew his friend into his arms and John sagged against him. He could have sworn he felt the detective draw in a long, ragged breath.

After that, after a few more tissues and tears Hanah released them for the day with loads of praise about what they'd accomplished. It didn't feel false. John felt accomplished. He felt better, cleaner, lighter, free-er.

They were quiet for most of the rest of the evening. Not upset or unnerved but, as far as John felt, the sort of quiet that comes when you can be with someone and not feel forced to speak. When the silence is it's own comfort because it's something you share. Words are unnecessary, redundant. Because everything is alright.

After dinner, he convinced Sherlock to go outside with him and trudge through the thick heavy snow to a spot where it was cold and quiet and just them alone. The storm had broken, at least temporarily, and all above their heads were stars upon stars.

"You can't see this in the city," John said with an awed shake of his head.

"No, you can't." Sherlock agreed. John tore his gaze away from the sky and back to his friend who was gazing at him in a peculiar way.

"Don't look at me." He teased. "Look up there."

"I'll look where I choose," Sherlock said, making sure to add a fake amount of haughtiness to his tone at being told what to do. But it was all in good fun and at John's request, he did indeed look up.

They spent the night as they had the previous two, in John's bed, in each other's arms, except this time they fell asleep facing one another.

Sherlock's room didn't even get a look in.

Chapter Text

Day 49

John awakened...mostly awakened to Sherlock's head on his stomach, heavy and warm. His mate was curled around him in some nonsensical arrangement of limbs. Clingy and strong and silly. It was all very Sherlock.

He smiled at the sensation. A small voice, small in every sense of the word started to nag at him. What was he doing? What were they doing? What exactly was this? This was not the normal goings on at Baker Street. They kept separate bedrooms, separate beds, separate everything.

But all of that seemed so far away from here. From this chilly morning after a good night's sleep where his limbs felt heavy but rested and his best friends was sound asleep against him. What did it matter? What did definitions matter in the face of happy?

He could get used to this, groggy, sleepy, slow mornings together. Could this be their life?

"John...?" Sherlock asked interrupting his thoughts.

"Hmm?"

"Are you going to buzz your hair again? It's growing out."

"I don't know. Hadn't decided. Why?"

"No reason."

John paused and then grinned.

"You hate it, don't you?"

"Not as much as I hate the beard." He replied. "I really hate the beard."

"I'll figure out what I'm going to do later." He said stroking his curls.

He was stroking Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock turned his head to better look at him, his chin poking pleasantly against John's belly.

"You look very good, very healthy, in case I hadn't said it before I'm saying it now."

"I think you said it before, and thank you." John reached behind him and bunched a pillow up under his neck and head to prop himself up. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than I have in recent or distant memory." He said before he too rearranged his position. Pulling back a little he rested his head on his hand, his elbow on the bed.

"You?"

"The same. Blissful, as a matter of fact."

"Glad to hear it." Sherlock replied putting his hand on the hem of Johns t-shirt and tugging it up exposing his belly.

John was silent, his breath caught in his throat.

"W-what are you doing?"

Sherlock placed a kiss to the warm flesh and then another and another.

"What you want me to do."

John made as small noise in his throat but mostly remained silent.

Sherlock kissed upward as far as the limitations of the shirt would allow and John let his fingers get lost in his friend's hair. With ease, Sherlock pushed his body upwards so he was face to face with his mate. He studied him for a minute before kissing his lips softly.

"Have I misdiagnosed?" He asked the amusement apparent in his voice. "If so, then correct me, doctor."

He went in for another kiss which John returned hungrily.

"Sherlock..." He said softly.

"Hmmm..." He said pulling away from his lips and moving down his body again. "So much talk about what you aren't. But never a word about what you are."

He started to tug down John's joggers and a moment later his cock sprang free, hard and leaking.

"Don't you want to be happy, John?" He asked and John could feel the heat of his breath on the tip of his erection.

"Yes, yes, please."

"Let me make you happy."

"Ok, Sherlock, ok..." John shut his eyes, bracing himself for the feeling of Sherlock's mouth.

Instead, he heard his voice, farther away than it should be but rather insistent.

"John...? John, are you alright? John?"

John opened his eyes and woke up...for real this time. Sherlock wasn't in bed with him and he wasn't preparing to give him a blowjob. He was, however, peering out at him from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand.

"John, are you alright? You were calling my name." He asked his forehead wrinkled with concern.

Holy. Fuck.

"Nightmare?" Seeing the look on the doctor's face.

"No, not a nightmare just a very vivid dream."

"You look a bit flushed."

"Yeah...it was...very realistic. Did I say anything else?" He asked trying not to sound panicked.

"No, not that I heard." Sherlock said as he disappeared into the bathroom again. "Was it a sex dream?" He asked bluntly.

John started. But so long as he kept the details to himself felt no reason to lie.

"Y-yes..."

"Perfectly normal. It's not like I haven't heard you have sex dreams before."

"I'm, sorry what?"

"We shared a flat, John. It's only natural." He finished brushing his teeth and after gargling with mouthwash he returned to bed. It was such an intimate gesture and thought. Returning to bed. Sherlock was returning to the bed they shared. The bed that in this strange place, this pocket of time, belonged to them both. John was loathe to have it end.

Please. Somehow. Don't let his end.

"I like this." He blurted out immediately regretting it.

"I like it too." Sherlock replied. "I've never shared a bed with someone before. I tend to require my own space but..."

"Have you ever dated? Had a boyfriend? Even a secret one?" There were so many times John had wanted to ask this but Sherlock hadn't been very receptive. Not angry or cold, just dismissive, closed off and most of all disinterested. But the Sherlock before him now was so bloody tender in the mornings, so soft spoken and relaxed, so teasing and unguarded and gentle. This Sherlock smiled easily and stretched his limbs and wiggled his toes and yawned! He wasn't sure he'd ever seen Sherlock just yawn before now. Was it just The Location or was this the way he was every morning? Is this how he could be every morning?

"There was a fellow I used to study with in my much younger days at school. We'd snog sometimes after classes in my room. Awkward thrashing about on my bed but never anything serious. Well, emotionally it was serious, for me at least. But we weren't exactly dating."

"So you liked him?"

"Yes, quite a bit. But it ended rather abruptly. And as for later on, well you met Sebastian Wilkes. He was a good sampling of the sum and total of my university experience so that ended any romantic prospects. But by that point, I felt I'd moved beyond the need. I preferred being alone. Which was good because people preferred leaving me alone."

"So...have you ever...made love?"

The question clearly unnerved his friend who took his usual defensive posture.

"Why must we cloud things with euphemism?"

John held firm.

"I wasn't. Sex is sex. Fucking is fucking. Making love is making love. I've done all three. But they are different things."

"Define your terms," Sherlock said with a hard swallow.

"Ok, well sex is...sex can be nice, it can be procedural, it can be clinical, it can be detached, it can be like a handshake...I suppose it's my least favorite out of the three. But again that's my definition and my opinion. Anyone else's results may vary. Fucking. Now, fucking can be great fun. Energetic, spontaneous, quick and dirty, bed shaking, funny, meaningless, meaningful. It depends on the situation and on the people involved. Not something I want a steady diet of, though, I like variety. But what I asked you about was making love. Deep slow kisses, preferably face to face, eyes locked, caresses, foreplay, slow penetration, lazy strokes...you called me a romantic in your best man speech and I suppose I am. Though I consider myself quite skilled at fucking and scoring high marks in sex, I enjoy making love best of all."

Sherlock had gone red, flushed brightly from his shoulders up to his neck, cheeks and ears. John wondered if he'd be hot to the touch. They'd never spoken so frankly before. John had always spared him in a way, playing off his exploits with a cheeky joke but mostly leaving the man alone when it came to sex. Maybe that had been a mistake. After his initial dismissive statement, his friend had been rapt, clearly interested but too shy to initiate or speak. Maybe this was good for him.

"Um no, no to all three. Never."

"You ok?" John asked, unable to resist.

"Yes, I'm fine." He said trying to muster indignance but failing. "We're talking an awful lot about me, aren't we?"

"Are we?" John didn't think so but he was willing to play along for his shy friend. "Well, what would you like to know about me?"

"Umm...how many partners have you had?"

"We're just hopping right into, eh? Well, umm, total? Let me think. 2...5, 7, ummm...God, uhh 5...8 probably another 7...12, that was quite a year...I'm going year by year, what are we up to?"

"Adding those together?"

"Yeah."

46, John, we're up to 46." Sherlock said with disbelief.

"46?" John asked incredulously. "That can't be right!"

"I can add, I assure you it is. Are you...done?" 

"Let's say that I am." John replied though truth be told he hadn't even made it out of his 20's.

"Are you a sex addict as well?" Sherlock asked half teasing half serious.

"I don't think so. When you think about it I averaged, what, 4 partners a year. That's one person every quarter. Does that sound so terrible?"

"I never said it sounded terrible at all."

"I like sex, I like feeling good and making other people feel good. I don't think I've ever made any bones about it."

"From that number count, I believe you've been making lots of bones about it."

John paused and then burst out laughing, his friend wasn't far behind with that adorable snigger of his.

"Posh boy with a double entendre. I'm impressed."

"Thank you." Sherlock replied with a grin.

"You think I'm slutty, don't you?"

"Perhaps." His friend teased.

"I never really thought about the number, you know?"

"Bit of a slag. But just a bit. I was privy to some of those times you mentioned. My ceiling was after all your floor."

"Oh God, you never told me that. You could hear?" John said laughing as he covered his face.

"I believe you know how to put a headboard through its paces. Some of the ladies were quite," he cleared his throat dramatically before continuing. "Vocal. But then as I recall so were you."

"Oh fuck, Sherlock. I'm sorry." He laughed with both silly, childish glee and embarrassment and so did his friend. "You should have taken a broom handle and thumped on the ceiling. Oi, quiet down up there!"

"It's alright, the mind palace isn't just about solving crimes. It can also just be a place to escape."

"Sorry for making you have to escape in your own home. But what about you...if work were to allow it, would you want to date? You did a pretty good job of fake-dating Janine."

"Thank you." He said before propping up on an elbow just as he did in his dream. He'd been lying on his back as they spoke and when John hadn't been looking at his face, watching his lips form words, he'd been watching the rise and fall of his chest. "I believe I may be far too spoiled for that. Dating is all getting to know you and whatnot. It's already so difficult to find a man you can tolerate in small doses, much less one you want to sit and have a meal and conversation with. If I wanted a relationship, which I do not, I should like to pop into it readymade, perfectly tailored to suit my needs. I realize I am a ridiculous man, impatient and rude, difficult to handle and generally more trouble than I'm worth. I doubt such a man exists who would want to bother."

"I think you're wrong." John said quickly, more quickly even than he imagined.

"Do you?" He said turning those cool and fiery eyes toward him.

"Yeah, I do. You're not a lost cause you're the polar opposite. You're the last person I would ever give up on Sherlock Holmes."

"You hold a rather fanciful view of me, John, you always have. I indulge it because it strokes my vanity but it isn't true."

"Maybe you don't know yourself as well as you think."

"Perhaps not." He conceded.

"So, you're not looking for anyone then?" John asked.

"Nope." He replied succinctly.

"Unattached like me." John said echoing a fond memory, an old conversation, a meeting that would change the trajectory of his life. "Have you ever been in love?"

"Yes, I believe I have."

"Your school boyfriend?"

"No, someone else. Quite unrequited, I'm afraid."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"As was I." He said before shifting the subject. "So...I was wondering about...Duck."

"Sholto? We called him Duck-"

"Yes, I know, Sholto means teal duck in Gaelic, I got that. I didn't realize you went back farther than the army."

John raised an eyebrow. Was he hearing jealousy or just interest?

"Yeah he kinda came to my rescue. I wasn't very popular in school either. But for some reason, Duck took a liking to me. We ended up sharing a flat, working together. I spent nearly every waking moment with Duck. We even once had a threesome with this bird we picked up from a pub."

Sherlock's eyes widened and John grinned. Why did it thrill him so much to good-naturedly scandalize his friend? Sherlock who'd gone to the best schools and knew the best manners, whether he employed them or not, Sherlock who academically speaking knew a great deal about life but in turn hadn't experienced all its fineries.

"You had a menage-a-trois?" He whispered as though he were worried someone might hear.

"Yeah. It's not the kind of thing you plan it just sort of happened. As far as I knew he was the one who was going to get lucky and not me. We all three walked home, I was heading to my room to leave them alone, she grabbed my arm...and the rest is history."

"Three Continents and Multiple Pairings Watson." He said with a raise of his brows. "Your nickname should be updated."

"Is this making you feel weird?" John asked with concern.

"No, really, it isn't. As I told Mycroft, sex doesn't alarm me. I meant it. I may not speak much about it or have much real experience to contribute to the conversation but it doesn't distress me. I just tend to not want to engage in a discussion with many of the people who have brazenly brought it up."

"Ok, I get that. But...while we're on the topic..."

"Such a gossip, you are. Go on."

"Janine. I mean she seemed happy. And, well, I only really know her through Mary but I know she's a smart, capable, active young woman who could have her pick of guy. All the things she said in the papers about your sex life..."

"That was a bit of deserved revenge on her part. I certainly don't fault her. There were likely less efficient and kinder ways to get close to Magnussen than through her. I didn't seek them out because I didn't have the time. I also admit, I didn't care all that much about hurting her. But I'm not above regret. I'm not happy with what I did. I don't recall feeling bad about my actions prior to meeting you. But I do now. While I don't regret the ultimate result of my ruse, I feel very bad that I hurt her. I'm thankful she rebounded as she did and made a nice sum of money that should last her for a good long time. I like Janine quite a lot and I am grateful for her forgiveness." He concluded.

"I like her too, actually. Was it difficult to...kiss someone you weren't sexually attracted to?"

"The kissing wasn't nearly as difficult as the..." He paused as he tried to think. "What is the female equivalent of a handjob?"

At this, John flew into a coughing fit and Sherlock thumped him on the back with concern until he quieted.

"I think handjob...will do, as far as terminology. You did that?"

"Yes. That's what people who date do isn't it? Plus it was an excellent way to fend off actual intercourse. I don't believe I would have been able to do that. Nor would I want to. Manual stimulation lies somewhere between oral and a friendly pat on the shoulder, doesn't it? While it did nothing for me sexually it was very interesting to watch and a fascinating experiment. It was nothing I'd ever want to make a habit of but I was happy to please her and the situation was unique enough to serve as an intellectual exercise for me. That said, it's nothing I ever want to repeat."

John swallowed hard as now that Sherlock had put the imagery in his head he couldn't stop picturing it. Though he wasn't fighting very hard against it.

It wasn't making him hard but imagining Sherlock, sliding a hand slowly down Janine's body, her breasts, her stomach, finally slipping into her knickers, her moans, soft, her thighs spread, Sherlock, his lips pink and swollen from kissing her, his hair tousled, his breathing fast and heavy, whispering filthy things in her ear, his fingers wet...

And it didn't help that his friend wasn't done with his description, somehow picking up just where John left off.

"It actually wasn't all that difficult." He continued. "A slow, gentle hand, firm when necessary, light pressure, tight circles, a bit of penetration, occasional stimulation of the very real g-spot, the usual bluntness and innuendo in her ear and eureka. Not really sure why straight men find it so difficult. As the final part of my penance to her, I'm to serve as a "wingman", accompany her to a few events and point out viable romantic partners. John? You looked flushed again. Are you alright?"

John coughed again though he really didn't need to. It was just to bide time.

The images flashing through his mind were voyeuristic, filthy and about 12 different kinds of sexy. He needed them to stop if he was going to continue this conversation.

"Yeah, yes, I'm fine. You just described it in far more vivid terms than I could imagine."

Sherlock glanced at him with a look that John couldn't exactly read. Smug. Confident. And something else...something...

"I know how to please a woman, John, I simply have no interest in doing so. Well, perhaps I don't anymore, I think I deleted it. The point is, it's academic. it's textbook, like most things I assume. And each kiss and orgasm got me that much closer Magnussen and Appledore and putting a bullet in his head."

"What if it had gone farther? What if you'd had to actually sleep with her?"

Sherlock sighed.

"I'd really tried to avoid that as best I could and thankfully did. I had planned on professing to be fairly traditional, a sort of no sex before marriage type of fellow which I did hint at. If that didn't work I would have feigned impotence which wouldn't have been difficult. If that still didn't work, well, I suppose I would have popped a Viagra, closed my eyes and thought of England."

"I'm glad it didn't have to go that far."

"Not half as glad as I am."

"I guess when I asked if you'd had sex and you said no I assumed that included no sexual contact."

"No, you asked if I had made love. I truthfully answered in the negative. Though I can clarify by saying I have not had penetrative sex with anyone."

"So, I'm lost. If Irene Adler is so perceptive and a lesbian and presumably with said perception, clever enough to know that you're gay. Why did she change the text alert on your phone to her moaning."

"To fluster me. To tease me. To have control over the fact that that noise can occur at any time. It's just a silly joke."

"Does she sext you?"

"She does indeed."

"Ok, lost again."

"They're not sexts about she and I..." He said scratching an itch that had suddenly appeared on his arm and was of apparent great interest.

"How can a sext not be about the two people on the phone?"

"She likes to tell stories she thinks I'd fancy." he says quietly.

None of that made much sense to John but he knew that Sherlock, unless it was for a case (...apparently up to and including making a woman orgasm for a case)  wasn't going to do anything he didn't want to do. "You two have a very odd relationship. But good on you, I suppose. What harm does it do?"

"None so far as I can tell."

"The things she writes, do they turn you on?"

"That's a complicated question."

"It is?" John asked not unkindly.

"If sexuality, desire, need, want was a...a faucet, for lack of a better metaphor, I've turned it off...at some point. I don't remember when."

"Turned it off?"

"Yes, and I can't remember where the damn spigot is anymore."

John laughed and his friend, again, joined him. He considered making a lewd joke about the location of the spigot but decided against it.

"Maybe I deleted it." Sherlock added.

"I don't think so. To add a poorly chosen metaphor of my own, if you're wired for it, if you ever had it at all and drew pleasure from it, then it's part of your personal makeup. Kind of like restoring a computer to factory settings. I imagine it's still there. You just have to access it. Do you want to access it?"

"Well, I already said I wasn't looking for a romantic partner so..."

"Yes but you can still be sexual on your own." They'd never spoken this frankly before about sex and certainly never for this long. He wanted to take advantage of it all before the spell of this odd place and their odd placement was broken. "Do you, um, masturbate?"

"No...not for ages." Sherlock narrowed his eyes but John could tell it was more out of self-protection than anger. "You think I'm a freak."

"I don't think any such thing. I'll tell you..." He scrubbed at his face before continuing. "Since Mary died I haven't...had much desire either. Any desire I suppose. It's like it vanished. That sex dream I just had was the first in longer than I care to remember."

"Well, that's good then, right? A sign of better things? Healing?"

"Yes, yeah it's good." Hoping he kept the lack of surety from his voice. "Anyway, it sounds like yet again we're in the same boat."

"Yes, I suppose so." He said before a worried look crossed his features. Before he could question him Sherlock asked; "John..."

"Hmm?"

"When this is over, when you're released, have you thought about what you might do?"

"I don't know. I was toying with the idea of just packing up and leaving the country. I'm not sure."

"My offer still stands. Come back to our home." He said looking at him hopefully.

Our home.

"After everything that's happened, you want me back at Baker Street?" He asked finding the offer hard to believe.

"I cannot imagine you anywhere else. I will remove all alcohol from the flat, I'll take my sobriety as seriously as you take yours. I will not knowingly jump off any buildings without your express consent. A poor joke, maybe, but the sentiment behind it is true. Come home to me, John, please."

"Even though I'm a mess?" He asked, his throat closing tightly.

"It's never been a consideration before." Sherlock smiled.

John missed him. He missed the clutter of home. The dishes in the sink, the mug rings on nearly every wood surface, Mrs. Hudson bustling in and out. His chair. Sherlock's chair. The creak of the stairs as a client approached. Looking up and seeing Sherlock, working, thinking, sleeping, playing the violin.

The house, the house he and Mary had bought together was from another time. A time he couldn't go back to and without her, he didn't want to. Maybe, best to let it go.

"Ok, I'll come home." He said with a broad smile his friend returned. "I don't really want to be anywhere else."

"I'd braced myself for a fight." Sherlock said with an anxious exhale.

"No fighting." John said softly as he placed his hand on Sherlock's cheek. "No more fighting." Leaning in closer, he pressed his lips to his friend's. It wasn't like the kiss in the dream, full of want and passion. It wasn't like their first kiss at Baker Street laden with angst and hurt and release.

This was softer, sweeter, kinder, something that could build like embers and kindling or could easily just stay as it was.

Why not this? Why not this right here? This peaceful, quiet kissing? Sherlock was the person in the world he loved the most and he was loved just as fiercely in return. Neither of them were interested in romance or even apparently sex. They just wanted to be what they were, best mates. John was of the opinion that that part of his life was over. No more women or girlfriends or wives. He was widowed and would stay widowed. Not to mention, the truth was he was always irritated with how the women in his life, all but Mary, wanted to make him choose between them or Sherlock. He wound up choosing Sherlock every damn time much to their surprise.

And as for Sherlock, well he had just said he'd essentially put the idea of a partner and romance to bed as well. So...why couldn't this be it? Yes, it was strange but what of it? Friends with benefits was such a crass term. He didn't want Sherlock as a fuck buddy. He didn't want to fuck him at all. He just wanted to sleep at his side, spend lazy mornings before the world was up and running talking quietly in bed. What was that? Did it have a name? Did it need a name?

The dream, well that was just an exaggeration, right?...His mind running riot. Mistakenly melding intimacy with sex. Like a bad translation of a foreign text, keeping the bare bones of the tale but missing the subtlety. But he didn't want sex, right? Of course not. He was straight. He liked women, loved women or at least he had in the past. He'd apparently had a minimum of 46 lovers for crying out loud.

He just wanted intimacy, like Reggie had been talking about in group. All the things that happen around sex that people ignore or skip or forget about. All the things that bring people closer together in ways that really matter.

Apart from Mary, Sherlock was the deepest most meaningful and true relationship he had ever experienced. Right now he just wanted to crawl into this feeling of safety and joy and never, ever emerge.

Was it so beyond the pale? If they weren't stepping on the toes of potential lovers, if they weren't even getting in their own way, if they weren't hurting anyone, why not? Why couldn't best mates include this? At least some of the time?

Labels...well, labels just seemed so unimportant here.

Sherlock made a small noise, a whimper that caused John to press a bit harder and in a teasing, testing way slip his tongue into his mouth. He felt his friend react with surprise but regroup quickly.

"Is this ok?" John whispered against his lips. "For us?"

"I think so." He said quietly in reply. His pupils were large and dark as they searched John's eyes.

"Can we maybe be...this. Mates, best friends and this? Can we?" He interspersed his questions with kisses, kisses which Sherlock returned.

"I don't know...I don't know what this is....I just know being in bed, touching you, holding you keeps the darkness, keeps everything away. But what are we doing?"

"I don't know either. I...I'm confused. I just know I want to go on kissing you."

"Me too."

This time it was Sherlock who reinitiated the kissing, placing a hand on John's cheek and drawing him in. 

If John could have frozen a moment in time, a perfect, untainted moment where his mind was clear and blank except for the thought; "I love him." he would have. This would have been it.

Changing positions John rolled atop him, wanting, needing to have their bodies as close as possible. He thrust both hands into Sherlock's hair, sinking his fingers into the curls and scratching his scalp lightly. Sherlock swore softly though it was largely muffled against his mates lips. John felt Sherlock possessively, tightly sling an arm around his waist tugging with that same desperate need for closeness John felt. Eventually, it crawled up his back and into his hair, cradling his head and angling it the way he wanted.

"John?" Sherlock said breathlessly pulling back for just a second.

"Yeah?"

"If we're to continue doing this you're going to have to shave this fucking beard."

"You hate it, don't you?"

"I hate the hair, I am positively furious about the beard. And it's serrating my face."

"Want me to take care of it now?" John asked with a smile.

Sherlock grinned and pulled him in for another kiss. Unwilling to break away.

"Soon, yes, but not quite now."

Author's note: I'm trying to keep author's notes to a minimum but I'll break my rule here. This chapter went through several different versions. In one the dream wasn't a dream but something real. In another, there was no kiss at all and I decided to bump it to their parting once Sherlock had to leave. In another, the sex discussion was rather light and jokey with just hints of seriousness. But finally, I started breaking it down and realized I wanted them to have a deeper discussion. A real talk about how they felt about intimacy and sex and their past, what they'd done and hadn't done etc...

I first started off with only having John be the one with, for lack of a better phrase, performance issues. I also didn't hit the idea of Sherlock being so, (on the surface) against the idea of having a romantic partner so hard. But I was uncomfortable with the idea of them kissing without Sherlock, in his own way being equally closed off from a relationship and from expressing his own sexuality. I needed him just as clueless as John for this to fly.

This scene needed a balance. And I needed a reason for them to not push it farther. That's why they both have different root causes for erectile issues with the same result. The kissing couldn't and shouldn't escalate. 

Simply put I needed to stop any erections before they started.

And with both of them being so good at compartmentalizing things, I figured it played.

Of course, he's in love with John, but he's put the idea and possibility so far out of his head he doesn't even consider it. Of course, John is bisexual and in love with Sherlock but he can't understand or face that concept right now and this feels so comfortable and safe and lovely, so why muck it up with labels and sex, he figures? They're both lonely and hurt and damaged and self-protective and truly not willing to face certain ideas right now.

Two clueless people are fine. One clueless person kissing another who's in love with them comes a little too close to cruel, intentional or not. And I didn't want that for either of them.

I also wanted to stress the idea that for all their similarities, there are differences. John is bi, he likes women and finds the idea of Sherlock giving Janine a handjob intensely erotic because of both people involved. Sherlock is gay. When he speaks of a potential partner he refers to a man, when he speaks of his past it's always the boys and young men he's gone to school with. He has never questioned his sexuality, it has always been fact and while he did what he had to do with Janine he can't conceive of deriving pleasure from it the way John would. 

But I digress. Back to my initial point. I made certain John confirmed several times in this chapter that Sherlock has put the idea of romance as far away and as high up on a shelf as John has. They enter this naively but equally and only when I decided to do that did the writing come together. They've both danced on this line of platonic romance or a romantic friendship for years and now they live in the deep valley between friendship and relationship and they're going to have to walk out of it together.  I also think it's a perfect explanation of why you don't leap into a sexual relationship mid or post rehab or when you're still recovering from trauma as they both are. Neither of them are ready. But they are ready and hungry for intimacy which is something both of them have been very bad at giving and receiving in the past.

Ok, that's all I got. As always, thank you guys so much for reading and liking my story.

And if you see a spelling mistake, feel free to point it out as some of you have already been so gracious to do. They embarrass me to no end and being an insomniac I tend to post very late at night/early in the morning with little sleep so mistakes can be rampant. But, I'd rather be temporarily embarrassed and correct the mistake then have it just sit there like an eyesore. Also, if you see a sentence repeat, that's an A03 bug that happens sometimes. You delete a sentence, 30 seconds later it reappears and if you don't notice, you look like an idiot.

Alright, it's past midnight on Friday. I've got a 3 day weekend coming up so I hope to get more written for you...once I figure out what to write. :)

I'll try not to have such ponderous authors notes next time, but I didn't want any of this to be misinterpreted.

Best wishes,

-Maribor

Chapter Text

They skipped breakfast and John let his morning exercise slide as he was far more partial to the workout he was currently receiving.

He couldn't let morning chores slide, however. He had to keep up on chores and meetings to retain phone privileges. And once Sherlock was gone that would be essential.

Regretfully he parted from his mate and slipped into the bathroom to shower and dress. As he was shaving Sherlock came in as well and John smiled as he saw his friends reflection in the mirror.

"I like my doctors clean shaven as I have so often told you." Sherlock said, his voice a resonant rumble from behind John.

"Yes, I know." He said just before the razor froze mid-air when Sherlock placed a kiss to his shoulder. He let his eyes open lazily and the reflection again showed exactly everything he wanted to see. The crown of Sherlock's dark locks, pink lips pouted in a soft kiss. The two of them together. "And you always get your way."

"Would that that were true." He said.

John smiled and finished up the shaving, paying more attention to the figure behind him than his face. It would likely be a bit of a patchy job but he didn't care. He loved seeing the two of them together like this. It wasn't jarring. It was natural. Sherlock was all attentiveness and soft kisses behind him, planting them on his neck, just below his hairline and behind his ear.

The attention, this tenderness was almost too much to bear, too perfect, far more than he deserved.

Why hadn't they done this before...earlier...why-

But that thought was suddenly cut off. Like a wall came down before he could finish the thought.

He must have stiffened a bit because Sherlock paused behind him.

"You ok?"

"Mmmhmm, yeah, sorry, just a stray thought."

Not...regretting this, I hope." He replied and John could tell he was trying to make his voice sound steady.

"Not for a moment." Reaching a hand back he placed it in Sherlock's hair urging him closer. "Please don't stop."

That was all the invitation his friend needed to resume and John craned his neck exposing more of it for his mates lips.

Closing his eyes, John enjoyed the sensation silently for moment upon moment until Sherlock's sudden cough jarred him.

"I think I inhaled a bit of your shaving cream." He said with another cough and laugh.

John laughed as well before offering an apology.

"I'm sorry! Let me take care of it." He turned on the water and bent forward to rinse off the remainder of the shaving cream. Sherlock's cough quieted as quickly as it started and after awhile, John felt, just for a second, hands, on his hips. They'd slid down from his shoulders, down his back and sides to land there, just for a moment. Large hands that gave him a squeeze, a possessive one, just the barest feeling of hips canting forward behind him. The movement surprised him but he didn't object.

He raised himself slowly and turned into Sherlock's arms.

"Better, love?" He asked quietly before rubbing his cheek against Sherlock's.

"So much better." They kissed briefly and after a moment John turned his attention to Sherlock's neck.

"Have I ever told you that you have Orion's Belt on your neck. Three freckles. Right here and here and here." He said punctuating each "here" with a kiss. Sherlock sighed pleasantly, his body growing a bit heavier against John. "I have always wanted to kiss you just here."

"Always?"

"Mmmhmm."

"John...?"

"Hmm?" He inquired as he continued his kisses.

"...John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" He whispered against his skin.

"John, as much as I would...like for this to continue...you've got chores." His voice broke on the last word just about the time John licked a stripe up his neck. Chuckling at the cracking of his voice John conceded.

"Quite right. I need to get going. Will you be alright alone?"

"I'm not a child," he said smoothly and with no irritation. "I can occupy myself. See you at Hanah's?"

"See you there." A parting kiss and he left the bathroom as Sherlock entered the shower. Slipping on his shoes he hurried out of his room.

To say John was in high spirits for the rest of the day would be an understatement. He felt higher than high, elated, off the ground. It wasn't that he'd forgotten, where he was, why he was here and how he'd gotten here...but this was the first real, consistent joy he'd felt in as long as he could remember.

 Seeing Hanah put a damper on things.

"You both seem to be in a good mood today, care to talk about it?" Hanah began.

John looked at Sherlock and they wordlessly agreed to leave their new closeness as something between them.

"We talked last night." John offered in return. "I agreed to move back home to Baker Street when my 90 days are up."

Hanah smiled and nodded, as always looking unsurprised.

"Anything else?" She prompted.

"No, that's all." John said with a shake of his head.

"Alright. Well, it brings me to what I'd like to discuss today. I want to talk about what comes next. Now we're doing things a little out of order here because Sherlock is still present. Especially in light of what you just told me there are elements of John's post-rehab recovery that will involve both of you.

John, this is a very controlled environment, as you well know. There's nothing like this on the outside. You'll have to make your own structure, your own rules, your own fail safes and from here on out that's something you and I are going to work on."

"I realize, given my past I may not be the ideal person to offer my services. But I'll be there to help John every step of the way." Sherlock said.

"You chimed in with that at just the right time, Sherlock," Hanah said. "Because it's exactly what I was worried about."

Both men frowned surprised at her response.

"Friendships, relationships, marriages live or die on this point and the sooner it gets addressed the better. You are not his sponsor. You cannot police his behavior or his actions. You cannot be his accountability partner because mark my words, if you try, it will breed resentment and anger and it will kill your friendship."

"That's...a pretty dire warning." John said with a doubtful look.

"And it needs to be." She countered. "Don't get me wrong, I hope and expect you will support him."

"Of course I will." Sherlock replied.

"But support does not mean monitoring his progress through the steps, it doesn't mean looking over his shoulder and it doesn't mean thinking you are the solution to his addiction. You aren't, just as he isn't the solution to yours. I need you both to understand that this is critical. There are no superheroes here, nor are any wanted." She was addressing only Sherlock now and all John could do was look on. "Be there for him, talk to him, go to open meetings with him, help him focus. Offer him all the help you can, always and with open arms but remember he has to do the heavy lifting. Don't think you can do this for him, no matter how badly you want to, because you can't."

"Hanah, you make it seem like I'm going to be back to step one when I get out of here." John interjected.

"In some ways, you will be. You will have 90 days of sobriety and that is no small feat, but you are starting at a brand new square one, John. You should start sitting with the reality of that now as we transition you towards the last leg of the program.

Now, Sherlock, you also need to set some boundaries. Things you will and won't accept. From what I've learned, from both of you, you're very tightly intertwined. If one of you starts to go down the other does as well, like sky divers whose parachutes get locked up.

I see a friendship here that has its share of dysfunction but doesn't appear to be codependent. I'd like to keep it that way. If he goes down, you cannot follow him down, Sherlock. You cannot take up his cross and you cannot torture yourself to save him. Life doesn't work that way.

And John I would be telling you the exact same thing if Sherlock had relapsed. Hard boundaries. Hard lines. Love, and trust and respect and help and sympathy, but not at the expense of your sanity or your soul."

Sherlock had been largely silent and John wondered how he was processing all of this.

He didn't have to wonder long.

"Respectfully...no." he said.

"No to what specifically." She asked. "To all of it?"

"Not to all. I agree with regard to accountability. I have been through rehab before as well and managed to stay awake during group therapy sessions. While I never took advantage of any offered sponsorship I understand and agree that it has merit. As I previously said all alcohol and any other substances will be removed from the flat."

"What other substances?" John asked.

Sherlock looked down at his hands for a moment clearly embarrassed that he'd been inadvertently caught.

"There have been times in the past where I've stashed certain things away in various places around Baker Street should I need them."

"There's nothing in our flat." John said easily.

"John, while your faith in me is-"

"This isn't about faith, mate. There's nothing in our flat. I got rid of it all."

"Since when?" Sherlock said with a frown.

"Since always, since that first night. Lestrade was searching the flat for drugs you clearly indicated that while you were clean the residence wasn't. Didn't take a genius to figure out what that meant. I determined your approximate level of addiction and assumed you weren't in any withdrawal danger and I found what was hidden and flushed it."

Sherlock looked positively undone which only made John chuckle.

That is quite an invasion or my privacy."

"Yeah, I suppose it was." John said nonchalantly before continuing. "In all these years you never noticed. When you got a craving for something you always went out to get it because you don't like doing drugs alone. You want to be around people even if it's just to ridicule their syringe technique. The flat could be filled to the rafters with everything you could possibly want and you'd still only take enough to calm you down so you could hail a cab and go off to find more."

"You've been doing this since we met?"

"Once a month, every month. It first started because I didn't want to live in a place that might be tossed for smack every week and I didn't know who you might owe money to or who might be busting in. But after I got to know you and care about you, well it took on a life of its own. You were not going to die on my watch. Not if I could help it. Not ever."

"You can't possibly know every place."

"Oh, I think you'll find I do." John said with confidence.

"In my sock-"

"Yep."

"Behind the-"

"Yes."

"Also in the-"

"There too. That one is especially roomy, you'd stuffed quite a treat basket in there hadn't you?"

"In my loo there's a loose-"

"Yeah on the floor under the towel rack. Got it."

"Do you really know or did you just get me to tell you?" He asked after a pause.

"It doesn't matter. I got it all, Sherlock. The very last time I saw you I did a sweep. Came up empty handed, thank God."

"The last time you were at Baker Street you were in terrible shape." He said quietly.

"Yeah and so were you. That's why I had to check."

It took a moment for Sherlock to collect himself at this news. he was always the one doing things behind the scenes for people. Indignance in these cases always masked the deep emotion he felt at being cared for and fussed over and loved.

"I had no idea you had such busy fingers." He said indignantly and John laughed.

"I'm not sorry for that but I am sorry for interrupting you. Please go on." John said.

"Yes, well..." Sherlock paused as he retraced his steps. "Yes, as I was saying, there must be a line...a blood brain barrier, if you will, between the addict's experience and what they, in essence, bring home. That barrier, that filter is the job of the sponsor or the therapist. I understand that. Where we part ways is on the nature of my responsibility to John. I could give a long-winded speech about the thin line between pulling someone out of addiction and being pulled down with them. Or speak about the concept of retreating to advance. But I will only say this, if he goes to hell, I go in after him."

John pressed his lips together tightly, swallowing hard. His emotions had been swirling darkly since this session had begun. But with Sherlock words, there was a burst of light.

"Ok, well better an honest answer than a false promise. Thank you for that." Hanah now turned to face John. "John, how do you feel right now, answer truthfully."

"I feel depressed as fuck...truthfully."

"This wasn't to depress you but to prepare you but it does bring me to my next point. Like addiction, depression is not just something you shake off. Being here is how we address and parse it but we don't fix it. Depression can be managed, it can be overcome but it can't be cured, per se. You will always have depressive tendencies. Now let me explain why it's a good thing that you know that. If you left here, thinking you were cured you would be incredibly upset and confused the next time feelings laid you low. You might feel increasingly negative, disappointed with yourself, doubtful of the progress you made in here and perhaps even hostile toward seeking help again. I want to arm you with the knowledge that this can and will happen and that that is not defeat. Now, when you both came in this morning you were happy-"

"Yes, I was." He replied quickly.

Undeterred she continued.

"You were happy because you're moving back in with Sherlock which I agree is a positive step. Between now and the time you're released I want you to focus on things that you can do for yourself that make you happy as well."

"I don't understand, as you just said yourself, moving back home is something that makes me happy. Getting back to work will make me happy."

"I'm sure it will. But those are all linked to someone else, in this case, Sherlock. And that's good. Addiction is selfish and finding happiness in and with other people is vital. But, I also need you to find things that you can do, completely independently that bring you joy. We cannot pin all our happiness on others. It's just another thing we have to take responsibility for ourselves. You don't have to give me an answer now but I do need you to consider it. In that same vein, do you think you'll go back to practicing medicine?"

Despite being fired he and the clinic had parted on relatively good terms. He didn't expect they'd rehire him but he'd likely still be able to manage a halfway decent recommendation. If that was what he wanted. Was it?

"I'm not sure. I can't imagine letting my license lapse but...practicing. I don't know."

"It's ok not to know. But give it some thought."

John took a deep breath as apparently, the things he needed to 'give some thought' were stacking up rather high.

"John, you ok?" Sherlock asked as he studied him.

"Yeah. Fine. Great. Hanah, what's the failure rate, post-rehab."

"On the national average? The relapse percentages are 50%-90%"

"Jesus..." John replied rubbing his temples. He knew this, of course, like everyone did. It was as common as the 50% divorce statistic but it was so different when you heard it directed at yourself.

"But the success rate for The Location is 98%." She stressed

"Yeah...but those remaining 2%, what do they do?"

"I imagine they try again." She replied.

"Why do I feel so personally attacked, after that?" John asked later that evening back in the room they shared. "I know it wasn't personal but it felt it."

Hours later and the heavy fog of dissatisfaction still hadn't lifted. John was still upset by the facts the figures and what appeared to be the almost certainty of relapse. If the predictions were so dire then what was he even doing?

Coupled with this was the fact that Hanah confirmed the travel halt was lifted. Everyone would start leaving tomorrow.

At the moment, Sherlock was on his phone texting with Mycroft and frowning the entire time. Still, he wasn't distracted enough not to answer.

"Because now more than ever you have a very delicate feeling of self-worth combined with the fact that you're easily offended. In addition to this, you crave praise though whether true praise or false praise you react in the same fashion. Namely dismissing it. In that respect, you can never be satisfied because it is your nature to be disappointed and mistrusting."

Well, despite the new elements of their relationship Sherlock was still Sherlock.

John liked that even if he didn't exactly like the expressed sentiments.

"I am not easily offended." He huffed.

"Always ready and eager to take offense. Paper thing ego." Sherlock replied. "Resilient but paper thin."

"I don't think that's true at all." John said with a frown. "Also, I'm fine with accepting praise."

"Well, I think you were brilliant today in therapy. I believe you held you own in an unsteady situation."

"I don't know if I was brilliant. That's a bit of an overreach-" John began but was cut off by Sherlock laughing.

It took John a second to realize what he'd done.

"Alright, fine, you're a cockwand but you're right. What's Mycroft on about?"

"It's not important."

"Sherlock, tell me."

His friend sighed.

"I refused to tell him where I was and of course he was able to locate me. He's cross and I'm indifferent." He said tossing his phone to the side.

They'd been sitting cross-legged on John's bed enjoying the simplicity that was tea and biscuits and one another's company.

"Go on."

"One of the conditions of him placing you in here was that I sever our contact. A stipulation he seems under the impression I agreed to and I assure you I did not."

John nodded slowly. That...now that made more sense. He should have realized.

"John, you're thinking about it and I'd really rather you didn't. I'm a grown man and I am capable of making my own choices. I don't need my big brother's opinions or approval. I pleaded with him to get you in here but I offered no pound of flesh in return."

"I'm thankful for his assistance, I really am but I don't appreciate being used as a bargaining chip or leverage with you."

He should have known Mycroft would never do something out of the goodness of his heart. He'd never do something that didn't work to get him more control over his brother which was always his ultimate goal. He recalled their conversation in the hospital and briefly thought back to the words "He called me from the ambulance in near hysterics as they were bringing you in. "

Near hysterics.

Could he really blame Mycroft for wanting to separate them?

"Whatever you're thinking right now, you're wrong and so is he. He asked you to look out for me when you first met, correct?"

"Yeah."

"And so you have. Now, put him out of your mind." Sherlock said as he moved closer on the bed.

"You alright with us keeping..." John made a hand motion between the two of them. He wanted to change the subject, interjecting Mycroft into the solitude of their new routine was not something he wanted to pursue any further. "This quiet?"

"I'm neither embarrassed by it nor in a rush to explain it to anyone. If you choose to tell Hanah I won't object or see it as a violation. People have misconstrued our relationship from the start. Though I respect Hanah I imagine this would be no different. What we do in the privacy of our home and our bed is our business."

"I agree. Speaking of which...not looking forward to you leaving tomorrow. I only get my phone at night but may I text you?"

"You may text and write and I'll be happy to respond to both," Sherlock said with a smile. "Do you want to deal with the house on your return?"

"I..." John closed his eyes. "I can't think about the house right now."

"I can contact my parent's lawyer, he can draw up papers and go ahead with the sale if you like. I'll handle everything that needs handling."

He didn't know why he was still holding on when Sherlock was right here offering to solve it for him.

But he just couldn't agree.

"Just...let me think about what I want to do, alright?" John asked before adding hastily. "This isn't me going back on moving to Baker Street. Odd as it sounds, they're unrelated."

"I understand," Sherlock said before leaning in to kiss him, a gesture John happily accepted.

Grabbing him by the t-shirt John fell back pulling Sherlock on top of him.

"Ready for bed?" Sherlock asked with a grin.

"I'm rather delighted I don't bore you. There was a time you stalked about Baker Street with a harpoon whinging and shouting about not having a case. I don't think kissing would have stemmed the tide." John teased.

"Well, you never offered so you'll never know." He said before growing serious. "That was before I went a year without you. Boredom pales in comparison to being without you." He said seriously.

John's heart shattered a little at the honesty and pulled their faces closer together.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock, I'm sorry." He whispered before kissing him once. He had a gut feeling there were more words to follow.

"You've awakened my sentimentality, John, and there's nothing for it, I'm afraid, no cure. I worried, in the past, theoretically of course how something like this might affect my work. I went through a series of precise calculations estimating time that would be lost with were such a distraction to come into my life. But I was wrong. I thought it would dull my wits, my need for intellectual stimulation and excitement. I thought it would derail my work. When in actuality it feels the opposite. I've never felt more clear headed, more keen, more eager. I cannot wait to have you back home, to rush out on a case with you at my side." He paused and broke the eye contact he'd been making by glancing down. "I'm talking too much."

"No, no you're saying everything I'd ever want to hear."

"I...I'll just be glad to have you home. I'm lost without my blogger. I'm lost..."

They kissed softly, unhurried and John reached to the side to switch off the lamp.

"How shall we spend our day tomorrow?" John asked.

That had been the one bright spot. Hanah had surprisingly given them the next day off and John had every intention of taking advantage of it.

"I'd be content to spend it like this if you like."

John chuckled.

"Maybe the first part but I have another idea for the bulk of the day."

The next day, after the as promised morning snog, they set out with borrowed clothes, boots and backpacks for a short hike.

John had given Sherlock a last minute checkup before finalizing their plans. But after finding him in good shape, much better than when he arrived and after tiring of Sherlock's protests they began.

The snow which had bustled in with icy fury just a few days prior had left little remnants of its anger. The snow that did remain was simply a fixture of the land, ever present, solid and blindingly white.

John was no hiker but he knew from James and a few others that there were clearly marked paths not far from The Location. After getting permission to leave, a car drove them around 45 minutes away to their destination. Upon arrival the driver assured John he'd wait for them until they were ready to return.

"I think the idea of coming all the way to bloody Switzerland and not climbing a very, very small mountain is a terrible idea."

"If there's one thing you're familiar with it's terrible ideas." Sherlock replied but there was mischief in his eyes.

The paths were clearly marked by yellow signposts and knowing this wasn't exactly either of their forte's he chose the easiest road.

They spent the next two hours touring some of the loveliest land he'd ever seen. Rocky, dirt trails, lush grasses, an old and silent forest that opened into a meadow until finally they arrived at a lake, placid, chilly and still. Throughout most of the trip John had been pointing out various sights enthusiastically and Sherlock, obliging to a fault had looked and nodded and agreed and pointed out areas of interest of his own. He'd even chattered on about a few experiments he'd done on soil erosion for a case a few years back. It wasn't quite as dull as pages and pages of studies on different types of ash but it was up there. Or at least, it would have been had he not been so please just to listen to Sherlock's voice. However, here at the water that all stopped, all the noise and prattling from either of them died down and they stood silently, staring and drinking it in.

"I forget, you know?" John said. "That there's beauty like this. I wish I knew what this lake was called. Will you take a few pictures? I don't have my phone and I'd like to have something to remember this all by."

"Of course." Sherlock replied and took a few steps back to capture the scene before them.

"Be sure to capture all this loveliness."

"I'll do my best."

When he was done and had placed the device back in his pocket John took his gloved hand and held it.

That was all. He simply held it.

They stood there in the quiet of the afternoon and looked at the lake whose name he didn't know.

After trekking back down they found the car waiting as promised. They rode back to The Location and were met with the sight of people already leaving, saying their goodbyes and heading away.

"I've a bit more time." Sherlock said to him and after setting the alarm on his phone, they collapsed into bed and slept in each other's arms for the next 2 hours. 

John awoke to a darkened room and the persistent buzz of Sherlock's phone.

"I have to go." Sherlock said softly against his chest.

"I know."

They dressed silently and only parted company when Sherlock went to his unused room to retrieve the remainder of his belongings.

Their true goodbye was private. Behind the security of John's door, kisses and low voices and promises.

"I wish I was going back with you." John said.

He still worried about being quite so open and honest with Sherlock. It wasn't their nature. It wasn't how they operated. Or rather it hadn't been. In the past, he approached Sherlock with less armor than anyone else but still there was always a barrier between his best friend and his heart. But he was now laid so bare, so frighteningly open and he wasn't sure how to regather the pieces of his shattered battle gear together again. It was terrifying.

The rawness of saying I love you which if memory served, happened more than a year ago, had only frightened him in retrospect. He recalled saying it without thinking all that much about how it might change their interactions. But it had passed his lips and had been returned moments later without fanfare. It had been easy and the door, once opened, had never been shut again. Their "I love you's" flowed back and forth, never rote, never just a thoughtless ending to a conversation, a substitute for goodbye. Rather a true expression of affection and support and a sort of repledging of their commitment to one another. Whatever fear had followed, it had been worth it.

But he still worried about expressing too much, revealing too much, pushing Sherlock farther than he wanted to go. The alcohol and now the rehab had opened a floodgate and he felt less in control of his emotions that he had since he was a child. 

"You've still work to do here. When you're finished, 40 days from now, I'll come for you and we'll go home." Sherlock replied.

Then again, there were times like this when John wondered just how much Sherlock had been holding back as well. How much had he wanted to say and express but time and habit and fear had kept him from doing so. It was so bloody cliche but he felt like they were in a good place, a place that perhaps they should have reached sooner but at least they were there now.

A last kiss and an I love you, murmured against lips he'd become delightfully familiar with over the past few days. They left John's room, walking down the hall, out the front door. Sherlock got into his waiting car and offered John a smile.

"Text me." John said.

"I will." Sherlock said with a smile before shutting the door.

John watched, hands thrust into his pockets, forcing a smile as the vehicle made it's way down the mountain.

He walked glumly back inside but was greeted by James, cleary in high spirits after his wife's visit. John had thought after Sherlock's departure that he'd want to be alone but as it turns out he was glad to see his friend.

They picked a table in the commissary and sat down for dinner.

"You look like you're in a chipper mood." John said with a smile. "How did things go?"

"I took your advice. I chucked the script, I laid it out on the line. I told her things that I hadn't before, hadn't dared. I mean we went places in therapy that...well I just never imagined."

"I know what you mean." John nodded.

"I feel positive about it all now, you know? Like maybe this time things are going to be like they should. She kissed me when she left. You have any idea how long it's been since she could even stand to kiss me?"

"I'm happy for you, mate. I am."

"And uh, I saw Sherlock showed up. You didn't expect that, eh? How was that?" He asked.

"It was good. We got a lot of things hashed out as well. In a way, he's the only family I really have so...him showing up was important. Really important."

"I didn't see much of you guys about, you know at the social events and such."

"Were there social events?" John asked with surprise.

"Yeah, a few." James laughed. "I did see him at a few group meetings though, always in the back. Quiet like, a bit broody looking."

"That's just his default face." John replied trying to tamp down the surge of affection as he remembered that face. "It's mostly bark and little bite."

"You look better, John." James said seriously. "I was...worried."

"You look better too, James." He said before raising his can of cola for a toast. "To better days ahead."

"To better days." James echoed.

On the way back to his room John stopped by the front desk to retrieve his phone. He waited until he was safely inside to turn it on.

2 New Messages

He smiled as he saw they were indeed from Sherlock.

Arrived back at Baker Street safe and sound. If you were worried, don't be.

I find myself missing you more than I thought possible.

John smiled and quickly began to type a reply.

Glad you're back home. I miss you too.

The suddenness of seeing the three dots indicating a reply was being written made John's heart leap.

Was the rest of your evening agreeable?

It was fine. Odd how quickly I got used to you being here.

As did I.

Mrs. Hudson has been relentless in trying to find out more about my time with you.

Still insisting we're a couple

She just said the words "I hope you didn't "you know" too soon, Sherlock. He needs time."

Now she's saying "My sniggering is indecent." and "It's implying things."

I can't stop laughing.

You're having far too much fun.

Tell her I said hello and I intend to thank her properly for all that she's done

She said she misses you and looks forward to you being back home

I miss her as well.

Sherlock, as your doctor I think I'm going to request that you bed down early tonight. It was a long trip for you and you know you don't do well after multiple plane rides. You always catch cold and you seemed just on the verge when you arrived. You battled it back but I'd just as soon you took it easy for the next few days.

John expected an argument but instead and to his surprise, Sherlock agreed.

Yes, John.

I would recommend you do the same.

I will.

Sherlock, thank you.

For everything.

And I mean that.

Dating all the way back to the afternoon when we met.

Thank you.

Thank you for the same.

Tomorrow then?

Absolutely.

Good night, Sherlock.

Love you.

And I you.

As he waited to return his phone, there seemed to be a bit of a backup at the desk for some reason, he decided idly to head to Twitter.

The top trending topic was #SherlockHolmes 

What on earth could have happened?

He looked at a few of the random tweets.

Replying to @ConsultingDetective221B

Shezza's Gurl @BakerStreetDeets Oh my God, I'm deaded #SherlockHolmes

Replying to @ConsultingDetective221B

What-Son? @DeerstalkerStalker This seems like good news. #SherlockHolmes #John

Replying to @ConsultingDetective221B 

Gracey Grace @EmptyHearseClubbing Does this mean you're back? #SherlockHolmes 

John scanned a bit lower but unable to find the tweet that had caused the uproar eventually went to Sherlock's timeline.

Once there, he saw two new tweets.

The first was a photo. In the background was a beautiful, silver lake, smooth and peaceful in gentle afternoon light.

In the foreground, John recognized the silhouette of his own profile, mostly in shadow due to the placement of the sun. But it was clearly him.

The caption read; "Wishing you all a pleasant and peaceful evening in the company of beloved friends."

He hadn't known Sherlock had gotten him in the shot as well.

Be sure to capture all this loveliness.

The most recent and final tweet was simple.

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B I sincerely hope one of you lot has an interesting case. If so, you know how to reach me.

In his haste, John had neglected to notice Sherlock had added a hashtag of his own to his initial tweet.

John had also neglected to notice that hashtag was the number two trend, just below Sherlock's name.

He read it. And then read it once more before handing the phone to the nurse on duty and walking back to his room with a smile he couldn't hide.

Sherlock Holmes @ConsultingDetective221B Wishing you all a pleasant and peaceful evening in the company of beloved friends.

#CaptureTheLoveliness

Authors Note:

Guys, how amazingly lucky am I? The lovely and talented Perfidious_Snatch_Galore left me a fantastic review recently, said that she'd created fanart for my story and here is the absolutely perfect result! 

I adore it.

I love that only John is pictured. (EDIT I was wrong! This piece is even more special than I assumed because I was just informed by the author that John is not the only one pictured! Do you see what I see?)

I love the raw, rough-edged scratchiness of the title.

I love the overall atmosphere. And of course, I love the barely controlled anger of the red.

I couldn't be more pleased and I am humbled that something I wrote inspired something so wonderful.

Now, what you guys should do is go straight to Tumblr and look at more of her incredible work. You will not be disapointed!

You can find her main blog here -->> Sarah McFadden

And her side blog here -->> janusjupiter 

I can’t thank you enough, Sarah! :D :D

 May 31, 2017

Chapter Text

Day 67

Time flew and time crawled.

Day and nights in this place, days and nights without Sherlock blended together into one giant unblinking, unsleeping eye. Whirring too fast to be seen or really understood.

Days and nights also ticked by slowly, painfully, steadily, like the beat of a leaky faucet tap.

Having peace and then losing it made him short tempered and cross. It made him want to drink and the strength of that want, it's inability to be reasoned with frightened him.

"The hard truth of it is," Reggie began "You are an alcoholic whether you drink or not. You are an alcoholic whether you think about it every moment or not. It is in you, yes. But it isn't you. You are separate from your addiction though you occupy the same space. That may not mean much to you right now. But there may be a night a week from now, a year from now, ten years from now when it could. And I hope my words will come back to you. You are not your addiction."

Reggie was right, it didn't mean much to him now because he felt they were indeed one in the same and that feeling threatened to drag him down into paralyzation.

He hated himself for it but he was giving more and more consideration to Hanah's offer of pills.

But, John intended to exhaust all other avenues first.

"You're miserable, would you like to know why?" Hanah asked him one afternoon.

It had been 17 days since Sherlock left. 17 days and he felt every single one.

"Sorry, what?"

"I said you're miserable and I was wondering if you were interested in learning why."

"I'm sorry...I...I think I know why. I think I'm homesick."

"Mmm, that's part of it."

"Alright tell me." He said with a sigh.

"You're navel gazing."

"Beg pardon?"

"You're navel gazing. You're focused completely on yourself. Your concerns, your upset, your misery. Now, I know you're not following the steps all that closely. More of the spirit than the letter, am I right?"

"Fifty percent of them are about God. Half the steps, Hanah. Six out of twelve. It doesn't work for me. I'm trying to get out of it what I can but it just doesn't work. I say God bless you and God damn it and for God sakes and Mary and I were married in a church...when Sherlock fell I begged I said...Oh, Jesus no... But I don't believe. I've seen too many things, experienced too many things to believe in a deity, benevolent or otherwise. I can't pretend and I can't have it be the lynchpin of my recovery because I will fail."

"Did you try other meetings here?"

"No...I didn't know...I mean I assumed they were all the same."

"Ok, well the good news is this. There are meetings both here and on the outside that embrace the secular and I urge you to find them. The second bit of good news is that you're doing well and that's mainly due to your commitment to therapy. But I still need you to give AA an honest try. I think the best way to do that now is through steps eight and nine."

"Make a list and make amends." He supplied.

"You know your stuff." She said with a smile. "Every so often we need to take inventory it really helps to stave off the wallowing. Soaking in your self-obsession only clouds the real issues we haven't reached yet. So, that's your assignment. I'm not giving you a due date other than they need to be completed before you leave rehab. Other than that they'll be finished when they're finished. Ok?"

"Ok." He agreed.

"Get out of your head, John Watson. Get out of your own way."

Chapter Text

Dear Mrs. Hudson,

You once said, when you were quite cross with me, that people, but specifically me, forget lots of "little things".

I'm learning in here that that's true. I have forgotten a lot of little things over the course of my life. Both genuinely and not so genuinely. There are so many things in fact that I thought it would be better off if I didn't remember.

I'm learning in here that that's wrong.

After Sherlock "died" I did what I have always had a habit of doing. I brought down the curtain. It didn't seem that just his life was over but my life as well. At least my life as I knew it. If I was going to go on and I hadn't decided yet whether or not I was, for sure, I couldn't do it at Baker Street.

I couldn't do it in the flat that he and I shared. I couldn't do it in that ghastly messy kitchen or next to that fireplace mantle full of mad clutter. I couldn't do it in my chair staring at his chair...talking to his ghost.

And I couldn't do it with you there.

I didn't expect you to become such a large part of my life. I thought we'd pay the rent, maybe have a word with you when something was on the blink, ask if you needed groceries if we were off out. But not much more than that.

But you became this fixture in our lives, in my life.

I never said it because...I don't say it. These sort of things are hard for me. I don't know why.

Alright, I do know why but it's not important. The important thing is that I didn't really have a mum growing up. She died and it was just me and my sister, kind of on our own. I never got tucked in at night or fretted over the way only a mother can do. The way I imagine Mary would have been with Rosie. The way she was for that short stretch of time. But I have been lucky enough to get a taste of it with you. The way you cluck and fuss and worry and care. You always care. You're always so bloody caring even when Sherlock and I are being complete twats which is often.

When that man roughed you up and when I thought you'd been badly hurt and were dying in the hospital...I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt that very specific dread. I did recall a story Mike Stamford told me though, when he found out his mother had cancer. He told me; "John, it's like this hole opens up inside you, this hole of dread and worry and horror. And it doesn't get better once they're gone, it just changes into loneliness." That's what I felt when I thought I might not see you again, might not make it to hospital in time.

Like I said it's just me and Harry and we've never been close. So when I decided to propose to Mary, when I wanted to share that joy with family I came to see you. After inexcusable years of neglect, I came to see you.

This letter is part of the 12 Steps program I'm in but I think I would have written it anyway. I'm not sure how well it's going but the point is to apologize for what I put you through, for making you worry about me.

The tea did not just magically appear. Biscuits did not bake themselves. The flat was not set to auto-clean. That was you, all you, always you. And you put up with two stubborn, ungrateful, highly emotional, that is when they weren't being highly unemotional man-children. It did not and it does not go unappreciated or unnoticed.

I am sorry for the times I took advantage of your kindness and your forgiveness. I'm sorry for how selfish I've been.

Believe it or not, and I hope you do, your admonishment that you wouldn't speak to me ever again if I didn't tend to Sherlock meant something. Because, you see I couldn't imagine a life without you.

Not my housekeeper. Never my housekeeper. But my friend, my dear, dear friend and I think I can also speak for Sherlock when I say a surrogate Mum. If that title doesn't chafe.

Mrs. Hudson, you never have or ever will be a "little thing" and I will never forget you again.

I humbly ask for your forgiveness for my behavior this last year and I apologize from the bottom of my heart.

I am so very much looking forward to seeing you soon.

Love,

John

Mrs. Hudson

Molly

Greg

Harry

Mary

Chapter Text

Dear Molly,

I’m not sure if you want to hear from me. If you don’t. That is perfectly understandable. If I were in your position I don’t know that I would either.

I’m sure you know what this is, everyone knows what this is. I’m making amends to the people that I have wronged and I certainly wronged you.   

I read your blog the other day. It’s still up. I know you said you won’t be writing on it anymore and I know it’s been years but, well, maybe you should.

I never gave you credit for how bloody smart you are. You’re not just a friend, if we are still friends. You are a medical colleague, a surgeon and when you and I are in a room together, the senior physician available. Talented, clever, brilliant. But I never told you any of that, did I?

But it's not just that. I stupidly felt sorry for you when I saw how manipulative Sherlock could be with you. I thought you didn't know. But I read what you wrote on March 25th, specifically and of course, you did. Of course, you knew what game he was playing but you went along with it anyway. Just like we all do. Even when we know what's he about we go along with it. God knows I'm guilty.

I was so cross and jealous of you when he came back. When it became clear that you knew he was alive that whole time. But until recently, arse that I am, I never gave it a second thought. I never considered what a burden that was for you to bear. Or how hard it was for you to lose him too, even knowing he wasn't dead. No one had an easy time with this, those who knew and those who didn't. I apologize for my uncharitable and childishly jealous thoughts about you.

Were it not for you the entire charade couldn't have gone on as planned, could it? Someone had to write the death certificate and I imagine that someone was you. I'm sure there was more, a lot more. But I've never asked how he did it. The night he came back I told him I didn't care and I still don't. I don't care about the magic behind the scenes. Not to mention the fact I know it's driving him absolutely mad that he can't spill the beans to me and be lauded with amazement and praise. :)

But, though I am indifferent to how he managed it I am not indifferent to the actions and sacrifices you had to undertake to see this through. I apologize for my uncharitable and childishly jealous thoughts about you. Thank you so much for saving our friend.

I leaned on you very heavily after Mary died. Godmother is a largely a figurehead role, an honor without obligation. No one ever expects they'll have to come through. But then the unexpected happened and I was lost and hurt and lax. Full of presumption, full of grief, full of myself. I thrust Rosie into you hands far too often, I abused your goodwill and your trust without so much as a second thought. And why? So that I could go off and drink the world away or just stare near catatonic at a wall trying to wish away what was. I'm so sorry. I know you love Rosie but it was an undue burden, one for which you didn't sign up. Also, it was ghastly of me to give you that letter to give to Sherlock, to have you serve as an intermediary. I should never have put you through that. It wasn't your place it was mine. 

Finally, we come to what shames me the most. I want to say, without reservation, that I would never frighten a woman, threaten a woman or put her in an ugly, dangerous position. The John Watson I was, a long time ago wouldn't. The John Watson I want to be wouldn't. But the John Watson I was then did. I did all that to you. You came to my home out of genuine concern and I treated you with nothing but disdain and cruelty. I menaced you and I forced your hand. My behavior was abominable and I am deeply embarrassed and mortified by how I treated you, dear Molly. This letter doesn't come with a demand for forgiveness. You don't owe me that and I don't deserve it. I haven't deserved half of the kindnesses you've seen fit to give me. This is only to express my regret and my true and modest and undeniably inadequate apology. 

I am so sorry, Molly. Thank you for being a better person and friend than I deserve and thank you for loving my daughter.

You are one of the strongest, bravest people I know. Far braver than me on my best day.

I haven't nailed down final plans yet, but I'll make sure that my sister understands, should she adopt her, you should be able to see Rosie whenever you like. I won't take her away from you like that.  

I am an alcoholic and I realize it is important for me to admit that and acknowledge it at every turn.

And I am very sorry for the havoc and madness my alcoholism brought into your life and I ask for your forgiveness. I accept the responsibility for my actions including the fact that I may have lost the privilege of having you in my life. If there's anything I can do, anything to repay all that you've so selflessly given I would be more than happy to do so. On the other hand, if you'd rather I just stay away, I can do that too.

Thank you for absolutely everything, Molly. I can't say it enough and I doubt it will ever be enough.

Please, take care of yourself.

Your friend,

John

Mrs. Hudson

Molly

Greg

Harry

Mary

Author's Note: Hi guys, very briefly, I put a lot of links in this one, all about Molly. The three Tumblr links are from an absolutely wonderful, in-depth and helpful blog and lay down a very good case for Molly likely being a surgeon. I think it makes absolute sense so I went with it. You might find it interesting so take a look if you like. The other link is directly to Molly's official BBC blog. It's no longer updated and only had a few entries but it's worth a look in as well. 

Chapter Text

Day 71

Two letters in and the dam broke. Two letters in and the roof collapsed in on itself. Two letters in and every other euphemism about being absolutely blindsided became relevant.

The letters, in terms of timing, were irrelevant, it was just a coincidence. They didn't cause anything in and of themselves. It was just a way to mark the time. Two letters in.

Hanah had been right as she usually was. Coming to grips with what he had done on a personal level, not just with Sherlock but with the rest of the people in his life had been cathartic, hard but cathartic and he had told her as much.

They had another session, not nearly as grueling as it could have been. And then when he was leaving she'd said something strange.

"You still have my direct number, right?"

He nodded.

"Yeah, it's in my room."

"Ok." She said simply. "I'll see you tomorrow."

He was confused by the question but chose to let it go.

"See you tomorrow."

Now it made sense.

He woke up in a cold sweat and proceeded to retch all over his blanket. The shock of it, the shock of all of it started him crying like a child that had been startled.

The nightmare came back to him with horrific clarity. At Mary's side, holding her hand. Barely able to even plead with her to stay because doing so would be accepting the knowledge that she was leaving. Right then. Right now.

Pressing the wound. Holding it, pressing it. Pressing. Pressing. Pressing. Feeling the blood seep hot through his fingers, coating the tips, his palm. Seeping. Seeping. Down to the knuckle. Past the knuckle to the wrist. Too much blood. So much blood. Battlefield blood. A widow maker of an injury. A widower maker.

Trying to keep her quiet. Trying so hard. Shhhh. Mary, shhhh. Words were life and words were goodbye and the both kept flowing from her lips. All he wanted to do was stem the tide. Please don't waste them. Please, love, please. Please.

"You were my whole world."

Jesus fucking Christ almighty. Jesus fuck.

You were my whole world.

You were my whole world.

"Being Mary Watson was the only life worth living."

Christ, Mary. Oh God, she was gone.

He bundled the blanket up and took it into his bathroom to try and clean it off. That only started an endless cycle of gagging, repressing the gagging and gagging all over again until he finally vomited in the toilet.

He'd been texting with Sherlock every night, rapid fire, comforting, relaxing, peaceful, teasing. They talked about John's day and how things were progressing in his therapy. They talked about cases he was on and yes, that was cases as in plural. They debated the outcome, the theories, the possibilities, they bickered happily and needled one another just like in the old days. He'd been worried about that. Would this change anything, would either of them feel the need to hold back? So far, it didn't seem so.

He wished he could call him now. But they'd long ago said their goodnights and he'd returned his phone to the desk.

Not to mention he didn't know what to say. He didn't want to call him blubbering. A frantic voice in the middle of the night moaning and whinging incoherently. He thought he'd sound incoherent if he tried to open his mouth.

He scrubbed the blanket as much as he could but it still reeked of course. He felt horrible at the idea that he'd have to leave it for housekeeping to take care of. If it was a hotel he would have left a substantial and apologetic tip but here he had no money. Instead, he bundled it up in the corner and placed a note on the top that said; "I am so sorry. I fell ill. I tried to scrub it as best I could. Please accept my apologies."

He returned to the bathroom to brush his teeth and that done he sat down on the edge of the bed.

Sleep wasn't even on the table. Not after that dream.

He glanced down at his hand half expecting to find it caked and sticky with blood.

It had felt sticky for days after.

Out, damned spot. 

He couldn't call Sherlock. Not with this. Not now. Not even if he did have his mobile.

John's eyes drifted to his dresser and he stood up quickly and walked toward it.

There under his 30 and 60-day chips was Hanah's number. Grabbing it he hurried out of his room and down the hallway to the desk.

"I need to speak to my therapist. She gave me her number and said I could ring day or night."

He'd expected a fight but the nurse simply nodded and handed him a cordless phone.

"Of course, John. Go right ahead."

"Th-thank you." He said with surprise before starting to dial the number.

"Hello?" Hanah said on the other end of the line. She didn't sound as though she'd been sleeping.

"You knew what today was. You knew this would happen that's why you reminded me I had your number." He said.

"Yes, I did, John." She replied and she sounded just a touch sad.

"You didn't warn me."

"No."

"Why?" He countered.

"Because it had to be organic. Because I'm on your journey you're not on mine. I can't lead you anywhere, not really."

"That is new age bullshit!" He spat. "We don't do that, you and I. We never have and I don't want to start now."

"It's not new age, it may be folksy at best but it's still true. You're in charge of this, John, you always have been. Now, what do you want to do?"

"I want to get pissed. I want to get absolutely off my fucking face."

"What are you going to do?"

He swallowed hard and let out a broken scoff.

"See you...if you'll let me."

"Of course. Come to my office. Right now. Just come as you are."

"Ok." He said in a small voice and hung up the phone before handing it back to the nurse.

Without another word, barefoot, he started to walk to Hanah's office.

Ten minutes later he was sitting there in his chair, his toes flexing against the carpet grabbing it in tufts.

"It's 2 in the morning and yet it doesn't look like I woke you up." He said gesturing to her.

"I assumed that you would call tonight."

"Of course you did. Of course. You know, this whole time I wondered why we weren't talking about Mary. Why we were avoiding the topic completely. Why we were talking about everything except Mary! Now I get it. You were waiting for this."

"Tell me why you're here, John. Tell me why you called."

"You know why I called."

"And I want you to say it."

He took a ragged breath and slumped in his chair.

"This is a year to the day that Mary died. Died in my arms."

"I know, John. And I'm sorry."

"Do you know what her last words to me were? Because they haunt me...every fucking day, they haunt me."

"What were they?"

"The last thing she ever said to me was 'Thank you.'"

Chapter Text

"What are you guilty about John? That you weren't there sooner?"

"There isn't time to list all the things I'm guilty about. But, yes, of course."

"Actually there is, there is time. Do you think you could have stopped it? Can you stop a bullet?"

"No!" He lashed out. "But I can stop them. I could have stopped them. They're both so mouthy and careless and provocative. Always with the retorts. Always with the backchat. They can't help themselves, neither of them ever could. That's why I'm there! They both told me once...and I believe, I know they're right, that I'm attracted to the danger. That I live for it and crave it and feed off of it. Fine. Fair play. But then what are they attracted to? Hmm? Someone who pulls them back. Someone who grabs them by the collar or the ear and tells them to shut their goddamn mouths before they egg someone into shooting them! That's my job, ok? That is my duty! And I wasn't at post! I was derelict! Again! I wasn't at my post."

He felt anger surge through him, adrenaline that momentarily made him shake until he took a few settling breaths.

"I was almost too late." He began again. "From the moment I arrived do you know how long she lasted? One minute and eighteen seconds. I just happened to glance at my phone as I was running through the aquarium and then right after she died I moved in such a way that it fell from my jacket pocket. I did the math so quickly I didn't even think about it but it was one minute and eighteen seconds. And I lie awake at night sometimes, all the time just thinking, as horrible as that moment was...had the cab driver caught one or two more red lights... Had traffic just been a little worse. Had there just been an extra one minute and eighteen seconds more delay I never would have even gotten the chance to see her before she died. To touch her, to hear her voice...to comfort her."

He burst into frustrated, angry tears that as usual, he couldn't control.

That was the last of his breakdowns for that late night or early morning session. By the time it was over and Hanah tried to send him back to bed he was exhausted. His throat was raw, his head felt near splitting, his eyes burned red and dry and he felt as forlorn and lost as he had a year ago.

He stumbled back to his room. It still smelled of vomit but the blanket was gone and his bedding had been changed and the bathroom cleaned. It was welcomed but...creepy. People, the staff, moved silently here, unseen. He assumed that was the way the wealthy wanted it but he would have rather apologized in person.

Even if he'd wanted to there wasn't time to sleep before morning duties called. He skipped breakfast and lunch and instead subsisted on a steady diet of black coffee which left him shaky and wired. Everything around him was hazy and distant, the people and their voices on lo-fi if not outright muted.

It seemed like very little time had passed at all before he found himself back at Hanah's.

"John, no. You clearly haven't slept, this is not the time to do this."

"Please, I can't sleep, I can't function with this just sitting on my chest. Can't we please go on?" He begged. Hanah looked doubtful but he continued. "If you send me away I'm just going to be sitting in my room staring at the walls. Please, Hanah, please?"

Her expression essentially read 'This is against my better judgment.' but she motioned for him to take a seat.

"Tell me how you and Mary met."

He looked at her with confusion.

"That's where we're starting? What about-"

"That's where we're starting." She said firmly. "Take me back to when you met."

This was definitely a gear switch. He assumed they were going back to the aquarium but perhaps not. He wanted to go back there, to the darkness and the pain and the watery silence because it seemed like perhaps the only way to move forward.

"Ok, umm...we were a little short staffed at the clinic and my old girlfriend, Sarah hired her. Sarah was a doctor and she wound up getting a more lucrative position so she left awhile after."

"You've never mentioned Sarah before."

"Yeah, I guess I haven't. She was nice, clever, attractive. We dated for awhile and it was getting serious. I think it was serious. But then we went on holiday together, New Zealand and things fell apart. We agreed the best thing to do was stop seeing each other but it was actually amicable if you can believe it. We were able to work together, you know, like adults. When Sherlock "died" she called me about a dozen times before I answered. She came over, took care of me, tried to get me to eat, to move, to care...to stop drinking. She was my boss and even though she saw me at some of my worst she kept me on. She gave me the time I needed, if not to repair then at least to fashion some sort of mask that allowed me back to work. I appreciated that more than I could say. I think...we were better as friends than we were as a couple and I thought we made a pretty good couple.

When I started dating Mary, Sarah didn't say much to me about it. Well, just one thing, over lunch "I guess I just got the timing a bit out didn't I?" But then she added. "I'm glad you're happy, John. I really am."

I didn't know what she meant about timing, except I did. She liked Sherlock, well enough which is to say he didn't put her off. But New Zealand somehow exacerbated things. Somehow him not being around made certain things clear to her, she said."

"What things?"

"I don't know. I just know that somehow she felt he factored into our split. Anyway, she helped me stand up on my feet and Mary helped me the rest of the way. I suppose I've always had people propping me up."

"There's nothing wrong with needing help."

"I suppose," he said doubtfully. "In any case, she hired Mary while I was on a short break. So, I came back and she was there. They got on right away."

"What about the two of you?"

"Well, I noticed she was pretty right off but...I'd sort of packed that away you know?"

"I've heard you say that before. You pack your heart away after loss."

John thought about it for a moment.

"I guess I do. So, while I didn't exactly see her, she saw me. She was...bold..." He concluded with a smile. "I've always like that. Always. If I had my druthers I'd always prefer a person with a smart mouth and a quick wit. I like someone who keeps me on my toes and...and someone who doesn't let me get away with shit. Sometimes it's nice to be called out, you know? It's nice to have someone who'll take the piss. And that she did."

"Did you initially keep your distance?"

"Oh yes, I mean, she was the new nurse but by the time I got back to work she knew her way around. She'd let me know who my next patient was and what was wrong with them. She'd hand me files and do some basic work up's for me. But there wasn't much reason for us to interact beyond that unless one of us went out of our way. One day she sat down with me as I was having my lunch. Mary could just draw you into a conversation by being audacious or contrary or funny or unexpected. I think she managed all four in the span of about five minutes with me. I liked it. It surprised me that I liked it. I got used to it and started to look forward to it. But, I don't think I was going to make a move. I was too frightened to make any more moves. There was one day we'd been in mid-conversation after office hours and I suddenly remembered I had scheduled an appointment with Ella. I excused myself, rather abruptly and said I'd see her tomorrow. I got a few stoplights away and received a text from her."

John smiled as he remembered the words.

"She wrote, "That was very rude just up and leaving like that. I wasn't half done flirting with you."

Hanah smiled.

"So, without even thinking about the consequences I replied something like "That was indeed rude of me. Would you like to finish flirting with me over dinner? Tomorrow say eight? Maybe, get it out of your system?" She texted back "That should about do it." And that's how we started."

"How long had it been before the text since you'd dated?"

"About a year and a half, I'd say."

"How long until you got serious?"

"Not long. But that's always been my M.O., I guess. I'm picky. I'd rather be by myself than with someone and having a miserable time. But once I do find a person I get serious about them pretty quickly. Women and friendships I suppose. It's...um, passionate, I guess. For lack of a better word."

"I think that word is fine. What did you tell her about you?"

"She actually said to me one day, 'Who did you lose?'. I said 'I'm not sure what you're talking about.' And she said you lost somebody that meant everything to you, absolutely everything. She asked if I had been married before. I think I laughed a little, said no and then took her to Sherlock's grave and told her the whole story. She took it all so easily. Not as though it was the absurd and tragic tale it was but seriously and soberly. After so many false starts I think that was the moment I finally started to let him go. Falling in love with her just flowed naturally after that. We sort of accelerated from then on out. We got a place together and I got to wake up every day and go to bed every night and see her face. She...suddenly made life worth living again. I couldn't find that on my own. I've never been able to, not ever. It was like that old myth of Prometheus giving fire to mankind." He closed his eyes and thought of her smile. "Finally I felt warm after being so, so cold and numb. She glowed and managed to light just a few of the embers that were left in me. We just got on. We talked, we laughed, we did things. She told me that I made her feel safe. I told her the same thing. We never delved too deeply with each in terms of 'safe from what?'. She just...she became everything, filling my days, my nights. Filling a void I thought I'd have to learn to live with. Not the void created by Sherlock exactly but just loss. Just an empty, hollow, loss. I thought I was done connecting with people but she opened my heart. She told me, "I never expected you, John Watson. I never saw you coming and believe me, I see everything coming. You blindsided me and I love you for it. I just love you."

John cleared his throat twice, fighting against the slight and salty burn these memories brought with them.

"Anyway, I bought a ring and made reservations at The Landmark London determined to ask her to be my wife. I was tired of waiting. Despite an absurd interruption I eventually got around to it."

"What did you think when Sherlock appeared?"

"I thought I was losing my mind. I thought I was cracking up. I kept that part of my life...the part of me that still had little conversations with him separate from my real day to day. I thought, Oh God, its broken through. It's happening. I shattered the veil between these worlds. I looked at him and then I looked at Mary, praying, praying she was seeing it too. Even in that bizarre moment, I felt such relief that I wasn't mad."

"How did she react?"

"Angrily, furious for what she said he had done to me. And very protective. I only remembered that in hindsight, I couldn't hear it at the time but she just wanted me to be ok. After everything had settled, cooled a little, as we were on our way back home all she wanted me to do was forgive.

Mary inherited a wreck of a man. I had destroyed and tried to rebuild myself over and over again and all I had to offer her were fractured pieces and sharp edges. How much of this she blamed on Sherlock I'll never know but I suspect it was a lot. But it all seemed to fade presumably when she saw us together. Our dynamic. Even when I was so, so angry with him. She saw the truth. She saw where I wanted to be. She's the one that encouraged us to get back together. She was always so encouraging. She told me on the cab ride back that she liked him. Nobody said that about Sherlock after just meeting him...well, nobody except me. I think that's why it hurt so much to find out she shot him. There were plenty of my past girlfriends who would have liked to at least wing him..." he said laughing darkly. "But not her. Not Mary."

"How did you feel about your wife shooting your best friend?"

"Enraged. Blind with anger. Mad with anger. Baffled and hurt and dismayed and every other word in the book. I didn't want to believe it. Sitting there, hearing her words, hearing her admit it, I still didn't want to believe it. I think if it hadn't been for Sherlock I would have done something very, very stupid. I think I would have walked away."

"Tell me why you believe that."

"I can be cruel, Hanah. I can be so cruel. I can be so hard and so unforgiving. I will go against my better instincts, my needs, my heart, I will burn the bridge I'm standing on without a second thought. Mercy and pardon don't come naturally to me, they never have. But he wanted me to forgive.

She gave me something, after the big reveal. It doesn't matter what, not now. But she gave it to me and she said "If you love me, don't read it in front of me." I asked her why. And she said "Because you won't love me when you're finished. And I don't want to see that happen." And do you know what I did? I put it in my pocket. Because I did still love her.

We went through months of sometimes silence. Angry, furious cohabitation, seething public appearances and OB GYN visits and Lamaze classes. Screaming, brutal fights. Fights where we both said truly awful things to one another. Biting, horrible things, things you can't ever take back or un-hear. Vicious and chilly carpooling to work. She slept in the bed and I slept on the sofa and we lived our lives together and apart. I would attack, she would defend and round and round we'd go. I was mean, Hanah. I was self-righteous and cruel. I wasn't just angry with her, I was angry with Sherlock too because from day one he was trying to push us back together. Mr. I-Don't-Do-Emotion, which certainly by then I knew was bullshit, was constantly on me to mend things with her. Talking about love and fidelity and what matters. It was subtle, mind you, no grand soliloquies, but it was there. This is while he was healing from the bullet she put in him. While he was wincing in pain. While he was pale and sick and struggling to get through his day. And while Mary was at work or home tired and sore and frightened and trying to get through hers.

A long time ago I read this book and there was a quote that stuck with me and I last thought about it when I actually did plan to kill myself but...it came to me during those terrible months with Mary as well. I know it by heart.

 "Here in the bathroom with me are razor blades. Here is iodine to drink. Here are sleeping pills to swallow. You have a choice. Live or die. Every breath is a choice. Every minute is a choice. To be or not to be. Every time you don't throw yourself down the stairs, that's a choice. Every time you don't crash your car, you reenlist."

I could have left. Any day, any hour, any moment. I will admit to you as I did to her one night, there was a part of me, an ugly, slithering part that wanted to torture her. To leave her guessing and gasping on tenterhooks like a fish on a line. I wanted it to hurt. I wanted her to feel unsteady, unsafe. It felt good to hurt just like when I was doing awful work with Duck. Just like when I hit Sherlock again and again and again. Just like when I pistol whipped a suspect. It felt good to dole out my judgment. The executioner doesn't wear a hood to hide his face, he wears it to hide his smile.

But after awhile, a long while, even the sick, sexy thrill I got from inflicting that pain just faded. And I was left with my wife, in our home, with our child that was getting nearer and nearer to being born every day and I thought about that quote.

I had a choice. I always had a choice. I could have left. I could have walked out of that house and sued for divorce and custody and never looked back. And I would have won because once anyone started peering into her past everything would, of course, fall apart. I could have left her broken, childless, penniless and homeless. I could have ripped apart her world with my bare hands. I will tell you this and I know it for a fact sometimes living is far crueler than dying and I could have done tenfold to her what she nearly did to Sherlock.

But I thought about that damn quote; Every time I came home. Every time I didn't walk away, I reenlisted. I had to come to grips with the fact that I wanted to be there and that that emotion of wanting to be with my wife and loving her despite what she'd done could coexist with a feeling of being beyond angry with her and feeling betrayed.

As Christmas started drawing near, well before Sherlock invited us to his parent's house, I started working, on my own, on how to reconcile my feelings. The silliest thing is, my path had already been set. Don't read it in front of me if you love me. And I didn't, I put it away. In fact, I never read it at all.

Mary and Sherlock and I live exaggerated lives. Lives that stretch the boundaries of belief. It's all too bizarre and strange and mad. And I never invited anyone else into it. It was just the business of we three, that was all. I don't expect anyone to understand. What's more, I don't need anyone to understand. I don't need anyone to cosign on my forgiveness of my wife.

I put us both through the trials, I put us through the labours of Hercules and we came out the other side battered and bruised but together. I wanted to stay together with her. I have never taken what she did lightly and it wasn't over, I wasn't...we weren't fully healed, that's not how wounds work. But we were getting there, we wanted to get there. I decided it was worth getting there. I am thankful every day that I found Mary Morstan. And I am thankful every day that Sherlock lives. And I am thankful every day that I never had to explain to him why she remained in my life. He gave me that gift. And I never had to explain to her, after his return, why he remained in mine. They both..." He faltered as his voice broke. "They both just accepted all of this, from me, from each other. Their acceptance, their latitude in their own ways taught me how to be a better man. All I can say is bugger the rest. I doubt anyone on the outside could understand what we went through and how we made it out together. And that is a pity but it's their pity, not mine. I wouldn't and I won't shoulder it. The two of them taught me forgiveness and I am a notoriously difficult student. But they tried and they taught and I aspire someday to be more like them.

Without reservation, I loved my wife. There are only three feelings I have left concerning Mary; love, grief, and guilt."

He had been speaking non-stop. Or at least it felt non-stop. It was as though once he started he couldn't end it. Something was snowballing and his sleep-starved mine had set it in motion. This didn't feel good. It didn't feel good at all.

"You are not to blame for whatever caused Vivian Norbury to fire at Sherlock and hit your wife. That is not your fault. You don't have to feel guilty for being angry that Mary shot Sherlock or for how much time it took you to forgive. I suspect you took as much time as you needed. So, where is the guilt coming from, there's something you're not telling me."

"Because I lied to her."

"What about, John?"

"I didn't forgive her. Not fully. I mean, I forgave her for shooting Sherlock. Or, I was forgiving her... But that's not what I'm talking about. Layers upon layers. You picked up on this early on...you asked me if I often forgave when I didn't mean it. So did Sherlock. I don't know if Mary did but it's likely. We never talked about it but..."

He wanted to stop this now before it went too far.

"What did you not forgive her for, John?"

"I told her, The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future are my privilege. That's all I have to say. That's all I need to know."

"And what was wrong with that?"

"Everything! Everything was wrong with that. I didn't want to know, don't you understand? She would have told me. She gave me everything. She handed it all over. Like a person going into a confessional to be cleansed once and for fucking all and I stopped her. It would be like a priest just saying, oh give me the highlights. I don't want to hear it all. Because I didn't. That wasn't a kind thing to say or a benevolent thing to say. That was shutting her up because I didn't want to know. How can you offer this blanket forgiveness when you don't know everything. You can't! At least, I don't think you can."

"That's why you feel guilty?"

"NO! Yes!" He swore with frustration. "That isn't all. I can't... I couldn't be mad at her because...because I lied too. I dissembled, I kept things from her. Her story about being an orphan was patchy at best. We both knew it. She sat there and told me and waited, waited for me to press further. I don't know what would have happened but she was just waiting. But I didn't. I didn't say a word. I nodded and I agreed and I expressed my sadness at her absent family.

But I did the same thing, Hanah. I told her nothing. I didn't even mention a sister until she saw the engraving on my phone. I never told her about my father or the abuse. I shortened any information about Duck and our life together...what I did. I didn't even tell her exactly what Sherlock and I did. I kept everything vague, purposefully vague. I lied and I lied and I lied again. How could I blame her for doing the same when I kept just as many secrets? When I withheld huge sections of my life. We settled into our falsehoods and we silently agreed not to press too hard or too far. Jesus Christ...I mean, I knew her, I knew who she was at her purest and that matters, that's who I fell in love with and I hope she would have said she knew the same about me. But that doesn't mean I didn't lie. And that I never admitted to her I lied and I hypocritically withheld forgiveness even when pretending I wasn't. And after all that I cheated on her. You know even if it hadn't turned out to be Eurus and just all part of her ridiculous, unhinged plan it would still have been awful. She died thinking I was a good man. She died believing she had let me down. Over and over again. She died thanking me. Mary got a lot of things wrong, a lot. She did many a stupid, impulsive "This-is-for-your-own-good" kind of thing but she was faithful. I broke my marriage vow. I broke a vow. Not her...not Sherlock, me. It was never because I didn't love her. It wasn't even because I wasn't in love with her. I was. I am."

"So what was the reason?"

He'd started to clench and unclench his fists at his sides, nervous energy warring with exhaustion.

"I wanted to blow things up. Or maybe I just wanted to bring them to a head. I wanted something I couldn't have. I wanted to have my cake and eat it too. I wanted to gorge. I wanted both halves. I was so greedy. Fuck."

"Ok, ok, John, slow down. I'm not following. You have to slow down."

But he couldn't slow down, he was talking so fast, breathing so fast, great gulps of air but it wasn't enough. His head hurt, his heart hurt and his skin felt like it was on fire. Things were happening here. Something was building and he didn't like it but he couldn't stop it. He had said more now, right here in this past hour than he had perhaps ever with Hanah. Just a fountain of words and concerns and truths and confessions and the more he spoke the more wanted to come out. It was too much. It was damning but he couldn't stop it. That distant feeling was back again. Palms on warm, smoldering wood, heating him up from the inside, dead but alive but dead. Lost in the forest and getting closer and closer and closer to what frightened him.

"That's all." He said before quickly. "There's nothing more to say. That's all."

"Is it? There's still something you're not telling me." She said searching his face. "There's something else. And you want to tell me, John. I think you've wanted to tell someone for a very long time. That's why you're here. You may feel better when you get it out."

He got out of his chair suddenly and paced briefly before pressing his back against the farthest wall of her office. He needed space, space between the two of them and space to breathe.

"I can't."

John folded his arms in front of his chest, closing his eyes as he lowered his head. He wasn't sure when he'd started to lose it. When the tethers had come undone. He was frayed and stretched to near breaking and so, so very tired. Everything on his shoulder, his chest, his heart sat so heavily he felt like he could barely breathe. And still, no matter how much he wanted to stop, prevent it, bottle it up it was coming and he could feel its approach.

"Tell me, John. Say it out loud. Why are you so guilty?"

God, it was true.

The realization broke in his mind and heart like the dawn. It was all true and it always had been. And he had almost said it a dozen times, a hundred times. He had whispered it to a polished, obsidian headstone and an empty chair and into the darkness on those endless nights and not saying it now didn't make it any less true. Oh God, what an arse. He was such a stupid fucking delusional arse. So stupid. So fucking stupid.

"I feel guilty because...because..." He shook his head still, a part of him hoping in futility he could just leave it there, unsaid, unspoken, untrue.

"Because?"

He shut his eyes as hard as he could. Hard enough to see lights. Hard enough that he felt the blood rushing and pounding in his ears.

"Because when I married her I was in love with someone else."

He thought he might shout it. He thought it might erupt from his mouth in dramatic fashion. Instead, it fell like an ordinary fact, simple, subdued, true.

If he'd expected a break or a pause from Hanah it wasn't forthcoming.

"Who John?"

He opened his eyes and looked at her, his vision taking a moment to bring her face to focus.

"Sherlock." He said quietly. Less than a whisper. 

And there it was. Not with a bang but a whimper. All that pressure and tension, all that energy and fear that he had felt barrelling toward him vanished.

There was only the sound of his ragged breathing in the room. Hanah was quiet and still, letting it happen as he suspected she felt it needed to.

He couldn't take it back now. It was out. Another living person had heard it. Not an object but a person and his breathing went from ragged to gasping and the world blurred at the edges. Christ, a panic attack, he was sure of it. Heading at him furious and unstoppable. It had been a while since he had one of these but the feelings were familiar and terrifying. His legs felt weak and he let them slowly go out from under him and he slumped against the wall. Sliding down he eventually came to rest on the floor. 

"I didn't marry her because he wasn't there." He said slightly defensively speaking more toward his outstretched legs than her. "That isn't what happened. She wasn't my second choice."

Hanah got up from behind the desk walked over and say cross-legged before him.

"OK, so what did happen?"

He'd never voiced it out loud, no one had ever asked him to explain it before. But also, he'd never even asked himself.

"I loved them both. Sherlock first, Mary second. And then when he came back...would that it were so simple, right? Imagine if all I had to do was look her in the eye and say, "Sorry to throw you over, love, but the bloke I've been pining for for years resurrected himself from the grave. Let me call you an Uber." Or just turn to him and say pretty much the same. "Sorry, Sherlock, only room for one love of my life in my life right now. But if you'd still like to bring the wine we'll have a bottle for the table." He laughed sadly. "To be that guy, that big of an arsehole. Cruel yes, but simple. So fucking simple. Just a transfer, like moving money from one account to another. I am an arsehole but not quite to that level. It wasn't either or. It was never either or. But loving them both like that, that isn't possible. I must have been lying to myself."

"Why?" Hanah asked. "I think you're under the impression that love and affection are something solid, something with weight and mass. We're taught in school that two objects cannot occupy the same space at the same time. But that's not how love works. That's not how the heart works. You were in love with Mary?"

"Yes." He said letting his head thump back against the wall behind him.

"You were in love with Sherlock?"

"Yes."

"Then if I were you I wouldn't be so worried about trying to mete it out and make sure it adds up. Trying to measure love is an excellent way to tie yourself up in knots. Now, answer me honestly, do you believe any of your drinking or anger issues stemmed from being in the closet?"

"No. No." He said shaking his head. In the closet. He didn't know what to do with those words just yet. They didn't feel right. They didn't feel as though they fit. All he did know was that he could say is he felt no inner turmoil about...about loving another man. "I'm not drinking because of Sherlock."

"I'm not being that obtuse in my questioning and I think you know that. I also think you understand that when you came back from the war you had a blank slate. You didn't know anyone in London, you were estranged from any family or old friends with the exception of Mike. You yourself admit Mike to be more of an acquaintance than a mate. You meet Sherlock, young, single, attractive. Did you consider it? Did you consider that that might be the moment to take a different path? Did you consider coming out?"

In a second his thoughts took him back at Angelo's. The small table by the window, Sherlock opposite him.

What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?

Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends ...

Yes, well, as I was saying – dull.

You don't have a girlfriend, then?

Testing. Testing it out. Testing the waters. Entering in without even knowing how to swim. Dangerous. Stupid. Foolish.

Girlfriend? No, not really my area.

Not his area. Then...maybe...  Could it maybe be this easy? To fall into something without even trying?

Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way.

I know it's fine.

A sharp reply. Offended that he presumed he might be gay? Or offended that the addendum of "Which is fine by the way." telegraphed that it wasn't fine at all?

He pressed forward.

So you've got a boyfriend then?

No.

Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good.

At that point, his mind had flooded with thoughts of "Too much! Oh God, too much, what are you doing?"

John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any ...

End this, you idiot.  End it now.

No. No, I'm not asking. No. I'm just saying, it's all fine.

And it had remained "all fine" for six years.

"I think I might have considered it...for a moment at least. But I got frightened."

"Are you still in love with him?" Hanah asked.

"I don't know." He lied before adding, "Yes."

"Does he know?"

"He has a blind spot sometimes when it comes to me. If he knows he's never said."

"I want you to tell me how you feel when I put forward the idea that your sexuality isn't as clear-cut as you've imagined. How does the term bisexual sit with you?"

John opened his mouth and shut it again with a small shake of his head.

"I've only ever dated women."

"Ok, not what I asked." She said kindly.

"And I've only ever felt this way about one man." He continued.

Hanah just gazed at him...and waited.

A face flashed before his eyes. Brief but recognizable.

Oh.

Oh. Of course.

He stayed silent for a minute. A solid, silent minute as he processed and reprocessed.

"Duck." he said simply at the end of it all. 

"Duck." She agreed. "So, again, how does the term bisexual sit with you?"

"Does it count if I've only ever fancied one, sorry, two men?"

"It's not a numbers game, John. No one is keeping count or score. It's not about percentages or a ratio of women to men either. Bisexuality does not have to be 50/50. That's not how it works. This is about how you feel, right now, in this moment. How you feel about your wife and how you feel about your best friend. When you weren't in my office what were your interactions with Sherlock?"

He flushed at the memory.

"Good. Quiet." He said before adding, "Perfect. We shared my room...and my bed."

"Did you have sex?"

"No. We didn't have sex but we kissed. On the lips."

"More than once?"

"Many, many times."

"Is this something you'd done before?"

"Only the time he told you about, at Baker Street. That was the first time."

"How did you rationalize this?"

"That we were broken and lonely and had both sworn off romance and dating and we...we just needed the familiar. We needed intimacy and safety. We needed each other."

"Ok." She nodded before glancing at the time on her phone. "We have been at this for a long time and you haven't gotten any rest at all. I'm going to call an end to today's session but first I want to thank you for your honesty. This, all of this, was very, very difficult and emotionally draining. You did an excellent job today, John. Tomorrow we're going to work on dismantling some of that guilt and seeing how it ties into your drinking and self-destructive tendencies."

He nodded again and wiped at his face, his hand coming away wet.

"I understand all that...That's what we tackle tomorrow. But what do I do now?"

"Rest. Maybe hold off on talking to Sherlock about this until you've had more than 2 consecutive hours of sleep."

He nodded and rose from the floor. Once he was on his feet he extended both hands to help her up.

"Thank you." She said with a smile.

"Thank you...I think," he said running his hands through his hair. "So I'll, um...see you tomorrow?"

"Yes, and you can still always call me, day or night. That wasn't a one time only thing."

He nodded and placed his hand on the knob to leave.

"Let me leave you with one thing, John. It's the great secret of therapy. My job is just to help you realize things of which you're technically already aware. Nothing was said here today that you didn't already know. Nothing has ever been said here that you didn't already know. Only a few things that you maybe weren't ready to admit."

Author's Note:

The quote John mentions is from the guy who wrote "Fight Club", Chuck Palahniuk, and the book is called "Survivor". 

I've been more vocal about this in other stories I've written but just a line or two here; The John I'm writing and I believe the John we were given, likes and loves Mary. I like Mary, I've always liked Mary. I don't, can't and won't subscribe to the idea of her being this unrepentant, malevolent harpy and I absolutely won't write her that way. The point, at least the point of the story I'm trying to tell, is that they are all incredibly damaged people. All three of them. Complicated, dangerous, careless, foolish people who each made awful mistakes. But those mistakes and the destruction caused don't need to be weighed on a balancing scale. And if they are weighed we don't have to discard or vilify the person who might this time cause the unbalance.

We don't need to beatify John or Sherlock to love them. Likewise, we don't need to damn Mary.

All three of them have paid for their sins.

All of them are square with the house.

But that's just my opinion...

Chapter Text

Sherlock, are you free to text a little?

Of course, John. Just got in. How are you?

I miss you. It was a rough day.

I miss you as well. What happened?

Before we get into that can I ask you something?

Of course.

Will you tell me about the last bad dream you had.

Alright. I was in the ocean. Adrift. Just floating.

It doesn't sound so bad.

I was alone. No ship that I had fallen off. No lifeboat or flotation device.

What do you do? Do you call for help?

I call for you.

Sherlock, I'm sorry.

It happens from time to time.

It's recurring?

For awhile now, yes. And you? I assume you're asking me about bad dreams because you've been suffering from one or more yourself.

No, I asked you because you told me when we were in bed that it kept the darkness away. You also said you'd visited Ella for nightmares. I didn't ask about it and I should have.

It's alright. I rarely have pleasant dreams. It's been that way since I was a child. Your asking wouldn't vanquish them, John.

Still, I'm your friend. I should have asked. I didn't know you always had nightmares.

It's why I've adapted myself to require little sleep.

You've done no such thing. You've deprived yourself of sleep and convinced yourself you've managed to do what people are incapable of doing it.

So little faith in my abilities.

So little faith in my medical degree.

...

...

...

Sherlock, I can see you're typing something but not sending it. Bite the bullet.

When you come back home will we still share a bed from time to time?

Of course, we will. If you want us to that is.

Yes, I would like that very much.

So would I. Glad it's settled.

Do you like bees?

I'm sorry...is that a typo? Do I like bees?

Yes, bees. The insect.

Well, um, never really thought about it. I'm not allergic to them. I've been stung once or twice and it just hurt a little. Why do you ask?

I quite like bees. My Uncle Rudy was an apiarist and when I was a boy he taught me how they're kept. I think I would like to keep bees one day when I retire.

Ok...why are you talking about retiring?

It pops into my mind from time to time. Have you ever heard of a type of honey that acts as a drug?

Can't say that I have. Tell me about it, Sherlock.

It comes from Turkey and it's called deli bal which means Mad Honey. Of the 700 rhododendron species in the world, only three create a nectar that produces a neurotoxin called grayanotoxin. When bees make honey in this hot and humid region where the flowers are plentiful no other nectar gets mixed in and the result is deli bal. Now, the reason it's called Mad Honey is because it's been known to cause incredible hallucinations. Rumor has it that when Romans attempted to invade in 67 BC, locals surreptitiously placed honeycombs along their path. The soldiers greedily consumed them and were so intoxicated they became easy prey.

I've heard of hallucinogenic plants, of course, but never one introduced into a food via pollination. Fascinating.

I found it to be as well when I heard about it while in Turkey many years ago.

You've tried it?

Of course. I had it boiled in milk.

How did you feel?

Lightheaded. Warm. It was pleasant. Not an incapacitating high but the shopkeeper refused to give me anymore when I requested some. Too many foreigners apparently suffer deli bal  poisonings. It's not fatal mind you, it just puts you off your face for awhile.

So, considering how ridiculous you are how have I not mistakenly added this to my tea some lazy Sunday morning and wound up starkers on Oxford Street claiming to be Napoleon?

I didn't bring any back with me. It wasn't exactly that sort of trip. I'd meant to always send away for some but it's expensive and you have to be careful of forgeries.

How expensive?

130 quid for a pound.

Jesus.

That's not even close to the most expensive. That would be Elvish honey. It's over £5000 per kilogram.

For honey????

It comes from a very deep cave also in Turkey. It's supposed to taste absolutely lovely but it doesn't have any of the hallucinogenic properties of deli bal. One day when we're retired old men in Sussex and unable to get into any more trouble the way we are now we'll consume slightly more than recommended and become quite silly. We shall go mad with mad honey.

What's in Sussex?

The cottage we'll retire to .

It sounds as if you have things all planned out.

I'm sorry.

...

...

...

No, Sherlock, **stop** panic texting. I like the idea. I like it very, very much. Really, I do.

Oh. I thought I had presumed.

You did. Correctly.

Ok. Will you tell me of your bad dreams now?

No, I don't want to talk about my nightmares. Tell me something pleasant. Tell me more about the bees.

As you wish.

...

Chapter Text

Day 77

"For some of you, your time here is drawing to a close and to your surprise that may be causing feelings of stress and panic." Reggie began and John's ears instantly perked up. "This is absolutely normal and it means we've both been doing our jobs. You've been working hard and felt and seen progress and we've created a safe space for you to learn and grow and heal. It's only natural that while you're eager to resume your lives on the outside you're a little fearful of actually being out there. Let me let you in on a secret; there's nothing magical here and even if there was, you would have brought it with you we didn't supply it. I remember when I first got clean the words 'Your sobriety is in your own hands' sounded awful to me. Truly awful. I didn't want it in my hands. All I did was screw things up. Here someone, anyone, you take it."

This was greeted by understanding laughter from the room and John too.

"But once you're on the other side, once you can see the light at the end of the tunnel you start feeling gratitude that you're the one holding the reins. After spending so long out of control the idea that you can grab the wheel, stop this and enter a new destination is of leaving here means you're taking your sobriety very seriously. That's good. You likely didn't hold it in very high esteem when you arrived and now it's something precious that you want to protect. Latch on to that feeling.

There's a very old saying in AA; Spend enough time at the barbershop and eventually, you'll get a haircut. There will be temptation to return to your old ways, that's not the time to retreat into yourself. That's the time to do just what you would have done here, reach out to people, friends, and family who understand, look for a meeting, get in touch with your sponsor or your therapist. You ultimately make the decision as to whether or not you're going to drink again but that doesn't mean you're doing this alone. Don't do this alone.

Change can be scary, absolutely, it usually is. But it can also be bloody wonderful. But, you need to think about what you want to change. Not in a vague I-don't-want-to-drink-or-abuse-fill-in-the-blank again way. But definite goals. Real positive actions for your life. It can't be all about what you don't want to do. It has to be about what you do want to do as well.

So, what do you want to do?"

John had been preoccupied with a lot of things the past few days. One of them being the question of what was kinder?

Was it kinder to tell Sherlock what he had "discovered" about himself now or wait until he arrived on Day 90 to pick him up.

And if and when he did tell him, to what end? What exactly had they agreed to be when they began this...platonic kissing.

It had only been a year since Mary died. Did he really want to leap back into a relationship? Or was he already in one? Would asking Sherlock to...to what date? Be his boyfriend? His lover? Well, since nothing was working perhaps not lover... But, would asking him to be, to do any of those things be more or less than what they already shared?

He didn't want less and he was afraid of more.

Could this rock the boat?

Plus, what more did he really want? They were going to live together again. It was to be just the two of them. John had no intention of dating and neither did Sherlock so didn't they already belong to one another? For God sakes he had already tacitly agreed to retire with him in Sussex and raise bees. And the idea didn't even scare him. He was happy.

Should he say anything at all?

How exactly would Sherlock Holmes react to a confession of love?

Yes, he had changed. A lot. He was not the same stunted oddball John had met when the woman in pink had been murdered. But he was still Sherlock.

That was, of course, easy to say as memories of opening his eyes and seeing Sherlock's staring back at him faded a little. His lids heavy with sleep, his hair a delightful curly mess, his lips soft, eager, drawing closer. Wanting, needing a kiss even before a good morning.

Hanah had asked him to figure out what he wanted before broaching anything with his mate.

So, he went down the list.

He wanted to live at Baker Street.

He wanted to continue their work for as long as they both could manage it.

He wanted to practice medicine again, at least on the side.

He wanted to let Sherlock know how he felt.

He wanted to make amends with everyone.

And the last one surprised him most of all. It had hit him in the middle of the night like a sudden pain, a sharp and persistent ache in his heart.

Rosie.

He wanted to see Rosie again.

Forgotten Rosie. Neglected Rosie.

She'd be so different now. A year and 3 months old. He hadn't seen her since April. Almost a full year.

So as it turned out she and not Sherlock was the first thing on his mind when he saw Hanah.

"I think I'd be a shit father." He said by way of greeting.

"Ok, good morning to you as well. Have a seat, John."

He did as requested and gave her a sheepish smile.

"Sorry, that was rude of me. Good morning, Hanah. It's just I've been thinking about Rosie."

"You are a true military man. Like clockwork you are. I was planning on bringing her up today and yet again you beat me to it."

"I'm that predictable."

"Nothing wrong with being predictable now and then. So, tell me what you're thinking.

"I gave her away."

"I know, tell me about that. Did you want children?"

"I did. But I'd kind of given up on the idea. I never thought of myself as the marrying sort and I was always of the mind that having kids was something you did while you were younger. Mary and I used protection but we figured we'd talk about it later. You could set your watch by the regularity of her period and we'd never had any mishaps or close calls. I think the truth is we thought if we did it we'd adopt but neither of us seemed all that eager about it. We just weren't in a rush. But then we found out we were having Rosie everything changed. It was like my mindset changed. I got happy. I was happy. Absolutely surprised and shocked but happy. I know it was the same for Mary too. We went on our honeymoon and were like We're actually going to do this, aren't we? Just dive right in. I'm totally not ready but yeah, let's!

Because of our problems I didn't get to really enjoy the pregnancy and all the anticipation and planning that comes with it. I made sure things were running as smoothly as possible but I detached. There was no happy painting of the baby's room or choosing tiny clothes. It was all very rote. Once we'd mended things we got back into gear before it was too late. We did buy toys and clothes and a car seat and that bouncy thing you hang in doorways so they can...well...bounce."

"So you were back to looking forward to her arrival then?"

"Absolutely. I was elated. I didn't realize how badly I wanted a family until it was almost taken away. But after Mary died, I lost it. I moved Rosie to the category I put everyone else in. She was just a connection to a world I no longer wanted to be a part of. I would never hurt her, it wasn't like that but I just felt nothing. I went on all these message boards full of frantic, exhausted mothers saying the same thing but they had a valid excuse. It was postpartum depression. I could and would have diagnosed all of them with that, assured them it was normal and offered them whatever help I could had they been my patients. But that's hormonal and expected and though it feels the opposite maternal. There were no fathers on these boards saying the same thing."

"How did you feel?"

"Have you ever felt like nothing mattered anymore? Like, there's a limit on how much of yourself you can put into the world and you've reached it? You've reached your limit? You dig and you search but there's nothing there anymore. Have you ever felt that way?"

"I have."

"I could feel myself slipping. Losing my grip and she was there and small and helpless and when I did finally fall I didn't want her to be anywhere near me. I was going down a path alone and I needed her safe and far away. The thing is I never planned on coming back. I never made provisions for a trip back. And now here I am and I'm alive and I'm as well as can be expected and I gave away a daughter I have no right to reclaim. And it's not that I'm starting to regret the decision to give her to Harry but..."

"But you want to see her again. You want to know if in a way that isn't detrimental to her you can have a place in her life."

John nodded with relief as she had perfectly summed up what he'd been thinking.

"She won't even know me, it's been so long but I'd like to maybe get to know her."

"When did you start feeling this way?"

"When I saw the kids running to their mums and dads on Family Weekend. It was jarring to remember I had a child too. And then shameful to recall how I'd abandoned her. I think I just want to start with a visit or two. I think...I think ultimately this has to be left up to Rosie. I don't even know what she calls Harry and Clara. I mean, if they're Mum and Mum then I can't blunder in like "Oi, I'm your Dad, come with me." Fuck that. If I have to remain on the edges then that's something I need to accept."

"I think you have reasonable expectations, John. You'll need to hang on to them. You need to understand that prioritizing your addiction over a relationship with your daughter limited your rights, perhaps not legally but emotionally, ethically."

He nodded sadly but her assessment was essentially like his own.

"I understand. I just...I miss her. For the first time in a very long time I miss her. But I get that Harry can't just be a convenient dumping ground one minute and unnecessary the next."

"If this goes badly. If there's conflict or stress can you accept that it isn't an excuse to return to old habits. That's when what you learned here should kick in and not when you should drop it all together. That's going to be the temptation. That's where your mind and body are going to want to go. The sad truth is there will be times it seems they are fighting against you getting and staying well. I think it's good to prepare for that."

"I'm prepared, I think, as much as I can be."

"So, when I asked you what you wanted, how you saw your life I can assume that Rosie is now a part of that in an as yet to be determined way."

"Yes, absolutely."

"Where are things with Sherlock? Have you told him what you've uncovered in therapy?"

John sighed and shook his head slightly.

"I think I started to but...I chickened out."

"Are you afraid of his reaction?"

"Yes, of course. I'm afraid he'll think I'm being disingenuous. I mean who the hell comes to some sort of revelation about their sexuality in their bloody 40's? It's absurd."

"Plenty of people do, John. It's not as unlikely as you seem to think."

"Well, it makes me feel like a bloody teenager. Not to mention the fact this isn't just about me telling him I'm...bi. It's about saying I...I want us to give it a go. He could say no."

"He could." She agreed.

"You're always just so full of sunshine."

"I mean this in the least cheeky fashion, but you'd have me no other way. You don't want a therapist who's just going to blow smoke up your arse, John."

He grumbled his agreement because of course, she was right.

"If he says no, that's going to hurt." She continued. "But it's going to be something you'll need to deal with, on your own, without pulling him into it. If he rejects the idea of being a couple do you still want to continue your friendship?"

He shutter blinked at the idea.

"Of course, I mean, I'm not one of those idiots who'd trash something meaningful because someone turned me down. I love being his friend. I love him. If we go this far and no further...so be it. Sherlock is my best mate. I'm staying put."

Hanah nodded but tapped her pen against her lip thoughtfully.

"There's more..." She said.

"That'll never stop being creepy." He said with a nervous laugh.

"Go on."

"Alright...I've never told you about this or anyone. You know Chernobyl right?"

"Ok, not where I thought this was headed but yes."

"After the cleanup, it was unlivable, right? It had absorbed this massive amount of radiation, a deadly amount. The government bulldozed some of the trees and buried them in these trenches and then they covered the trenches with sand. So, now there are these dead trees still standing tall and they're not decaying and they're red because of the radiation. They're dead but they're still standing. And the ground beneath your feet is mushy and uneven because of the sand and the other dead trees. Anyway, recently the forest caught fire. And I mean everything there is dry it's basically just acres of kindling. The fire brigade who went into battle it, they were able to contain it but they came out with these stories. Stories about what it felt like, the heat, this different kind of heat not from the fire but from the trees and the ground. They said they felt itchy and prickly, it made their skin crawl. It set off all these primitive sensations that just made them want to run away. It just screamed danger and the further they went in the worse it got. I read that story in one magazine or another or online or something and I became kind of obsessed with it. What it must have been like and felt like. Then it started to creep into my dreams and my nightmares. Then...it started to affect my waking life as well. I would...you're going to think I'm crazy. I would get close to Sherlock and I'd start to feel hot, like he singed me. But it wasn't him. I mean, I knew it wasn't coming from him it just happened around him the most. But occasionally others. Anytime I thought about getting close to someone, letting them back in I would think of the Red Forest and the fire and the radiation and the poison and the death. It's ridiculous, I know. I know it is. But I would come close to Sherlock and that tingling would start and I would think 'Well, this is a warning. This is a message to stay away.' I just never figured out if it was a warning for me or for him...or them. And that is my recurring nightmare. I'm in the forest, surrounded by all this red, red wood and walking on soupy, dry ground and the heat is unbearable. Sometimes it just warms my skin in this sickly way. Sometimes I catch fire. But I'm trapped and I can't get out and it goes on for miles and miles and miles and it's burning and I'm burning and it's dead and I'm dead and we're one. We're the same thing. I'm the Red Forest."

He was shaking by the time he was done and he'd barely taken a breath during the whole lengthy speech. He hadn't stopped, hadn't allowed himself to stop because it took all his courage to get this nonsense nightmare out from where it was wedged in his throat. He hazarded a look at Hanah whose eyes he had purposefully been avoiding. As always she was the picture of non-judgmental cool.

"When Sherlock was visiting did you feel as though you were in the forest?"

"No, that's the thing. I'd forgotten about it and by the time that I remembered...well...we had already been in very close quarters. We were already in bed together by then. But the dreams are still there. The last time I thought about it in daylight was..."

"Was when, John?"

"When I came...out."

"You're still stumbling over your words. You pause before bi and coming out."

"It hasn't been that long. It just doesn't feel as though it fits."

"Do you want to take it back?"

"No." He said suddenly but before he could add more she went on.

"Because as it stands, only you and I know. This is a real and genuine question. Do you wish you could take this discovery, this admission back."

He swallowed hard.

"I guess I thought...I thought that once I admitted it, it would snap into place. Everything would feel right."

"Does it feel wrong?"

"No, not wrong, just very different."

"Different isn't bad."

"I just thought if the unsaid was finally said I'd feel so much better about it all."

"You would be very special indeed if all your inner conflict was resolved so quickly," Hanah said with a smile. "It's a process, John, like any other. It's going to take a lot of time and you'll find that there are points where it intersects with your addiction and points where it veers off in the other direction. That is fortunately or sometimes, unfortunately, the nature of being human. Everything is entwined with everything else. But if this is who you are and who you want to be then you're on the path to embracing it and that's not a bad thing."

He nodded, digesting her words thoughtfully

"What does my dream mean to you?"

"That I'm going to tell you on another day. What confluence of stars needs to happen for you to tell Sherlock?" 

"I don't know. I keep putting it off, trying to think of the right words. Trying to not spring it on him. I don't know if I should do it now or when he comes to get me on day 90. I don't know."

"What do you want to do?"

"Tell him this second, even though it scares me. Just put it all out there, heart on the line. If I'm going to breakdown I'd rather do it while I still have access to you. While I can still drag myself out of it."

"Why do you assume you'll breakdown?"

"I don't really but...Sherlock and I didn't used to do emotion. It's still hard for me to come to grips with the fact that we're far more open than we once were. I like it but I sometimes worry he might...revert."

"Or that you will?" She pointed out.

"Yeah...sometimes." He admitted.

"You want to be on solid ground? Have definitive answers."

"Exactly." He paused and smiled softly. "This is your way of telling me I should tell him isn't it?"

"Not at all, I can't make that decision for you. But I can tell you that people and life, in general, are going to be in flux. That doesn't however, mean we can't lay down a solid foundation with truth and honesty. It's up to you when and how you want to share it. But I will say this, you have repeatedly expressed a desire to get on with things. You're frustrated by your stagnation. You're upset by the time you feel you wasted. I think you should consider that when making your decision. Consider the trajectory of the rest of your life."

So he did. He considered the trajectory and everything within him, save his fear, was telling him it was the right time.

Tonight. He'd do it tonight. And by the time tonight did roll around he was resolved to the action if not the possible outcome.

"John," The nurse began as he stood at the desk to collect his phone."Are you ever going to use your points?"

"My points?"

"Yeah, your good behavior points. I thought maybe you were saving them."

"I get points?" He asked utterly confused.

"Yeah, privilege points for chores and stuff. They explained this to you in the beginning and it's in the handbook."

As she spoke he did vaguely remember some mention of points. But for the entirety of his time here it had slipped his mind.

"Can I use these points to keep my phone out past hours?" He asked hopefully.

"You've got enough points to keep it for a week straight." She laughed. "But seriously, you can have it overnight but we need it in the morning."

"Great, thanks, thank you. You have no id-...thank you."

He texted Sherlock as soon as he got back to his room.

Sherlock, you busy?

Yes. Came the rapid and short reply.

Ok. Busy. Understandable. He refused to take this personally. He'd asked a straightforward question and gotten a straightforward reply.

Can we talk later?

Later.

Ok. Later. Ok.

He took a deep breath.

Fine. He could wait.

That was 7:40 PM. He tried to pass the time, tried to read, to write a bit in his journal, read again, listen to music all while keeping an eye on the phone. 8 o'clock, 9, 10, 11, 12. By 1 AM he had curled up in the bed still decked out in his clothes like a child having drifted into an uneasy but deep sleep At a quarter to 2 his phone rang.

Jolting awake he answered.

"Hello?"

"Oh." Came Sherlock's surprised voice on the other end. "I thought you'd have had to return your mobile by now. I was going to leave you a voicemail apology."

"No need. You alright? Home safe?" John asked sitting up straighter on the bed and stretching out tired muscles.

"I'm fine. There was some nasty business earlier concerning a man and a khopesh sword. But it's all sorted. Are you ok? Why do you still have your phone?"

"Apparently I earned some goody-two-shoes points and I get to use them by having my phone for longer. You really ok?"

"Fine, John. Nothing to worry about."

"I'm actually glad you called instead of texting. I wanted to speak to you tonight."

"Oh really? Why is that?" He asked but before John could reply he interrupted them both. "It isn't."

"What? What isn't?"

"Everything isn't alright. And you haven't eaten."

"How could you possibly know that? Or is this one of those times where you didn't know but I just revealed it?"

He hadn't eaten, of course, he'd been too nervous which Sherlock was about to deduce.

"If you want to speak you're upset and it's likely this is something that's been building meaning you've been upset for the entirety of the day. You never eat when you're upset. I want you to go to the cafeteria, select a small meal and return to your room."

His mate's typical bossiness which was so tinged with affection made him smile.

"Sherlock, it's the middle of the night they're closed down."

"Nonsense."

"No, not nonsense. For the time being I live here. That means I know better. I'm really not hungry but you're right...I have been thinking about something for a good chunk of the day." He inhaled deeply before continuing. "What if we told each other the truth, you and I? Once and for all?"

"I have no objection to that." His friend said after the smallest of pauses.

"If I ask you to do something will you do it without questioning me?"

"Yes." Came the reply.

"Get in bed. Under your covers, get comfortable and just relax and listen."

John heard Sherlock make his way to his bedroom, the sound of his body situating itself on the mattress and finally the rustling of covers.

"Done."

"Good, thank you."

"Now what?"

"Now I'm going to start talking and you're not going to interrupt me."

"Alright. Begin."

"Well, ok, so you know how you can know something in the back of your mind? Deep in your subconscious? And it's there, it's always been there just sort of waiting but you have to come round to it. You have to accept what you've technically already accepted but if you hadn't accepted it on some level you wouldn't even be thinking about it."

He could swear he could hear Sherlock's confusion over the phone. And why not? He was babbling uncontrollably. 

"Then you have to think about what's more important; what you have or what you could have? Is it worth possibly ruining something because you're what, too greedy? What can you really expect the other person to say? How can you possibly know how they'll behave? Maybe they'll feel put upon."

"I know I promised to remain quiet, John, but I'm not following. What are you talking about?" 

"Maybe I shouldn't say anything at all," John said as the paranoia of speaking the words aloud began overtaking him. 

"Shouldn't say what?"

"I mean, it's bog-standard, isn't it? It's ordinary. People say it every day."

"What's ordinary, John? What?"

"Sherlock...I fancy you." He blurted out. And it was done. Just like that. "Actually fancy isn't the right word. It's too bloody small. I...love you. I'm in love with you and have been for ages.

There was silence on the line. Dead silence and were it not for a soft movement of what he assumed was Sherlock on his bedding he might have thought they'd been disconnected or he'd hung up.

"You are silent, dead silent and it's making me feel quite queasy actually."

No reply but he was certain he heard a hard swallow.

"Sherlock, goddamn it." 

Still nothing.

"Sherlock Holmes you Skype me and you do it now. Hang up and call me. Now." He demanded. His body was thrumming practically shaking with adrenaline. Fuck, had this been a bad idea?

The line went dead and his Skype started to ring. He answered trepidatiously. And there he was on his screen, his forehead pinched, his mouth tight, the light from his bedside lamp casting him in a soft, warm glow.

John did not begin with; Hi.

"So typically, as I understand it, when someone pours their heart out to you you're meant to respond." He paused and swallowed. 

"I wanted so badly for you to like the flat." Sherlock said suddenly.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"When we met at Baker Street for you to look it over and decide. I tried to clean up so it would be presentable. Spent hours at it."

John gave him a surprised smile, he didn't think this was where the conversation was going. He did, however, remembered the complete disarray he'd seen in the flat upon arrival. He also remembered a certain fretting worry to Sherlock's voice as he promised to tidy up. God, he'd had no idea all that was in store.

"Then when you didn't like the website I knew I had to go even farther to impress you. I thought, I have to do something grand or he'll just walk away."

"Sherlock, I was never going to walk away. I was already quite hooked...and smitten."

"But I didn't know that. I can read the simple things off you, John." He said speaking earnestly to his screen. "I know where you've been, where you've slept. I know what new habits you've picked up or what old ones you've dropped. That's easy, that's surface. But I've never been able to penetrate into you. What you're thinking, what you want, what you need. Trying to figure out where you were with me that night was like trying to read a brick wall. Impenetrable. I was overjoyed once you started laughing before Angelo returned your cane. Once we laughed together I could see you, if just for a moment and I knew you'd say yes.

"Of course I said yes. That was the first time in ages I'd felt alive and it was all because of you." John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I suppose this is a bit obvious and redundant at this point but I'm...bi."

"I know, John."

"Yeah, of course. I mean, I couldn't fancy you if I wasn't."

"No, that's not what I mean. I mean I knew you were bisexual."

"Wait...what? How long have you known?"

"Since I met you." He said calmly, his face softening.

"Well, why didn't you...?"

"Why didn't I what? Anytime it was even hinted at that we were a couple your objections were strenuous and vehement. You have in all ways presented yourself as a heterosexual man. Meaning that, for me, you would be a dead end. I do not make it a habit of pursuing dead ends."

"But you said you knew I was b-bisexual."

"Yes."

"So..."

"My knowing was irrelevant. You needed to know it. Even now you stumble over the word. You aren't a case, John. I cannot make this deduction for you, present it and expect you to agree. No matter the evidence I might have had. Bringing you to an idea you're not prepared to face, why, I'd have better luck turning lead into gold. We are two intractable, rigid men, John. It is in our nature and we come to things only in our own time. Not to mention-" He bit off whatever he was saying, closing his mouth, his lips pursing briefly over the unsaid.

"Not to mention what?"

"Not to mention I could have lost you. You're not a Neanderthal, I didn't think you'd be offended or angry but...discomfort can act as an unseen wedge, it can lead to erosion. One moment you and I might be standing side by side and the next separated by a great chasm. I could not and would not risk losing you."

"You wouldn't have lost me."

"You don't know that."

"So what about now? Where does this leave you and I?"

This was not going the way John had pictured it. Not at all. In fact, when he imagined how he believed it would go he felt a little ashamed. It was supposed to be simple, easy. Sherlock happily, eagerly jumping at the chance for them to be together. Even now as he held the phone he cringed. Fuck, but that was a lot of presumption.

You're a real goddamn prize, John. Why shouldn't he jump at the chance to be with you?

Maybe Sherlock had gone as far as he wanted and had no intention of going further. Maybe sleepy, platonic kisses in bed every now and then was more than enough for him. Why shouldn't it be? What did John really have to offer after all this time? A broken down middle-aged man with an alcohol habit, anger issues, and a glaring disconnect when it came to his own sexuality. It was nonsense. What had he been thinking? Of course, his mate would be hesitant. Of course, he'd turn him down.

That was only fair and right and above all logical.

John was too big a risk.

Of course.

With that in mind, he started to backtrack.

"Scratch that. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked that question. I mean, I realize I..."

"John, look at me." He said and only then did he realize he'd been glancing away. He was regretting demanding they Skype. He really didn't want to see Sherlock's face as he did whatever his version of letting someone down easy was. He really didn't want to be seen either. Glancing at his friends face John felt a very real surge of pain in his heart. Oh God but that face, his face. And everything that came with it. The feeling of his body against his, holding his hand, soft, gentle discussion, the same old loving teasing. God, he loved him. How stupid it had been to deny it all this time.

"Better." Sherlock said and it wasn't a question."Now, ask me what you wanted to ask me."

"I-I didn't want to ask you anything, really. I just wanted to tell you about um...my breakthrough in therapy.

It was cowardly and poorly performed. He knew that. He wondered if Sherlock would give him a pass.

Sherlock worked his jaw for a moment and John saw a coldness in his eyes. It didn't last.

"I wanted to see if you'd lie to my face and you just confirmed that you would. I'm tired of lies between us, John."

Shit.

"No, ok...there is, was something I wanted to ask. But I think I know the answer. Alright, I was trying to save face and maybe exit this conversation with a little, admittedly undeserved dignity."

"Ask the question." Sherlock insisted.

"Do you just want the pleasure of saying no?" John replied before adding. "Though I guess that's your right after all this time."

"Ask me!"

"Alright! I wanted to know if you'd consider giving us a go. You and me a proper go. I want to date you... I don't want our nights to end with me going up to my room and you going to yours. I don't want it always up in the air when or where we'll kiss. I want to share my life, such as it is, with you. I don't want to just work with you. I want to make love to you. I want you, Sherlock. Just you. I want you. I want a relationship. I want there to be an us."

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

He kept the phone steady but let his head thump back against the wall behind his bed.

"Why?"

"Why?" John asked incredulously. "Because it's you. It's always been you. I don't want to be me without you. Not anymore. But I understand if you don't-"

"Ok."

John was sure he'd heard him wrong.

"What?" He said raising his head to look at him.

"I said ok." He said his eyebrows raising for emphasis.

"Ok...what?"

"Ok, let's give it a go. You and me."

John stared at the screen in shock and tentative joy.

"Really?"

"Don't ask silly, redundant questions. You asked me if I'd been in love before. I said...yes but it was unrequited."

"I'm in love with you." John said in a rush.

"So I gathered," Sherlock said with a nervous laugh. "I'm quite hopelessly in love with you as well. There's nothing for it, I'm afraid. Though, it seems it's no longer unrequited."

"I really thought you were going to say no." And suddenly he felt nearly breathless.

"In the past I have been a stupid and wasteful man, but I like to believe I've learned better. I've no intention of wasting a chance with you. Though, I must warn you, I'll likely be rude, thoughtless, I'll unintentionally step on your toes or feelings and the work, our work will still take precedence during working hours..."

"You say this as if I don't know who you are," John said with a smile. "I know what I'm signing up for. And I'll likely be grouchy and short tempered, and we're going to have arguments about the weekly shop and body parts in the fridge but I'm all in, Sherlock. I've got a lot of fucking baggage but I'm all in if you'll have me."

"I'm all in as well." He smiled. "Do you feel better now?"

"Better doesn't come close to describing it."

"Good. Then you'll eat breakfast in the morning."

"Yes," he laughed. "Yes, I will eat. You know, I thought about not telling you until you came and got me. I thought about not telling you at all."

"The first scenario would have been quite dramatic. Not that this wasn't. The second one plain stupid." Sherlock paused, glanced away and then back. "About what you said...I thought you weren't interested in lovemaking," Sherlock said and John had to press his lips together to not telegraph the pleasant little shiver he got when his mate...sorry, boyfriend...said that word.

"What? Why would you think that?"

"Because of what you said." He insisted with marked shyness. Though he seemed unwilling to repeat just what it was John had said the latter was able to extrapolate.

"I said I was-" John looked around his room and suddenly realized how silent he had been in there for the past almost three months. This was really one of the first times he was doing anything but crying or humming along to music. Glancing at his door he could see it was locked but he lowered his voice anyway. "I said I was having a difficult time...getting hard. Not that I didn't want to."

"Oh. And you want to have that with me?"

"Well, yeah, of course. Eventually, I mean when things are working properly and...I mean, I'm not supposed to do it right away. They want you to remain celibate when you first get out of rehab."

"Oh." Sherlock said again and John could swear he saw a look of relief pass over Sherlock's face.

"You know, we don't have to rush into anything? " John added.

"I know."

"It's fine if we take things slow. I mean, my God, we only agreed to be a couple 3 minutes ago."

"Yes, I know it's fine." Raising his chin slightly. "Does it bother you to talk about such things?"

"No. Are you asking me because it bothers you?"

"...no."

"Do you...I mean are you interested in sex? You mentioned the faucet was off and you had no idea where the spigot was. I don't want to just assume."

"Well...um...to continue the metaphor...I...I'd be willing to do another search for the spigot for you. I'd be happy to. It must, after all, be around here somewhere."

John grinned at him and Sherlock grinned back. 

"We're on no one's timeline, ok? I think we've proven that again and again. Things will happen when they happen. But yes, to clear things up completely I want to date you and I want that to lead to a regular, intimate sexual relationship between us."

The smile grew brighter, the smile John realized he'd loved for ages.

"I want that too."

John settled down into the covers his body finally relaxing. It was out. It had happened. It was happening. My God...the relief he felt.

"And we're to be exclusive?" Sherlock asked as he too moved beneath his covers.

"Yeah, I can assure you I have no intention of trolling gay bars for dates. I only want you. No one else."

Sherlock nodded.

"Do you want to date anyone else?" John asked.

"No!" Sherlock replied with alarm. "Don't be absurd."

"Good to know."

Am I keeping you? It's quite late."

"No, love, you're not keeping me."

"Are we to have endearments?" Sherlock asked seriously.

John burst out laughing.

"I guess I slip into them naturally. You don't have to force anything though. I've always like how you say John."

"Are you scared?"

"Of you and I? No, maybe I should be. Maybe I'm being overly confident but I'm not scared. It feels like a natural progression. I am scared of leaving this place though. But Reggie said that was normal."

"Speaking of, I understand what Hanah said, that I'm not to be your sobriety minder but I had a spare moment and gathered together a list of local AA meetings. I've listed them in terms of near to far but also made accompanying lists ranking religious affinity, volume, men to women ratio, convenient times, days of the week, open and closed meetings, LGBTQ acceptance, and freshness of coffee. I've emailed it to you and also printed it out."

"You made me eight lists?"

"I wanted to save you the trouble."

"You'd only know some of those things if you'd gone yourself. Freshness of coffee?" John grinned.

"I may have done some preliminary scouting." With a small shrug.

"Thank you, Sherlock."

"You're welcome, John." He paused. "Should I order a bigger bed?"

"I think we'll fit fine in a queen. We did here and that's what you have at home."

"Yes, we did. I miss that. I find myself missing you a bit more every day."

"Not much longer now."

"I don't know how comfortable I'll ever be with public affection." He warned.

"Yeah, I understand, Sherlock. Me neither. Look, you're worrying. But maybe, for the first time in a long time, we have something that the two of us don't have to worry about, ok? I mean, we've done a lot of the hard bits. Living together, arguing, getting through a fight, not infringing on one another's space too much. When you really think about, we survived a breakup, you and me. Not to mention a marriage. Think of it that way."

"Alright." Sherlock glanced down before making eye contact with John again. "About Mary-"

"I'll always love Mary, as complicated and strange as it was. And there are still things I need to work through regarding her. Hanah can attest to that. But none of it changes how I feel about you."

Again there was that smile of absolute relief.

"Ok, good, very good."

And that was that. Though John had worried about a change in mood a shift in temperature an awkward silence a relationship irrevocably shifted, none came. They talked and chatted as normal, bridging away from questions about sex and worries about fitting together as these new people with a slightly different or additional impetus. They just talked. As they always had. As John and Sherlock. As consulting detective and colleague. As best friends. 

John was in no hurry to hang up but as the sunlight slowly infiltrated Sherlock's bedroom and as his mates blinks became slower and eyelids heavier he knew it was time for rest.

"You're tired, Sherlock. Go to bed."

"I'm fine." He said groggily.

"Under your covers, close your eyes. Doctor's orders."

Sherlock sighed deeply, his eyes already shutting.

"'kay...G'night, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. I love you."

"Love you too."

John ended the call and lay there for a moment unable to stop the smile that was spreading across his face. He was exhausted and wired. He wanted to rest and also jump on the treadmill and tick off a few miles.

In the end, he decided to head down to the commissary to grab something to eat.

Just as he promised his boyfriend he would.

Authors Note:

Let me start off by saying this is not in response to Vaztorg or Into_the_Ether or anyone else who I may be forgetting who recently and respectfully expressed their opinion and who I may respectfully disagree with. We don't have to all join hands and sing Kumbaya about who Mary is and that's fine. But none of the commentaries have been rude. 99% of you have been absolutely delightful and I thank you. Friendly discussion is fine and welcomed. It's natural we might have a difference of opinion. We can and have disagreed without being disagreeable. :) And I thank you for taking the time to read a different spin on and characterization of a character you're not all that fond of. I thank you for, if only for a moment, considering a different point of view even if you ultimately discard it. So, again, I value you all as readers and thank you because writing this has and continues to be loads of fun! You're all lovely.

This is for the 1%

I've made no secret that I have an affinity for Mary since the first chapter so if anything took you by surprise that's more of a reflection on your poor reading comprehension than me springing a gotcha. That being said, I'm no longer going to entertain or respond to endless anti-Mary "reviews". And they have been endless.

I am in the minority in my affection for Mary meaning there is no dearth of stories casting her as a villain or worse. I encourage you, if you find my limited, positive mentions of John's wife in this story so egregious or laugh out loud ridiculous, to hit the back button and search elsewhere.

Let me help you with some AO3 tags that already exist; 

Evil!Mary, Mary Is A Villian, John discovers Mary is Evil, Bad Mary, Mary Bashing, Unapologetic Mary Bashing, Mary Morstan Bashing, Mary is Awful, Mary is not nice, Cheating Mary, Mary gets her comeuppance, Mary is a bitch, Mary Is A Lying Bitch, Mary Is A Cheating Bitch, Mary is a homophobe, Mary is a bastard, Mary is not good, Mary lies about things, I hate Mary, Anti-Mary sentiment, John doesn't care about Mary, anti-Mary etc. etc, ad infinitum.

There you are, plug those in and you're all set. There are, at last count, 49,686 Sherlock stories that pair John and Sherlock. I'm more than certain out of those you can find multitudes that denigrate John's bitch wife at every turn. Run along and seek them out.

Save your vitriol for someone else (or better yet don't. Leave people to ship what they ship and just stay in your lane) because I am honestly tired of it cluttering my inbox. I've never deleted an honest comment in my life and I won't start now. But these aren't real critiques of the story. These are people deciding to unload because I mentioned their least favorite character in a positive light. It's grating and it's exhausting and I'm done. It has ramped up considerably since Chapter 48 and I'm tired of being inundated.

This is not an anti-Mary piece. And while I am loathe to use a shit-ton of tags, the tags of this story have nevertheless been changed to reflect that.

Here endeth the rant.

Ok, that's all. 

I hope to maybe get another chapter posted before the weekend is out.

It's about time to change the rating on this story. No idea why I started off at M knowing damn well it was gonna be E. :)

As always, if you see a sentence or paragraph that repeats, let me know. I try to keep up with the bug and delete them when they happen but I usually miss a few.

Thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

Day 84

In the army, they called it demobbing.

The process surrounding breaking down your encampment, packing up, standing down, getting ready to move on.

He'd been doing it, emotionally for the past few days but James was doing it for real. He was leaving the next day and he and John were having their final dinner together underneath the Swiss sky.

"You scared?" John asked him.

"Me? Nah." I mean maybe I should be but I'm not. I think I got it right this time, you know? It feels different. I feel good. I've done this part quite a few times before but this is the first time I've felt ready. I'm chomping at the bit."

John smiled at his mate and gave him a few friendly pats on the shoulder.

"Really glad to hear that."

"What about you? You're off soon, aren't you? Hot on my heels."

"Yeah, not much longer now." He said leaning back against the steps and setting his food aside. He wasn't really hungry but he did crave the company.

"Scared?"

"Out of my mind. It's all so...so snow globe-y here. Makes you feel like you can do anything. It's all in order. Very few surprises. Out there it's..."

"Madness." James supplied.

"Yeah, madness."

"Where are you going to live?"

"Going back to Baker Street, actually."

"I think that's good," James said sipping his tea. "Back where things make sense, back to someone who loves you. You know...try it all again."

John looked at him askance something in his tone garnering his attention.

"You know." he said after a stretch of silence.

"I deliver the mail, John. That was my main chore around these parts. He got an express and I tried his room multiple times but he was never there. I left all these little sticky notes that he'd have to rip off or break through to get inside but they were never disturbed. Finally, I caught him in the hallway once and was able to deliver it. He looked just a bit flustered when I said I'd been trying to track him down. Didn't know Sherlock Holmes could look flustered." James paused. "You know, everybody pretty much figured that was the way things were anyway."

"It wasn't," John said quickly. "But it is now. Early days, mind you...but it is."

"Good on you, then." He said returning the shoulder clap. "What the hell are we trying to get clean for if not to take yet another stab at happy?"

"Cheers to that. Look I don't know if this is done but we should keep in touch, yeah? I'll give you contact stuff."

"I'd like that a lot, actually. I don't have many friends when it really comes down to it."

"Yeah, me neither. Being here kind of pointed that out."

"Didn't it just."

Day 85

"Have you told Sherlock about your dream?" Hanah asked.

"No, sounds pretty offensive, you know? My feelings for you put me in mind of nuclear disaster second in catastrophic nature only to Fukushima. Not terribly romantic."

"Give it some thought, it wouldn't be such a bad thing to air between the two of you. How are you feeling about approaching the relationship in fact as opposed to theory?"

"Good. Yeah, excited. Nervous, you know. I expect it will be quite...different."

"Because he's a man?"

"No, because he's Sherlock. Because from our talks I'm 100% certain that a romantic relationship is completely new to him. He doesn't know what to expect. I'm assuming it might, at times, be sensory overload for him. I'm trying to prepare for that."

"What about for you?"

"No, I feel good. I mean once you set your mind to something and commit to it, it should work, right?"

"Is that something you've found to be true?"

"In certain ways, yes."

"John, I think it's my duty to temper some of your expectations."

"You mean toss cold water on them?" he replied with a short laugh.

"No, I mean what I said. You're still grieving, you're still a recovering alcoholic in the infancy of sobriety, you need to take it slowly."

"What is it?"

"It is everything. Don't expect too much of yourself, don't expect to leap buildings in a single bound. There is a reason why one of the hallmarks of recovery is one day at a time."

"Duly noted." John sensed that she sensed his reluctance to go rooting around for the negative in all of this. But if he knew Hanah it wouldn't be a deterrent.

"Ok, we're going to circle back to this but switch gears for now. I want to follow a hunch. We don't have as much time as I'd like to explore it but it's relevant."

"Ok, shoot."

"Overall how would you characterize your sex life, not just with Mary but in general."

"Ummm..." He was more than a little surprised by the question. "Good, fine...why?"

So you would say your interaction was healthy?"

He paused for a second. 

"I don't know that I'd use the word healthy in the context you likely are but it was exuberant, fun. I've had a lot of partners...apparently, as Sherlock recently pointed out. That's not bragging just a fact, I guess."

"How many would you say? If you had to ballpark it?"

"Ballpark it?" He said repeating the Americanism. "Uhhh...I don't know, by my 20's I was in the mid 40's I suppose. My 30's were equally as active...It's high, I guess. Not Don Juan high but noteworthy."

"You'd say then you've had a minimum of 40 sexual partners possibly double if we account for your 30's?"

"Yes, on the whole." Alright, well...that did sound like a lot.

"Have you ever considered the idea that you may have sexual dependency?"

"No... I don't think that's the case at all. You think I'm a sex addict?" He laughed, the idea seemed ridiculous. He liked to have it off. So what?" Considering his past and recent behavior it seemed like perhaps the most normal thing about him. "Where is this coming from?"

"I was going over my notes and there were a few things you said recently and things you didn't say. Am I right in assuming you typically indulge in promiscuity when your life is at it's most traumatic. When it calms, when you're ready and have moved to a different stage you're much more willing and able to find a steady partner."

"I'm not sure that's true." He said haltingly. "Addiction is that it's supposed to disrupt your life. Sex did not disrupt my life."

"No, because your life had already been disrupted making your actions a symptom and not a cause. John, from what you've told me in our time together your upheavals are catastrophic. Addiction can be easily identified because it upends norms but you typically, especially when younger, saw to it that any norms were the first things to go. How many sexual partners did you have after Sherlock's suicide?"

He went silent. He didn't like to talk about that or really remember it. Woman to woman, bed to bed. It was a blur and he was thankful for a shoddy memory.

"Alright...ok, point taken."

"How many?"

"I don't know." He said throwing his hands in the air helplessly. "A lot. London is absolutely mad on any night of the week. You can pop round to a pub, find a girl, chat her up, she likes you, you like her and the next thing you know you're fucking in an alley round back. And it's good, it's great and that's what I did. I did that night after night, week after week. I drank and I fucked and I mourned my best friend who I loved more than life itself. That was all." 

Hanah nodded calmly and scribbled something into her notes. John flexed his fingers alternating between making a fist and splaying them wide. He hated thinking about this time. He'd put it to bed when he'd started to climb out of his funk. In fact, he'd considered his STI test the topper, the full lid, a promise to himself that he was going to stop this reckless shit. He'd gone to the clinic and gotten a full workup and the dreaded blood test. He'd been safe and careful...when he remembered, that is, when he wasn't so trolleyed he couldn't find a condom much less put one on. Somehow, miraculously he'd been fine and that had marked the end of trolling for random women.

"Exorcising negative feelings and expressing suppressed anger through violence, the excitement of an affair, alcohol abuse, chasing down a criminal and even extreme sexualized behavior, all of these flood your body with endorphins and or adrenaline. Those are very potent drugs which produce very potent feelings. Not to mention this behavior is all part and parcel of PTSD and depression. I need you to understand, John, that your addiction didn't start in January of 2015. It didn't start with your wife's death and it didn't start with Sherlock. You need to realize that both you and your sister have been functioning and no-so-functioning addicts, likely since childhood. Do you know why men are under or misdiagnosed when it comes to depression? It's because it often manifests itself as drug abuse or elevated sexual behavior both of which, to an extent, are encouraged and socially accepted in men. You may have found a more socially acceptable outlet for your depression than she did but it still stands. How long were you in Afghanistan?"

"Three years."

"And that was before they lengthened the tours of duty from six months to eight months in 2013. So you did six tours. You kept re-upping. Why?"

"Because...when I had my R&R I freaked out. I didn't know what to do with myself. Two weeks, alone with my thoughts. Nothing to do, nothing expected of me but to just sit. I didn't have any family I missed. Lucy and I had split up already. I actually asked to forgo it but that was against regs. They put me on a flight back to the UK, I spent the next 14 days drinking and whoring myself around and just being your average cockwand until it was time to go back. Even when I felt good I felt awful. I didn't want to be that guy."

His uniform had attracted the women like flies and he'd indulged fully in the distraction they provided. Hopping from one pair of knickers to another and drink to drink because he was young and anxious and callow and an orgasm here and a beer there did make the time pass. He was ecstatic when that time was up. He wanted to leave the women behind to forget their faces and their voices and the slimy sort of bloke he became around them. Once it was all over he wanted to crawl out of their beds and out of his skin for good measure. They were lovely and sweet and silly and young. He hated himself not them. So he'd drink to hate himself a little less...or at least until he didn't care.

"That's essentially what I figured. With Duck, I believe it was different. The trauma was concurrent with the relative stability. But in most other cases you pursue destructive behavior following a loss or sudden change, you drink or become highly promiscuous or both, indulgence leads to guilt, depression, a static period and a leveling out until the next time there's an external trigger. Does this sound familiar?"

It did, when he pulled back from it all and looked at it with clear eyes it did, but he only nodded his head and Hanah went on.

"Emotional trigger, Preoccupation, contemplation, preparation, action, maintenance, relapse. How many serious sexual relationships would you say you've had in your life?" She pressed.

Surprisingly he didn't have to think about this answer. It came easily.

"Three. Sarah, Lucy, and Mary."

"What about after Mary died? Was your drinking in any way matched up with seeking out partners?"

"No, I...I wasn't interested in that then. Not at all. I had sort of lost the...the desire for it, I suppose. The last time Mary and I had actual penetrative sex was a month or so after the honeymoon I guess...so..." He paused...had it really been that long? Really? "Jesus, I haven't had sex since summer of 2014. That's almost two years."

"I assume you're planning a sexual relationship with Sherlock."

He reddened slightly. For some reason, it was a little easier to talk about the sex he'd already had as opposed to the sex he planned to have.

"Yes, I mean...when we're ready. Whenever that is."

"I know you've probably heard this in your meetings already but especially given your history I want to caution against jumping into a sexual relationship too soon."

"I don't believe that will be a problem. As bizarre as it may sound we were both content with the platonic kissing. There wasn't any physical arousal beyond that."

"None?" She asked with a surprised frown.

"No, none. I mean, morning wood, of course, but that's just maintenance, isn't it. Neither of us has control over that."

"So, just to clarify. Neither you nor Sherlock experienced an erection when you were in bed. Despite the fact that you've described it as..." She paused to look back through her notes. "Intense. Draining. Passionate. Emotional. Erotic. Dizzying-"

"Ok, I got it. I said all that and yes, it's true and yes we still didn't. You make it sound like a crime."

"Not a crime but unusual. You can pretend it isn't, John, but I know you know better. Did you ever get the impression he was holding back?"

"No, not at all. In fact, I found him quite...free. The time we spent in bed, not just the kissing and touching but the talking...it was one of the closest experiences we'd ever had. I don't know what I'm allowed to tell you." John said faltering. Something about continuing this without Sherlock present seemed indecent and unfair.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean...the Sherlock you know, the Sherlock that presents himself to the public that happened pretty early. Mycroft, in what I imagine to be his twisted form of protecting his little brother, taught him caring was a bad thing. Sherlock is seven years younger and of course he took it to heart. He doesn't...didn't know how to interact with people. How to communicate. How to touch them or be touched. And my God is he starved to be touched." John said softly before continuing. "He never had a real steady boyfriend, he never had someone who loved him in that way. He's never had sex before. This is all newer than new for him."

Hanah exhaled through her nose and John could sense her frustration at these last minute bombshells.

"That offers an explanation for him but what about you?"

"It's not exactly a concern now because of certain...performance issues."

"Can you expand on that?"

He cleared his throat.

"You know we've talked about a lot of not so good things in here and I would never have guessed that masturbation was where I so desperately wanted to draw the line but here we are."

"Are you unable to maintain an erection?" Hanah asked undeterred.

"Achieve. Unable to achieve much less maintain."

"For how long?"

"Early 2015 I guess."

Hanah looked taken aback.

"John that's relevant. It's relevant to our discussions over the past almost three months."

"It's really not. I wasn't interested in sex or wanking it was just as well it didn't work."

"As a medical professional you know that masturbation is healthy. Normal sexual release is healthy. Abstaining from sexual activity or not showing an interest in sex is perfectly normal. Even losing interest is absolutely normal. But you're not saying that, you're saying you've tried, at least as far as masturbation goes and been unsuccessful. You're also saying that you've been in an intimate situation with a man you're sexually attracted to but didn't experience a genital sexual reaction. When was the last time you achieved orgasm?"

He clamped his mouth shut and looked away. But this time it wasn't out of embarrassment, rather shame.

"John?" She asked again.

"I was texting with that girl on the bus who turned out to be Sherlock's sister and...texting turned to sexting and we got off together. Or I suppose I got off, I imagine she was just laughing like the Mad Hatter somewhere. I guess that's the excitement of the affair you mentioned."

Hanah sighed and rubbed her temple, something he'd not seen her do before.

"I didn't realize I had to give you the whole 'I can't help you if you don't tell me everything' lawyer-speech, John."

"I'm sorry, alright?" He said defensively. "I didn't think it was relevant. I still don't but I know now you think I can't get it up because of that."

"Again, it's not that black and white, but is it a factor, likely yes. Anxiety, boredom, sex, alcohol, adrenaline, guilt. That is your very elaborate, very cyclical cocktail. It's a cycle you need to break but first you need to understand it. I'm imagining you would argue that you felt very engaged, maybe even exceptionally alive when you were bedding these women. I would argue the opposite. This was a dissociative action. You weren't trying to experience anything you were trying to experience less. It was never just about alcohol. This is a piece of the puzzle and you need to see where it fits."

There was something so demoralizing about all this. Another piece of the puzzle. Just how goddamn big was the puzzle going to be? Was there any move, any choice he'd ever made that wasn't tainted or scarred?

"You're angry." She said simply.

"Yes, I'm fucking angry." he said louder than he meant to. "Sorry, sorry..."

"You're feeling attacked? As though this is an assault on your person? Your choices? Maybe you even feel it walks the line of moralizing. And I would agree with you on all points if you hadn't so clearly telegraphed that you feel guilty. Addiction is a hydra, John. It has many heads which can be discouraging. But it only has one body. Forget about the heads, we're going for the body. You have set yourself up again and again and again to be in a position where you could keep at a distance. You said that Mary and Sherlock told you, you made a choice in terms of who you picked, a sociopath and an assassin. And that's true. You picked two people you liked and loved very, very much who you always knew would in some way be partially unavailable to you. They would keep you at a distance and you could do the same. You gambled, you played the odds because deep down you knew these people were hiding behind a mask. And they were, you just picked the wrong masks as the fake ones. And then you found yourself in so, so deep. So deep with people who despite their lies and their subterfuge and even the image they held of themselves, were painfully, wholly honest and open. And it scared the shit out of you. You thought you had an accord with them, an agreement, marry me a little, love me just enough, as the song goes. But they unintentionally tricked you and you were trapped. That's why you sense danger, John. That's why the Red Forest flames. Because your entire life has steered you away from truth and contact and touch and intimacy. You have been running since you were a child. That has to stop."

Was she right? Had Mary lived would he have felt the same from her, the same danger, the fire? He tried to imagine a world where Magnussen was dead and the ugly mysteries of AGRA were gone. Where all the secret keepers had been eliminated. Where ever sword of Damocles that hung above her head had vanished. Where she was Mary Watson, nurse, mother, wife and no one living could ever take those titles and the name he'd given her from her again. What then when she no longer held the secrets? When that equal footing was gone? When all the lies were locked in his soul and his soul alone?

Would her touch, her glance, her attempt to get closer set him to burn?

Sherlock was open and free. Sherlock had no Pandora's box. Sherlock had laid himself bare and while he missed his presence and his touch desperately the idea of being face to face with him, every day, speaking the truth, exposing his fears and pains and wants and needs was terrifying, fiery and terrifying.

"Jesus..." He muttered to himself. "So what do I do?"

"An open conversation with your partner is always a good place to start. And he is your partner, John. Long before you decided to become an item he was your partner. Have you at all discussed your childhood, your father?"

He shook his head in the negative.

"I think you need to. I also think there are likely things he's not discussed with you. This might open the floodgates, in a good way. Tell me, ideally, how you want your relationship with Sherlock to go?"

John took a deep breath. He was feeling shaky all of a sudden...out of his depth. He tugged at a loose string on the chair as he spoke.

"I want it to be different. I hate carrying around secrets in my mind, in my heart. I hate the weight of it all but I don't know how to get rid of it. I don't know how to let it go. I just want to be normal. What I do know is I don't want to bring it with me all over again. I want..." He paused as the gravity of what he was about to say hit him. But he didn't want to take it back. "I want this to be the last relationship I ever have. I've used language with him like, let's give it a go and let's try it out and let's see where it leads. When I know damn well where I want it to lead. Sherlock and I haven't dated, true and I imagine it will be different and odd and hard but he's not a stranger. I don't know if I've ever been closer to someone than I am to him. Even Mary because...I was not going to tell her all the things I'm thinking about telling him. I just wasn't."

"There's a saying in AA which I'm sure you've heard by now. It isn't the load that weighs us down. It's the way we carry it. Don't let the black and white thinking get you. And don't let other people who, at least present, as non-addicts. Everyone is carrying something. Even the normal. Everything that you just listed that you want is admirable and achievable but it's going to take work and lots of it. And that's work on your own and together. Normally I would never advise that you two live together this soon. But this is a unique situation, I realize. But I need you to grasp as soon as possible that in terms of your recovery, you and Sherlock are not going to be the "easy part"."

He was still breathing deeply but not taking in what he felt was enough air. It didn't necessarily feel like a panic attack just a general lightheadedness.

"Can I...can I have some water or something...anything."

"Of course." She said quickly before handing him a bottle of water and a bottle of orange juice. He downed the juice first and then after a moment unscrewed the top on the water.

"Christ, Hanah, I thought I'd come out of here with more answers than questions but it's not looking that way. I...I don't know if I can face this without you."

She smiled and let him continue.

"I came in here so angry, angry at you. I just had this chyron running through my mind "I'm a Goddamn doctor too. You're not better than me or smarter than me."

"I know." She laughed. "I could practically see it on your face."

"I'm sorry about that, I am. I'm just glad I pulled my head out of my own arse long enough to give you the chance you deserved. The rub is you've helped me so much I really don't know how I'm going to manage on the outside without you. I know, I know there are probably other people just as qualified and knowledgeable but...the idea of starting over. Even thinking about it exhausts me while also scaring me shitless. Plus, you have clearance, you understand, I can't be honest with what basically amounts to a civilian. I'm back to hiding, crafting some story like I did with Ella hoping to squeeze out the truth between the lies."

Hanah tapped her pen rhythmically and gazed at him, something he'd never seen her do before.

"What?" He asked.

"I shouldn't do this."

"What shouldn't you do?"

"Your last day is technically my last here too. I'll stick around a little to clear out my office but I'm going on sabbatical. Essentially open-ended leave. I did some traveling when I was younger but it always felt incomplete and I wanted to take it up again. I'd also maybe like to finally test my mettle with regard to that book I've always wanted to write."

"Oh, cheers, yeah that sounds good."

"The problem is...this," She said gesturing between the two of them. "Feels incomplete as well. I don't like half-assing things and I don't like passing off my work to someone else."

John waited not certain where she was going but he dared to feel a glimmer of hope.

"We can have Skype sessions. Not every day but I'll send you my schedule and when I have internet access which will not be all the time, we can work something out. I don't do this, John. I really, really don't."

"You'd do that? I don't even know what to say." He was thunderstruck. He'd been carefully trying to wean himself away from the idea of having access to someone he trusted this much. It was only in the past few weeks as he realized their time was really drawing to an end that he started to panic about never seeing her again. It wasn't just that she was smart and tough and unflappable. He just plain liked her.

"So is that a yes?"

"Yes, yes that is an absolute yes. I don't know how to thank you. I mean, I will pay you of course."

She handed him her phone which was opened to her address book.

"Enter your phone number, email and handle and I'll be in touch. And you'll still need to find a local therapist. I have a Location provided list so no worries about lying. They contracted, they have clearance and if you decided on one of them they'll be briefed in full. You can speak freely with whoever you choose. I strongly encourage it, ok?"

With a hand that was slightly shaking but growing steadier and when exactly had that started? he entered his information.

"Thank you, Hanah." He said again as he gave her back her phone.

"Let's see if you'll be this grateful in a month's time. You're asking to keep it going with one of the few people you can't bullshit."

John gave a surprised laugh as Hanah never swore and yet she'd done it twice today.

"I think that's what I want. You are a relentless, tenacious hard-arse and I like it...even when I don't."

"Ok, well, good because I'm not going to change. And because once you get out there the real work begins. This was just the warm up. Not long from now you're going to start the main event."

A/N Thank you for your kind response to my little rant last chapter, I do appreciate the support so very much.

And thank you for some truly lovely reviews. Certain ones have touched me so much that I'm a bit paralyzed in terms of writing a response. But trust me, they haven't gone unread or ignored, I'm just thinking of what to say back to your incredible kindness and generosity when it comes to my little tale.

As always, thank you for reading.

Chapter Text

Day 90

"I just want to start off today's meeting by telling you all how proud I am of you. Every last one of you. The ones who are just starting their journey, the ones in the middle and the ones leaving us to begin a new chapter. I am proud of you because you showed up. I am proud of you because you came back. And I am proud of you because you are leaving stronger than you arrived. Because The Location like many places runs in cycles, we often have times where a big group is coming in while another group is leaving and that's where we are today. I see a lot of new faces and I see a lot of old faces that I'm going to be saying goodbye to in a short time. We're going to be handing out a few chips today and because of that, I'd like to speak to the new people first. Now we are not only glad for each and every day that you spend sober we're glad for each and every hour. There are likely going to be some days where you have to take it minute by minute and that's ok. I want to make sure you hear me when I say that's ok. Because when we hand out chips I don't want anyone to get the wrong idea that it's only the bulk days that matter. Every day matters. If you go from head-on-pillow to head-on-pillow, day to night, sunrise to sunset without a drink, congratulations, that's a victory. I'm sure you may have heard this saying before but it's no less true; This is a 'One Day at a Time' program. If you are clean and sober today, you are tied for first place in AA. You got that, everyone is this room is in first place. Give yourself a hand. Come on, right now, I know you think it's corny but do it anyway."

The assembled, John included, started to clap. Reggie had given a good speech but then again he always did. John hadn't given him much credit on arrival and took a grass is greener view when he heard about other meetings. But as time wore on he'd started to relax and listen and to his surprise, he wound up quite happy that he'd ended up here.

The topic for today's meeting, John's last meeting at The Location was transition. Transition from the outside world into here and vice versa. Transition from a life of dependence to a life that was substance free. Transition from the old, ineffective, damaging way of relating to people to a new healthier, happier balance.

For the most part he was attentive but his mind did occasionally drift to Sherlock who was already on his way. John had spent his final night at The Location and this night would find him back in the comfort and security and familiarity of Baker Street. Back up those creaky stairs into the musty, warm, comfortable flat with the scent of food from Speedy's wafting up occasionally. Back in his chair, just across from Sherlock's chair, checking their inbox, researching, debating, bickering, theorizing...and now, other things too. Back in...no...in for the first time...Sherlock's bed, sharing it with him. The thought made him shiver happily. 

"John?"

Reggie was speaking to him and he snapped out of his musings.

"Yeah, oh, sorry."

"That's ok. A lot of things on your mind I imagine. Would you come up please?"

Standing from his chair he walked to the front of the room.

"Now John is also leaving us today with 90 days sober. In celebration of that achievement please accept your 3 months sobriety chip."

John opened his hand and Reggie placed the small purple coin in his palm. John gazed at it for a moment unable to deny the small surge of pride. The group clapped for him and Reggie leaned in.

"Would you like to say anything?"

Before he could say no, his mouth for some reason, was saying yes.

As everyone quieted he ran his thumb over the relief writing on the coin.

"Yeah, um, hi, I'm John." He said before clearing his throat.

"Hello, John." They replied in unison.

"So, yeah..." He inhaled deeply closing his fist over the coin. "Three months ago, well a little bit over three months ago, Christmas Day, in fact, I decided to kill myself."

There was a shocked gasp from the newer people and he felt and saw some either lean in or draw back in surprise.

"Um, but before I could go through with my plan I had a paroxysmal attack, commonly known as a seizure. I had two seizures actually both of them brought about by my excessive alcohol consumption. I passed out whilst on the phone with my best mate. He rushed over and had to resuscitate me. He called an ambulance they came and took me to the hospital. I woke up strapped to the bed for my own safety. I was on a psychiatric hold, the second of my life and the second one in two months. When I was as lucid as could be expected one of my first thoughts was "Oh shit, I failed at this too."

John took a minute to steady his voice before continuing.

"When I was presented with the gift of treatment I didn't want it. I wanted to finish what I had started. When I did accept it was grudgingly, angrily. And before I could be picked up to be brought here I found the nearest off license because there was no way I was going to enter rehab and not be pissed."

This was greeted with laughter and smiles as he'd hoped. He was winging it. None of this was planned but it was flowing more smoothly than he could have imagined.

"I drank while I waited for the car to pick me up. I drank on the plane. I drank on the second car ride. I was a real bastard as I was being registered in that office and I threw up in the poor woman's bin. I was a mess. I guess what I'm saying is the guy who came into this place didn't want to be here and in fact only came for someone else."

Just as he said it, just as he spoke the words he looked up to see Sherlock standing there in the doorway. Silent. Serene. Listening. For a second it broke his rhythm but then he couldn't help but smile before continuing.

"The guy who showed up here that day didn't think he'd make it 90 days. He didn't think he'd make it 1 day. And he sure as hell wouldn't have given a shit about some stupid little trinket like this. But I like to think that I've left some of that guy behind. Because I'm tentatively hoping I can do 90 more and 90 more after that. And because this chip actually means an awful lot to me." His voice cracked and he cleared his throat.

"I came to realize a few things about myself in here. I'll be honest a lot of them were things I didn't like. I am an alcoholic. I have anger issues. Trust issues. I am prone to long bouts of depression that typically coincide with self-destructive behavior. And I may very well be a sex addict. All of these came as a surprise to me. All of them.

Treatment was rather like walking up to my reflection and realizing I was meeting a stranger. But it's a stranger I'm stuck with...forever. So we'd best make the most of it, eh?

So, I...I've been doing the steps I suppose, just quietly, which may defeat the purpose I'm not sure. Ok, so, Step One; I admit that I am powerless over alcohol and my life...My life had become unmanageable. It's not easy for me to say that. It's not easy for anyone to say that, I imagine. To admit defeat. But that's what I was. That's what I am, defeated, I suppose.

To be honest, I found this to be a bit of a double problem, AA, I mean. Not only do I spend every day of my life, including today, wishing I had a drink in my hand or both hands."

There was a soft rumble of understanding laughter and he caught a slight smile on Sherlock's face as well when he glanced over.

"But 50% of the 12 Steps involved God. Now, I was married in a church and my daughter was christened in the Church and I say all the wildly inappropriate blasphemes that everyone else says but...I don't believe in God. I don't know how to believe in God. I don't want to believe in God. And I certainly don't want to surrender to him.

What I do believe in, right or wrong, is that...that there is something far greater than me in this universe, of this universe. Maybe it is the universe, I don't know. 

I made a friend here, his name is James. He left a few days ago, got his 90 in as well. The night before he left James and I sat on the steps here and we looked up at the stars. It had actually become our dinner time habit and I highly recommend it. When we were out there I always felt just this small bit of peace and comfort looking up at that clear sky and all those incredible stars. I felt sane again, just for awhile. I want to recapture that feeling, even if just for a bit every day. I am committed to doing whatever it takes to make that happen. I am committed to turning my life over to the truth that I need that feeling to be ok. And if that's what I have to surrender to then I'm ok with it.

I'm doing the program and I'll continue to do the program. It's a work in progress, I guess, just like I am. I think what I've learned is that maybe I can't go back to that life I used to lead before I got here. Maybe it's gone, the good and the bad of it." His voice wavered again as he tried to just plow through. "But maybe I can make a new life. A better life.

For you new people...people with 2 days, 1 day, 5 hours I know you're looking at me and you're thinking "God, I wish he'd just shut the fuck up and sit down. And don't worry, I'm about to."

This was met with more laughter and some grudging smiles from those of the group who looked especially worse for wear.

"If you're thinking, what the hell does he know? You're right. I don't know anything. I've got 90 days today. And before I realized I was an alcoholic I likely had 90 days then too but I wasn't counting and I didn't care. I am absolutely thick-headed when it comes to this. I'm no smarter than you or stronger than you. I'm just another bloke who whinged and bitched and complained and raged and talked and cried and shut myself off and opened myself up and managed to put another 24 hours on the clock. That's it. That's all 90 days is. I wish there was some secret formula, I truly do, but there's not. I'm just 90 days ahead of you. Looking ahead scares me. I don't know what's coming, what I'll do, who I'll be. The only John I can account for is the one standing before you today. The one rooted in this 24-hour cycle. And he's decided to take a hard pass on having a drink. I hope he'll make the same decision tomorrow and the next day and the day after that. I'm going to make damn sure that he tries. That's all. Um, thank you so much for your support and for this." He said holding up the chip. 

He caught Sherlock's eye as he made his way back to his seat feeling slightly embarrassed. This was different than therapy. This was a different kind of vulnerability and he hated the idea of his boyfriend seeing him as possibly weak. But there was no judgment in Sherlock's gaze only a tenderness in his eyes that John was still getting used to.

The meeting drew to a close, Reggie dismissed them and John said a few goodbyes. After all, this was it. No more meetings here. No more gourmet meals, no more invitations to hikes or horseriding, no more lavatory duty. He shook a hand or two, offered hugs and words of encouragement and received the same in return. He got more than a few kind well wishes from Reggie who was as earnest and positive as ever. All the while Sherlock waited patiently in the back of the room. 

He was beyond anxious to get to him.

They hadn't set the rules for displays of public affection. While John wasn't much for hiding he didn't know how Sherlock felt. He was, after all, a private person. On the rare occasion where he'd give an interview it was about cases and cases only. If they tried to steer it toward personal issues he became even more truculent than usual and bitingly cold. They'd often gotten requests for human interest stories. The inner workings of the mind of Sherlock Holmes. The crime fighting duo and how they function. All that sort of stuff. Once Sherlock got an idea of what they wanted he'd hang up. Emails sent? Deleted. Tweets, DM's, letters? Trashed. He was not interested in putting anything out into the world except the image of the calm, cool and capable consulting detective.

All these thoughts ran through John's head as he walked over all the while gazing at his face and lips and thinking how badly he wanted to kiss him.

"Hi." John said and it sounded absurdly inadequate. Not at all what he wanted to say. 

You came.

I love you.

I'm so proud to be in your life.

I love you.

I feel like everything that was upside down is righted again.

I love you.

I'm so happy we belong to each other.

I love you.

We can do this right? I can do this?

"Hi. I hope you didn't mind my skulking about. I first went to your room and then Hanah's office. I wasn't certain of your schedule today."

"No, of course, I don't mind. Things were a little up in the air. But I'm all checked out, papers signed, bags packed."

"Yes, I know. I've already placed them in the car."

"Thank you, you didn't have to do that." John's wiggled his fingers at his side anxiously. "Can we drop by my room? I just want to pop in for a second."

"Why?" 

"Because there's something I want to show you." He replied trying not to put too fine a point on it.

"I assure you the room was vacant when I left it."

John sighed and leaned in closer.

"Because I want to snog you until you beg for air and I'd rather not do it here." He said lowering his voice.

His boyfriend's eyebrows shot up in surprise before he gave a quick nod.

"Oh! Ok."

They quickly covered the short distance back to John's room and once inside with the door closed behind them he tugged the detective close.

"I missed you." Sherlock said before he could.

"I missed you too." He replied bringing their lips together.

Though he'd never tell him, this kiss was especially important to John. Their first official kiss as a couple. A signifier that this was real and true and happening. A signal that with no hesitation they were jumping in full force.

Sherlock's hands moved to his waist but John could immediately tell it was less sexy and more appraising.

"Could you not grope me like I'm a prize Holstein?" John asked nipping at his bottom lip. "Trust me, there are much more entertaining ways to feel me up."

"Concerned. Thin." Sherlock said but only after making a soft little "Uhh" noise following the nip. He was only speaking in one-word sentences which John considered a triumph.

"I'll eat at home." He breathed as he parted Sherlock coat before sliding his fingers over the smooth material of his shirt and up across his chest.

"Restaurant?"

"Takeaway."

"Brilliant." 

That now settled John darted his tongue into Sherlock's mouth deepening the kiss. His boyfriend responded with enthusiasm shoving John gently against the door as he cupped his cheek with a large palm. They broke away for air and John's eyes darted toward the made bed. He wanted to get Sherlock flat on his back, he wanted to press down on top of him, he wanted to unfasten those trousers and-

"John, there's something I want to tell you."

"Ok." John replied, surprised but not surprised Sherlock wanted to have a conversation now.

"Perhaps I should have told you soon-"

His words were interrupted by a knock on the door and John was suddenly being nudged aside as someone tried to enter against the impediment that was his body. He stepped away and he and Sherlock were greeted by the smiling and apologetic face of a nurse and the surly, grimace of a young man who couldn't have been more than 18. John was pretty sure he was in a boy band, or he had been in a boy band. His rowdy, drunken shenanigans had put him all over the news for the past two years making him recognizable to likely even the most disinterested adult.

"I'm sorry, I thought this room was empty. It's on my sheet the occupant was checking out today." The nurse said glancing down at her paperwork.

"No, you're right. I'm the occupant or the former occupant." John said raising his hand. "We were just leaving. I was checking to make sure I hadn't left anything and just, um...saying goodbye."

The teenager scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Berk." He said as he entered the room and dropped his bag on the floor.

"Well, we'll be off. Best of luck." John said grabbing Sherlock by the sleeve and tugging him out.

"Yeah, whatever." The kid who John supposed was likely called Caden or Camden or Cennedy replied before adding. "Wait! I know you!"

John was already out the door but Sherlock who was just behind him paused and turned.

"I wouldn't think so." Sherlock replied.

"Yeah, I do." He said. "From the news. You're fucking Sherlock Holmes."

"No, I'm Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock replied before hooking a thumb in John's direction. "He's fucking Sherlock Holmes. Or at least he will be. Afternoon" 

The kid looked at him blankly, John let out a bark of laughter and he and Sherlock swiftly headed down the hallway towards Hanah's.

"OK, last day. I want to hear your final thoughts, both of you." Hanah said.

Her office was littered with half filled boxes, the walls were noticeably bare and her computer was nowhere in sight. She was clearly near ready to leave herself but she had still greeted them both in the same easy, non-rushed manner.

"I'm pleased John will be returning home. He seems happier, healthier, too thin for his own good but we can remedy that. I...missed him and as I believe you have been instrumental in returning him to me. I thank you, Hanah."

"John is nothing if not an apt and willing patient. He did all the heavy lifting." She replied with a smile.

"Still, he is particular with regard to whom he listens. I've witnessed your intuition and persuasive reasoning firsthand. You've helped us both a great deal."

"It was my pleasure, truly it was." She replied before turning to John. "John? And believe me, though I appreciate Sherlock's praise, that's not what I'm asking for. How are you feeling?"

"Nervous. Actually more nervous as the minute's tick by." He said swallowing dryly. "I didn't realize just how attached I'd gotten to this place. I didn't know I felt safe here, you know?"

Hanah nodded.

"But I've been reading the post-rehab literature. I created a schedule pretty close to the one I follow here so that things won't be disrupted. Sherlock was kind enough to make a very detailed chart for me of local AA meetings, so I'm all set there. I know where I'll be living and who I'll be living with and I know his sobriety status." He said looking at Sherlock with a smile. "I think I'm prepared, as prepared as I can be. I think I feel fairly confident that I can manage this. But it's easy to be confident here when reaching the nearest pub would require a sherpa."

"I've always been honest with you, John, and I'm not going to stop now. This is a dangerous time. Relapse is most likely to occur during these first few days. It's going to be difficult to acclimate to life back home. Difficulty can cause stress and anxiety and that can lead right back to addictive habits. Your first full day, tomorrow, you should find time to go to a meeting. In fact, I recommend 90 meetings in 90 days. There are likely countless ones in your area that you can get to. If you can't make it physically, there are online meetings. If you can't do online there are phone meetings. There is no reason not to pursue your sobriety as vigorously out there as you did in here.                              

I also want you to keep reading and keep writing. You've got the Big Book, use it. If it doesn't work for you find a self-help book that does. In all this time I've never asked to see your journal and I never will. It's for you and only you and I encourage you to take some time tomorrow and give it a read. See how far you've come, notice how your thinking has changed and areas where you might still be stuck. Give yourself time. Time to adjust to being home and time for the people in your life to adjust as well. When they last saw you, you were an absolute wreck, that memory won't easily be supplanted in their minds with who you are today. 

I want you to talk to and engage with your partner. You two have the whole working together thing down pat. You also have a very strong, very well healed friendship that you fought hard, right here to fix and maintain. But you've never been in a relationship like this with one another before.  There are going to be things that need to be discussed other than whodunnit and who didn't buy milk.

Finally, I just want you to take it slow, I don't think you should leap, full throttle, back into detective work, or medicine. You should work on this gradually. I would also strongly advise against leaping into a sexual relationship. In my professional opinion, I don't believe you're ready, John. There are things you still need to address and share with Sherlock when you're able."

John shifted uncomfortably. It wasn't that he didn't trust her and he certainly trusted Sherlock but talking about sex was never that easy. Not to mention, sex aside, he was eager to get back to work, to be occupied, to be overwhelmed by anything other than the thoughts inside his own head.

"I miss working, Hanah. I miss feeling useful. I have all this pent-up energy and I want to get it out." He began. "Sherlock is aware of my problem. I'm hoping it resolves itself soon. If it does are you saying we still have to abide by the whole idea of celibacy? I thought that was more for married couples who'd already burned some bridges in the bedroom. I just don't think he should have to wait."

"There are other ways. You mentioned you used to bike, you can go back to that. You started a jogging regimen here, you could take that up as well. I want you to engage your body in ways that weren't typical of your behavior before rehab."

"Yeah but..." He felt flustered but he also wanted to go on. 

"I don't mind waiting." Sherlock interjected. 

"I know." John replied. "My point is you shouldn't have to."

"John, listen to him." Hanah interrupted. "He's saying he doesn't mind waiting. You should acknowledge that."

"I do, I do but...what if I don't want to wait. I mean, this is a unique situation. Don't get me wrong if he wanted to wait for himself I would, of course, be happy to but it doesn't seem very fair to put things on hold like this. I mean, this isn't a new relationship...not exactly. ...And I can tell by the way you're looking at me that the rules still apply to us, don't they."

"You're good." She replied. "They're not rules. But the are suggestions. This doesn't mean I want you to avoid physical contact. But what I just said about exercise and engaging your body in different ways applied here too. You can absolutely explore your sexuality with one another without having sex. It might not be a bad idea to try couples therapy for navigating these early steps. Neither of you has fully engaged your sexuality as a gay man or a bisexual man. Now that's something I want to encourage you to do both together and on your own. John, for you specifically, you're going to need to rethink your relationship with sex and the connotations you have regarding it."

The sex addict thing wasn't exactly something he and Sherlock had discussed and he'd purposefully avoided looking at him when he'd spoken of it not a half hour ago in the meeting. Yes, he'd mentioned that he'd had a lot of partners when the detective had been there for Family Week but for the most part they glossed over it, much to John's relief. It looked at though that couldn't continue.

"Sherlock, we're also going to have to address your relationship to sex as well and how, if at all, it played into your addiction."

Sherlock looked surprised but she filled in the silence.

"If I'm still providing John with supplementary therapy you're going to have to play some part in it too. Now, John, because you say I always tend to throw cold water on things I want to leave on a decidedly positive note. You have done incredibly well here, John. Even when it was sometimes grudging you were always willing to put in the work and the hours required to find answers and get better. And you have gotten better. If I may say so, I'm proud of you. I'm proud of what you've accomplished, the decisions you've made and the steps you've taken to better understand yourself. Most importantly, you should be proud and I hope you are."

It would have felt, well...prideful to say he was proud. He wanted to wait. Sink back into life in London, in Baker Street. He wanted to get some time under his belt before he started patting himself on the back. He wasn't one to be superstitious but to have anything but a cautious and fragile optimism seemed to be inviting trouble. He knew where every bar was within walking distance of their flat, he knew the ones he could easily reach by cab as well. All of them waiting, patient neon eager for his return. Shops with row after row and shelf after shelf ready to soothe and abate and erase anything he needed them too. Was he a truly different man today than he was December 25th? Had he killed that John Watson as he'd wanted to? Perhaps not in suicide but murder. Murder by way of sobriety. He hoped against hope that son of a bitch was dead.

"Thank you, Hanah, your words mean a lot. And I have to echo Sherlock. I wouldn't be where I am without you." He glanced over and Sherlock. "We wouldn't be where we are."

"You're both very welcome. Now, ready to face the world?"

"As ready as I'll ever be." John said with a nervous laugh. He rose from his chair and decided not to fight the urge to embrace her. "Thank you." He whispered once more in her ear.

"There are a rainbow of colors between black and white, John. Make sure you're seeing them all." 

As they broke apart Sherlock approached and extended his hand for a shake.

"Safe travels, Hanah."

"Safe travels to you both." She responded before adding. "Oh, John in the chaos of my office I almost forgot. I have a few things for you." She rummaged through a nearby box and came away with several books and more than a dozen photocopied bundles stapled together. "Some light reading for you." She joked. "Just look through it when you get a chance. It's supplemental and some of it is situation specific but it may help you."

Rather than handing him the books and loose papers at the last minute she emptied a box and dropped them inside.

"There." She said shoving the box in his direction. "Oh and there's something on top that's a little more pressing. Read it when you can."

He looked down at the box and on top, she had placed an envelope with the name "Pripyat" scrawled across.

He nodded and glanced at her his face no doubt revealing his curiosity about the contents of the envelope.

"I will."

"Ok, well off you both go. John, I'll be in touch and we'll set up our first Skype session soon. Best of luck to you both."

They stepped outside her office and John hesitated. This was it. This was the last day before the next first day and suddenly he was overwhelmed. He took a deep breath and then another, steeling himself.

"Look at me," Sherlock said quietly and steadily at his side.

He instantly obeyed.

"Yeah?" John asked as he settled his eyes on that face he knew so well.

"You did the first leg all on your own. All the rest you'll have me. You and me. Just the two of us against the rest of the world." Sherlock held out his hand and John reflexively, as though they did this every day, linked their fingers and palm to palm, squeezed. Feeling confidence surge through him they started down the hallway and toward the door.

"People will, of course, talk." Sherlock said with a knowing smile.

John glanced down at their joined hands."

"God, I hope so." He replied.

Chapter Text

In the backseat of the SUV, they sat on either side, still holding hands, finger intertwined together. They didn't talk much but it was a comfortable silence. Sherlock seemed to sense that John was in a contemplative mood and perhaps he was as well. John stole a glance at him occasionally in the car, on the plane and then in the car that would take them home. Each time he looked at him he smiled and when Sherlock caught him looking a brights smile lit up his face in return and he squeezed his hand. It was late evening by the time they arrived back in London and as they neared Baker Street John felt his heart rate shoot up. 

"Sherlock...are they planning a party for me?" He asked suddenly as he took a deep breath. The thought had occurred to him out of nowhere but it felt right.

"Well done, John. As a matter of fact, they are."

"Fuck." He sighed. "I mean, that's not an ungrateful fuck it's just...an I'm-absolutely-knackered fuck."

"I got them to move it to tomorrow. I knew you'd be tired and there was no telling when we'd get in. Tomorrow at 3 I'm to take you out to a late lunch. When we arrive back at Baker Street, there they'll be. Cake, streamers, noisemakers all sorts of other ghastly party fare, I imagine. They missed you." Sherlock turned to look at him. "I know the feeling."

John relaxed considerably at this news as the car pulled up to Baker Street and stopped out front.

They unloaded his bags quickly. Then they were climbing the creaky, familiar stairs. Then opening the door.  And then they were home.

He inhaled, exhaled and looked around. God, but he'd missed this place. He'd missed who he was when he was here.

In an effort to distract himself and stop any tears before they started he spoke.

"I expect Mrs. Hudson will be popping in any minute."

"No," Sherlock said setting his luggage down and taking the rest from John's hands. "I encouraged her to take another little trip for her nerves you see. She left Tuesday last and won't be back until tomorrow morning."

"So it's just us?" He asked not quite able to believe his luck. No, it wasn't luck. It was Sherlock's orchestrations. Just the way everything good or sometimes bad was always Sherlock's orchestrations. This was good, however. Really, really good.

"Just us." Sherlock said standing before him a gentle smile on his face. "So, if you're hungry we can order-"

"Come here." John said grabbing him with rough affection and pulling him into a hug. That was what he wanted and needed now. Just a hug. They could kiss and touch and caress later and he had no doubt that they would. But right now he just wanted to get his arms around this man and feel the same in return. Sherlock needed no coaxing to reciprocate and his arms went easily around John's body, encircling him, warming him.

They stood there silently because, as it always had, it felt good to just be silent in one another's presence. After a few quiet minutes, John angled his head to share a soft kiss.

"Mind if I take a shower?" He asked against Sherlock's lips. 

"Not at all." 

"Order whatever you like for dinner, ok? I'll be back soon."  

"Take your time."  

John did take his time and stood there under the spray as it went from lukewarm, to the point where it nearly turned his skin lobster red, to the water running lukewarm again. When it finally grew cold he stepped out and stared at his steamy reflection. Wiping away the condensation on the mirror he took a long look at himself. 

"John Watson. New life. Second chance. Don't fuck it up. Please...please don't fuck it up." He whispered.

His voice broke but he worried because it seemed his reflection remained implacable and unmoved.

Refusing even now to promise anything. But it was just his tired brain running riot. That was all.

In his haste, he'd neglected to bring in anything but a dressing gown. No pants, no trousers, no shirt. 

He toweled off and then cinching the tie tightly around his waist he left the bathroom to find Sherlock. 

He could smell food...Italian? Some sort of pasta with red sauce and his stomach voiced its approval. He headed toward the kitchen and had a look about. The food sat on the countertop in familiar takeaway containers untouched. When he'd bothered to eat he had enjoyed the food at The Location but a part of him had craved fast, greasy, junk; sloppy pizza, artery clogging Chinese food and carb loaded pasta. He wondered what Sherlock had eaten in his absence. Had Mrs. Hudson taken full control of his diet. he hoped so.He hoped someone had been looking after him since he'd dropped the ball.

But closer inspection of well... everything stopped his train of thought. When John truly looked the flat was surprisingly different. The endless packages of plastic utensils sealed in more plastic are gone. John opened a drawer and saw they had been replaced by silverware. Actual silverware. Heavy as shit and lovely to boot. Sherlock must have gotten them from his mum. The takeaway containers that littered the counter and essentially every free space in the flat were gone. He opened the fridge and freezer to discover them scoured clean. There were actual, proper containers now, stacked neatly on shelves. The sink was empty and gleaming. The table top while still a shade cluttered with his experiments and equipment had clearly been wiped down. 

Directing his attention back to the living area he noticed it was decidedly cleaner as well. Everything had gotten a thorough dusting, moving or airing out.

Even the skull had a bit of a shine to it.

Jesus, he'd done this for him. Or rather for them both

It made his heart hurt just a little to think about it and propelled John to again go in search of Sherlock.

As it happened he found him in his bedroom turning down the bed.

"You cleaned," John said smiling at him as he leaned against the doorframe. 

"Oh, yes." he said before brutally fluffing a pillow. "The books I read specified that someone returning from rehab should be greeted with a warm, clean and uncluttered environment"

"Books? As in plural?"

"Yes." Sherlock replied without looking up from his task.

"You didn't have to do that."

"But I did. I thought perhaps my chaos was not beneficial to your recovery. I can't promise it will stay this way, in this state of immaculate disuse. I'll still need to conduct my experiments but we no longer need to live in squalor."

John chuckled.

"It was never squalor. It was just odd. I like clean but I like odd too. You certainly made it clean and uncluttered and warm. Thank you, Sherlock." He said walking fully into the room. He'd been in Sherlock's room a few times before. About as many as Sherlock had been in his. Mostly they'd left that space that personal space untouched. A respite, a retreat from each other when necessary. He hoped neither of them would come to regret this change. That being said, despite his worry he was looking forward to it.

"I came back from the dead for you. Throwing out a few takeaway containers was hardly a sacrifice."

John watched him for a string of moments while he continued the rhythmic assault on the pillow before speaking.

"You can keep beating it but I don't think it's going to talk." He quipped.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asked turning to him.

"I said you can't get it any fluffier. You ask yourself how much more fluff could this be? And the answer is none. None more fluff."

Sherlock continued to stare at him blankly.

"God, you haven't seen Spinal Tap, have you?" he said taking the pillow out of his hands and setting it gently on the bed.

"Have I seen a spinal tap...what?"

"It's a movie. And now as I have been promoted from best friend to boyfriend I can force you to watch things I deem important. And next on the agenda is Spinal Tap."

"I don't believe I agreed to that," Sherlock said as John took his wrist and gently pulled him against his body.

"It's implied, and then explicitly stated in the John Watson relationship fine print."

"Is it now?" Sherlock said quirking the corner of his mouth."

"Mmmhmm," John replied brushing his lips against his.

"I'd like to take a closer look at this contract at some point."

"It's a doozy. But I think you'd much rather be surprised." John grinned before kissing him fully.

After a minute or so Sherlock unexpectedly started to giggle.

“What are you laughing about?” John asked with a smile as he pulled slightly back.

“Your hands are on my arse.”

And indeed they were as John had slid them down the landscape of Sherlock back to land there. He liked the way it felt; muscular, high and inviting. He wanted to give it a bit of a smack. Maybe later.“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s 98% of being boyfriends. Having our hands on each other’s arses.” John teased. “Do you like it?”

"Yes, very much."

"Good." John replied giving him a squeeze.

"But...you need to eat." He said his voice tinged with regret.

As if in reply John's stomach groaned like a house settling.

"Yeah, you're right. Plus, I'm not wearing any pants."

"I..." Sherlock started to sputter. "That is an intriguing non-sequitur."

"I forgot them when I went to shower. Forgot everything except this." He said motioning to the dressing gown. "I'm going to run up to my room and change and then we can eat, maybe watch a bit of telly."

"Sounds lovely." Sherlock smiled.

They shared a parting kiss, leaving the bedroom and heading in their own separate directions.

John went up the stairs and entered his old room. He always left clothes there even once he and Mary had tied the knot. It only made sense. He figured he'd sometimes need to spend the night at Sherlock's and it wasn't exactly the kind of job where you knew when to pack a bag. He grabbed underwear, a t-shirt and some track pants, hastily dressed and headed back down.

Whoever worked the kitchen at Angelo's was notoriously heavy on the garlic. It didn't matter what dish you ordered it was going to come with the flavor that each mouthful had a full clove. For some reason, they were both still fond of it though. John had always made sure not to have any if he had a date that night...or frankly the next day as the scent did linger in the pores. Sherlock, well his metabolism didn't seem disturbed by anything and while he would comment that he tasted it, it never seemed to disturb his chemistry or his breath.

The point was, with Angelo's you knew what you were getting. 

Except tonight. 

Someone...that someone of course likely being Sherlock had clearly said go easy on the garlic. Very easy. The taste was subtle, light and delicious. Something that would only require a good tooth brushing and a few swishes of Listerine to disperse once the meal was done.

Something that would leave the mouth perfect and fresh for kissing and more kissing.

John smiled to himself as he ate another mouthful of the pasta. It was good. Good, easy, hot comfort food. 

They'd decided to settle on the sofa, pulling the tv in front of them as they ate. Barefoot and comfortable they were each wearing robes and t-shirts and track pants. Both quiet and at ease in one another's company. Every 20-30 minutes John would blink and again be amazed that he was home and safe and loved.

Sherlock would occasionally focus his eyes on his plate clearly wanting to make sure John's fork was in an almost continuous motion from dish to mouth and back again.

"You haven't been eating. We'll need to change that from here on out. We often skip meals and I no longer wish for that to be the case."

"Ok." John said simply.

Sherlock glanced at him as he had almost certainly been preparing for an argument.

"Oh, well, good."

"Will the party tomorrow interfere with a case you're involved in?"

"No, I wrapped everything up and checked the inbox. There are things that need to be handled but nothing that's a matter of life or death. I can take an afternoon off."

John smiled and sprinkled on more parmesan.

"Great. I guess I'll hit a meeting tomorrow morning. Be sure to leave the list out, ok?"

"Of course."

"Maybe we can grab some coffee while they're preparing the surprise or go see a movie or something?"

"I'd like that very much."

"I should also make up a grocery list. The place being clean makes it clear when we're running low on stuff."

"Yes, I agree."

John paused for a beat.

"I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you too, John."

They finished dinner and John packed away the extra food despite Sherlock's protests that he could do it. The last thing he wanted or needed was to be treated like he was helpless in his own home. No reason to get into that habit. They were equals and partners as they always had been. The balance of it all was important.

Once done they both excused themselves, first one then the other to brush, floss and gargle.

Even as he was doing John found it delightfully silly how neither of them acknowledged the shift in the evening.

They returned to the couch, Sherlock first and then John, the latter putting his arm around the former's shoulders bringing him close. They stared at the tv for awhile, some movie about a wizard and rings and elves but it wasn't really keeping their attention.

Knowing that bedtime was nearing they turned slightly timid, pecking at one another's lips, kissing softly like nervous teenagers. Sherlock had the beginnings of stubble along his jaw line and John traced it lovingly with his thumb.

"You must be exhausted," Sherlock said after a bit.

"Hmm...?" He was focusing on his boyfriends slightly swollen pink bottom lip, and thinking about how he wanted to continue sucking on it. "Oh yes, I am."

"We should go to bed."

Kissing Sherlock had revealed a lot of different things. First his mouth was just larger than that of anyone he'd ever kissed, but that made sense, men's mouths and heads in general tended to be larger. So were his hands and while in the early days, the very early days when he let his mind wander for a split second he wondered would it feel odd to have a large hand, larger than his own touching his face, cupping the back of his head, roaming his body, the answer was a resounding no. There were a thousand little things like that, the differences between the masculine and feminine. The lack of a difference between the need and want and arousal he felt for Sherlock and the women he'd been with. But none was more shocking than the fact that he could, in fact, enjoy himself without an erection. As much as he wished it to be otherwise he was as flaccid as ever. But he was still having a good time. Every touch and kiss and caress mattered, it registered, he felt something. Just not all that he wanted to feel but maybe it would do for now.

Concerned about getting Sherlock's hopes up he said "I guess we shouldn't. And even if we could I...I still can't..." as they rose from the couch. His boyfriend cut him off.

"I know, John. No need to explain. Hanah said we shouldn't just yet anyway. We're going to snog a little more and then go to sleep. alright? That's all. I expect nothing more from you that to have you lying by my side or in my arms."

"Yeah, I can do that." He said softly switching off the tv and tossing the remote on the sofa.

Once they got into bed it was actually Sherlock lying in John's arms which seemed to please everyone. John rested his chin atop the crown of Sherlock's head, nestled in his boyfriends hair...his lovers hair. Could he call him his lover if they hadn't yet...? Oh never mind.

"You know, when we first met I was under the impression that your hair was raven black. But over the years and especially now I see how wrong I was."

"Hmm?"

"It's full of all these different colors. There's black yes, but dark brown and chocolate and deep, auburn and red..."

"Will you always be this saccharine?" Sherlock said trying and aiming for irritation. He only ended up sounding relaxed, fond and hopeful.

"Yes, if you like." John replied with a grin kissing the top of his head. This caused Sherlock's arms to snake around him tighter and he pressed more firmly against John's chest. "Did you think we'd ever be here?" 

"When I allowed myself to...dream, we were here every night."

Jesus...the time they'd wasted. 

But was wasted the proper word? How do you knit a life together, a life with such disparate ends? If he and Sherlock had pursued this in 2010 how would things have been different? Mary could not so easily be wrenched or dismissed from his memory or his heart. She couldn't so simply be labeled a mistake nor could Rosie. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock, and truth be told he himself, had been so much less mature back then. So much more shut off and frightened. What if they had come together? Yes, it would have been exciting and fun and they likely would have had many, many frenetic bed shaking fucks.

And then what?

Where would that lead for a Sherlock who wasn't even a fourth as grown up as the one here?

Or for him, angry, battle-scarred, barely able to stand his own company much less the company of others. Quite incapable of maintaining a friendship much less a relationship that melded the two.

They might have split up in under a year and without a solid friendship as a foundation drifted apart. Would he even know Sherlock Holmes now if they'd tried to date all those years ago? Upon analysis, it seemed very unlikely. It was hard to accept considering the rocky, tumultuous, deadly road they'd walked to get to this place...but was it possible things had actually happened as they should?

"Is this what it's like when I go quiet and focus on my inner thoughts?" Sherlock asked. "Because this silence is interminable."

"Sorry, love." John said with a smile. "Miles away. But firmly back now."

"Good."

John ran soft, massaging fingers through Sherlock's curls, alternating between gently scratching and rubbing his scalp. He could feel his boyfriends body stretch and relax, settling into the attention.

Sherlock's bed was wide and comfortable. Neither too soft nor too firm but almost impossibly perfect. That was the thing John knew well about him. When he felt it was worth it, Sherlock splurged. This was clearly an expensive mattress and the thread count on the sheets was likely higher than anything John had ever rested his body between before. While eschewing excess Sherlock demanded quality and likely wouldn't lay his body against something he found to be inferior.

John felt inferior a good deal of the time.

And yet here Sherlock was, lying against him.

In fact, his body was growing heavier as he was being tugged down toward sleep.

"Finish the quote, Sherlock, from that night." John said softly.

"Quote?" He asked in puzzled sleepiness.

"That night. Give me a man...I forget now but it was something about being a slave to passion, I think? I asked you to finish it but you wouldn't."

"Give me that man that is not passion's slave, and I will wear him in my heart's core. Ay, in my heart of heart. As I do thee."

Ah, so that was why he didn't finish it all those months ago.

Sinking them both deeper beneath the covers John reached over and switched off the light and in the home, he shared with his boyfriend who was still his best friend he closed his eyes.

"My heart of heart," he repeated softly and then once more. "My heart of heart." 

Chapter Text

One Day In

91 Days Clean

April 1st, 2016

Sherlock had an uncanny way of knowing when John was awake before John knew Sherlock was awake and it was something John was going to have to get used to.

"I was worried I'd wake up and you'd be gone." Sherlock said out of the blue, cutting through the quiet. 

John had been resting dreamily in the dawn silence. Sherlock was heavy against him providing an all too welcome reminder that this was real. Really real. He'd been stroking his arm idly, assuming his boyfriend was asleep, as he let his mind drift to nothing but pleasant thoughts.

After the initial jolt caused by hearing that resonant voice in a previously silent room John recovered enough to say; "Why would I be gone?"

"Because you would never have been here in the first place." Sherlock replied. 

"Do you think you're imagining us?"

"It's happened before."

The Location had gotten him in the habit of waking early and his eyes had popped opened as birds were still singing outside. It was hardly a sacrifice though when he looked down to see the man still in his arms.

Sherlock for all his coordination while conscious was a clumsy cephalopod in his sleep. He had latched onto John in several ridiculous positions during the night, changing suddenly with an irritated harrumph that at least once resulted in the doctor being elbowed in the ribs. But it was all ok and funny and sexy and sleepy and warm and as it turned out he quite liked sharing a bed with erratic octopus Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock, look at me." he said and the detective moved his head from where it was laying on John's chest to do as he was asked.

Christ Almighty but he was lovely. The morning light shining through the window hitting him just so. A good nights sleep having revitalized him into looking even younger than normal. Almost as young as when they first met when John had described him in his blog as looking about 12.

"I'm not going anywhere, ok?" He said running his thumb over his cheek. "I can't make very many promises I feel equipped to keep at the moment but here are two. I'm not going anywhere. And I will stay sober. Ok?"

"Ok."  He said in reply before ducking his head down to kiss John's chest. "Did you sleep well?" He asked.

"I did indeed. Best night I've had in a very long time. Best night since Family Weekend."

"For me too."

"Want some breakfast?" John asked slipping both his hands in the morning mess that was Sherlock's hair. He let his nails graze his scalp, rubbing, massaging and sometimes tugging his curls gently. The response was immediate. Sherlock's blinks became slower and John was sure he was nearly on the verge of purring with contentment. 

"We've nothing in." The detective managed after a moment with what appeared to be great effort.

"I can pop round to Speedy's. Get us something nice."

Sherlock hummed noncommittally.

"Or," John offered. "You could go back to sleep while I head to my meeting and when I come back I'll make you blueberry pancakes."

Sherlock's eyes brightened.

"Yes?" He asked.

"Yes, if you like." John agreed tugging him up for a kiss. 

Good God, morning kisses with Sherlock. Sweet and tender and gentle. Soft and slow and lingering. Wet and lovely and eager. 

Sherlock who had hidden so much, concealed so much but never learned how to conceal this. It was never presented as an option so he'd never put up a wall. Everything about the way he kissed was so unabashed, so open, so lacking in self-consciousness. And there was passion there as well, determined, focused, eager passion that felt powerful enough to overwhelm John if he let it. And he wanted to let it. John was learning to keep pace, to open himself up just as much, just as fully. 

At the moment he needed to pull away just to take in a breath.

"Christ, but you're good at this." He said.

Sherlock only blinked and ran a tongue innocently over his slightly swollen bottom lip. The gesture made the innocent look sinful.

"No need to tease." He said uncertainly.

"Who's teasing?" John replied. Did he really think he wasn't good at it? "Now come back here, I just needed to catch my breath but it's back now."

Sherlock grinned shyly and gave him another kiss this one a bit more chaste.

"You need to get up and get going I'm afraid." 

John, unfortunately, knew he was right and sighed heavily.

"Ok," He said with a groan. He would have liked to lounge in bed with his boyfriend all day but instead got to his feet once Sherlock had rolled off his body.

"You go back to sleep. I'm going to shower and slip out, alright?"

"Mmhmm" He replied already half vanished beneath the sheets.

John exited the bedroom and grabbed the sheet Sherlock had left for him on the kitchen table. It was Friday and it looked like there were several meetings to choose from. Checking his phone it was a little after 8 AM. There was a meeting at 9:15 at a local church, St. Boniface and as it seemed just as good as any other choice he made up his mind. John hurried upstairs to his bedroom and grabbed a set of clothes for the day before heading back down to the shower.

Morning one. Here it was. He was home, he was with his boyfriend. They'd shared a bed. Now, as promised he was off to find a meeting and get that under his belt. Then they'd to a late lunch, then his welcome home party. This was good, right? This was life. Living again. Expectations. Obligations, Commitments. His heart and mind seemed to be in lock step. He felt good. Every part of his day was planned. Every part of him was on board. Every part of his body knew its job.

Except one. 

John was never a shrinking violet. He enjoyed a morning shag just as much as a lunchtime quickie or an after-dinner romp. He was up for it. He was always up for it.

At least in the past, he had been.

He'd never thought much about impotence during the previous months because it hadn't affected him. But he supposed before now he always figured, once a person eliminated the physical or mental reasons, or say a fear of failure, fear of something new, lack of attraction to a partner everything would resolve on its own. 

But he felt healthy and strong mentally and physically. And he wasn't afraid of Sherlock and he wasn't scared of something new. In fact, every part of him every single inch but the inches in question reacted with a hunger toward the detective. He'd wondered if maybe his last remaining scraps of what he'd thought was heterosexuality might put up a fight. But Sherlock's hands on his body, lips on his neck, groin pressed firmly up against him felt nothing but right. So if he wanted him, if they wanted each other, and if he was healthy, what the hell was the problem?

Maybe it was the fact that rehab wasn't the sexiest of places. Maybe it was the fact that he had lost weight and had been eating and sleeping like shit. Maybe it was the fact that psychologically and emotionally he'd been hit with bombshell after bombshell both externally and from within over the past three months. Maybe his brain figured getting a hard-on wasn't the most important thing to tend to at the moment.

Still though, Sherlock lying on top of him making those soft delectable little noises, Sherlock's tongue in his mouth, his hand on his arse, the way he groaned when John tugged his hair, the way he smelled, the way he tasted, and yes, the ridiculous primitive lust that arose in John when he recalled that Sherlock was a virgin and that he would be his first and last and only lover. And finally, the simple, easy, indisputable, joyful fact that he was in love with him. Utterly besotted. Every single thing should have compelled him to stay in that bed and have them bring one another to orgasm after orgasm after rollicking orgasm. But Sherlock hadn't pushed it. In fact, John had noted he'd kept his crotch decidedly away from him. He had no idea if Sherlock was back in working order either but as he seemed just as pleasantly warm and eager he imagined he wasn't if he didn't pursue things further. At least that was alright, at least maybe they were even. John would hate to be the one who'd fallen behind.

Even thinking about it while he stood in the shower John closed his eyes imagining them pushing things further, clothes coming off, those first touches of flesh against flesh, it made his heart race. That was what confused him. Even though being a doctor he knew better, he hadn't imagined you could have arousal, need, want, desire, hunger and every other adjective available without an erection. 

What an awful, frustrating irritating lesson that was to learn.

Reaching down he took his limp cock in hand and started to stroke himself. 

"Sherlock..." He whispered softly as he let himself slip into his fantasy.

Sherlock pressed close behind him in the shower, licking, sucking, biting at the column of his neck. Calling his name, bending him forward, spreading his legs, lubing up. A finger. Two. Three. Stretching.... Then that first feeling of Sherlock's cock, pressing, pressing, pressure, then inside him, so tight, so bloody fucking tight. Hips rocking, slowly then faster, gaining speed, gaining confidence, hands gripping slippery tiles, cries echoing off walls, driving harder and closer, closer, closer and-

John let his head drop.

It was no use. He was just as flaccid as before.

"Fuck..." He swore under his breath and balling his fist hammered it against the tiles. But as he felt himself growing angrier still he shut his eyes again. 

This wasn't helping. He knew that. He couldn't start fucking up so soon. Giving into the fury and the frustration and the self-doubt.

It was early yet. There was time. He needed to adjust. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Give it time.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Give it time.

Breathe in. Breathe out. Give it time.

He showered quickly, toweled off, dressed and gave himself a final once over in the mirror.

Quietly he peeked in on Sherlock one last time and found him sound asleep. He was all but buried underneath the covers only a few stray, dark curls were visible. Good, that was good, he wanted him to get some rest. John tip-toed over and placed a kiss atop his head.

"Love you. I'll be home soon."

Sherlock only "Mmm"'d in reply. John laughed softly and exited the bedroom.

Silently he grabbed his keys and the Big Book and left the flat. He hadn't heard any activity from below so it seemed he'd manage to make it out before Mrs. Hudson arrived home. He wanted to greet her, of course, but more than that he wanted to get a jump on his day first. He was already more than a little nervous about a new routine. He quickly hailed a taxi and directed the driver to St. Lucian.

A/N: More than a few of you mentioned that AO3 didn't update you that I posted two chapters last week. So, I hope you get this one! And if you haven't seen something from me in over a week, you might have missed one or two. :)

Oh and I've upgraded, ratings wise, from M to E.  

*Samuel L. Jackson voice* Hold onto your butts.

Chapter Text

St. Lucian was old. He'd been expecting, perhaps, one of those newer model churches. The ones that from the outside could be a dentist's office or a museum or a place to rent vacuums cleaners. This was one of those ancient goliath's with fortified brick walls, a steeple, a rusty looking bell, grotesques, and turrets. He stepped inside and cursed himself for being nervous. It was stupid. He'd done this before. Nearly every fucking day for the past three months even. Why was he going all weak sister now? He took a steadying breath and stopped in front of the bulletin board.

St Lucian AA Meeting

9:15 AM

CP

Basement Conference Room A

We welcome you!

John followed the signs to the basement

C meant that the meeting was closed which was basically a necessity for him at this point. Open meetings might be fine in a pinch but the fact that anyone was allowed in was an unappealing thought at the moment. As much as he'd balked at the idea at the time, now, he accepted the fact that he was an alcoholic and speaking to or in front of people who might not be similarly suffering was something he couldn't bear.

P designated that it was a Promises meeting meaning it focused on the 12 Promises of AA. Meetings at The Location had covered every variation and combination and there were certainly some he preferred more than others. Promises wasn't a favorite but it would do for today. 

It was a few minutes after 9 when he arrived and as he entered the conference room he was surprised to see it so well attended. There were around 10 people there not counting him, some sitting and flipping through their phones, a few grouped together speaking quietly and a handful picking out donuts and adding cream to coffee in styrofoam cups. He took a seat in the wooden chair with the pink seat cushion identical to what you'd find in any physician's office waiting room. The chairs were already arranged in a half circle and he made another quick count of the attendees to be sure he wasn't taking someone's spot. There was likely still time before things got rolling so he took out his mobile as well and pretended to studiously look through it. It was just something to do to kill the time and more importantly quell his nervousness giving him something to do with his hands. If nothing else, it gave him time to look through Sherlock's Twitter.

As expected it was 90% cases with a good dose of snark when he felt his patience was being tested or his time wasted. There was the random proclamation of "Bored!". But every now and then there was a picture of a flower or a bumble bee or just some random prettiness he had come across during his day. Those he hashtagged #CaptureTheLovliness. Of all the things John imagined would or could stick, that wouldn't have been it. Which was likely why it made him incredibly happy.

He was smiling down at his phone when a voice sounded.

"If everyone wouldn't mind taking their seats and shutting down their phone we're ready to begin."

John raised his head and watch as the assembled slowly ambled to their seats. He dutifully shut down his phone, shoving it in his pocket.

"Good morning everyone. My name Jan and I'm an alcoholic. I'd like to welcome you to this regular closed meeting of Alcoholic's Anonymous. Now I'm going to invite all who'd like to participate to join me in a moment of silence for those who are still sick and suffering, both in and out of the room, followed by the Serenity Prayer."

While not one for prayer John did take the time to send his thoughts and best wishes to some of those he'd met at the Location, James especially. He wondered how he was doing now and hoped he was well.

"God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. Amen." He recited along with everyone else. The sentiment was hard but valuable and he said the words earnestly.

Jan took her seat and offered everyone a smile.

"I see we have some new faces so if you wouldn't mind introducing yourselves and maybe telling us a little about what brings you here."

John looked around, the plural faces meant he wasn't the only one so he waited to see if someone would volunteer to go first. When no one seemed eager he raised his hand.

"Yes?" Jan said.

"Hi, my name is John and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hello, John."

He thought he saw a few keen eyes on him and for the first time in months remembered who he was and how people might actually know him. That feeling had been sharp and frightening the first few days of rehab but had dulled to nothingness. First off, there were far bigger 'celebrities' there than him and second, well, those people had become if not quite friends at least acquaintances. There'd been a loose sort of loyalty amongst them as they all began to focus more on their problems and getting/staying clean than who someone was on the outside. Once again, just as he did when he was leaving, he got the feeling that The Location had been safe. Which meant, logic dictated this place was unsafe.

It felt different, he felt different and faltered before going on.

"Um, I just got out of rehab yesterday as a matter of fact. I have 91 days clean and I'm hoping to keep it that way." He concluded.

"Thank you, John." Jan said with a smile. "Anyone else?"

Admittedly John had a difficult time paying attention, he felt...conspicuous. And whether it was genuine or all in his mind he couldn't shake the feeling that they were studying him...perhaps even judging.

All that aside, the meeting went much like any other. That was, after all the point of AA; uniformity. A meeting here should be the same as a meeting in the States or a meeting on the moon. That was the comfort and predictability of it all.

But he wasn't feeling much comfort and was honestly glad when it was over. After the sharing, which he politely declined to participate in and after dropping a few pounds in the passed around basket, after the "Keep coming back. It works!" chant and after they were dismissed he hurried back up the stairs and into the nearest taxi. He didn't want to talk to anybody, to hang around, to find out for sure if their questions would be innocent, friendly or probing.

"Nearest Tesco, please." He requested and was quickly taken to a location so close he could have walked. He exited the vehicle and entered the unfamiliar yet due to its predictable layout completely familiar store. Ticking off the ingredients from the recipe permanently fixed in his mind from many a childhood breakfasts with his sister he went from aisle to aisle grabbing the items for pancakes. 45 minutes later he was back in their flat and surprised at the level of relief he felt.

"The last thing I need is to become an agoraphobe." He muttered to himself as he headed for the kitchen. The sound of the shower running could be heard through the closed bathroom door and he smiled. Just thinking about Sherlock made him smile. He went to work combining the ingredients and heating the skillet. He added the blueberries last and by the time Sherlock emerged he had three pancakes completed and ready to eat stacked on a plate.

"You're back." Sherlock said from just over his shoulder.

As his boyfriend swooped in, and he did swoop, John recalled something Mycroft had said in passing years ago, likely meant to embarrass his younger brother.

Sherlock was demonstrative, overly demonstrative as a boy. Quite the hugger if you can believe it. So very emotional. Our parents indulged it despite my warnings. I wanted him hard and unbreakable. People only pretend to enjoy open, fragile, gentle things because they like to watch them shatter.

At the time, Sherlock had pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes shooting daggers at his brother, none too happy with such a reveal.

At the time, John had felt Mycroft's assertion couldn't have possibly been more unlikely.

But it was all proving to be true. The giving, loving little boy Mycroft described sounded like precisely the genesis of the man whose arms now slid around John's waist and whose lips were immediately at his jaw line.

"How was it?" He asked.

"Good. Fine. Pretty standard." John replied. He then yanked the skillet off the eye so nothing would burn before turning in Sherlock's arms to kiss him properly.

"Will you tell me how it really went later?" Sherlock asked softly.

"Mmmhmm," John replied before aiming his lips toward that cupid's bow again.

"Can my bedroom be our bedroom, John?"

"Of course. Yes, of course it can."

"I'd rather not sleep without you now that I've a taste for it."

"You won't, I feel the same way."

"Ok." He said kissing him again.

"Ok. Your breakfast is going to get cold." John said against his lips. "And I made it special."

"John..." He said and it sounded so breathless, so full of anticipation and want that John's own breath caught in his throat.

"Yes?"

Sherlock pulled back and seemed to settle himself.

"I...Shall I grab a plate?" he asked. It was an innocuous question but his gaze was still surprisingly penetrating. He wanted them to go farther, at least that's what John sensed. He wondered how new all this must feel for Sherlock. Was everything running wild in him? Blood pumping hot like a teenager. Frantic and eager and mad the way he felt about that boy he fancied back at school. Was it hard to control? Did he want to control it?

"Have a seat and I'll bring it to you. Don't get used to this though. I'm just feeling domestic today."

Sherlock dutifully took a seat and John went about making a fresh plate for him.

"Blueberry, as promised, a tall glass of milk, tea and..." John reached into the last shopping bag and took out a jar. "Not exactly mad honey, but it might do."

Without much ceremony or thought John unscrewed the top and dipped in his finger. The viscous substances pulled out long and amber as he raised his hand. It was more, for lack of a better word, butter than he expected, less drizzly than ordinary honey, a little more like melted caramel. It was room temp warm and immediately perfumed the air around them. He popped the finger in his mouth and closed his eyes at the flavor. Honestly, he was surprised. He'd had honey before, of course, but it always came out of a container in the shape of a bear or a little plastic packet. But this...this was something different. This was richer, thicker, it coated his tongue with a sweetness and a slightly acidic burn. He'd splurged on this. It was sort of foolish but he did have three months of pensions checks banked away and what was one small trifle? Still, he'd debated with himself a little about whether it was worth it. Until now. Now he could admit it, there was a difference in pricier honey and it was damn well worth it.

"Oh that's um...that's really good. Want to taste?" John dipped his finger in again and held it out, sticky and inviting toward Sherlock.

Sherlock glanced up at him and raised an eyebrow before extending his tongue and swiping it across John's fingertip.

"That's lovely." He agreed with a studious frown. "Floral. Heady." He licked at John's finger again.

"Oh, I think you can do a bit better than that." John drawled. He had no idea where this was coming from. Before he'd opened the jar, before he'd tasted it, smelled it he could and would have sworn on a stack of bibles he only bought it as a treat and topping for the pancakes. Something to show Sherlock that he had paid attention when he'd spoken of his fascination with bees and drugged honey and that it meant something to him as well.

He truly hadn't been planning this. But then again he wasn't complaining.

"Is that a challenge?" Sherlock asked with obvious interest.

"If you like."

John watched as Sherlock took hold of his wrist and directed the doctor's finger back to the open jar. Once the finger was again slathered with honey Sherlock brought it to his lips and slowly took it in. He bobbed his head on it, tip, to joint and nearly to knuckle, all while never breaking eye contact. Bloody hell, he knew what he was doing and they both groaned as Sherlock essentially fellated his finger. It was cheeky and sexy and filthy and exactly what John wanted. Sherlock seemed eager to oblige, puckering his lips as he took his boyfriend's middle finger in and out.

"That's good, Sherlock. Suck it." He whispered. "Suck it, you beauty."

Sherlock groaned again around his digit and just as he pulled back and swirled his tongue around the tip there was a familiar "Ooh-ohh!' and corresponding knock at their front door. As it creaked open John regretfully removed his finger and he and a flushed and frustrated Sherlock tried to regain their decorum, such as it was.

"Sherlock? Is he back yet?" Mrs. Hudson asked coming round the corner.

After wiping off his hand he stepped away from Sherlock to greet her with open arms.

"Back home. Hello, Mrs. Hudson."

"John!" She exclaimed and rushed into his arms. He held her small frame against his body and felt a surge of guilt for the worry and strain he must have put her through. "We missed you so much! Sherlock especially."

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock said from his chair at the table.

"He was absolutely lost without you. Couldn't manage anything."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock intoned.

"But oh, when he came back from seeing you he started playing his violin again and taking cases and I even caught him singing once or twice."

"Mrs. Hudson!" He shouted.

But Mrs. Hudson ignored Sherlock's bellow and John's laughter as she clung to him.

"John, you're far too thin. Why a stiff wind could blow you over. Weren't they feeding you there?"

"I admit I didn't have much in the way of an appetite." He said rubbing her back gently.

"Well, you have to eat something!"

"Actually, I was making breakfast, blueberry pancakes. Why don't you join us?"

"You're cooking?" She asked incredulously.

"I cook." he said taking mock offense.

"If you say so, dear. But I should unpack-"

"Unpack later. Have breakfast with us now." John insisted. "I've missed you."

They had a leisurely breakfast and when John wasn't just watching Sherlock dip his pancakes in little pools of honey, he was listening to Mrs. Hudson excitedly prattle on about her holiday in Ibiza. John had doubled the recipe and kept the pancakes coming until they both begged for mercy. He sent her back to her flat with a stack to place in the fridge.

"Those were extraordinary. Thank you, John." Sherlock said.

"You're welcome." He replied taking their dirty dishes to the sink.

"I'll do the washing up."

"I don't think those words have ever come out of your mouth before." John teased him.

"Then you'd best take me up on it now, hadn't you?"

"No, please, I'd like to. We had a list of rotating chores at rehab. It made me intolerant of idle time. I'd like to keep busy, at least for now. Is that ok?"

Sherlock had come to stand at his side as he filled the sink with hot, soapy water.

"As you wish."

John turned his head and their lips met easily, as though they'd been doing this from their first day together.

"Mānuka, by the way."

"Beg pardon?" Sherlock asked as he settled his hand on the small of John's back.

"The type of honey. Mānuka. It's from Austrailia and New Zealand."

"Well, it was delicious. Both on the pancakes and on your finger."

"Liked that, did we?" John asked feeling a bit smug.

"I see your waistline may have unnecessarily shrunk while your ego was equally and unnecessarily made larger," Sherlock replied heading to his chair. "You already know I liked it quite a lot.

"Enough chatter. Find us a case, you."

"Are you sure you're ready?" Sherlock said reaching for his laptop.

"As I said, I can't stand idle."

Clearly needing no further encouragement Sherlock went to work as John continued the task at hand.

He washed the dishes.

He rinsed the dishes.

He dried the dishes and drained the water.

And through it all Sherlock didn't so much as make a sound.

Finally, tea towel in hand John made his way to his own chair.

"Nothing, in all this time? You haven't said a word."

Sherlock glanced up and back at the screen.

"Just a lot of nonsense. I've mostly been deleting."

"I could help." He offered and suddenly felt exposed. It had been awhile. Perhaps Sherlock didn't trust his judgment or for him to take the lead anymore. "If you wanted. If...you hadn't changed your password or anything."

"Why would I change my password?"

"I don't know." John said with a noncommittal shrug. "Want me to get on my computer? Help you sort?"

"No, no that's not necessary." He replied and John tried to push down any twinges of hurt. "I was thinking you need your own account. People should be able to contact us both. I have a feeling you might get a different sort of mail than I."

John was more than a little surprised. Sherlock had never been short or cruel about the website he'd simply been...well...Sherlock. Though they linked to one another's there was a clear line of delineation between his blog and The Science of Deduction. This...well this was a big step.

"You're going to add me to the site?"

"No, you're going to add you to the site. I can't be arsed. Phrase it however you like. And add your blog link back as well. I'm sorry I..." He trailed off.

"No, it's alright. I understand," he added quickly. "I wanted you to."

"I'll set up an email for you. You might want to consider getting a Twitter account as well. People have their own ways that they like to get in touch. Some of the more annoying ones like to tweet. Though I have managed to glean a few good cases from private messages."

"Yeah, sure I'll get on that."

"Nothing flashy. Just your name will do. Once you choose it, follow me and I'll do the same."

"Right."

John reached for his laptop and fired it up. It hadn't been turned on in months and immediately reminded him there were an obscene amount of security updates due. He authorized them all and used the time to surreptitiously eye his boyfriend. His hair which had been wet when he'd left the shower had now dried itself into perfect curls. He was drumming his fingers in rhythm on the arm of his chair. There was the small crease of his forehead as he read the information on his screen. His long legs were crossed, one over the other, his body stretched long and lean.

John pulled his attention away for a few moments and created the Twitter account as requested. Within seconds he had located and followed Sherlock, who immediately followed back. That brought the number of people Sherlock was following on Twitter to a grand total of 1.

"Now, close your DM's." Sherlock instructed.

"Why? I thought that was the point. So people could reach both of us." John asked in confusion.

"It is but...I think they should stay closed for now. For awhile at least. For the time being, I'd like you to lock the account. That way you can screen the people who are allowed to follow you."

"Ok, what's going on?"

Sherlock looked up and John could tell he was debating what to say.

"Upon hearing of your return, there may be...undue attention. I feel the best way to mitigate this is to introduce you back slowly."

John flashbacked to the press coverage following his aborted suicide attempt. The harassment of his friends, Sherlock's name dragged through the mud, the press surrounding his home and Baker Street. Then his own feelings today at the meeting.

"Do you really think people will care? I mean, I saw the red tops this morning at Tesco. There are much more salacious stories going on than a second fiddle returning from a dry out."

"John," Sherlock's eyes darted away from him momentarily and then back again. "There have already been rather cruel things said. Things I'm glad you were shielded from. I'd like to keep it that way."

"You want to protect me." John stated rather than asked. He suddenly felt that wave again, that overwhelming crest of affection for this man. And the delightful thing was, it wasn't new. It was old, just as Sherlock's desire to protect him was old. He'd always been like this. They'd always been like this. This is who they were at their core, they only had to build on it.

"It's just not conducive to the work." Sherlock dismissed with a wave of his hand.

"Alright." He said deciding not to push it for now. "Locking down DM's and the account as a whole."

"Thank you."

"Speaking of work, I thought today was your day off?"

"This sounds interesting. I keep seeing my husband on Instagram but he's been dead for five years. I tried to message him but he blocked me."

"Sherlock?"

"I think I have a secret twin my mother never told me about."

"It's never twins." John replied with a smile. "Sherlock?"

"Dear Mr. Holmes, are you seeing this? I fear I may be a ghost. No one ever notices me-"

"You're making these up!"

Sherlock laughed and shut his laptop.

"Not the first two, and I've already replied to them. But, yes, the last one was fictional. So, what do you want to do? You are correct, I promised you this day."

"Well, I did have a few questions." John stood from the chair. He wanted to be moving through this conversation and it afforded him the perfect excuse to get more tea. John motioned toward the kettle to see if Sherlock wanted some as well but he waved him off. "Do you...want to announce it? Not just you, I mean, you and me. Do you want us to announce it jointly, together?"

"That we're together? I have no objection to that."

"Oh, great. Good." John said trying to not grin like too much of an idiot. "Um, what about kissing? Are you ok with kissing in public? Just affection in general."

"I don't exactly enjoy being on display, John, but if the need arises."

"If...the need arises?" What once might have made him bristle now just made him laugh.

Sherlock paused.

"Am I being rude?" He asked wincing slightly.

"No, you're being Sherlock. I just didn't want to grab your chin and plant a kiss on you outside of Speedy's if you didn't want me to. I mean, I'm not going to be shoving my tongue down your throat at every crosswalk but, I just wanted to know "

"I wouldn't see an issue with that. The kissing, I mean, not the shoving your tongue down...well, you know what I mean. My point is, I'm not as prudish as you imagine me to be, John."

"I don't think you're a prude. I think you're private, like me. But I also don't think you've been in a relationship before and it's always a good idea to lay down boundaries and ground rules."

"Very well. I have some ground rules and boundaries of my own. The first was about sharing my bedroom which we've already covered. The second, with your permission, I would like to amend my will to ensure that in the event of my death all that I have goes to you. Number three-"

"How many numbers are there?" John teased as he watched Sherlock with adoration so blatant and naked he couldn't hide it. He didn't like talking about his death much less thinking about it so he put it aside. Far aside.

"Number three," He said ignoring him. "When we do make love I believe we should take turns to figure out who prefers which position. I would like to try out both topping and bottoming unless you already have a choice. Or, if perhaps you have some sort of internalized homophobia maybe you have an objection to being penetrated."

John coughed at Sherlock's bluntness before responding.

"I...no, I don't have any problem with trying out both."

"Good." Sherlock nodded. "Number 4 it's always been rather uneven with regard to who makes the tea. You've borne the brunt of it. I intend to pull my own weight."

"Your tea weight?"

"Yes. Well, with more than just tea. Think of tea as a metaphor if it helps you."

"Ok, anything else?" John said as he sat down with a fresh cuppa. "So far we've gone over sleeping arrangments and by the way, I'd love the idea of sharing your room and bed. Our room, our bed. Your will and by extension your death which you know I can't bear discussing. But yes, you have my permission. Metaphorical tea making and the duties that surround it which, by the way, I am fine dividing. And versatility in our lovemaking. All of which I've agreed to. Is this a complete list?"

"The list will be added to as need be as I imagine so will yours."

John relaxed his body, slumping in his seat so he could extend his legs far enough to rest his feet on Sherlock's chair.

"I'm happy, love."

Sherlock dropped his hand to squeeze John's foot affectionately and leave it there.

"I know. So am I." he said a smile playing on his lips. "So, what shall we do now?'

"Want to go back to bed and snog?"

"You're proposing that we get back into bed and kiss until it's time to leave so they can prep for the party?" Sherlock said with a disbelieving shake of his head.

"I am, indeed." John said nodding.

"Works for me." He answered bounding out of his chair with customary grace.

They found themselves back in bed only moments later

Sometimes to John, it felt like he was collecting as well as delivering on every hug, every touch that he eschewed or banked or bookmarked over their years together. Every new caress at this point was a collection on an IOU they gave each other from that first meeting in the lab arranged by Mike. 

I owe you a brush of my lips against your ear. 

I owe you fingers entwined. 

I owe you a warm circling of my hand on the small of your back as we hug.

I owe you. 

His need to touch Sherlock, to be touched, to have him close was overwhelming and so they fell back into the comfort of soft touches and conversations and voices and kisses. They were neither platonic nor lusty instead settling somewhere in between. They were just them.

And the safety of Baker Street was whittled down to the expanse of their bedroom, their bed and promises fulfilled and promises owed.

A/N Hoping to get another chapter out before the weekend is over. I was on vacation this week so I had a lot of time to think about where this needs to go. Hope you're still enjoying it!

Chapter Text

"I thought the rest of you was just transport. Since when does the transport have a preference for where we eat?" John asked.

Sherlock had given the cabbie an address for a restaurant that was unusually out of the way. John wasn't complaining. A card ride with Sherlock suited him fine. It was just...strange.

"I thought we could try some place new. It's lighter fare than we're accustomed to but the pancakes were quite filling."

His answer satisfied John who was always up for trying something new.

When they arrived, just from the way it looked outside, John decided he might like the place.

The restaurant was small, intimate and not at all busy. The hostess was young and bored and didn't seem to recognize either one of them which was definitely a plus.

As they were seated John noticed the stricken look on Sherlock's face.

"What is it?" He asked quickly.

"I wasn't thinking, I apologize."

"For what?" He asked as the waitress came up.

"Hi, I'm Pauline, welcome to Rustic. Could I interest you in some starters?"

"Uh, yes thank you." John said with a smile as she set two menus down in front of them.

"And if you'd like to peruse our wine list. We have a special today, a 1981-"

"No, no wine. Thank you." Sherlock said quickly.

Oh, that was why he was upset.

Pauline looked confused at having been so summarily dismissed and John immediately apologized on his boyfriend's behalf.

"Sorry about that. Can we get back to you?"

"Of course, sir." She said before heading off.

Sherlock had busied himself with looking at the menu avoiding eye contact.

"Sherlock, you can order a glass of wine if like."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"I'm not. Look, your issues are very specific. In fact, I don't believe you've ever really strayed from..." he left the space after from blank not really seeing any need to fill in heroin. A thought did, however, occur to him. They'd never really talked about whatever else Sherlock had tried or been keen on. Cigarettes and smack. That was all he knew. He should ask. They should talk about this. But obviously not here.

“I just don’t think you should be punished for my troubles.”

"And I would think you would have the decency not to shoot up in front of me even if you were so inclined. I intend to show the same courtesy. I don't need a drink. John."

"Alright, I'm just...there's not going to be many places we can go in London or the world at large where they don't serve alcohol. I'm going to have to get used to it, you know?"

"Perhaps," Sherlock said lowering the menu. "But you don't have to get used to it from me."

It was touching. Really it was but something about Sherlock having to shoulder this weight made John uneasy. In all their years together he'd seen his boyfriend enjoy wine, typically with his brother and they'd all downed a beer or two. But the only time John had ever seen him drunk was on his stag night and that had been purposeful in a way. Just getting absolutely munted for the fun of it. All the more reason he hated the idea that Sherlock felt the need to go dry. It was terribly sweet, though.

"Thank you, love." He said quietly.

"No thank you required, John."

They ordered a light snack of cheese, crackers, bread and fizzy drinks and just talked, chatted, relaxed. John felt like a free man breathing free air on the verge of something new.

At some point when Sherlock excused himself to head to the loo John took out his phone. No messages or missed calls but he did notice an alert from Twitter. Pulling up the app he saw that he had no less than 700 follow requests.

He stared at the number and refreshed the page to make sure it wasn't a mistake. When Sherlock returned to the table he showed him the screen.

"Can you believe that? It's only been four hours." He asked with disbelief.

Sherlock looked momentarily troubled but not surprised in the slightest.

"As I assumed. They were alerted when I followed you." He sighed heavily and pushed his plate away. "Things may intensify now, at least for awhile. I think you should prepare yourself as much as possible. The countdown has begun."

"You know...I did feel as though people were watching me at the meeting."

Sherlock leaned forward.

"Watching you?"

"Yeah, like, they knew who I was. It seemed familiar. It was that way at The Location for the first few days."

"Really?"

"Yeah, trust me, I was just as surprised as you are but apparently I'm just a bit well known. It was...unnerving but after awhile it faded. I truly hope this will too."

"If I know anything about the cycles of the press and human nature, in general, it will. But it will take some time. John, if there's anything I can-"

"No, no really I'm fine. I'm not going to let this curtail my life or my plans. I got clean so I could live and that's what I'm going to do. It's just going to be uncomfortable for awhile, I suppose. I mean, what's the worst that could happen?"

Sherlock nodded but didn't say anything.

"Do I have to approve these people one by one?" John said with an irritated gesture to his phone.

"Take your time, there's no rush. I can do it for you, some of the names will likely be familiar to me. Or, we can simply wait a few weeks, and open up your account to the public eliminating the need."

"Ok, I won't worry about it now." Glancing at the time on his mobile he saw it was nearing 5pm. "I guess we should be getting back. It's nearly time."

"Right. I'm to text them twice. Once to let them all know we on our way and the second time to alert them as to when we arrive at Baker Street. Nervous?"

John reached for his wallet to pay the check but Sherlock waved him away with a hand gesture and the former relented. They'd need to talk about finances at some point.

"Suddenly, yeah, I'm not exactly eager to be put on display. Paraded about. They have every right to judge me for what I've done and I'm...well I feel as though I'm about to pay the piper."

Sherlock paid the check and they rose to exit the restaurant.

"I can assure you this isn't an ambush, John. It will only be attended by a few friends all with the best of intentions. I'd be feeling the same way were it me. But we'll grin and bear it together and know they mean well no matter what they might say."

"I couldn't manage it without you," John replied as they hailed a cab.

"You could," Sherlock said. "But you won't have to."

Sherlock sent the second text as the cab idled in front of the building.

"They'll be assembling now. Hiding behind our chairs I imagine for a pop-out. Try and look surprised."

"How's this?" John teased as he pretended to practice the look for him.

"Dismal. I'm sure they'll love it." Sherlock replied dryly. "Come on, once more unto the breach."

"We few, we happy few."

When they arrived in the flat some of the guests seemed confused as to whether or not it was a true surprise party. Some of them hid, some didn't. But either way, they all greeted John with sincere smiles and he was surprised overwhelmed with how happy, truly happy they all seemed to be to see him.

There was Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Mike, Janine, and Molly. That was all, mercifully because John honestly wasn't sure he could handle more. Whether she should have been or not he was relieved his sister hadn't shown.

"She phoned earlier while you were at your meeting, said she was sorry but she couldn't make it. She promised to set something up with your later on in the week." Sherlock had told him quickly as he'd scanned the room.

There was cake, biscuits, punch, streamers, balloons and a banner that said "Welcome Home!". It was actually quite lovely and he felt a tightness in his throat as he looked at the faces of all the people he'd, in varying ways, wronged. And yet for some reason, they were all still there for him.

He wasn't sure how to approach them, how to enter their group and thankfully they all came to him.

Janine was first, she walked over, touched his arm and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

"Welcome home, John."

"Thank you, Janine and thank you for being here."

"Were you surprised?" She whispered.

"Oh yes, absolutely." He said with a quick nod of his head.

"You're a terrible liar." She laughed and this time gave his arm a squeeze. "You look handsome and healthy. If there's ever anything I can do..."

"Yeah, actually there is. Can we talk just a little bit later? There are just some things I'd like to say to you. Won't take more than a few minutes."

He'd meant to write her a letter. He owed that to her and to Greg as well but things had just gotten away from him.

"Of course. Just let me know when."

John noted she'd dressed up for the occasion which was both unnecessary and absolutely lovely. He also noted this was the time his brain chose to remind him of all the things Sherlock told him the two of them had done. All the ways his partner has touched her body and all the ways she'd responded and-

Not the right time, John, really not the right time.

He smiled again at Janine as she turned to walk away and caught Sherlock's eye in the process. To his surprise, his boyfriend, ever the mind reader, was looking at him with amusement. It was now his turn to blush and he quickly glanced away but not before chuckling softly.

Mrs. Hudson hugged him somehow still overcome with emotion despite them having had their initial greeting earlier. He embraced her tightly just the same and thanked her for such a lovely surprise.

Mike was next and he gave him an awkward hug. John thanked him for coming but sensed there was something more.

"You alright, mate?" he asked.

"Am I...? Yeah, I'm fine, I just..."

"Mike, what is it?" He asked quietly as he pulled his friend aside. It was unusual to see him upset, it just wasn't his nature and John wondered if there was something else going on.

"I feel as though this is my fault."

"Your fault?"

"Yeah, I mean I was always inviting you out for a pint, getting us drunk. I wasn't there like I should have been after you lost Mary-

"No, Mike, no. This isn't about you or anybody. Just me. Look at me, I'm glad you're here, ok. And...honestly, I wanted to apologize to you. I know we had a run in or two when I was in the middle of one of my multiple benders. I wanted to apologize to you directly. My behavior was unacceptable and I put you in positions I shouldn't have. I worried you and added extra stress to your life and I'm sorry. I'd like to make amends for that and I hope you'll forgive me."

To John's surprise, Mike started to tear up. He hadn't known his friend to be the overly emotional sort but he pulled John into a sudden rough hug and mumbled his acceptance of the apology against his ear.

John felt both grateful and slightly uncomfortable at the display. Everyone was watching. Everyone was listening. But still, he had known this was coming and this was the least he owed them.

Mike eventually pulled back, rubbing at his eyes.

"I'm going to get some cake." He said with a hint of embarrassment.

"Good plan, mate."

Sherlock, perhaps sensing he was already in need of a breather came over with a slice of cake and cup of punch.

"Thanks."

"You look as though you could use it."

"I've been trying to catch Greg's eye but I think he's purposefully avoiding me. I mean I can't blame him."

"He'll come round. Corner him if you have to." He advised.

"That seems a bit mean."

"Not mean, just forceful. I like everyone in this room but my true allegiance is to you. Speaking with him and finding a resolution would make you feel better which is my primary concern. I'll drag him over here if need be."

"You know, you'd make a very interesting addiction counselor."

"I missed my calling." Sherlock said with a smile.

John was just about to reply when the front door swung open.

"So sorry we're late! Hopefully not too late!"

Everyone, John included turned their attention to the group that was entering.

In came Harry, loaded down with two, colorful canvas bags like Mary used to carry in those early days when the two of them and Rosie ventured out. Behind her was Clara with bags of her own on both shoulders as both her hands were full. A stroller was held awkwardly under one arm...and his daughter was in the other.

John looked to Sherlock who appeared just as surprised as he was.

"I thought-" John began.

"I was able to move some things around and get here anyway." Harry said answering the question John had only actually started to pose quietly to Sherlock. She quickly put the items she was carrying down and hurried over to him wrapping him in an embrace. "Johnny, it is so good to see you. You look amazing. "

He embraced his sister in kind but was still lost in a daze.

He usually had to go through some preparation to see her. It was as close to meditation and centering as he got and in the past, it had involved a good deal of wine. He hadn't gotten that opportunity this time and he was suddenly and sorely missing it. But as surprising as her presence was his eyes were riveted to Rosie.

But as surprising as Harry's presence was his eyes were riveted to Rosie.

She'd grown, as children were wont to do whether they were with their parents or not. She was wearing the smallest jeans he'd ever seen and a little t-shirt with an elephant on the front. She was all fat legs and arms and round, pink cheeks. She looked healthy and happy. 

When she was born her hair was wispy and blonde, as his had been as a little boy. As she got older it had grown a little chestnut in colour and he remembered laughing with Mary as they put silly bows in the silky, sparse tufts.

But now...now it was dark. Dark brown perhaps darker than that, edging toward black. His father had had dark hair, nearly black as well. And he was never sure what color Mary's hair really was. She'd liked blonde so much and he liked the look of it on her so she'd kept it. She looked like Mary, he could see her features written all over that tiny face.

She looked like Mary, he could see her features written all over that tiny face. The eyes, the little chin. He didn't see himself but that was alright.

She was 15 months old. 15 months old and she was lovely and he told Harry so.

"I know, right? Gorgeous little creature and smart as a whip. Come see her." She said tugging him forward.

He allowed her to pull him but a crowd had already formed. Janine and Mrs. Hudson were cooing and Greg and Mike were leaning in with interest. Only Sherlock stood back. Well, that was natural, of course, he didn't really care for children.

Rosie seemed cheerful, at first but after awhile she started to squirm in Clara's arms. John imagined she was getting over stimulated at all the focus and attention. She shifted her from one side to another but the toddler wouldn't be fooled. John watched as her face scrunched and she tried to rise higher, trying to use Clara's shoulder as leverage. Rosie started to whine and everyone grinned at the small tantrum. John wanted to hold her and wondered if she'd allow such a thing. Probably not.

"No...nononono!" She complained and they all, John included, laughed.

"Sorry, I think she's due for a nap." Clara said apologetically.

Rosie gave a shout and then held out her arms reaching for something.

"Easy, my love." Clara said. "I'll put you down. One second."

Then, just as clear as day John heard his daughter mournfully cry out; "Sherlock!"

John turned his head swiftly to his partner who didn't look at all surprised by the exclamation. He did, however, look a bit embarrassed.

"Well go on then, she's calling for you. Didn't know why you were standing in the back like a stranger." Harry encouraged.

At that John couldn't decide where to look, his sister, his daughter or his boyfriend.

Pressing his lips together, Sherlock advanced toward Rosie as the crowd parted.

She squealed as he approached and they both reached out to one another.

"Hello Honey Bee!" He said with a broad smile as he took her from Clara's hold. The little girl wrapped chubby arms around his neck, smushing her face against his. He chuckled and squeezed her in return patting her before rubbing small, gentle circles on her small back.

John was undone. He looked to everyone else and found their faces just as surprised as his.

"Close your mouth, John, you'll let in flies." Harry said loudly.

"She knows him." John said incredulously.

"Of course she knows him. She's seen him every week of her life. I don't think he's missed one Saturday. Even when he couldn't be there in person he Skyped her. John, I sent you the pictures."

"Pictures?" He asked but even as he was speaking he remembered. The letter she'd sent. The pictures she'd put in a seperate envelope. The envelope he'd never opened.

And that line she'd written! The line he'd thought was odd even then.

"I'm not supposed to say anything but you've got really good friends."

Rosie was in the midst of babbling something incomprehensible to Sherlock to which he nodded too very seriously.

"Oh, she made you this." Harry said handing Sherlock a piece of paper that was scrawled with crayon. "She says it's a mystery map, at least that's what I think she was trying to say. She drew it right after you read her that story."

Rosie immediately began telling him a long and complicated tale about the "map" and John again watched as Sherlock paid rapt attention. When she was done he smiled at her. In fact, he hadn't really stopped smiling at her.

"Excellent, Rosie, this will be of immeasurable help! We'll crack this case yet!"

She beamed understanding if not his words then his tone.

"She absolutely adores him." Clara said coming over to them. John leaned in and gave her a hug and kiss on the cheek but his eyes remained on Sherlock who was now sitting cross-legged on the ground with Rosie on his lap.

"If everyone could stop staring at us right now that would be absolutely lovely." He said to the other party goers. His tone was sweet because of the little girl present but no one missed the irritation. "Either join in on Baa Baa Black Sheep or disperse."

"There are nights where she throws an absolute tantrum if she hasn't heard from him." Clara continued.

"And sometimes his violin is the only way we can get her down," Harry added. "She's quite spoiled."

"John, you look wonderful," Clara said softly as she touched his arm.

"Yes, um, thanks. Just taking it one day and time, you know" He answered trying not to be distracted.

"90 days is impressive. I didn't manage 90 days my first time." Harry said and Clara cleared her throat. "Oh, I didn't mean to imply you were going to have more than one go round. This time will likely stick."

"What?" he asked absentmindedly. He'd just heard Sherlock says "Yes, it's a very pretty dress which is why- Clara? Nappy, please?"

"Again? You're like a broken faucet little miss." She said to Rosie as she searched through one of her many bags. When she came up with one she started walking toward them both but Sherlock was already on his feet with Rosie in his arms.

"No, I can handle it. Please avail yourself of some refreshments." He took the diaper, wipes and a disposable bag from her hands and finally made eye contact with John.

"John, would you care to join us?"

"Um...yes, yes of course."

Sherlock nodded and took off in the direction of their bedroom with John close behind.

Once inside John shut the door.

Sherlock sat on the bed and sat Rosie down at his side. Insulted and unsatisfied with that she immediately climbed into his lap.

"Do you...need help?" John asked unsure of what exactly to say.

"Hmm? Oh no, she's fine. She doesn't need a change I just wanted a chance for us to talk. Are you cross with me?" He watched as Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly, a telltale sign that he was worried and under stress.

John searched his feelings, trying to sort them out properly. Cross wasn't the right word. Surprised, yes. Bewildered, yes. Perhaps a bit hurt, of course. Jealous? Unbelievably so. But not cross.

"No...I'm not cross with you. But why didn't you tell me?"

"I was going to. When Harry initially told me she wasn't going to show I figured I had more time to ease you into it. I didn't want it to blow up in your face like this."

"And you've been seeing her, every week? You've been going to my sisters every week and visiting her, playing with her, playing your violin?"

"I missed a few weeks here and there but I tried to stay consistent. Children need constancy." 

John leaned back against the bedroom wall and took in the view before him. His boyfriend was holding his daughter in his lap with the practiced care of a parent. She was busying herself with the button and buttonhole on the sleeve of his shirt. She looked drowsy, relaxed and content. She was obviously completely used to Sherlock, she trusted him, she knew he wouldn't hurt her or leave her.

"Sherlock, and I don't mean this as rude as it may come out, but I'm really struggling with phrasing right now. But why did you do this? To what end?"

"Can you open the third drawer in my cupboard?" Sherlock said in reply.

"What?"

"My cupboard. Third drawer. There's something in there I'd like you to get out for me."

"Ok." John scoffed before doing as he was asked. He opened the drawer and saw a small gift wrapped box. The paper was green with little cartoon tortoises on it and it was tied with a yellow bow.

"That's it. Can you bring it over and sit next to us on the bed, please."

Again John did as requested and noted that Rosie was watching him but mostly the package with interest.

"What is this?" John asked.

Sherlock, like a professional dad, placed both hands over Rosie's ears before speaking.

"Open it for her, slowly, she can't manage it herself. Then take out the toy inside. It's not accurate or to scale but I doubt she'll mind. But first show her the wrapping paper. We're trying to get her to know her animals."

John swallowed, suddenly nervous as Sherlock removed his hands from her ears and pitched Rosie forward a bit to watch.

"Hello Rosie," John began. "Here's a present for you. Do you know what this animal is?" He asked pointing to the cartoon creature on the box.

"Turtle." She said clearly.

"Excellent, Rosie." Sherlock said with a smile. "Though it is technically a tortoise. But we'll work on that."

"Yes, very good. That's a turtle." John said brightly. "Shall we open it and see what's inside?"

She nodded and he started to slowly tug apart the bow. Once it was free he lifted the lid off the box and looked inside as curiously as she did.

Sitting among the green tissue paper was a stuffed toy bee. It was fat and fluffy with a ridiculous smile on its face. He took it out of the box and she gasped as her face lit up.

"Look there's Daddy and what's he got for you? Why it's your own bumble bee." Sherlock said and while John internally started at the sudden use of the word "Daddy" neither of them reacted outwardly.

"Bumbly." She in reply.

"That's right, bumble bee or Bumbly, if you like." Sherlock agreed. Both men beamed as she hugged it close.

"Do you like him?" Sherlock asked and she nodded in reply. "And who gave that to you? Who is that?" He said pointing at John who suddenly felt trapped and inadequate in the unexpected spotlight. "Who is that? Remember the pictures I've shown you? Who is that Rosie?"

She peered at him, in a way for the first time and he watched her eyes sweep over his features, thinking and thinking some more.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, that's right, that's Daddy!" Sherlock said giving her a big kiss. She laughed at the kiss and leaned back firmly against Sherlock.

John's breath caught in his throat to hear that. To hear his daughter express that word and to see her being held in the arms of the man he loved.

"And what do we say to Daddy for the nice present? Do we say; Thank you, Daddy?"

"Thank you, Daddy." She said softly and John swallowed hard in an effort not to burst into tears.

"Very well done, Honey Bee, very well done. Can Daddy hold you for awhile?" Sherlock asked softly but she made a negative sound and buried her face against his chest. Sherlock smiled apologetically at John who had his arms raised to take her but now let them fall at his sides. "It might take a bit of time. I'm sorry, John." He then kissed Rosie atop the crown of her head. "We'll work up to that, won't we, Rose of my world?" John heard him say in a whisper.

John just sat there, breathing in and out. It was the best he could do. Just breathe and try not to let himself get swept away by a wave of confusing emotions.

Rosie didn't seem to mind the silence as she was totally engrossed with talking and singing to Bumbly. They watched her, smiling as she gradually and inevitably fell asleep in Sherlock's arms.

"John?" He asked softly. "Are you alright?"

"I need..." he began but then restarted. "I wish...there was time to process this. I wish there weren't so many bloody people out there waiting for us to come back. I wish we could just freeze this moment and be in it for awhile, you know?"

"I know. But...this doesn't have to be a one time only thing. This is your daughter."

John shook his head. At the moment she felt like anything but and he felt lower than mud, not even worthy of touching her.

"To answer your question, that's why I did it. These lines that bind us together as humans... there a curious combination of fragile and tensile strength. But it needs to be fortified. You couldn't be there to maintain this tie. I wanted to be there in your stead. You shake your head but yes, she is. She is yours. And I have made certain that Harry and Clara will not put up a fight when you decide to be her father again. I made sure every visit that she saw your picture, heard your name, knew who you were and knew that she had a father who was coming for her. "

"Sherlock enough." he rasped more harshly than he intended but he needed him to stop. "I am one day out of rehab. One. I can't care for a toddler. I'm a stranger. I bribed her with a toy bee that you were smart enough to buy. That's not Daddy. That's a friendly distant stranger she'd never even miss."

"Listen to me." Sherlock said his voice low and full of force. "This will take work. Hard work, ego-crushing and heart bruising work. But I have never known you to run away from something hard and there isn't a fiber of my being that tells me you will walk away from your daughter now. I am not proposing that we immediately move her into the flat. But I am proposing from this day, day one you start considering what's of value to you. I already know that I count as one of those things. It's time to start letting her know as well."

He wasn't used to Sherlock ordering him in this fashion, not as far as personal matters went, but he didn't balk. He might have been anger but it was anger born out of a confidence he had in him. A confidence John was certain he hadn't earned. But then again, it was day one and he didn't want to let his boyfriend or anyone else down.

"Ok, you're right. Ok."

"Good." Sherlock said and carefully shifting the baby in his lap he leaned forward to kiss John on the lips.

It was a good, centering, gentle kiss. It was just what he needed.

"Now she really does require a change." Sherlock said with a smile.

"So, do you need some help?" John asked as Sherlock stood, grabbed a towel and laid her on the bed.

"No, she usually sleeps right through." he replied and as though he did it every day went about the quick work of changing Rosie's nappy.

"I think...when we get back out there I just want to say it. I want to thank them for coming and say it."

"However you like, John. You have my support."

John grabbed for the bag with the dirty nappy while Sherlock held Rosie securely against his chest. Before John opened the door he slid his hand around Sherlock's waist pulling him in for another kiss.

"Thank you."

"I say this with all sincerity," he began as he looked down at the sleeping child in his arms. "It was my pleasure."

They exited the room and made a quick stop in the loo to toss the bag, they take it out with the party rubbish soon, and wash their hands. This required an exchange of Rosie and after John was done it was his turn to hold her. She was heavier than he remembered, of course, but she smelled the same. John pressed his nose against her crown and inhaled, closing his eyes. God, it was wonderful and he desperately hoped she'd sleep a little longer so he wouldn't have to let her go.

"We forgot Bumbly." Sherlock said suddenly as they exited the loo. He headed back to the bedroom while John rejoined their friends. There was a chorus of "Oh's!" and soft smiles at the sight of him holding Rosie and he couldn't help but smile in return.

"Thanks, everyone, thank you. Um, I-"

"You can talk louder, John. She sleeps like the dead. No need to tip-toe, trust me." Harry said at a normal volume and John supposed he should, indeed, trust her.

"Ok, well, um, I just wanted to say a few words. First of all, thank you for coming, all of you. After Mary died-"

He paused again as Sherlock returned, stuffed bee in hand and came to stand next to him, right at his side. It renewed his confidence and he continued, his voice stronger.

"After Mary died, I was lost. And more importantly, I wanted to get even more lost and stay that way. I won't pretend that I didn't want to destroy things, things I'd built up for myself in this life. Things I'd accomplished." he glanced down at Rosie who was breathing stuffily through her nose as babies tended to do, still fast asleep. "Things I'd lovingly made. I wanted to bring it all crashing down and then I wanted to exit, stage left. I didn't want any more of this or any more of any of you. But none of you would give up. None of you would take no, or please leave or fuck off for an answer. You called and you visited and you helped and listened and you comforted and one of you even had me briefly committed."

Molly gave an embarrassed sort of laugh followed by a smile.

"You saw me at my lowest and my worst, my most arsehole and my absolute best self-destructive. And no matter what image of me I put before you, you always remembered the John Watson that I was, that I used to be, that I wanted to be and would like to be again. That was unexpected and undeserved on my part. I cannot ever thank you enough and I cannot ever hope to repay the kindness and the forgiveness you have all displayed for me. I am so sorry for the turmoil and the damage I inflicted, for the awful worry and hurt I placed right in the center of your lives with my alcoholism. Because, yes, I can say it now, my name is John and I am an alcoholic. I've spoken to some of you privately and I intend to have a conversation with you all because you deserve my heartfelt apology and my promise to make amends. I don't..."

He took a deep breath and held Rosie a little closer knowing there was no amount of steadying that would keep his voice from breaking.

"I don't deserve your kindness or forgiveness and whether you extended it for my benefit, for Mary's memory or because of Rosie I thank you, my friends, I thank you and I promise I will do my best to not let you down."

He sniffled and swallowed hard.

"Thank you for this party and thank you for still wanting to be a part of my life."

He nodded his head to signal the conclusion of that part and they broke into soft but enthusiastic applause. Rosie sighed against his chest but otherwise seemed completely unbothered.

"Oh and there is one more thing," he said turning his head to glance at his boyfriend. This was it, this was the moment. He met Sherlock's gaze just for a final confirmation before proceeding. Looking confident, at ease and even proud he nodded shortly to get John to continue.

"Finally, something else has come of this. Something a long time coming. Something wonderful and that I don't feel at all worthy of but something I'm going to treasure. Sherlock and I are...giving it a go. We're together." He reached for Sherlock's hand and linked their fingers. "Together-together. Some of you may be surprised, some of you may be thinking it's about time. But in any case, I think it's only right you should all know."

There was silence, complete silence but John only gripped Sherlock's hand harder.

Finally, it was Greg who got things going again.

"Anderson owes me 20 quid." He said with a grin. "So, how-

"No, we'll not be taking questions at this time," Sherlock said briskly. "But we thank you for your interest. Isn't it time for more cake?"

"Well count me amongst the 'it took long enough' crowd. Why do you think I suggested you two as flatmates in the first place?" Mike said cheerfully.

"Wait...what?" John asked turning his face toward him.

"Do you really think, in all of London, you two were the only ones I knew looking for a flatshare? Everyone was looking for a flatshare. I told five people I didn't know of anything but I'd keep an eye out just to get you two together. Last time I play matchmaker, I don't have this kind of patience."

John and Sherlock shared a surprised look but didn't say anything. Mike Stamford was the last person they expected to be running a long game like some sort of romantic genius.

"You're not also a secret criminal mastermind are you?" John asked with amusement.

"With the time it takes you both to come to a realization you'll never know." He quipped.

John spared a glance at Janine who didn't look as confused as one might expect. When she met John's eyes she gave him a wry smile and raised her glass in 'Cheers'.

He was less eager to look in Molly's direction but when he did was surprised to see her perfectly calm, at ease, at peace and perhaps even happy for them. He knew that Sherlock had purposefully set out to meet with her after all that had happened with Eurus. Before John had gotten bad, really bad, he remembered Sherlock telling him he'd be gone for a bit. When he returned hours later he would only say he'd been to see Molly and things were finally, once and for all sorted. He imagined they'd had a long, painful discussion but perhaps they were for once truthful with each other. He knew what it was to pine for Sherlock. He hoped, not at all glibly, that she could move on.

"Boy's closer together so I can get a picture." Mrs. Hudson demanded and John, without thinking and also without apology again slipped his arm around Sherlock's waist. Mrs. Hudson proceeded to take several pictures of John, Sherlock and baby Rosie of which likely only one turned out.

Conversations started to rise again and John went to sit down on the sofa signaling with his head for Greg to follow.

They finally had the talk John had meant them to have. He apologized for the ghastly things he'd said and the accusation he'd hurled at him regarding Mary's death.

"It wasn't your fault, Greg and I'm sorry for saying it was."

"It's forgotten, mate. Totally forgotten," he said and they embraced around Rosie.

He next had a heart to heart with Janine which was surprisingly not-awkward given the announcement he'd just made. With Rosie in his arms, he told her about how he knew he was pawning his daughter off on her. How he hadn't had food poisoning at all that night, but rather had gotten embarrassingly drunk instead. Except he hadn't been embarrassed at the time. That and a thousand other transgressions She too forgave him and he felt awash with relief.

Sherlock came over after a while and brought him both Bumbly and another slice of cake as he'd never eaten the first.

"You alright?" he asked quietly.

"Yeah, things are going well I think."

"I'm glad." And to John's surprise he leaned in and kissed him, a gesture John happily returned. His boyfriend pulled back with a twinkle in his eye.

As Sherlock retreated Harry came and plopped down at John's side.

"I know what you're going to say..." He began but she held up her hands to stop him.

"What am I going to say? I'm not going to say anything."

"You're going to say that you knew it all along and it runs in the family and God knows what else."

"John, you're such a cynic. Maybe I was just going to say; well done you. Congratulations and I'm glad you're happy."

He looked at her, saw the sincerity and immediately felt bad.

"Hey, Harry, maybe we could talk, you and I."

"About Rosie, of course." She nodded putting her hand on his shoulder.

"Yeah, about Rosie but also about you and me. Maybe we could meet for lunch or something?"

"I'd like that, Johnny."

"Me too." And then after a minute added. "Look at her hair. Last time I saw her it was light brown, when did it get so dark."

"It's like Dad's isn't it? That's what I told Clara. I'm also constantly pointing out how much she looks like you. It's uncanny."

"Like me?"

"Yeah, like she does this thing with her mouth that you do and this tilt she gets to her head. It's so funny. I always point and say; She's doing Johnny. Don't look so surprised. She's yours, remember?"

Eventually, people began to thank them for having them over and make their exits.

Eventually, Rosie woke up and while she was a polite little toddler at finding out she was asleep in a stranger's arms she made it clear after awhile she wanted out.

Though she did happily take Bumbly.

He and Sherlock took the bags and stroller from Harry and Sarah and carried them downstair. After hailing a cab and getting Rosie situated in a car seat both men kissed her goodbye. Sherlock pre-paid the driver and they went back upstairs.

Eventually, despite both Sherlock and John's protests Mrs. Hudson efficiently took to clean up and not long after the place was back as it had been.

She kissed them both goodbye before heading back down to her flat.

"So happy you two are finally back together."

They didn't bother to argue.

Sherlock went back to work answering a few email and tweets from earlier in the day. As expected there was a barrage questioning him about John.

"They want to know if you're back." 

"What are you going to tell them?"

"That's up to you. I can completely ignore their queries, I've done it before. Or, we could tweet just your picture."

John thought for a moment.

"Let's go with a picture." He said leaning forward. Sherlock took out his phone and John raised his hand in a wave and smiled as he snapped. 

"There, done." Sherlock said. "And posted. With that I'm shutting down otherwise the notifications will destroy my battery."

"Why am I so bloody tired?" John said as he stretched out in his chair. "Are you tired?"

"You've had a long day, John. It's nearly nine, we could call it a rare early night if you like."

"Actually I'd really like that."

They quickly dressed for bed and wound up beneath the cover, John resting his head on Sherlock's chest listening to his heartbeat.

"Sherlock, I'm truly not upset."

"I...I didn't say anything." He protested.

"Yes, but you were thinking and I could hear you. How could I be upset that you cared enough about my daughter and me to do what you did."

"It's what you do for those you love. Hardly a hardship." He was quite for a few seconds before adding. "She looks like you."

"You think so?" John asked with interest. "Harry said the same thing. I don't really see it. I do see Mary."

"That's a natural prejudice in parents. They always see the face of their spouse in their children and rarely their own. It's usually rooted in latent self-esteem issues. But yes, as an impartial party I can say without a doubt she looks like you. Why the nose alone-"

"Oh God, I hope she doesn't have my nose."

"I like your nose." He shrugged. 

"And I think it's nothing short of charming that you think you're impartial. Oh and where on earth did you learn to care for a baby?"

Sherlock huffed at what he apparently considered a silly question.

"Manually caring for a child isn't difficult, John. It's the actual raising and rearing when things get dicey. But at this age, you feed them, rock them, comfort them, change them, stimulate their senses. They enjoy simple uncomplicated songs without complex melody. Short stories filled with anthropomorphic animals and spoons and teapots. And they want someone to check their closet for the Bogeyman."

"Is she frightened of the Bogeyman?" John asked with concern.

"No, not as of yet. Hopefully, she won't be."

A small smile crept over John's face.

"Were you afraid of the Bogeyman as a child."

"Don't be ridiculous." he said quickly.

"No, of course, you weren't."

"I was terrified of the Gooseberry Wife. I was actually mad for gooseberries as a boy and Mycroft told me that if I ate too many the Gooseberry Wife would come after me. I think he just wanted them for himself."

"I've never heard of her. Was she like an old witch or something?"

"No, she was a giant caterpillar."

At this John burst out laughing.

"Laugh if you like." The detective continued. "But it terrified me. To this day I can't look at a caterpillar or eat a gooseberry without feeling nervous." Sherlock said, barely able to control his laughter. The bed shook with their chuckles and John moved closer still, wanting to crawl inside this happy, peaceful moment. 

"Honey Bee?" John asked with a smile after they settled a little. 

"Perfectly valid nickname. She likes it."

"I'm sure she does and I like it too." He paused. "Just...no more secrets ok, baby?"

"I'll stipulate to that but I don't care very much for baby." Sherlock replied.

"No?" John teased as he changed positions to lie atop him. "I was just trying it out anyway. Well, what do you like?"

"I quite like you on top of me like this." He said cheekily.

"Yeah?" John asked before tilting his head to kiss him. He concluded the action by sucking on his bottom lip.

"Yeah." Sherlock replied.

They kissed exuberantly Sherlock's hands at some point moving down to John's arse before giving him a squeeze.

"Fuck..." John said, pulling away from his boyfriend's mouth to swear happily.

At that point, his mobile buzzed and after a moment's deliberation, he reached for it.

"Are you actually checking your phone whilst I'm groping your arse?" Sherlock demanded. "I've half a mind to buck you off."

"Yeah, but it's likely it's..." He looked at his phone. "Yep. It's Hanah. She texted."

"What's she say?" Sherlock asked.

"She says; Hi John, How was your first day? Did anything interesting happen?"

It took a few moments but eventually, both men burst out laughing.

"No more mobiles in the bedroom, new rule." Sherlock said as John quickly dashed off a reply with a promise of a more in-depth description tomorrow.

"Yeah, you'd break your own rule within an hour of us instituting that." He said putting his phone to the side before he resumed kissing Sherlock.

"I would not." He mumbled against his lips.

"You would too. Now turn off the light and put your hands back on my arse where they belong."

Sherlock reached over and switched off the light.

"I would not."

"Shut up and keep kissing me." He said affectionately. "And whatever you do, don't think about the Gooseberry Lady."

"Damn it, John. That's not funny." He said but he was already snickering as was the doctor. "And it's the Gooseberry Wife. Can't you keep anything important in your head?"

"I'm just saying, it's a good thing you deleted the solar system so you could save space for Gooseberry Wife lore."

"Shut up, John."

"I do so love you, Sherlock."

"I love you too."

A/N After a week off it's back to work for me today. I liked the amount of writing I was able to get done these past few days but I'll be returning to my regular output for now. 

I decided to make Rosie dark haired because everyone makes her blonde. We don't even know what Mary's real hair color is and Martin/John's beard seems to come in ginger though he was like Village of the Damned blonde as a kid. My point is, anything is possible. Anyway, I just liked the idea of Parentlock with a child with John's features but with a hair colour similar to Sherlock's. 

Ok, more to come, hopefully, later in the week...

Oh and as always, thank you all for your kind comments. You have no idea, really, no idea what it means to me to hear how interested you are in what I wrote or how you're enjoying it or that someone recommended it to you. Seriously, you have no idea. Sometimes seeing a review on this story can brighten up a very dark day. Not a lot of things are going right for me at this point in my life. But hearing that you guys are enjoying this is definitely high on my list. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

You make my soul happy.

Chapter Text

Eight Days In

98 Days Clean

April 8th, 2016

"You've returned to Baker Street, moved back in and have initiated a romantic and sexual relationship with my brother, Dr. Watson. Somewhere along the way you and I seem to have gotten our wires a bit crossed."

John was walking just getting out of a taxi, happy to be home post-meeting when the phone rang.

"And good morning to you as well, Mycroft. Nice day for it, eh?" John asked.

He'd had the option not to pick up, of course. Calls that showed up on his mobile caller ID with no name or number were Mycroft. They were always Mycroft. It all felt so needlessly cloak-and-dagger ad silly. Some mornings John felt as though he'd been in an old episode of Get Smart! Mycroft hadn't been by since John had come home and to the best of his knowledge, Sherlock hadn't had any contact. He didn't even want to know how he knew about the relationship.

He wasn't in the mood for this today but it was also something that needed to be addressed if not resolved. Sooner rather than later.

"This is not in line with the expected run of events."

"Meet me for lunch." John said suddenly.

"Beg pardon?"

"I said, meet me for lunch. In a proper restaurant as opposed to some abandoned underground car park. Speedy's? Angelo's?"

"I don't believe that's a good idea-"

"Mycroft, I won't do this over the phone and I'm not just going to consent to you chloroforming me and conducting a friendly interrogation."

"I meant those locations won't do. Stay where you are and I'll send a car. No tricks, John. I assure you."

"I can't tell you how comforted I am."

After hanging up John quickly texted his partner. He liked that words, liked the way it felt to feel it, say it, think it; partner.

Sherlock, going for a quick lunch with your brother. Don't panic.

What? Why?

I asked him to meet me after he just called. He's already in high dudgeon and I'd like to nip it in the bud if at all possible. 

I'm on my way down.

No, Sherlock, stay put. I'll be fine and he and I have things to settle. I promise I'll be alright and be home as soon as possible.

I don't like it. But it seemed I have no choice. Do come straight home.

I will. I promise. 

Another lunch with a Holmes. Another far flung location.

"You're looking well." Mycroft said and John couldn't tell if he was pleased, disappointed or neutral.

"Thank you. I feel...better."

"I would imagine so. So, how is life on the outside?" He said with a raise of his brows. Mycroft hadn't ordered, neither of them had and yet not ten minutes after they arrived there was food before him. A standing order, perhaps? John had no idea, but he knew châteaubriand when he saw it. His glass was filled with mineral water. He moved the sauteed vegetables around his plate before speaking.

"Good. Very good." John said before setting his fork down on the plate. It made an ungodly clatter in the strangely quiet restaurant. "I did want to say something before we get started on whatever this is going to be.."

Mycroft sat back in his seat and waited and John had to hold back a chuckle. He and Sherlock thought they were so different and in many ways this was true. But still there were mannerisms, tells they each had that mirrored the other. For instance when Sherlock was bracing for bad new or some sort of verbal dressing down he adjusted his jaw ever so slightly. This was inevitably followed by a tiny pursing of the lips. You never noticed it unless you knew him, unless you knew them.

"Yes?"

"Thank you."

Mycroft shutter blinked but quickly regained what small composure he'd lost.

"I beg pardon?"

"Thank you." John repeated, locking his eyes to Mycroft's. "Whatever differences we may have, whatever you brought me here to say, however we may clash 5 minutes from now or 5 months or 5 years into the future, you...saved my life. I know you didn't do it for me, you made that clear in hospital but you did it anyway and though it shocks me to even say it, I wouldn't be here were it not for you. You have my sincere gratitude, Mycroft."

The older man simply stared at him for a moment, stunned into silence.

"Yes, well..." He began and then stopped clearly flustered. "Yes, I...you're welcome."

John nodded and with that out of the way he began to eat.

"So, onto business," John said. "Am I to assume you're here to express your displeasure at me seeing Sherlock? I realize it's likely a surprise but...well if you're expecting an apology for that, I've none to give."

A slow, cold smile crept across the other man's face and he took to rather grandly rearranging his napkin. He was back in control, just like that.

"You must think me quite dull if you believe I wasn't aware of Sherlock's attraction toward you... and yours to him."

John inhaled sharply but didn't move, trying his best not to betray anything.

"John you once sat before me at Speedy's just as you are now after the nasty business with Adler and proceeded to tell me with astounding surety that my brother "wasn't like that" and that "he didn't feel things that way". I let you because I often allow people to prattle on regarding things they know nothing about. I let you because you couldn't have been more desperately revealing, more nakedly open in your absolute distaste for The Woman, and your horror and pain that Sherlock might feel something for her. At worst, little bursts of speech like that are amusing and at best they reveal things about the speaker, like a book being opened, it's pages flipping. You thought my brother was a closed system when in fact he is an open wound, raw and red and gaping and like a child...like a little boy he'd bandaged himself with an elastoplast and proclaimed himself "All better". He is not."

"Well, you saw to that didn't you?"

"I once thought you might be a salve though now I'm almost fully convinced you're an infection all your own. Something for which he, sadly, had developed no immunity. Make no mistake, John, I am immune. And make no mistake, if you hurt him the way you hurt him all of last year, if you slip, if you falter, if he becomes your whipping boy or your punching bag, one morning you will go missing. You will go missing and you will never be found. On that day I will likely lose what little affection my brother had left for me. But I will have the satisfaction and the surety of knowing you will never cause him harm again."

John leaned back in his chair and folded his arms, watching the man before him carefully. Watching the twitch of his mouth, the slight shift of his posture, the way his finger was almost imperceptibly stroking the edge of his plate. To butcher a phrase, his cold stare was writing a cheque that his body couldn't cash.

"Well, it's just as I thought." John said finally.

"What is?"

"If you recall, before everything with Magnussen got going and you threatened to threaten me and I said I thought we'd both find that embarrassing. Well, we do. You're fidgeting, your skin is practically crawling at that ridiculous Bond villain soliloquy you forced yourself to say and I'm just sitting in this chair absolutely mortified that I had to hear it. See, both embarrassed."

Mycroft was incensed and John took a rather large bite of the incredibly well-prepared meat and smiled at him.

"Practiced it in the car before you go here, eh?" He asked him cheekily.

"Dr. Watson.-"

"Yeah, you did. I can tell. Look, it's not that I doubt that you couldn't do exactly what you just said. It's that I know you won't. It would have been much more efficient to kill me in the hospital, or kill me in the months that lead up to my...breakdown. I'm sure you could have pulled a few strings to make my section permanent. Involuntary commitment. But you didn't. You had chance after chance and you didn't. I won't pretend that it's out of some deep admiration for me. It's because you love your brother and you can't bear to hurt him anymore than you already have. And on top of that you can't bear to lose him which you would."

"And you're willing to bet your life on that theory?"

"I have very recently bet my life on far more dubious and tenuous theories. So, yes, absolutely."

John leaned closer to the man and the elder Holmes whether realizing it or not did the same.

"Mycroft, if I feel myself slipping, if I start to fall, I won't grab onto him. You won't have a chance to get to me because I will make myself disappear. I will pack up and vanish from his life forever. I promise. Never again, hmm? Alright? Never again."

"Your word?"

"You have my word, for what that's worth these days."

They sat in silence for a few long minutes. After all, what did one say to Mycroft Holmes once the intimidations, puzzles, and threats were out of the way?

In the end, John did think of something.

"How was he...when I was bad?"

Mycroft took another sip of water and after dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his napkins steepled his fingers. A Holmes trait, apparently.

"Morose, depressed, unfocused, unreachable...untethered. His thinking became scattered, careless. He didn't want to admit it, of course, but I knew he noticed when he casually began mentioning his cases to me."

"He hates bringing cases to you."

"Indeed. But he hates being wrong even more. And he hates injustice far more than even that."

"So you proofread his work?"

"Quite."

John suddenly no longer felt like eating and he pushed his plate slightly away. He had an idea what he'd done to Sherlock, how it had affected him. He knew because of what he'd heard and the little he'd seen. But he'd never know fully, never truly understand.

"There was a light in Sherlock's eyes when he was a boy. He was brilliant, of course but he straddled the line that...that I never mastered. He had friends, he was liked, he was funny, silly. He spent nearly every waking moment with Victor Trevor and he was as much a fixture in our house as if he were a Holmes himself." Mycroft became wistful just for a moment, a look that somehow managed not to appear out of place on his features. "He was a nice little boy. When Eurus...murdered him that light left Sherlock's eyes. He folded in on himself, collapsed like a star."

"I thought you wanted him like that. Hard. A Shell. Past caring." John pressed.

"I did, in a way. I do. But it was still difficult to watch him become a completely different person. I didn't want this for him. Year after year parroting my ideas of people and situations and...affection whether he knew it or not. You must understand, I never wanted this, John. My path is my own. I never needed him to follow."

The surge of sympathy John felt surprised him.

"The light returned when he met you. The mischievousness and some of the joy returned. When you left those lights were doused again. Now they've come back with your reappearance. What is indisputable is that you now tend those fires, John. It is your job to keep them lit."

John was both overwhelmed by the prospect and in total agreement. It is your job to keep the passion and fire and spark in Sherlock's life. You are responsible for his happiness, his joy, you are his reason. On one hand, if he were to see all that written on paper he wouldn't just be horrified he'd be scared witless. Who would willingly sign up for that burden?

But on the other hand, wasn't that exactly what he had agreed to? Wasn't that he wanted for both of them? For them to look after one another, take care of one another, pull the other one back when they'd gone too far, be their port in a storm, their safe place to land? Wasn't that the point of a partner, a lover, a best friend, someone whose life was so entwined with his he wasn't sure where one ended and the other began? Is that exactly where he wanted to be and felt the safest? Tending to the home fires?

"Yeah," he answered Mycroft. "You're right. That's my job. And I intend to do it."

"Good. You know, John, when we first met in that car park I offered to pay you to look after my brother, spy on him, make certain he was alright. You turned the money down but took the position anyway."

"I suppose I did. What about it?"

"Nothing at all. I just find it funny." At that moment Mycroft's mobile buzzed and he took it out to glance at it. "I'm afraid I'll need to cut this shorter than I would like. Duty calls. The car outside will take you back I've called another."

It was just as well, John was eager to return home anyway. He wiped his hands clean on his napkin before standing.

"Just one thing, John. My brother recently took you to Rustic, did he not?"

John sighed. Nothing was ever a secret.

"He did." he agreed.

"A bit out of the way, don't you think? Rather like this place in terms of location. Why do you believe that is?"

As it stood John had been trying to determine that all week. There wasn't a part of him that thought Sherlock was embarrassed with them being seen together. Still, it was strange.

"I don't know, Mycroft, why?" He asked, already fed up with the game.

"There are very strict rules regarding the paparazzi in London as you can well imagine given certain past events, one in particular. Still, though strict they are rarely enforced as strongly as they should be. Haven't you found it odd that there has been a decided lack of photographers around Baker Street clamoring for a picture of you?"

John frowned, the thought seemed completely absurd to him.

"No. That's ridiculous. You may have put me in a posh rehab but I'm not a celebrity. Nobody cares except for a few people on Twitter and maybe that club Anderson started."

"Your naïveté surprises me," he said with a little shake of his head. "Through my influence, I have maintained the bucolic peace on Baker Street for the past week but that is coming to an end quite soon. I'm afraid you will shortly be very much on your own. It was a favor to Sherlock but it could not last forever. That is why I brought you here and why Sherlock took you where he did. Far away from the maddening crowd. I would brace myself if I were you. Your 15 minutes are just about to start."

"Describe your day for me. You've been out a week, that's time enough to develop a tentative routine."

Skype session with Hanah were different but the same. She had the same demeanor, they had the same report they were just separated by hundreds of miles and sometimes, every now and then the sound went out. At the moment he was in their bedroom, laptop balanced on his thighs, door closed for privacy while Sherlock worked in the living room. His partner had interrogated him about the meeting with Mycroft but John had put him off well enough. And once he seemed convinced no harm had been done, no injury inflicted he'd embraced him. They spent a little time together in the quiet of the afternoon before John headed down the hall for his session.

"I get up, I pick a meeting, I come back to the flat, Sherlock and I have breakfast together, we go over a few cases the majority of which he's been able to solve without leaving home. "

"Is that normal?"

"Somewhat...I do remember more legwork truth be told."

"So, do you ever venture out later as a couple or separately?"

"Uh no, honeymoon stage, I suppose." He said with a grin. "I just enjoy being here with him and he doesn't seem in any hurry to leave."

Hanah smiled but he knew it wasn't going to end there.

"I get that but I don't want you to become cloistered. I think there's a danger of sinking into that and before long you'll find it harder and harder to leave. What about food?"

"We've been eating takeaway. A lot of takeaway, actually. Mrs. Hudson, that's our friend and landlady she'll often pick things up for us without asking. I also placed an online order with Sainsbury's not too long ago."

"Next time you need something from a shop I want you to go out and get it. Understood?"

"Yeah, yes, absolutely." He said being both disappointed and confused by the hesitancy he heard in his own voice. Mycroft's words from earlier had come back to him.

"How do you feel about that? I saw something pass over your face." She said never one to miss a thing.

"Reluctant but I don't know why. I guess I feel safe here and I fear some kind of disruption." He didn't want to get into this new wrinkle. Not to mention the fact he'd been less than eager to leave even before the elder Holmes decided to play Oracle.

"Life is about disruption, John. No matter how perfect things are at Baker Street right now you can't hole up there forever. I don't want you to, I imagine neither does Sherlock and more importantly you don't want you to either. You didn't get sober to revert back to being an agoraphobe."

He opened his mouth to speak but she cut him off.

"And before you protest, yes, based on what you told me, about the days you spent in your house prior to your intended suicide attempt you were indeed agoraphobic."

Well, if that was the criteria, she had him there.

"You're right, you're right."

"How are the meetings going?"

He paused. He knew if he were to be honest it wasn't going to sound good but there was little choice.

"They're ok...I mean, it's diffciult. You get used to one thing and..."

"What's going on, John?"

"I don't feel comfortable there."

"Well, have you reached out and spoken to anyone else who attends or the meeting leader? This isn't uncommon. Have you been making the meetings at least? Even if you're not speaking or if you're feeling out of place."

"Oh yes, 8 meetings in 8 days."

"Fantastic."

"8 different meetings in 8 days." He clarified.

She paused and blinked.

"You've gone to 8 different meetings at 8 different locations in the past 8 days?"

"Yep." He said self consciously.

"John, I think you know, without me telling you that's not the goal."

"I know, I do, I truly do."

"I'm concerned if you're approaching this as Cinderella situation, looking for the perfect fit that it's going to cause serious problems down the road. There is no glass slipper, making the odds of you finding a flawless fit pretty slim. But there are shoe horns. Now, I'm not asking you to stay anywhere you feel is truly unhelpful or unsafe or not conducive to your sobriety. But I do need you to be realistic and 90 differently located meetings in 90 days isn't why you're doing this."

"I feel...this is going to sound so fucking egotistic...I feel like they know who I am."

"You're right."

He blinked.

"Pardon?"

"It is egotistical and they may very well know who you are."

Leave it to Hanah to slice him down to size. He shifted uncomfortably and readjusted the laptop.

"Well, that's not ok, with me. It takes the anonymous out of AA."

"John, you are not the only one there with problems or the only one there who doesn't want to be seen. Do you think a cook in a restaurant wants it to get out that he's got a drinking problem, or a mum trying to get back on her feet and keep the job she just got? What about the cab driver, the university students, pilots, surgeons, truck drivers, actors, beauty queens, veterinarians and on and on and on. Everyone there is taking a risk. Everyone is exposing themselves and sharing themselves because it's what they have to do to get better and stay better."

"You think I'm a snob." he said scrubbing his face. When he heard his concerns repeated back to him it did sound extremely toffee-nosed.

"Yes, I do." She took a deep breath before continuing. "Your breakdown was quite public. People know and the ugly fact is they may stare or bring it up or even try and use it against you. The ugly truth is that not everyone is anonymous. People are people and every manner of person can fall into an addiction and into AA and that includes unrepentant gossips. You may run into them, they may be there. It's ugly and unfortunate but it's true. I'm afraid there's nothing you can do except get a thicker skin, protect yourself as best you can and find a place you trust. I know that must feel like a great deal to ask right now, you're vulnerable and The Location wound up being a sanctuary. But in the real world there are going to be some consequences you'll need to face."

"I'm embarrassed." He confessed. "I behaved like a hysterical, attention seeking teenager."

"You behaved like a man in deep, deep, multilayered pain who had never confronted or expressed it in a healthy way in all his life. There's nothing to be gained from beating yourself up about this. Go forward. Look forward."

"I'm trying."

"Make sure that you are. How are things with Sherlock?"

He was glad they'd moved on to a subject he felt he could better handle.

"Good, excellent. It's honestly going so well. A week in and I couldn't be happier. I was worried, you know...people have time to change their minds when they're left to themselves. To think and rethink and over think and un-think."

"But he didn't do that?"

"No, no he didn't."

"And you didn't either?"

That hadn't been a question he'd anticipated but even after a few moments of thought he realized it was valid. Yes, he did over think, rethink and sometimes change his mind. But not this time.

"No, I believe in this as much as I ever did. I believe it's a good thing. I believe in us. I believe in Sherlock Holmes. It's not just a hashtag these days. It never was."

"Alright then. I like what I'm hearing. So, because we're meeting less often and because I can't take stock of you in person, I'd like to end things with you talking a bit. First tell me your successes, then your struggles, then your goals. Go."

"Um...successes...uh...well for this past week, coming out to family and friends. Making amends in person that I didn't get a chance to send by letter. Holding my daughter for awhile. Making it to meetings, albeit unconventionally. Flawlessly making breakfast for my boyfriend. Having my first day home and sober. And 7 more sober days after that. As for struggles; the meetings as we already talked about, the um...impotence, getting depressed about the longview, you know what do I do next, how do I do it? Goals, um, stay sober, obviously, get out of the house, maybe go to the shop, make plans with my sister and shoe horn myself into a meeting."

"Very good, John. It was, as expected a busy week and I think you did swimmingly. I just want to caution you that not every week will be bursting with successes. There are going to difficult ones ahead. Weeks where you struggle to find anything you feel that you didn't fuck up. Weeks where the biggest success you can come up with is getting out of bed or hovering in the doorway of a pub or window shopping down a liquor aisle and not going in and not buying anything. But you're just going to have to dig harder and realize their merit. Find and claim those successes. And you're going to think they're small and paltry and meaningless. But one of the goals of sobriety and aftercare and rehab and 12 Steps and therapy is that there are no little successes. Got it?"

"I think so." He said dubiously, but the downbeat message was hard to embrace.

"No, you don't and that's ok. You also think it was an oddly out of place thing to bring up now and it took the wind out of your sails a little. I understand that. You don't have to get it now. You just have to remember it for later. Now, last questions; Who is John Watson right now? Who does he want to be?"

He went quiet as he tried to gather his thoughts before answering.

"He's a recovering alcoholic who hopes to stay that way, you know, the recovering bit. He's tentatively happy. He's scared. He's in love. And he wants to be a good man, a good dad, a good boyfriend, a good doctor and he wants to do it all without ever touching alcohol again. That's who John Watson is."

Chapter Text

Seventeen Days In

107 Days Clean

April 17th, 2016

"Is this all we need, you think? Anything I might be forgetting?" John asked as he stared at the grocery list. He was out of practice because before, when they used to live together, he kept a running list in his head. It was always easy to know what they were out of as they tended to, somehow, be out of everything all at the same time.

"I'm sure it's fine, John," Sherlock said distractedly. He was completely engrossed in his phone as he had been all morning, before and after John's meeting as well as before and after breakfast. This was nothing new. Nor was his disinterest in the weekly shop. For Sherlock things he needed just appeared by wishes, or Brownies or his mum teleporting in and seeing to her dear boys' needs. In the past, it annoyed John and he imagined at some point in the future it likely would again. But for the time, being it was hardly a concern. He was more nervous about heading outside. And the fact that he was nervous about something as silly as this, when a year ago he wouldn't have thought twice, only made him cross with himself.

"Alright, if you think of anything, text me. I'm off."

"Take my card." Sherlock replied.

"I've got my own money, Sherlock." He replied. He didn't quite snap at him but he toed the line. "Not quite ready to be put in a workhouse just yet."

While this was true he did need to reach out to Mike. He hoped perhaps he had a job he could apply for or that at the very least he could put out some feelers. Things were getting a little tight.

There was, of course, the house, still sitting, unsold. That was causing more than a little drain on what he had left in the bank. In fact, the only reason he did still have anything was because of Mary's life insurance policy.

He didn't want to think about that now. Later. Later.

John grabbed his keys and put his hand to the knob.

"Oh, and remember you were going to set up an email for me. Still haven't done that yet."

If John didn't know better he would have sworn he saw Sherlock stiffen just for a second before getting himself under control.

"Of course, John." He replied quickly.

"I'll stop by and ask Mrs. Hudson if she needs anything too. See you later."

He headed out the door and bounded down the steps, rounding the corner to knock on Mrs. Hudsons.

"I'm off to the shop, just wanted to see if there was anything I could grab for you?" He asked when she opened her door.

"So considerate. I do have a small list if you don't mind."

"Not at all." he said with a smile.

She handed him the paper with her few items written upon it, patted his cheek and not long after he was on his way. Her needs were simple enough and he knew the layout of the store well enough so he figured this could just be a quick trip, in and out. Hanah had encouraged him to do this more than a few days ago and he'd meant to, he truly had. But when the moment came he typically arrived at some excuse or Mrs. Hudson was going out anyway and he could give her cash for a few things. Or, he'd mostly been making use of the delightful home grocery delivery service. Order online, flat delivery fee and they trekked up the flight of stairs and brought whatever they needed to the door. It was perfect. Maybe a bit on the expensive side but absolutely worth it. If Sherlock minded or had an opinion on it at all he hadn't said and that suited John down to his shoes. But now was the time to actually do this the old fashioned way, the way he'd been avoiding. But it would be fine. It would all be fine. He'd get his feet wet back in the real world, satisfy Hanah's requirement and knock out their shopping needs all in one fell swoop.

It wasn't until later, back at Mrs. Hudson's flat, his cheek resting on the cold porcelain of the toilet seat that he realized how naive he'd been.

As best he was able to figure out later, a store employee must have called the press.

Not the real press of course, not BBC or the Independent or anything like that. But the rags, the red tops, The Mail, The Sun, TMZ etc...

The saving grace was that he was actually a rather fast shopper. By the time they'd arrived he was one item away from checkout. He'd doubled back to grab a larger container of milk in exchange for the one he'd initially selected. As John made his choice he heard someone call his name.

As John made his choice he heard someone call his name.

"Hey John, welcome back!"

When it first happened he'd thought it might be a friend, an acquaintance, maybe someone he knew through or with Mary. There were always people from the wedding that he'd wanted to, imagined he'd get to know better.

But when he turned he saw the camera. A great beast of a thing balanced on a shoulder, fuzzy microphone jutting out.

"Hey, how was rehab? You're looking good man!"

The voice was fast, brittle and dripping with insincerity. Most of the times he'd handled the press he'd been with Sherlock and they were always more interested in the detective. He didn't like playing second fiddle but in those cases, he was fine with Sherlock assuming the limelight. It wasn't something he was after or needed.

Now, he wasn't sure what to do. He felt exposed, trapped, small and not to mention humiliated by the attention.

"Yeah, cheers." He muttered as he returned to his shopping trolley and placed the milk inside.

The camera and the man of course followed.

John hurried down the nearest aisle and chose the shortest line he could, winding up behind an elderly woman who did a double take when she saw the commotion he brought with him.

He turned his head to avoid her gaze and was just in time to see another camera crew enter. One of the men shouted, "There he is!" and rushed in his direction nearly mowing down a young woman with flowers in the process.

"John Watson! Can we talk to you for a second? Oi! Just a minute of your time!"

He didn't look at them. He refused to look at them though he felt the cameras and the lights and heard their embarrassing and provocative shouts alongside the rapid clicking of shutters. 

"Did you really try and kill yourself?"

"You gonna do it again?"

"Is this guilt about your dead wife?"

"Did you have anything to do with your wife's death, mate?"

One after another after another. And while he knew what they were trying to do, knew they wanted, needed a reaction, it was taking everything he had not to turn around and knock one of them to the floor. It would feel so good. Fist connecting with jaw. Again and again and again until his knuckles were sticky with a stranger's blood.

Splash that on your front page while I splatter you on the floor.

"So, what was it like in rehab? You gonna drink anymore, mate?"

"The rumors always said you were having it off with Sherlock, is that true?"

"Lovers tiff drive you to the bottle?"

"You boys back at Baker Street?"

A third one was on his way in now, berating the man with him for apparently being too slow, as they entered. He gave the man a shove which threw him more off balance than either of them seem to anticipate.

And that was all it took. It was stupid really. He saw it happen. He saw the man knock into the coin operated candy machine. He saw him hit it hard causing the machine to wobble. It finally went completely off kilter and fell to the floor with a crash. There was the sound of glass shattering, the flat metallic noise of the machine casing hitting the lino, the rushing clink of the coins spilling out. There was absolutely no part of these noises, except perhaps save the metal though that was a stretch, that reminded him of anything in Afghanistan. And still, that panic set in. That thudding of his heart, that sweat, rising up from his pores, making everything cold and sickly feeling. Vision narrowing. Eyes darting. Fingers flexing into fists, opening, closing, opening, closing, opening. That nausea in the pit of his stomach, everything too loud, too close, too bright.

The girl ringing up his groceries seemed to be moving in slow motion. For all he knew she might have been enjoying this, a little bit of excitement to spice up her day. There were five of them now. Two behind him, shouting questions, one waiting for him like a final battle of a gauntlet at the end of the checkout. He was standing near a very stressed looking bag boy who seemed like he wanted this to end almost as much as John did.

All of them were snapping pictures or rolling their cameras. All of them were trained on him waiting for a reaction, waiting for something. 

The bills gripped in his hand had grown soft with sweat and he was crumpling them over and over again in his palm.

It wasn't just paparazzi now, everyone had their phone out, everyone was recording and taking pictures and posting it to Twitter and Facebook Live and Instagram and Youtube and he felt like if he had to stay there one more moment he was going to start screaming or swinging but something, something, something had to stop this.

He tossed the money, more money than was necessary, at the girl before he even got the total.

"Your change and receipt, eh? Don't ya want 'em?" She called after him but he was already on the move. Weighed down by bags he pushed past the photog at the end of the belt and hurried out the door. They followed, fast on his heels as he hailed a cab, nearly surrounding him.

"You going back to crime fighting?"

"Were it pills or a gun? How did you try to do it?"

"Is it true you were on meth? Or was it smack like Sherlock?"

A black cab pulled up and he tried to step to the curb but was purposefully blocked.

And he lost it. Shifting the grocery bags quickly from both hands to just his left he grabbed the man with his right. With a handful of t-shirt and likely a few of the man's chest hairs he made a grip and shoved him hard against the side of the cab.

"Now you're going to get out of my way or I'm going to make certain the next bus that comes along will wind up with you under it."

The man scoffed or tried to but they both found it unconvincing.

John was close, close enough to his face that he could feel his breath, close enough that he could see the panic rise to his eyes.

"Now, you were just sent out on assignment here. You've got no idea who I am really. What I'm capable of. What I've done. Would you like to find out? I can make sure, right now, that you wind up on the front page like you've always wanted. Though maybe not how you ever imagined."

He kept his voice low and even and heavy with all the genuine threat and danger he was feeling. At that moment, he meant it. In that moment, if provoked, if the needle moved just a bit more, he would make good on everything he'd just said. "To quote a movie you're likely too young to know or remember; I'll make you famous."

"To quote a movie you're likely too young to know or remember; I'll make you famous."

The man made a small frantic noise in his throat and it was the first bit of relief John had felt since this whole ordeal began. But not just relief, pleasure. He liked that he was afraid. He wanted to make him afraid.

It felt good. Almost as good as he imagined it would feel to break him in two.

Instead, he let him go.

The taxi driver poked his head out of his window.

"Oi! My car! Either get in or get stuffed!"

The paparazzi scuttled aside as cameras clicked and flashed. A crowd had gathered round but all John wanted now was to get into the cab and get home.

Once inside he closed the door behind him but not before they'd all made one last play to get a rise out of him.

He leaned his head back against the seat breathing heavily.

"221 Baker Street, please. And may I open the window?"

He was halfway home before the shaking set it. That was always how it was.

The tachycardia, the sweating and then a respite, this sort of cool vacuum of silence where everything went still, almost muffled. He knew this period, this was the time where his body decided to override his fear, his panic, his stress and just propel him where he needed to go so he could do what he needed to do. In this case, it was as simple as threatening a man with a camera and scarpering into a cab but his mind didn't know that. It didn't recognize the mundane, it didn't recognize much and wouldn't...until the shaking took over. He'd once heard someone in the Army describe it as "Pac-Manning out".

'Ok, so, meaning that when Pac-Man eats the glow-y ball things, all the ghosts start running from him. He can move faster, they move slower and it's like, being in the zone. You go all Agent Borne, you're like the mum who can lift a car off her trapped kid. You're all drive, all action, just pure...Id.'

It was the best non-medical description John had ever heard and for the first part of the cab ride, he was fully in it. He felt in control, he felt strong and capable, he felt like he wanted to tell the cabbie to turn the car around so he could go back beat that man...all those men into the pavement. God, was this blood lust? Because it felt like it.

But it didn't last. It never lasted and coming down was like a crash course in the DT's.

The cabbie kept glancing at him in the rear view mirror.

"Don't you heave in my car."

John waved his hand with a surety he didn't feel while offering an unconvincing smile.

"I'm fine."

"Who are you, anyway?"

"Nobody. Case of mistaken identity."

Once the cabbie got him back home he thrust a few bills at him through the driver's side window and with unsteady legs headed to the door.

He was sure he looked a mess as with shaking hands he put his key in the lock. It took few tries but he eventually managed it.

Straightening his spine he headed first for Mrs. Hudson's flat.

His knock was answered quickly.

"Back already?" She asked opening the door with a smile that soon faded. "John, what happened. You look a fright!"

He held up his hand and plastered on another weak smile.

"I'm fine, really. I got everything on your list-"

"Come in here right now and sit down. I won't take no for an answer." She said putting her small hand on his elbow. He let her tug him deeper into the flat and he tried to fight against the heaviness of his limbs and the desire to literally drag his feet.

He knew what was happening, what had happened. He'd felt threatened. This had thrown his sympathetic nervous system into action prepping him for fight or flight. His adrenal medulla began secreting catecholamines, including norepinephrine and epinephrine. He'd been thrumming with serotonin, dopamine, estrogen, and testosterone. All of it coursing through him readying him for...anything. And now that the threat was over that ocean of hormones was receding, the chemical acetylcholine was taking over, trying to return him back to normal and in the meantime leaving him a shaky, sickly wreck.

"Let me get you a glass of water." She said and he didn't feel quite like arguing. He sat down at her kitchen table with a thump and she placed a tall glass filled with the cool liquid in front of him. His eyes drifted across her kitchen settling momentarily on the wine rack before he wrenched his focus away. He grabbed the glass of water and took two large, gulping mouthfuls.

It turned out to be a mistake.

He sat there for a minute, frozen, already aware of his stomach indignance at such a foolish move.

"Actually, Mrs. Hudson, I might have to use your-"

But he cut himself off and just avoided knocking her over as he rushed to her bathroom. He slammed the door behind him, flipped up the toilet lid, sank to his knees and proceeded to vomit up what felt like every meal he'd ever eaten. Waves and wave of nausea and gagging followed as he gripped the porcelain and even when he was certain he was empty he couldn't entirely stop.

With a pathetic cry he flushed the toilet and for a few moments closed his eyes, resting his face upon the seat. Finally, he forced himself to sit back and he went from rocking on his heels to thumping down on his backside. He looked around her bathroom, trying anything to ignore the roiling of his stomach and the clenched muscles in every limb. Her rug was frilly, thick and the same sort of olive green as the appliances in her kitchen.

Her rug was frilly, thick and the same sort of olive green as the appliances in her kitchen.

She must really like green. He thought.

"John, are you alright, dear?" Came her worried voice from just beyond the door.

He lay there for a minute just breathing. Finally, he stood and turned on her faucet, cupping his hand under the flow of water to rinse his mouth.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson." He began as he gave himself one last glance in the mirror. Switching off the water he turned to exit the loo. "Just please do me a favour and don't tell-" He opened the door and came face to face with his partner. "Sherlock." He finished with a sigh.

"Why shouldn't she tell me?" He asked with a frown.

"I didn't tell you." She protested.

"Not the point. Why shouldn't you tell me?"

"Because I don't want to cause a fuss." John said. "How did you know?"

Sherlock held up his phone.

"I started getting a sudden influx of alerts and messages on Twitter."

"Fantastic." John said leaning against the wall.

"Also, I heard you come in, then I heard you slam the door to the loo. Mrs. Hudson has never slammed a door in her life." Then quieter and leaning close he asked. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. I'm absolutely fine I just got nervous for no reason."

"I wouldn't say no reason." He said looking at his mobile.

"Sherlock, maybe you'd best take him upstairs to bed. He could use a little attention." Mrs. Hudson said not unkindly.

Still, John flushed both embarrassed and frustrated.

"I'm fine. I don't need to be put to bed like a child or a woman who swooned from too much sunlight. I'm alright. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, for the use of your...I'm sorry I got ill."

But she dismissed his apology.

"Just let Sherlock take care of you. He's actually quite good at it. I'll be up later to see if either of you need anything."

He bristled at that. He didn't need taking care of and tending to like a frightened poodle.

"I'm fine. Alright, both of you, I'm fine. Stop behaving as though I'm a stupid child who needs a minder, ok?" He snapped as he picked up the grocery bags he'd unceremoniously deposited on the floor.

John brushed past Sherlock and headed towards Mrs. Hudson's door. Before he put hand to knob he stopped, shoulders slumping.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hudson. You're only showing concern and I'm sorry. That was very rude of me."

"It's alright dear. I understand."

He glanced over his shoulder and once he saw Sherlock was coming behind him he headed out.

"It was rude to you as well. Sorry." He said quietly as they were climbing the stairs.

"You needn't apologize to me at every second, John."

At that, the doctor stopped on the stairs and turned to face him.

"No, no I believe I do. Not every second but...I let things slide, Sherlock. It's a bad habit and I don't want to sink into again, you know. I don't want to take you for granted. You can be cross at me if you like. You know, shout a bit. I won't break, I promise."

"Noted. If I feel the need to shout at you I won't hold back." Sherlock said with a small smile. But John could see the worry in his face, the tightness around his mouth, the shadow of a furrow about his brow, as though it were always threatening to come back.

"Hey, I'm fine." He said reaching out and briefly resting his hand on Sherlock's cheek. "But we need to talk."

Once they were back behind the closed door of their flat John began putting away the perishable groceries.

"You haven't been going out, Sherlock. You haven't been going out at all. Don't think I haven't noticed."

"What do you mean?" He asked standing very straight and very still by the sink. God, but he was a terrible liar sometimes. There were instances like these where John wondered how he had ever believed him.

"I mean, you've been hanging about the flat because you're worried about me. You haven't left, not really since I got home. It must be driving you crazy."

"I'd rather you didn't worry about me, John."

He placed the milk in the refrigerator, closed the door and locked eyes with him.

"Well, that's not going to happen. Of course, I'm going to worry. You need the things that sustain you. Didn't you once tell me your mind atrophies if it's not exercised and invigorated? How invigorating can it be sitting around here babysitting me? It's not fair to you."

"You spent a good deal of your time babysitting me, if memory serves. Far more than you should."

"That was different. I'm not you."

"Have I looked or acted unhappy. Also, I have been working cases, several as a matter of fact. I've been taking on the ones that I typically ignore, the easy ones, the ones I can solve from my chair."

"Sherlock, love..." He said walking up to him and settling a hand on his chest. "you don't belong in a chair. That's my point."

John pulled away and headed directly for their bathroom eager to brush his teeth. As expected Sherlock followed.

"It's only natural that what occurred today, that ambush," He said spitting out the next word. "Would be upsetting. I assume you'll want to stay nearer to home for the time being."

"You assume wrong." John said mid-brush. "That's been my point all along."

"I do?"

"Yeah, in fact I want you to find a case now. I want to be out on the streets with you doing something tomorrow. Maybe even as early as today."

Sherlock opened his mouth and then closed it before deciding to speak. John watched him in the mirror, briefly recalling the last time they'd been in this position.

"Do you think that's a good idea?"

"I think it's a great idea. I can't live like this. Today was awful, no doubt. But it was exposure therapy, of a sort. I think Hanah would agree."

"Hanah said you were to take it easy."

"Yes, well it's different to give advice at The Location which is far afield from Baker Street. Maybe everything she and I planned...won't exactly work here."

He took a swish of the mouthwash, spit it out, repeated the action and then turned away from the sink to face his boyfriend.

"I'm afraid...that if I don't go back sooner rather than later I never will. I can't keep running, Sherlock. I can't. "

Sherlock nodded shortly.

"Alright. I'll find us something. Something real. There were a few things, a few people I put off. I'll get in contact."

John leaned forward and kissed him.

"Thank you."

Sherlock smiled in return.

John continued.

"And I also want access to the website because there's something there you don't want me to see."

The smiled faded but before any protest could be raised John pulled his mobile from his pocket. "Now I haven't logged in out of respect. But you said you didn't change the password."

He walked out of the bathroom, Sherlock close behind as he entered the username and password.

473 messages.

His inbox had been bursting before but never like this.

And then he looked at the subject lines.

"John..." Sherlock began but seemed unable to continue.

So here was the answer. 

He frowned and that frown only deepened as he scrolled down reading the subject line of message after message. This was why Sherlock had wanted to keep him away from their inbox. This is how he'd been protecting him. It all made sense.

Jesus.

"A lot of people think you should tell me kill myself." He read on, scanning down one page and another and another. "With this level of venom, you'd think they knew me personally." He joked but it fell flat. "Oh, here are a few who are offering to take me out for a drink, isn't that nice? Has it been like this? Since December, I mean."

"More or less." Sherlock replied looking down.

"I see. Right." John kept scrolling and the messages kept coming. Most of them seemed to have arrived within the last hour or so.

Come have a drink with me, John, I'm buying!

You should have offed yourself.

Why didn't you kill yourself?

Tell your mate to try again, Sherlock!

John you should kill yourself

Did you go to rehab for being a poof?

Do you guys alternate between who commits suicide every few years?

"Ok, well at least that last one's clever." he said pointing to the screen and showing Sherlock.

"Don't perform for me, John," Sherlock replied, the disgust in his voice evident. "You know I detest it."

"I wasn't performing," John said a little surprised at Sherlock's response. Then again, he did have a habit of being glib, he supposed. Hanah had said it was both self-protective and performative. But of course, he already knew all of that.

"Are you ok?"

It shouldn't hurt. It really shouldn't. There were plenty of real wounds and scars and injuries and hurts that he had caused and felt over the past few years. The words of some idiot strangers shouldn't matter. But somehow they did. Maybe it was the volume of unsolicited replies. Maybe it was the glee. Maybe it was the fact that in the midst of his work Sherlock had to take time away to sort through all this bloody chaff just to get to the wheat.

Maybe he should say all of this aloud. Maybe he should admit how absolutely terrified he'd been for a moment in the shop. When the noise and the chatter and the stares and the lights had all come together to make him feel as jumpy and on edge as when he was crawling on his belly through poppy fields in Helmand with Taliban bullets whizzing overhead. Maybe he should to what he wanted which was to take a small refuge in his arms. To just, feel it all again, but in a safe way. Hanah called it "depositing yourself in the moment". Reliving trauma in a secure environment as a way of coping and overcoming it. 

He should tell him. He should say; "Christ, Sherlock, that scared the hell out of me...and not long ago I'd run straight for a drink to stop my hand from shaking instead of shoving them in my pockets."

But he didn't say any of that. Not a word.

"I'm fine. But all the more reason to get me an account. That way the messages will get funneled to me and the real cases should get to you. I'm also going to come off private on Twitter. Might as well give them multiple targets for their vitriol."

"That's really not necessary-"

"No, maybe it is, hmm? I mean, best to just bring this all to a head. If they're waiting to take their shots then why not let them have at it. Maybe they'll grow tired."

He felt Sherlock raise his hand to rest it on the small of his back but John moved away. He wasn't sure why. There was something about the idea of being comforted right there in that moment that made him recoil. It wasn't sexism or homophobia, internalized or other he argued with himself. He argued vehemently. It was more about...weakness. Who was he if he was the person in the relationship always crying always needing support and help and assistance? The batty boyfriend? The PTSD freak who needs you to speak softly and not make any sudden movements. Jesus Christ, what kind of life was that? For him? For Sherlock? And what if this was life? What if every day was a fucking struggle or just trying to smother his emotions so he could be normal in public and not sneaking drinks from a flask. Yes, a hand on his back, a gesture of affection and concern it was nice, when he needed it. But what if he never stopped needing it? 

For the first time in awhile, the ground felt unsteady like thick, wet sand. 

His skin started to prickle and sting with heat.

Red Forest.  

He instantly hated himself for it. He didn't want to put him off, push him away. It was an old defense mechanism but why did he feel the need to be defensive against his partner. Fuck, probably something he needed to talk to Hanah about. Add it to the goddamn, ever growing list.

He watched Sherlock's face as he walked away, looking for a sign of distress or upset but he remained impassive. 

John wasn't sure if that was a good thing or a bad one.

God, but they were both so screwed up.

"Alright." Sherlock replied before making his way over to his laptop. He seated himself in his chair and began working at the keys. After a moment John got an email alert. "There's your new address and password."

"Good, thank you."

The feeling of anger from earlier started to return. Anger at having his space threatened, his privacy, his dignity. Anger at having people so bloody invested in what was now his public life. Anger at how he brought so much of this on himself. Anger at-

"You could-" Sherlock began before restarting. "We could discuss this. I'm rubbish at feelings, I realize, and perhaps not at all your ideal sounding boarding but we could talk."

John forced a smile. Sherlock had been through enough. He'd cried on his shoulder and whinged at him for far, far too long. He'd handle this on his own, by himself. The very least he owed him was to be a pleasant and undemanding partner.

"Nothing to talk about, really." He said trying to ease any sharpness that might edge its way into his tone. "Really, I am fine. This sort of stuff...I mean, look I've been roughed up a bit online before. What we do is public and it's part of the job. I'm good. No worries."

Sherlock looked skeptical but didn't add any more.

With a few keystrokes of his own John unlocked his Twitter account. Moments later he had 25,000 followers, all the people who queued up to be approved suddenly there.

First tweet. It seemed as though now was as good a time as any. But what to say? In the end he decided to keep it simple.

John Watson @CaptainJohnWatson221B Good afternoon.

That seemed good. But before pressing send he decided to revise it.

John Watson @CaptainJohnWatson221B Good afternoon! So, first account, first tweet. Is this alright? Thanks for the well-wishes. So, what have I missed? Anything interesting?

It was cheeky but maybe this situation, all of this called for cheeky.

He'd managed to come two characters under the limit and it seemed good enough to send so he pressed the button.

The response was so immediate and so sustained for a moment he thought the notices on his phone were broken. Ding after ding after ding after ding that he gathered was alerting him to a reply.

"Yes, they tend to do that." Sherlock said dryly.

"I truly don't understand this." John said shaking his head. "Why? Why me? I'm not important. I'm just some guy. I'm an angry, middle-aged drunk. I'm short, I'm average looking I'm passably clever. You're the smart one, the beautiful one, the interesting one. Why me? Oh God, I'm trending. That's what it's called, right? When your name is on the little side part?"

When John glanced up Sherlock was looking at him curiously.

"Were this anyone else I'd say they were fishing for compliments, a tactic that I loathe but...you actually believe this."

John only shook his head and looked at his phone and the constant dinging with distrust. He sensed his boyfriend wanted to add more, possibly placate him with reassurances but he didn't want to hear it, couldn't hear it. Instead, he delved into the responses as he learned to navigate Twitter.

To his surprise, a cursory glance yielded almost nothing but positive messages. Mostly women, young, middle aged, some who may have been teenagers which he found more than a bit disturbing. For the most part, their messages were kind, concerned, enthusiastically supportive. The polar opposite of Sherlock's inbox.

"I didn't expect them to be so..."

"Nice? Yes, at times they're a little too eager, overly involved, silly, even strangely obsessive and you will get the odd nude picture every now and then but they are loyal nearly to a fault and at times inordinately kind."

"You like them." John said with a smile.

"Answer a few of them. They'll like that." He said not replying to John's assertion.

So he did. And between the downtime of each conversation, he noticed his follower count increase.

They sat in silence for awhile. John occasionally sighing as he consistently went over the 140 character count and had to edit himself. Sherlock drumming his fingers as he went through potential case after case, all of them displeasing him.

John knew he'd found something when the drumming abruptly stopped. The sound of Sherlock's fingers working rapidly over his keyboard filled the room briefly.

"Can we meet with a potential client tomorrow at two? Are you free?" He asked.

It was like music to John's ears.

"You're damn right I can." He replied. "What is it?"

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Dear Mr. Holmes, I'm hoping maybe you can help me. Perhaps either set my fears to rest or be the first person in my life to ever tell me the truth. Either way, something must give. I don't think my family is who they say they are. Or, perhaps considering I'd be the odd person out, I'm not who they say I am. I've gotten a lot of mixed information regarding when and where I was born and when I press for more my parents go quiet. When I start asking questions, they put me off. When I ask for important forms I need, birth certificates, records and whatnot, they always tell me, "We can't find it now, but we'll look for it later. The next day, miraculously it appears, looking quite brand new as if they were printing them in the basement. Everything checks out, every form and signature, nothing has ever caused a raised eyebrow out in the world, but still...

And it's not just that. There are photos of me, of our whole family when I was a child. And right next to me, there's always a smudge or a blur, sort of white and wispy. When I was younger I read these paranormal stories and I figured it was a ghost. But now...well...I wonder if they had someone erased.

There's more. Much more. And if you don't think I'm completely mad perhaps you could write back to me and we could meet.

I hope you'll consider taking on my case."

John nodded his head approvingly.

"That sounds like exactly what we need." He said.

"I'm in agreement."

John sighed with relief, the tension easing from his limbs and neck. This felt good. It was a plan and he always felt better when he had a plan.

The nerves had settled. He was breathing again. He could feel the chair beneath him and the floor beneath that. He could feel the worn and frayed pattern of the material beneath his fingers as he stroked the arm. He was grounded in a place he would know blindfolded. Everything was ok.

"I'm famished." He said finally with a lazy stretch.

"You were just ill not that long ago."

"The heart wants what it wants, or in this case, the stomach."

"I wouldn't be opposed to eating. Shall I order in?"

"Nope, on your feet. We're going to make dinner for ourselves." John stood and stretched having finally returned to the pleasant mood he'd been in before he left.

"We are?" Sherlock replied skeptically.

"Yeah, we are. I didn't go through that harrowing experience at the shop to order more Chinese food. Come on, up, quick as you please, now."

Sherlock uncrossed his long legs and stood to his feet.

"Aye, Captain." He replied cheekily. "And what's on the menu for today?"

"Yes, Captain, will do. We're not on a ship. Or just a very short 'Captain!' followed by an acknowledging head nod. I'd accept that as well."

"A stickler for rules and regs, I see." Sherlock said moving closer. Once he was directly in front of John he angled his head for a kiss.

"I could put you through your paces." John replied.

"Oh, I don't doubt it."

They kissed and John put his hand to Sherlock's cheek before moving it back a bit farther, his thumb stroking the lobe and shell of his ear.

"Hey, um," He began as he pulled back, but only barely. "Hanah says it's always a good idea to check in with yourself and your partner occasionally to make sure everything is ok. So, is everything ok? We've been sharing a room and a bed now for awhile. No, um...no regrets?"

"Not a one." Sherlock said emphatically.

John nodded his eyes meeting those of his boyfriend.

"And, um... I mean, you've slept alone your whole life, essentially. You have enough room in bed?"

"Why do you ask?"

John hesitated to go on.

"I just noticed you've been getting up every now and then during the night. I don't mean to be some sort of bladder watcher, I mean you can use the loo as often as you like but if you were like sneaking away to get a break from me. If I snore or elbow you in your sleep or kick like a racehorse or something please tell me. Mary always said I was as still as a corpse when I slept...unless I was having a nightmare. But, you know, things change."

He hadn't meant this to come out so frantic and plaintive and could only hope it just sounded that way to his ears. But he'd been meaning to get this out for awhile. More than once he'd awakened to watch Sherlock's lean figure ease out of bed and leave the room. This was followed by the gentle click as the bathroom latch caught.

No one wants to admit that knowing someone, loving them includes, well, knowing when and how much they piss but it was true. You got into habits when you shared a life with someone and you knew their patterns even when you didn't know you knew. Sherlock getting up more than once didn't fit the mold of what John knew. Being a doctor, of course, only made things worse as he found himself silently cataloging everyone's behaviors and matching them up against a running chart n his head. Any deviations immediately started him cross referencing symptoms and illnesses. Sherlock, especially set off alarms because he was the one person who was guaranteed not to mention it if he were sick.

But Sherlock gave a little dismissive head shake.

"I'm fine, John. I suppose I've just been drinking a bit more water and tea."

That sounded plausible. It was unspoken between them but he'd noted they'd both been making an effort to eat a bit better, stay a bit more hydrated, perhaps not take such crap care of themselves. It sounded as reasonable as anything else. Plus, what did he know of Sherlock's nighttime habits, really? He only had those nights in rehab and less than a month here to go on. He was still just guessing. There was still so much to learn.

"Ok, that's a good enough answer for me. Now, on to more important things. Can you cook at all?"

"I wouldn't say cook. I can avoid setting things on fire and likely not give anyone botulism."

"And with that ringing endorsement you're on salad duty." he said with a laugh. Grabbing Sherlock's hand he linked their fingers and pulled him toward the kitchen.

A/N: Please don't get too excited. I don't write case fic and I couldn't write a mystery if I had the ghost of Dame Agatha Christie whispering in one ear and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in the other. This was just to put a little interesting tale out there for Sherlock and John to get into. :) 

Chapter Text

Twenty Eight Days In

114 Days Clean

April 27th, 2016

Normal was impersonating a police officer while not explicitly saying he was a police officer.

Normal was switching cabs three times because Sherlock was almost certain they were being followed.

Normal was scaling a very wet, very slippery fire escape at three in the morning.

Normal he could handle and God knows he'd missed it.

The paparazzi problem was still there, still a hassle, still frightening, but John felt better prepared now. If this was a reality then he would have to do his best to manage it.

The past week had seen him go to bed exhausted. Not the emotional exhaustion from before but the physical kind, the good kind. The tight, sore-muscled and utterly spent. The case was a good one, all encompassing, thrilling and a little dangerous.

It wasn't that he thought Sherlock had been lying about how unbothered he was with them being case-less. More like, stretching...concealing the truth. It was obvious now as his skills and brain were being taxed and exercised that he was as happy as he was relaxed. He needed this. John needed it as well but not quite like his partner. No one needed this as much as him. He still felt guilt for how long he inadvertently kept him from it.

When they finally crawled into bed it was with happy, tired smiles and brief kisses before sleep claimed them.

Sherlock had his arm slung around his waist and was breathing softly against his shoulder. This was one of the many favorite positions they'd slip into.

Sometimes it was John spooning Sherlock, body pressed softly but firmly against his. He never slept better than when his nose was filled with his partner's scent, the pheromones just at his hairline, his shampoo, his sweat, his soap. Many a night he just buried his against the nape of his neck and drifted off. Sherlock's body molded to his, one hand resting over the man’s heart, sometimes above his shirt, sometimes beneath but always needing to feel the pulse beneath his hand. Covers slung low, Sherlock's arse, and what an arse it was as John had come to know first hand, pressed firmly against John's groin, legs entwined, breathing in rhythm.

Tonight it was the opposite, Sherlock was the big spoon, the strong, protective arm, the hand splayed across his chest. It was like a narcotic, the peaceful, easy way this man could cajole him into slumber. It was all the relaxation he'd ever wanted from the bottle and never found.

The only reason he was teetering on wakefulness was because of a nagging pain in his tooth. This meant he was aware when Sherlock slowly pulled away and slipped out of bed.

John kept his eyes shut until he left the room and didn't open them until the creak of Sherlock's footsteps vanished behind the shutting of the bathroom door.

Perhaps he shouldn't have followed him. But by the time this thought caught up to John he had crept to the bathroom door and was listening quietly.

This felt wrong and invasive and yet no part of him was turning and heading back. He stood there in his bare feet absolutely stock still, making sure to keep away from the door frame. If he stood directly in front of it he'd surely disrupt the shaft of light and Sherlock would know and-

John pressed his ear to the door and held his breath.

And then he heard it. Muffled at first, distant, but there.

"Oh...God...John...yes, please."

He drew back from the closed door in surprise. But also, not surprise. Not exactly.Well, there was no mistaking that.

Well, there was no mistaking what was going on.

John swallowed as his heart rate quickened. Licking his lips he leaned forward again to listen.

"John, please, just like that...yes...yes..." He whispered.

It wasn't all words. There were soft little catches to Sherlock's heavy breathing, hitches that served as a sort of punctuation. John wanted to hear more but it also gave him permission to fill in the blank spaces of dialogue with fantasy.

What was his position? Was he sitting with the lid down on the loo? Legs spread wide, cock in hand, head lolled back? Or was he standing before the sink, occasionally sneaking glances at his reflection as he stroked himself? Where was his other hand? His balls? His chest pinching a nipple? What was he imagining? John bent forward before him, grasping the sink for balance and dear life? Or perhaps John perched on the edge of the tub, Sherlock riding him with mad enthusiasm?

Out of habit John dropped his hand to his crotch and gave himself a squeeze but there was no reaction, at least not there. But God was he turned on. He gently rested his fingertips on the door wishing he could go in there, touch him, hold him, please him.

As Sherlock's voice started to climb higher John knew he was nearing his release and more than anything he wanted to see it, wrap his mouth around him and-

"John...coming..." He said hoarsely which was followed by distinct, soft rhythmic groans.

John quickly and quietly crept back to bed and dove under the covers.

At first, he was angry. Why the secret? Why the lie? Why not tell him that he'd gotten his erection back? At least one of them would be fixed.

But the anger quickly faded as John started to wonder was he being somehow unreceptive? Had he made Sherlock feel he didn't want to know? Had he implied if one of them was busted then the other should be as well?

Shit. He needed to resolve this and fast.

Sherlock returned to bed on quiet feet and resumed his place behind John.

Doing his best to feign sleepiness, John groaned happily and reaching behind him grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled it tight across his body.

"Love you." He mumbled.

"I love you too." Sherlock replied.

There were the cases that moved at breakneck speed and the cases that crawled as you waited for someone or something to emerge from under a rock. Then there were the cases like this one, with more starts and stops than John could keep up with. But he wasn't complaining. He loved it.

Today was one of the stop days. They had what seemed like a dozen irons in the fire, a dozen people they were needing to get back to them. But it meant that in spite of all that needed doing, there was nothing much to do today. So when his sister called, at Sherlock's prompting, they agreed to meet for lunch.

They'd been Skyping with Rosie every night. It had become a ritual somewhere around 6 or 7 pm to coincide with her bedtime. She was getting more accustomed to John but Sherlock was the star of the show. He was the one she smiled for, laughed for and went to bed for. John, well, he was just someone she tolerated.

"Did you ever want kids? Did you ever picture yourself being a father?" John asked him as they readied themselves for his sister's arrival.

At the moment Sherlock was in the process of putting his more dangerous experiments away where small hands couldn't possibly reach them.

"No." he answered as he held up a test tube and scrutinized it in the kitchen light.

"Succinct," John replied with a nod. It wasn’t as though he had anticipated a different answer.

"Procreation is just an expression of narcissism and a futile revolt against the inevitability of death. In that way, humans aren't very far from the lowest creatures in the animal kingdom. Rutting toward immortality. This practice, of course, doesn’t exactly produce the best progeny.” He paused before continuing. "Honey Bee, is of course different." He said and John chuckled to himself at hearing the endearment come out in such a serious tone.

"She is?"

"Of course. It's obvious she possesses a superior intelligence. She's quite advanced for her age. She's generous, inquisitive, kind. Clearly, she'll excel at anything she chooses. But I'd expect nothing less considering her parentage."

John opened his mouth to say something, a few things actually but the two main ones being; 'Thank you for the compliment' and "You sounds like a proud dad.'.

But as both thoughts rattled about his head he decided they each sounded a little too dangerous to say aloud.

"Well, she certainly fancies you. So we know she has good taste."

Sherlock didn't reply immediately but John knew the smile was there without looking.

"Watsons are all the same." He said finally.

"Alright, lunch is on order, everything looks presentable. I bought some coloring books and crayons, hopefully, she'll like those."

"I'm sure she will, John. She's not very hard to impress."

"Says you."

John hadn't wanted to push things too far or too fast but everyone had agreed that getting Rosie accustomed to, at the very least, his face was a good idea for starters.

"John?"

"Hmmm?"

"Why have you and your sister never gotten on?"

There it was. The first of many questions John anticipated but still had no idea how to answer without cracking open a can of worms.

The alcoholism was, of course, the easy answer in the beginning but it didn't fly so much anymore. Not to mention the fact that he wasn't certain what Harry had already told him. Best to ask.

"What's Harry's take on it?"

Sherlock washed his hands silently before coming into the living room to sit in his chair. John took his seat opposite him.

"She was the soul of discretion, actually."

John snorted.

"My sister was discreet? Go on, pull the other one."

"She was. I asked her something similar and she stated that while your issues were complex she hoped after you returned from rehab you might be able to put things to bed."

"Hmph." John said non committally. It wasn't that he didn't want the same thing. He did. It was just...the idea of her taking the lead rubbed him the wrong way. She was the one who needed to realize certain things, accept them, come to grips with them. Not him. It was never him.

"While I never believe that false overtures are a good idea. Perhaps it might be wise to try and patch things for Rosie's sake. If they are...patchable." Sherlock ventured.

John's first impulse was to get angry, snap something short in reply, perhaps something about Mycroft. But when he glanced across at Sherlock's face he saw no judgment. He didn't like that his temper was still so close to the surface, still so in need of being reined in. But he was working on it.

"Yeah..." he said with a sigh. "Yeah, I mean, I'd like to. It's something we can work on, I suppose."

"Good."

The bell buzzed announcing either the arrival of Mr. Chatterjee with their lunch or Harry and Rosie. As it turned out it was both.

Clara had to work so it was just the four of them sitting down for a meal where John had no idea what to expect.

“She makes some people nervous.” He'd told Hanah one day during a session.

"And why is that?" She’d asked.

"Because she just says things. Seemingly without thinking them through first."

"And what are the consequences of this?"

"Well, it used to really upset our father. It would make him meaner, angrier."

"But your father is dead, John. So who is it upsetting now?"

"Sherlock, look at you." Harry said affectionately and then, to John's surprise but apparently not Sherlock's, she reached out and touched his cheek. "You're practically glowing. I knew you'd get your color back once he returned. You look about ten years younger. But then John did say in his blog post that you looked like a 12 year old."

Sherlock blinked rapidly, so caught off guard he had nothing to say. As John helped her off with her bag he wondered how their interactions had gone when he'd been in rehab. Try as he might he just couldn't quite imagine Sherlock and his sister having a nice fireside chat. He honestly wasn't sure how anyone got on with Harry.

She was holding Rosie in her arms and the little girl mimicked the gesture, putting a small hand on Sherlock's cheek. In a superb act of breaking any tension he pretended to bite at her fingers and she squealed in delight.

Sherlock took the child from her arms and kissed her forehead, talking to her softly.

"So, John, come on with it." Harry said opening her arms to him. He went into them doing his best not to be stiff and embraced her. "You look good too, by the way. I'm so happy to see you looking good." She said against his cheek.

"You don't look half bad yourself." He said with a genuine smile as they pulled away. "So, shall we sit? I can get lunch on a plate."

"No, don't be silly. You sit, visit with your daughter. I'll be mother. I can work my way around a kitchen." Harry replied cheerfully as she headed in that direction.

Sherlock had cleared the table and the room overall was still clinging valiantly to the neat state it had been in when he'd arrived back home.

John put a hand on the small of Sherlock's back as they both made their way to the kitchen and took a seat. The gesture was more for him than his partner though, as he seemed just fine. But it helped John, it grounded him.

"Well at least let me put the kettle on." He protested.

"John, I said I've got it." She replied with a grin. Harry went to work grabbing plates and mugs, filling the kettle with water and then unwrapping the sandwiches. Turkey, chicken salad, roast beef and one peanut butter and jelly for Rosie.

John watched Sherlock talk to his daughter and found his amazement at the scene hadn't worn off. He couldn't say it was like he was watching a different man. That would be doing his boyfriend a massive disservice. This was the Sherlock he knew, more open, more kind, more considerate, more himself. Rosie was delighted, chattering away to him, eager for his responses.

"You are amazing with her." John said softly.

"Isn't he though?" Harry replied. "Natural born, I'd say. Like he's been doing it his whole life. Do you have any younger siblings, Sherlock?"

He saw the shift in his body posture, the way his lips became a straight, flat line. Rosie noticed too as she brought both hands to his cheeks pulling them upward.

"Smile." She said and at her request, he did and then kissed both of her hands.

"Yes, I have a younger sister." He replied simply.

"That must be it then. John, you could learn a thing or two from him, you know."

Now it was John's turn to press his lips together in a hard line.

"Yes, thank you." John said at the same time Sherlock said. "Here, hold her and once you've got her reach behind you and grab the bag with the colouring books and crayons."

Holding Rosie while she was sleeping was one thing but very much awake was another. As Sherlock stood to pass her over the little girl flashed him a dubious look that was so like Mary it surprised him for a moment. John extended his arms and took her, pulling her small body into his lap. She looked up at him seeming unsure but perhaps willing to wait it out.

"It should look like it comes from you because it is from you. Just grab it and set it on the table."

John did as Sherlock instructed and the bright colors immediately attracted Rosie's interest.

"These are from...from Daddy." He said, trying out the word. Rosie glanced up at him shrewdly.

"What do we say, Rosemund?" Harry asked as the tea kettle began to whistle.

"Thank you."

"Good girl." Harry said removing it from the eye.

"You're welcome, dear." John replied. He opened the colouring book and the crayons for her and she didn't need much more direction than that.

"Sherlock, I know how you take your tea. John, has anything changed since we were kids?"

"Um...I like a bit of honey now."

"Alright then. I guess I'm the only one for sugar." She made a reach for the sugar bowl on the table but Sherlock moved it away.

"Not that one." He said quickly.

"It's empty?" She asked.

"Not exactly. There's just no sugar inside."

"Well what is-?" Harry began.

"Best not to ask." John interrupted. She shrugged and started combing the cabinets for sugar. When he back was turned John mouthed.

"What's in there?"

"Fingers." Came the silent reply.

"What?" John squinted, not sure he’d read his lips right.

"FING-ERS." Sherlock mouthed back wiggling his own while suppressing a laugh.

John did do as well and laughed outright while shaking his head. Rosie looked up at him with interest, orange crayon poised above the paper...and gave him a smile.

"Alright, lunch is served." Harry said setting down a plate in front of each of them along with a mug of tea.

"Thank you." They both said in unison.

"So, is this where you two normally eat?"

"Um, no, we're sometimes out at a restaurant, well, we were before I went away. Normally we eat in our chairs on the sofa."

‘That’s men for you.” She said with a shake of her head before adding. “You know, I always knew you were gay, John." Harry said and he choked slightly on his tea.

"Wha-"

"I did. Since Duck but also before."

"Not gay , actually. Bi, if you don't mind."

Harry sighed.

"You know, I slept with men."

"Harry, for Christ's sake." John said gesturing to the admittedly oblivious child in his lap.

"She has no idea what we're saying and she doesn't care. Now, as I was saying, I've slept with men. It doesn't make me bisexual."

"Well did you like it?" John pressed.

"No. Not in particular. Actually, not at all."

"Then you're right, it doesn't make you bisexual. I enjoyed sleeping with women. Therein lies the difference."

"How's your sex life now?" She asked as she took a bite of her sandwich.

John scrubbed his face with his free hand, happy when he heard Sherlock jump into the conversation.

"Our sex life is fine, thank you." He assured her politely.

John had to admit he did seem to handle her well. He wasn’t thrown off in the slightest.

"Well, good, I didn't know if he'd keep you waiting like he did with Duck."

"For the last time Duck and I weren't a couple!"

"Well then, what were you?"

John saw Sherlock perk up almost imperceptibly. Of course, of course he probably wanted to know more about Duck.

"He and I...we were..."

Sherlock, though he tried not to make it obvious, leaned forward eager to hear.

"Did you love him?" She asked.

"I..." He started and then paused for a moment to stroke Rosie's hair. "Yes, I loved him. He was my best mate."

"Were you in love with him?"

"We lived together, we worked together-"

"Yeah, as fucking hoods." She said with a derisive snort.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock said.

"He was a thug for hire. He never told you that?" Harry asked taking another bite.

John could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, the deductions the re -deductions. Wondering perhaps how he'd never quite seen that in John's background.

"Um...no, he didnt." Sherlock said.

Feeling the need to defend himself John hurriedly began to speak.

"It's not as simple as she made it sound. I was also a writer during the day. But yeah, at night, my primary income was just running errands and occasionally working as a heavy."

Rosie squirmed in his lap and he wasn't surprised. He was probably putting off a negative vibe, his body having gone stiff.

"Can you take her, please." He said to his sister, holding his daughter up and not giving her much of a chance to refuse.

"Of course." She took Rosie easily and when the little girl began to whine for her coloring book he passed it over as well.

Sherlock's gaze was almost painful, and a part of him wanted to crawl away from him, to push away from the table. This, this was why he avoided his sister like the plague.

"Ok," He began, squaring off and trying to ready himself to face whatever came of this. "I hurt people. For money. I was an enforcer and I made money off of people's pain and suffering. Alright?" He concluded pointedly.

"Alright, John." Sherlock said quietly.

Bu everything felt different. All of it. He couldn’t be certain but there was something about Sherlock that felt as though it had pulled away, drawn back at this sudden and unexpected news.

"So if this changes anything...I...fuck." He swallowed hard and sniffed before going silent. Jesus, could this be the way it ended? Not with violence or a fight. Not with nasty, spiteful words but with the simple and silent movement of a skeleton being forced out of a closet. He sniffed again and avoided his partner’s gaze, instead focusing his eyes on his sister. He would have glared but Rosie had stopped colouring and watching him earnestly as though she were as invested in the conversation as anyone else.

"Have I given you the impression that I would blame you for your past?" Sherlock asked him.

"Well, you didn't know my past." He said quickly.

"Johnny, I swear I didn't mean anything by what I said." Harry said softly and while he couldn’t hear it, perhaps regretfully.

"Didn't you?" He asked harshly. "Because, you know what I think? I think you like to stir up trouble. I think this is your new pastime since you stopped drinking, setting off bombs in other people’s lives, namely mine. Is this the price I pay for you taking Rosie?"

At the mention of her name the little girl looked from her Aunt to Sherlock.

"Because...well, if it is, then it's worth it." He concluded. "I can never repay you for all that you did and all that you continue to do for her. I can't. But I...I don't have to sit here and pretend I like this. Like any of this is ok."

He started to stand but she reached out and grabbed for his wrist.

"John, please, I'm sorry. I swear, this isn't what you think. I stick my foot in my mouth sometimes. Ok, a lot of the time but I just...I just want to get to know my brother. We've been estranged since we were teenagers. I don't know anything about you, not really and I admit, that’s my fault. But I'm trying to make it better. I promise you, I am."

He looked at her with narrowed eyes, really looked at her and couldn't deny that she seemed sincere. Slowly he sat back down.

"Ok." He replied against his better judgment.

"Thank you. I just want to know about Duck. From my point of view he came in one day, whisked you away and I never saw you again. I lost my brother."

"Harry, you know that's not entirely true. You and I had already drifted apart by then. You had moved out, you had your own friends, your own troubles. And I couldn't stay with Dad anymore, I couldn't. I met Duck and my life changed. I felt like for the first time ever someone could hear me and see me. He liked me and wanted me for just who I was. All those years and I never felt close to anyone, I never allowed myself to get close. I'd never felt anything close to what I felt with him for a woman. I would have followed him straight into hell."

"You were in love with him?" She asked.

"Yeah, as I understand it and can accept it now, yes, I was." He turned to Sherlock and was surprised to see unmasked jealousy there. He wouldn't have thought it possible. But then he recalled something Mary had said on their honeymoon.

"Sherlock was positively green tonight! I mean at the reception, before everything else happened. Before his speech. "

He'd started of course, not sure where she was going with this. Unwilling to imagine what the next words out of her mouth might be.

"What about?"

"Sholto! He kept peppering me with questions about him and how you knew him. How close you were. He was incensed at the idea that you thought someone was more unsociable than him. It was rather adorable."

He looked rather incensed now.

John addressed his next words to his boyfriend.

"There was nothing about him that would make me think he was gay or bi or anything but straight. But it was still the first time I'd ever felt that way about someone. I chased that feeling until I caught it again with you."

Sherlock's features immediately softened and he offered the smallest of smiles in return.

"Did you ever talk to him about it? Duck, I mean." Sherlock asked.

"God no. Never and I never will. I invited him to the wedding because he was an old friend that I still care a great deal for. I came as close as I could, I suppose. I visited him in hospital before we left for our honeymoon. I told him how much his friendship meant to me. How important he had been and was. I told him we should see each other more, talk and write. And I gave him the number of my therapist. We've been in contact ever since and he's gotten better. Some of that...sadness and guilt has dropped away. It'll take time but...I have a lot of hope for him. Last I heard he was even talking about a woman who was interested in him that he was absolutely, positively not going to ask out under any circumstances. Which of course means he will quite soon. I'm happy for him. I owe him quite a lot."

"Thank you, John." Harry said quietly. "I feel, well, things make a bit more sense now, don't they?"

"I hope so.” For a moment, perhaps for the first time in a very long time he was able to turn it around and if only for a moment see it from her point of view. It had been the two of them, brother and sister against their father, against the world for so long. And then nothing. They split. They fractured and were never able to put their ill-fitting pieces back together again.

“I'm sorry if I...if I left you. That I left you. Look, I know you don't want to talk about Dad and I get that. I get that we have very different memories about what happened in that house. I'm...I'm content to leave you with yours and not disturb you. But no matter how you see it I think we can at least agree we both had a hard and lonely and angry upbringing and it drove a wedge between us."

"I lied." Harry said at the same time Rosie let out a little shriek. She'd been waving the colouring book in the air demanding attention and praise for her artwork that didn't seem to be forthcoming.

They all turned to her, as if the atmosphere hadn't just been thick with emotion, and rather, well, like parents each began commenting on her colorful scribbles. The sudden influx of focus seemed to be just what the doctor ordered and she beamed at each of them.

"Lovely, Honey Bee." Sherlock said reaching out and gently patting her cheek. She giggled and said his name. "May I put it on the refrigerator? So everyone who comes over can see it?" He asked.

Standing, he walked over to the appliance and patted an empty space.

"I think it would right here? What do you think?'

They all nodded and Rosie gave an excited "Yes!"

Sherlock carefully tore the page from the book and grabbing a sellotape dispenser placed it on the door.

Rosie clapped excitedly and still smiling at her, Sherlock, without missing a beat said: "Go on, Harry."

Harry swallowed before forging ahead.

"Clara and I had this enormous row after I left your house, you know, when I took Rosie for the first time. Not over her but something I said."

John leaned back in his chair not sure of where this was going.

"I was...running you down a bit, I admit. And then I got on to the point about you and Dad. Us and Dad. I started saying how you were spouting off all this bullshit again about how he was with us and Clara said, "Well, he's right." I had no idea what she meant. But um...she went on to say that I said all the things you did and more...when I was drunk. That she'd tried to get me to talk about it, him, the...abuse when I was sober but I always shut her down. I denied it, I shouted back at her, which I'm not proud of. It didn't really end until she brought out these notebooks. I knew they existed, I kept them in a box in our cupboard but I never looked at them when I was sober. I only pulled them out when I was drunk. They were journals that I'd kept from when we were younger, though some of them had entries from as recent as 2 or 3 years ago."

Balancing the child on her lap, Harry leaned down to grab something from her bag. Sherlock, who'd seemed rooted to his spot by the refrigerator suddenly stepped forward.

"I'll take her." He said softly and lifted Rosie from her arms. The little girl clung to him, resting her head on his shoulder.

This wasn't at all where John had imagined this conversation going and as she set a battered notebook on the table he felt nothing but trepidation. He was glad, surprised, but glad she was finally acknowledging what had happened to her, to them. He never imagined this would ever happen. But he wasn't sure if he wanted to hear it. Didn't know if he could.

"Ok, this seems to be dated March of 1985. You were 13 so I was 10.

John told me to get into the cupboard so I did. I hid and tried to keep quiet and even though he always tells me not to peek out I did. I couldn't see very much. I heard Daddy yelling and John yell back. Then stuff started falling over. I heard glass breaking and chairs falling. Then these flat sounds. Smack. Smack. Smack. Daddy said bad words, mean words and then John said bad words too and there was more of those smacking sounds and then the door slammed. I waited and tried not to cry. When John came over he scared me. He pushed the cupboard door closed and said Don't come out. It's not safe yet. He might come back. I tried not to cry but it was dark and I was scared so after awhile I came out. John was in the kitchen. His lip was bleeding and his eye was swollen. He told me not to come in because he was sweeping glass and I'd cut my foot. I ran upstairs and got into bed. John brought me milk and biscuits and read me a story. He fell asleep in my bed which was nice. There's a little blood on my pillow from his lip.

She'd started crying about halfway through the recitation and Rosie, clearly distressed had joined her.

"I think she's tired." Sherlock said quietly as he headed with her toward the bedroom. "I'll just put her down."

John only just barely caught a glimpse of his face but he clearly saw his partner looked pale and shaken. This wasn't how he'd wanted him to find out. He hadn't really been sure he'd needed to tell him at all. The brief mention back at The Location should have been enough. Or at least he'd hoped so.

Getting up from his seat he gathered his sister in his arms. How long had it been since they'd held each other? Touched without some barrier, some deep seated anger they'd agreed to suppress just for the moment. Maybe going back as far as the journal entry she'd read. Or at least it sometimes felt like that.

"Come here, Harry. It's alright. It's ok. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry you had to go through that."

She sobbed against him, her body heavy in his arms.

I’m sorry you had to go through that."Do you remember it?" She asked.

"Of course I remember." He said softly against her hair.

But that was a lie.

The strange thing was her description could have been from any number of times. Nothing about it stood out as anything especially noteworthy to him. It was all part of a cycle that by that point he was very accustomed. Trying to separate one beating from another was a fruitless action.

"I'm sorry you had to remember alone."

"It's ok." He said kissing the top of her head as he stroked her back. She felt small in his arms, fragile and small and he felt a surge of guilt at the idea of how much of this world she'd had to navigate alone.

"But it isn't ok. I'm sorry I made you feel like you were crazy, like it was all in your head. I guess I just didn't want to..." She trailed off.

"I understand. I really do. And...Harry, this means so much to me."

He hadn't teared up during her reading. He'd managed somehow to stem that tide. He'd been pushing those emotions and memories back for decades. So much of it felt like scar tissue. Healed, yes, but also dead. Nerve endings frayed, sizzled and burned away, nothing left now but the appearance of skin; thick, toughened. But holding her tore new wounds in him. His eyes and nose started to burn as he took a breath and cleared his throat.

"I missed you." She said. "I missed you so much."

He hadn't allowed himself to miss her. Not for ages. They'd traveled such different roads, so far away from one another. But maybe those roads could converge again. Maybe they could both try.

"Let's try and fix that, eh? You and me, we'll give this another shot."

"Yes, please." She said and nodded against him.

They stayed like that in surprisingly comfortable silence for awhile. He remembered the little girl he'd loved and protected and cared for. He remembered the little boy he used to be.

"I love you, Johnny."

"I love you too."

Sherlock returned some 10 minutes later telling them quietly that Rosie was now sleeping quite soundly on the bed, buffeted by many blankets and pillows.

The sandwiches had turned hard and unappetizing and they ended up placing another takeout order. They ate and talked quietly about nothing in particular comparatively speaking. Rosie awakened, John retrieved her and sitting on the floor they all played until it was time for Harry to leave.

John called a cab and walked her down and helped to situate Rosie in her car seat. He gave her a kiss to the forehead before standing and embracing Harry again.

"You know, we want to integrate her back into your life. You should take her for a day, a night, a weekend." His sister prompted.

"We'll talk about it. Promise."

"Ok, take care, Johnny."

He waved as the cab drove away before going back up to the flat.

Sherlock was silent, oddly silent when he entered. He was cleaning up, putting the dishes in the sink and the trash in the bins.

"So...are we going to talk about this?" John asked as he met up with his boyfriend in the kitchen. The silence had been ongoing and didn’t seem as though it would end anytime soon, that is, if he didn’t end it.

Sherlock stopped his movements and John watched as his hands gripped the edge on the countertop, his shoulders hunching in the process.

The creeping dread that John had tried to push away came rushing back now as he recalled what he'd revealed about his younger days. It was vile and disgusting and some of the absolute worst that he was capable of. And beyond that it was terribly tangled with his feelings of affection for Duck and the relief at being free of his father and sister. To deny who he was back then would be to deny a confusing mix of joy and pain and ugliness and beauty. But that was how he saw it. Likely not how Sherlock did.

Perhaps he was revolted. Perhaps knowing his best friend, now partner was was a thug-for-hire had left a foul taste in his mouth. Maybe a taste that wouldn't come clean.

"I understand this was all probably hard to hear-"

"Yes. Yes, it was very hard to hear, John."

John swallowed hard and came to stand next to him by the counter.

"Ok, so...you've had minimal time to think about it. What's your...where do you...I mean can you reconcile-"

He was cut off suddenly as Sherlock positioned himself in front of him, raised his chin and kissed him.

It was a very pleasant way to be silenced and it did stop his train of thought for a moment.

Sherlock pulled away but only so far enough to rest his forehead against John's, his eyes shut.

"I realize that was probably a terribly improper response considering the situation." He said finally.

John cleared his throat and closed his eyes too. It only seemed right.

"Well, in most cases I will happily accept that response. But I do need to know what you mean by "the situation". Are you...rethinking us ?"

"What?" Sherlock said. And due to their proximity John could feel him frown.

"After what I told you, about how me and Duck-"

"John, don't be absurd. I don't care about that." He said drawing back slightly. "I would imagine you've done your penance. And then some. I'm talking about your father and... I'm an idiot. All the signs were there. Short temper, addictive and compulsive behavior, pathological need for excitement, violence and general self destructive tendencies, hyper-sexuality and promiscuity, a desire for and yet somehow a revulsion toward authority, a need to be both in charge and to have a leader-"

"Stop talking." John said quietly.

"But it was all there and I missed it."

"Not really sorry that you missed it, love. I don't like to talk about it or share it. It's in the past. The distant past."

Sherlock studied him thoughtfully.

"I don't know if it's that simple." He said cupping his cheek. "I hate him for hurting you."

"He's dead Sherlock. Dead and buried. He couldn't hurt me anymore if he tried."

John noted it didn't seem that his partner believed him. But neither of them said anything about it.

"Thank you for dealing with all this. We um...keep unearthing skeletons of mine, don't we."

"A little grave digging never frightened me, John." He replied with a smile and John kissed him again.

"I'll finish cleaning up. You go check our inboxes even though I realize you've been surreptitiously doing it all night. Then maybe bed?"

"It has been a wearying day.” Sherlock agreed. “Bed sounds nice."

"And this was supposed to be our day off." John chuckled as he picked up cleaning where Sherlock had left off. He felt, in a word, relieved. The entire day had dredged up memories he wasn't even remotely comfortable with and he anticipated unpleasant dreams to follow. But to know that he hadn't scared Sherlock off, or turned his stomach wasn't something he was just going to sweep under the rug. Hanah had told him to appreciate not just each success but each event that worked out better than you'd thought it would. Combine that with the reality that he had maybe had a breakthrough with his sister and...well...could this mess of a 24 hours actually be considered a good day?

Not at all intentionally John was still awake long after midnight. The room was silent and dark and Sherlock was pressed warmly and securely against his back.

Apparently, his brain had decided the best way to avoid nightmares was to stay awake.

Of course, that wasn't the only thing keeping him up.

Sherlock's grip on him was tight. So tight that when it loosened John knew immediately. There was the tell tale shift in the placement of his body as he prepared to get up, the creak of the bed, the slowed movement meant not to rouse him.

John grabbed his wrist.

Sherlock froze.

"John...did I wake you?" He whispered.

John turned on his side to look at him and he met his worried face in the darkness.

"No, I couldn't sleep. Are you ok?"

"Yes, yes I'm fine, I just..."

"You just what?" John asked before reaching behind him. He blindly turned on the bedside lamp and also retrieved a jar he'd placed just beside it. The jar had been in the bedroom for awhile but instinct had taught him it might be best to have it in arm’s reach tonight.

Sherlock blinked at the sudden light in his eyes and once he'd adjusted he gazed at him curiously.

"John?"

"Yes, love?" He replied innocently.

"Why are you holding a jar of honey? Are we having a treat?"

"You could say that." He replied.

"I last saw this jar in the cupboard."

"Yeah, that was kitchen honey. This is bedroom honey."

Sherlock shutter blinked.

"B-bedroom honey?"

"Mmmhmm. Lie down."

"Alright."

John lay down next to him and engaged him in a deep kiss, slipping his tongue in his mouth. Sherlock whimpered in response and John pulled back just as his partner grew hungrier.

"Why didn't you tell me you were getting hard?" He whispered to him and watched the surprise bloom on his face. "Why are you sneaking off to the loo in the middle of the night to take care of yourself when your partner is right here?"

He said this all calmly and with no traces of anger. He wasn't angry anymore. Just confused and maybe a little bit sad.

Sherlock blinked, opened his mouth and shut it again.

"Hanah said we're not to leap straight into sex." He said finally.

"True but I don't think we're supposed to live like monks either. I mean..." He sighed. "I'm still not 100% but I can touch you and please you and that gives me pleasure too, you know? You shouldn't have to tiptoe off to the bathroom to have a wank like you were a sex criminal in your own home. Sherlock, I love you. And I'm happy to show you that by dashing with you through the streets of London, and pulling your arse out of the fire when need be and making you amazing cups of tea and tending to you when you're sick. But let me do it this way too, ok? Please?"

He watched him try and come up with a way to refute his statement. Try and fail.

"Ok."

"Ok, great. And do you know the best part about what's about to happen? Every time someone mentions honey you're going to blush furiously."

"John." He admonished softly. "I don't blush."

"Oh, love, you blush all the time. So, I have this fantasy, shall I tell you? I've actually had it in one way or another since the day we met. I undress you slowly...actually, this typically begins with me unbuttoning one of those impossibly tight shirts of yours."

"My shirts are not tight." He harrumphed. "They're tailored ."

"I can tell. You purchase them, take them to a tailor and no doubt say 'I want them so snug that the buttons look like they're screaming as they try and hold on'. I want them so tight that people fear if one pops they'll lose an eye."

It was so obvious his boyfriend was trying to suppress a shy smile and John grinned enough for the both of them.

"I like clothes that allow for the most movement. I never know what I might be doing in a day. I can't have something that hangs or drapes getting in the way." He said affecting his most offended tone. But it was all artifice. Wonderful, lovely, Sherlock artifice.

"You also like being pretty." He said and the smile again threatened to return. He beat it back and instead stated;

"I hardly give a whit what people think about me."

"You love having eyes on you. That long, lean, slim body. So agile, so primed, so strong, so ready for action." He dropped his hand to Sherlock's waist resting it there warmly. "So untouchable. And don't even get me started on your trousers and how you enjoy how nice your arse looks in them."

Sherlock gasped his eyes going wide with surprise. "John, you're being ridiculous." He said but he was also leaning closer, wide eyes focused on his mate's lips.

"It's alright, I enjoy it too. As I was saying. It usually started with unbuttoning that shirt and taking it off. Removing whatever undershirt you had beneath it and finally getting to see that pale, muscular chest. Do you know I've never really have seen you shirtless much less naked?"

Sherlock raised up from the bed and tugged off his t-shirt before quietly lying back down.

The bullet wound.

Red Forest.

Just to the right of the midline, around 2 centimeters and below his nipple.

He hadn't forgotten, exactly.

He knew it was there, of course, but seeing it jogged him out of his playful nature.

His face must have immediately fallen because Sherlock noticed.

"John, please, don't let it distress you." Sherlock whispered. "I'm fine and I'm enjoying this. Please, please continue." He concluded softly.

It was small. So small and yet it had done so much damage. Mary and the bullet. It had nearly killed him. He'd seen the chart. Tissue disruption, liver damage, exsanguination, asystole, hypovolaemia, cardiac arrest.

Sherlock was calling his name but he was falling into his memories, nearly unable to hear him.

Nearly.

"John? John, listen to me." Sherlock said as he suddenly grabbed his hand. "This is a part of me and it's what we're both going to have to deal with. Please don't let it derail something that was going along so well. I was shot. I got better. It sounds silly and strange and glib to sum it up like that but it's true. I got better and I am here, before you, alive. Make that what matters, John. I'm alive. Sherlock lives."

John reached out and placed his hand on the wound. It was smooth now, well healed, with that familiar shine of scarred flesh, damage fading into memory.

Sherlock took his hand and brought it up higher.

"Now feel the heart beating underneath."

And he did, steady, strong, even, healthy.

He had to let it go. He knew he did.

He had to at least try.

"Ok, Sherlock, I'm sorry...I'm sorry, ok."

"Kiss me."

John obliged. It was less passionate but after a bit bridged into the sensual as they both tried valiantly to regain the mood.

"H-how did you know?" Sherlock asked between kisses.

"Hmm...oh...after I thought about it I had a hunch. I followed you the other night. Listened to you outside the bathroom door." He said nipping at his bottom lip. "It sounded so hot."

"Yeah?"

"Oh yes." John said before propping up and reclaiming the jar of honey. He unscrewed the top and dipped a finger inside.

"Wasn't that expensive?" Sherlock asked.

"No matter. You're priceless." John replied. "Taste." He said holding his finger to Sherlock's lips.

His boyfriend darted his tongue out, capturing the honey before closing his eyes and humming softly.

Watching Sherlock enjoy things was somehow even better than enjoying them himself.

"So, my fantasy would always begin with your neck." He said before smearing a shiny, sticky streak across Sherlock's throat, just to the side of his Adam's apple. He licked his lips and leaning in ran his tongue over the substance. It burned the way honey does but it was sweet and rich and he moaned as Sherlock moaned.

Another smear across his jawline and he again went to work, tongue emerging to taste him, teeth grazing before biting gently at the flesh.

"Ahh! Ahh!"

"Mmmm, you like?" John asked.

"Yes, yes, please."

"Then I'd move on to your clavicle." He said painting the bone with his thumb. He was starting to feel voracious now, everything was floral and flesh and Sherlock. He sucked at the skin on his collarbone, alternating between soft enough to tease and hard enough to nearly bruise. Sherlock responded by squirming on the mattress and grasping at whatever part of John he could reach.

"Sternum" He said smearing another stripe before letting his mouth descend.

"Nipples. First one."

Swipe. Bite. Lick. Suck. Suck.

"Then the other."

Swipe. Lick. Suck. Bite. Lick.

"Then just a glorious stripe up your ribcage. Here and here."

By now Sherlock was keening, just on the verge of what John could only describe as an erotic sort of sobbing. His flesh was warm and the honey ran and John wished to God he could be hard right now. Damn waiting. Damn celibacy. Damn everything. And damn his stupid broken cock and his stupid broken psyche.

His arm was draped across Sherlock's body, just below where his trousers sat at his hips and it was about that time John felt something hard press against him.

"Well, hello there." he said with a grin. Sherlock's joggers were tented, deliciously tented and John felt himself salivate at the sight.

"That's what I wanted to tell you, the day we left The Location. In your room before that rude young man came in. I'm...I'm sorry."

"I'm very glad to see it. So you're feeling better then?"

"Yes, it um...came back after we agreed to be a couple."

"Just like that?"

"Yes, just like that. Well, it was off and on for awhile. Rather unpredictable but there's a great deal more stability to it at this point. So I'd say, spigot found. Are you...?"

John glanced down and gave his head a small shake.

"No, it's um...I'm still...I think it'll probably come back soon. For now can you show me how you touch yourself, Sherlock? Show me how you like to be touched."

His boyfriend glanced at the bedside lamp.

"Want me to turn it off? Would that make you feel more comfortable?" John asked.

"If it wouldn't be a bother. I'm just...well, I've never done this in front of anyone before. Not that you're anyone-"

"It's absolutely fine. It's not a bother, not at all." John shifted to switch off the lamp. The room darkened but the moonlight still gave him plenty to work with. That being said, he felt and saw Sherlock's body relax. He quickly screwed the jar back on the honey and set it aside.

"Can you still see me?" Sherlock asked.

"I can see enough." John said as he breathed into his ear, his words and lips just breezing over Sherlock's earlobe. "Now, show me how you like it."

Sherlock was mostly silhouette, dark and beautiful as he shifted slightly beneath the covers. The outline of a hand disappeared and he watched him raise up slightly to slip his trousers down just enough.

His erection stood out quite clearly, straight and hard before it was eclipsed by his closed fist.

Sherlock gave a muffled groan from behind tightly pressed lips and John snapped himself out of being just plain mesmerized to kiss him.

"I want to hear you, Sherlock. Don't get quiet on me now. Stroke your cock for me and let me hear you." he said as he kissed his jaw line.

"Oh God...John." Sherlock said breathlessly.

John watched out of the corner of his eye as Sherlock's hand worked with skill over his erection, the corkscrew turn up the shaft the swipe of the thumb over the head, the way his fingers trailed the underside as he moved his hand down again.

John was a quick study and while the only cock he'd ever mastered, ever thought he'd need to master was his own, he was eager and willing to please Sherlock.

Sherlock was whimpering now, brows knitting together in concentration as John peppered kisses across his neck.

"That night at Angelo's...what did you want to do? What were you planning? Even if you were never going to have the nerve to work up to it."

"Ask me." Sherlock replied and somehow John knew exactly what he meant.

Leaning close to his ear he breathed the words.

"You have a girlfriend, then?"

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area." Sherlock said, his voice rumbling up from his chest.

"Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way." John said chuckling softly against his lover’s warm skin. These words. These old words that no longer held any danger or sting.

“Mmmm, I know it's fine." Sherlock purred not using anything remotely close to the same interp he'd used that night.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?"

"No. But I'm taking applications if you're interested, you sexy bastard."

John laughed softly and Sherlock smiled.

"That would have been brilliant." He said before dragging his tongue along Sherlock's earlobe. "But don't stop touching yourself. Then what?"

"Then..." He gasped before continuing. "Then after we got back to the flat. The empty flat. No police. No Lestrade. No drugs bust. After Angelo returned your cane. I wanted to flirt with you more. Never would have had the nerve but I wanted to. I wanted to convince you to take the flat. I wanted to go back upstairs and I wanted you to make a move."

"Why couldn't you make a move?"

"I was afraid. But you said such kind things...in the cab...at the crime scene...I thought maybe you liked me."

"I did, love, I did. What did you want me to do to you at the flat?"

"Kiss me. Strip me down. Take me to bed. Take over. I...I trusted that you'd be kind."

"Am I kind in your fantasy?"

"Yessss...like now. Like you are. You kiss me, you take off your clothes. I feel your body on mine, on top, and then you're inside me and it feels so good."

Oh God but this was perfect. It was everything John had ever wanted to hear ad more. So much more. In fact, he was quite convinced that he could listen to Sherlock talk about his fantasy life for hours.

"What point in the fantasy makes you come, love? What happens? What do I do?" John asked needing to know more, needing to share Sherlock's vision and play it out in his mind as well.

"We’re face to face, you're on top, you're kissing me, I'm close, so close. You’re moving inside of me, slow, steady. You tell me...'Come, darling. Come for me."

John brought their lips together while sliding his hands over his chest leaving gentle scratches on his pecs and belly. He wondered what Sherlock's cock looked like, what it tasted like, what it would feel like to be between his warm thighs and finally inside of him.

That was a delicious thought.

Inside him.

But that was for the future. At present Sherlock's voice was escaping his lips in stuttering little moans, his hand working just a little faster.

"That's beautiful, love. Just beautiful. But can I touch you, Sherlock? Want me to take over?"

"Yes, please." He said releasing his grip.

"Do you have any lube or lotion?" John asked. "My hand may be a bit rough and-"

"Give me your rough hand, John." He demanded his voice, lower than normal, if possible. It sent a delightful shiver through the other man and he slid his hand down Sherlock's body finally putting his hand around his erection.

It was hard and hot, firm and sensitive in his hand and on the first stroke it twitched noticeably.

The sounds coming from Sherlock were both loud and incredibly erotic and John couldn't get enough. Damn the noise. Damn if anybody heard because what he was seeing and experiencing was a man who hadn't been touched or caressed or loved ever, never in the way he should or deserved. A man who was unlocking something he'd given up on even finding. A man finally giving his body over to someone else he loved and truly enjoying it.

"Faster or slower, Sherlock?" John asked him already setting a pace.

"Faster...I'm almost...I'm about to...but kiss me...kiss me, please, sweetheart."

I'm going to get to watch him come. He thought excitedly as he kissed him again.

He sped up as requested and Sherlock's hips came off the bed practically thrusting into his grasp.

Sherlock gave a loud cry John felt his boyfriends cock pulse in his hand and then he was coming, breathless and soft and calling John's name as semen initially spurted onto Sherlock's belly in three distinctive arcs and then ran copiously down his closed tight fist.

"That's it, come, darling." he whispered in his ear. "Come for me."

And he did, he kept coming wave after wave of shudders wracked his body, muscles pulled taut until finally, finally they ebbed and John slowed the movements of his hand. Sherlock's palm moved to his wrist, holding him in place and John recalling what he himself liked gave him a gentle squeeze. Sherlock grunted as a few more droplets of ejaculate beaded on the head of his cock before his body finally relaxed heavily on the bed. John kissed him and gave him a few more firm squeezes all of which made Sherlock groan into his mouth.

Finally, he pulled away and smiled at him. Glancing down he saw his belly rising and falling in the darkened room and the glistening trail of come that dotted his flesh. Impulsively, John shifted, bent forward and licked away the trail. It was sharp and clean on his tongue, a little bleachy, a little citrus-y. Not unpleasant but unusual and new and mingling perfectly with the aftertaste of honey.

Sherlock called his name, low and lusty and the next thing he knew his boyfriend's hand was in his hair. Ah, then he'd liked it. John continued kissing and licking his abdomen feeling Sherlock's muscles tighten underneath his tongue. His hand was a sticky mess but he didn't want this to stop, didn't want it to end so again he wrapped it around Sherlock's flagging erection.

In the darkness, with just enough light coming through the window he could see the head of Sherlock's cock, dusky, sticky, leaking. He inched forward and Sherlock's hand slid weakly out of his hair. Again letting impulse lead the way puckered his lips slightly and kissed the tip, his tongue swiping gently at the slit. It was hot and silky slick against his lips. The texture, the pressure, felt good against his mouth and he moved his lips back and forth slowly, enjoying the sensation.

"John!" The desperate shout might have made him jump if he hadn't wholly been expecting it. Instead he just smiled. He was a little surprised by how easily this was all coming to him. How much his want for this man was just beneath the surface. How unbothered he was by this new masculine terrain, this new body. He gave him a gentle suck this time, just the head, just the tip and immediately felt more ejaculate coat his tongue. It was good. So good. And he wanted more. Only Sherlock's pleading made him stop.

"Please, John...please...I can't..."

"Too sensitive?" he asked, the words muffled by warm, damp skin as he returned to kissing his belly.

"Yes, for your tongue, yes. But your hand...your hand...don't stop."

A few quick pumps and Sherlock was hard again, not long after that the breathing patterns John now knew meant he was close had returned.

Dipping his tongue in the well of Sherlock's belly button along with the quick strokes of his hand finally pushed him over the edge and he came again, his voice too raw to reach previous heights. John was sure he felt a splash hit the back of his head but he didn't stop, licking and nipping at Sherlock's belly, stroking his cock until he gently pleaded with him to stop.

After a few more kisses John raised his head and grinned at his lover.

"Can I kiss you? On the lips?" He questioned.

"Why are you asking me?" Sherlock queried. "You've never asked before."

"Some people don't want to be kissed after oral sex. They don't fancy their own taste. I mean, this wasn't exactly oral but-"

"Kiss me." Sherlock demanded and John obliged.

The former broke away only for a moment to say. "I like my own taste just fine, apparently."

They snogged for a few moments longer and after a bit John brought his non-sticky hand up to his hair.

"Tell me things, ok? What I can do for you. What you want. What you need. I'm your partner and your lover and long before that I was your best friend. I'm still your best friend." He whispered in the darkness.

"Ok." Sherlock replied. "Don't stop kissing me."

And he didn’t, not for awhile, not for minutes on end. Not until he started chuckling gently against Sherlock's lips as he recalled something and then rushed to soothe him before his boyfriend got the wrong impression.

"Fuck, you come like a teenager." He said admiringly. "I bloody love it but I just remembered, I think you got some in my hair, love."

Sherlock looked predictably horrified.

"John, I'm so sorry-"

"Don't be silly, it's not the end of the world and I had an absolutely amazing time. Did you?"

"It was the time of my life." Sherlock replied with painful earnestness. "Better than I'd even dreamed. But you didn't have an...you didn't come."

John smiled and kissed him again.

"It's ok. This is going to take me some time, remember?"

"Did I do nothing for you?" he replied and John could see the slight downturn of his mouth.

"Hey, hey of course you did. I...I didn't realize a person could be so turned on without actually having an erection. I mean, that was stupid of me, orgasm happens in the brain not the genitals not really. Sherlock, you turn me on. After all, I'm the one who went in for seconds, nearly thirds. I needed to have my lips on that belly of yours and I needed to taste your come on my tongue and I needed to lick your cock. I had an absolutely amazing time and don't you dare try and talk yourself out of it ok?"

The downturn disappeared and Sherlock smiled. John knew he'd taken the right path by appealing to science rather than intellect.

"Ok."

"Ok, good. Now, I'm going to take a shower and get this out of my hair because it turns to glue if you don't. Want to join me? It's up to you, no pressure."

"No, I...I think I'll stay here if that's ok?"

"That is perfectly ok." John got up from the bed, headed to the bathroom. Grabbing a towel he ran it under the tap and added a bit of soap. He walked back to the bed and leaning over to kiss him handed it to Sherlock. "Just to clean yourself up a bit. We'll put wet wipes on the weekly shopping list."

Sherlock smiled at him gratefully and gave him a lingering kiss.

"Hurry back, alright?" He said and John agreed that he absolutely would.

"You'll hardly know I'm gone. Next time, I want to drizzle honey all over that cock of yours before I put it in my mouth. Then again, I imagine it's just as delicious unadorned." He tossed back easily over his shoulder smiling at the gasp he heard behind him before shutting the door.

A quick shampoo, shower and brushing of his teeth and he was back in bed. Sherlock immediately pressed his body against him like a koala. He was no doubt flush with oxytocin, the wonderful post-orgasm bonding hormone that made you want to latch onto the person you loved and never let go. He felt it too and held Sherlock in return just as fiercely.

Freed of worries about who they and what they mean to each other Sherlock always became either heavy blanket or clinging octopus after intimacy. He either choose to lie completely atop John, heavy and warm and glorious, or suction to him, pinning him in every way he's ever wanted to be pinned. Sherlock was so wonderfully inescapable in bed and John realized it was what he'd always wanted; to be completely possessed by Sherlock Holmes. To physically be at his mercy.

"Hey, you." John said.

"Hello, John." Came the groggy reply. "I see now."

"You see what?"

"Why people are so silly."

John chuckled. He always liked when Sherlock began things this way.

"Continue."

"I feel...an overwhelming amount of affection toward you right now. A torrent of emotion. It's similar to things tweaked and prodded when I'm high. Do you know what I mean?"

"Sort of...but the alcohol didn't do that for me. You know how they say it's a depressant but they mean in terms of the central nervous system? For some people, it's also an emotional depressant. It puts them in this really negative headspace. I was never a happy drunk or a relaxed drunk. Honestly, it always made me feel worse. But I kept chasing it. Daft, really. So, that's not how you felt?"

"On the contrary, it was blissful, this rush of endorphins and soothing happiness until everything just grew fuzzy and muted. That's what this is like, being with you except there's no fuzz and mute, everything gets louder, clearer, brighter.

John kissed the crown of his head affectionately as he spoke. Sherlock so young right now, it seemed. Just figuring out the things other people learned as teenagers. It was sweet. It was youthful and lovely and sweet.

"I think maybe I should be offended to your comparing me to an opiate but I'm not."

“I’m sorry. I lack the language and experience to couch this in nicer terms. I can only compare you to the fleeting feeling I've been chasing all my life. But you're not fleeting and I don't have to chase. It occurs to me now you mentioned earlier you’d spent your time chasing the way you felt with Duck. The both of us...always were running."

John wondered if his partner would be able to say all this with the bedroom lights on. He'd noticed Sherlock was freer more unguarded when he felt protected by the darkness. That was alright with John for now at least.

"No, Sherlock, you don't have to chase me." He soothed him. "And I like hearing you talk about everything being new like this."

A pause.

"But it isn't new." Sherlock said.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, obviously the orgasm is new, touching you is new. But I've felt this way ever since you first moved in. I always have. I hope I do the same for you." Sherlock said quietly. "This was the nicest evening I have ever had. Not just the touching and orgasm. This. This right here and now. Like what we had at The Location. Your body against my body. In one another’s arms. Simple. Complete. This."

"It's only our beginning. We have the rest of our lives to top tonight. And this, Sherlock, we'll always have this." He tightened his arms around him.

“I didn’t dare hope for more. I was ready to subsist my whole life on just this, John." Sherlock said sleepily.

The lump in John's throat was so large he had a difficult time speaking around it. His lover had echoed his own thoughts perfectly.

"So was I, Sherlock. And I would have been happy to do so."

A few hours later as morning crept through the window, he awoke to feel Sherlock lightly kissing and biting at the ball of his shoulder.

He grinned broadly and stretched.

"Mmm, well good morning." He said, his voice still gravelly from sleep.

"Good morning, John." Sherlock said in his ear. John felt his hand slip under his t shirt, moving up to touch his chest, fingers tweaking nipples. They immediately hardened at the contact and John sighed happily at being so possessively and confidently caressed.

However, when Sherlock's hand began moving lower and then lower still, destination becoming obvious, he gently but firmly moved it away. Instead he brought his fingers up to his lips and began sucking them, slowly, deliberately one by one.

Sherlock's breathing instantly quickened and John smiled at the cause and effect.

"You woke up gasping for it didn't you, Sherlock?" John asked.

"Yes...I had the most erotic dreams." He admitted.

John turned in his arms and gave him a deep, good morning kiss.

They were both stubbly and their faces rubbed against one another with the most pleasant sounding friction. Morning light was creeping in, spilling across the blankets where they lay warm underneath.

"Can I suck your cock, Sherlock." He murmured against his lips.

"YesJohnyesyesyes." He replied so quickly that John had to chuckle.

"Ok." He grinned and let his hand slide down Sherlock's body, not stopping until he reached his groin. "Mmmm already so hard for me."

There was no hiding now as Sherlock's room actually got a decent amount of sunlight. John wanted to take advantage of the view but also didn't want to make him feel uncomfortable.

"Can I pull back the blankets and have you take off your pyjama bottoms?"

Sherlock looked unsure for only a moment before he nodded in reply. Elated, John pulled the blankets mostly away, stopping just at Sherlock's knees so that when he raised them his lower half was still a bit in shadow. Sherlock planted his feet against the mattress, raising up and using the leverage to remove the trousers. His cock sprang free, bobbing hard, delicious and John could just make out that it was darkened near the head with arousal.

It took all he had not to do a mad scramble toward the V of Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock gave himself a few tugs and a squeeze and John couldn't wait any longer. He moved away from his boyfriend's lips and started to kiss his way down his body, pausing to speak between each one.

"Now, I want you to tell me if there's something you don't like. Something I'm doing wrong. If you wanted it harder or softer or slower or faster. If it's a bit too much teeth. I've never done this before either so, please, tell me what you want."

"Ok." Sherlock agreed readily.

"And, now that we're in daylight may I make a deduction that I have long, long suspected?"

"If you like." Sherlock breathed.

"Well, considering how many delightful freckles you have...here and here...and here."

"Mmmm...yes...?"

"And considering the fact that the hair on your head is actually a swirl of several different colours not all of them as dark as people think. And given the fact that your beard comes in kind of auburn..."

Sherlock groaned softly.

"And the fact that your chest hair comes in almost blond."

"God...John..." Sherlock said as he flicked his tongue over his nipples.

He kissed down his midsection, further and further until he reached his destination.

"Bloody hell, I was right. You are bafflingly a redhead...just not on your actual head for some reason. Why is that so fucking hot, you delicious ginge?"

"I’m not a ginger," He protested. "It’s not that bright. It’s more russet, to be honest, and...you...you think it's hot?"

"Oh yessss." John said kissing his inner thigh.

"I was always rather embarrassed by it."

"Well you were wrong...God, you and this glorious nest of dark, copper hair...I just want to bury my face in it."

"You're far more visceral than I ever thought you'd be."

It was visceral, his need for him for the entire experience, the feel of his pubic hair against his cheek as he'd kissed all around that glorious cock. The smell of his soap but underneath that the scent that was him, the scent that was just Sherlock, all healthy and virile and musky pheromones.

Sherlock opened his legs wider and John settled himself between them, lying on his stomach, Sherlock's erection before him. As he did last night he pressed puckered lips to the head and sucked. Sherlock's eyes had been locked on him but now he shut them tight as he inhaled sharply through his nose.

"Do you want the honey?" Sherlock asked when he could finally speak.

"Not this time, you taste sweet enough. And one more thing. Don't warn me when you're about to come. Just do it. I want to taste you and swallow you. I’m not going to pull away. Ok?"

"Ok, ok." He agreed hastily.

"Good. Now are you settled comfortably?" He teased with unbridled affection. "Then let's begin."

The more he touched and held and tasted Sherlock the more memories of buried fantasies came back to him. He never would have acknowledged it at the time. Not ever. But his mind always moved faster than he could censor it. He was always racing to catch up and bury that imagery back in his subconscious. But every now and then over their years together it had leaked out. Usually before bed or in some half remembered dream, but sometimes during a case, during dinner, watching Sherlock's little frown of concentration as he worked. And John's brain would hit the ground running. Yes, he had thought more than once about sucking his cock. Lips and tongue to hard, hot flesh. It was always brief, just a flash, barely a whole image before he made it stop, but it was there.

And now he was here, where he'd denied himself that he wanted to be. And he didn't want to wait or hesitate anymore. Without further pause he took him into his mouth and Sherlock, who kept things relatively clean, swore like a longshoremen. An appreciative and complimentary longshoreman at that.

The glans, rounded and salty with precum felt good against his lips and tongue. He moved his head down further letting his boyfriends cock glide against the smooth, wet, surface of his mouth. He tightened his suction as he pulled back before diving forward again.

This was easier than he'd imagined it being and Sherlock certainly, already sounded as though he were enjoying himself.

"Fuck...John...oh please, yes, John more of that, yes."

His partner’s legs fell open wider, wanting to give John all the access he needed. Wth each pass John took him as deep as he could until finally he was just skirting the point-of-no-return gag reflex.

Sherlock was just slightly above average in terms of length and John was relieved to find he didn't have any trouble accommodating him.

"Please look at me while you do it. I want to see you. I want to watch myself sliding in and out of your mouth. I want..."

John groaned at being so commanded. Chatty Sherlock. Sexy Sherlock. Confident Sherlock, able to express his needs and wants, yes, absolutely fucking yes to all of that.

He obliged him, glancing up and slow blinking as he bobbed his head slowly on his cock. Sherlock's hand went to his cheek, just resting there softly and encouragingly. His other hand was mercilessly gripping the bedsheet in a tight fist.

He was close, every fibre in Sherlock's body was telegraphing it and despite the slight twinge in his jaw John was reluctant to have it all end.

Still though, the prospect of seeing Sherlock come again was worth it.

He redoubled his efforts and Sherlock's hips raised off the bed seeking more of his mouth. More contact, more pressure, more focus, more of everything, begging pleading with his body and that beautiful mouth with those cupid's bow lips, keening and crying out and whimpering and begging and begging and begging until he came in John's mouth, thick and hot.

Just once, just to see if he was able, he took him in as far as he could while Sherlock was in the midst of orgasm but the effort made his eyes water as he toyed with the previously avoided gagging danger zone. Still, the reaction from Sherlock, the sustained and groaned "Ahh-ahhh!" made him decide it might not be a bad idea to work on the skill.

He was reluctant to pull away but as Sherlock softened in his mouth he also began calling for him.

"Sweetheart, please. Come here, John."

“Sweetheart” was the last thing he'd ever thought Sherlock would settle on.

He couldn't possibly like it more.

John crawled up his body bringing the blankets with him, covering them both from the chilled air.

Sherlock kissed him, a kiss full of need and passion and John gave into it, his body relaxing. He felt wonderful and surprisingly didn't exactly miss not having a sort of release himself. Pleasing Sherlock brought it's own heady pleasure.

"I love you, John."

"I love you too." He said tugging the younger man against his body. "We'll have to get up soon but I imagine we can spare 20 minutes, maybe even half an hour to just lie in a bit like this and doze. What do you say?"

But Sherlock was already nearly asleep again and simply replied with a soft "Hmm?"

John chuckled and quickly set the alarm on his phone for 30 minutes before he closed his eyes as well.

The rest of the day was almost guaranteed to have a manic pace but for now, as Sherlock showered John leisurely started on breakfast. Mrs. Hudson had come round for a visit and as he beat a few eggs in a bowl they chatted about their upcoming day.

He sensed a change in the mood of the room when after a moment she glanced toward the closed bathroom door and suddenly went quiet.

"Are you alright?" He asked.

"John, I want to apologize for something." Mrs. Hudson said, a look of chagrin on her face.

"What's that?" John asked, utterly confused as to what it might be.

"All the times I assumed you were gay and that you and Sherlock were together."

He smiled, surprised.

"Well, that's hardly something you need to apologize for as that's not insulting."

"Oh no, I agree, I'm not apologizing for that. As though it were an accusation. I'm apologizing for not believing you or hearing you when you said it."

"Hardly a great problem, Mrs. Hudson, but if it means so much to you then apology accepted. Tea?" He asked her after putting his arm around her and giving her an affection hug.

"Please, dear."

He filled her mug and she seated herself at the table as he got to work on breakfast.

"If you don't mind my asking, what caused the sudden change of heart."

"Well, I realized... after last night and this morning. If you and he had been together and if that's as loud as Sherlock gets in the bedroom I certainly would have heard it in all these years."

A/N: I tell ya, you guys who knew that it was sad wanking going on when Sherlock disappeared to the bathroom are good! I can’t slip anything past you!

Chapter Text

Forty-Six Days In

127 Days Clean

May 10th, 2016

Once the latest Page 3 girl got caught saying that awful, racist thing about the housemate on Big Brother with the haircut and the three-legged dog, John Watson became relative old news for the paparazzi. And he was eternally grateful. He'd never been that interesting to begin with and he was glad that they finally realized it.

Business had picked back up again too. There had only been a few days gone by where someone hadn't pressed heavily, nervously on the buzzer for Baker Street.

They were busy and busy was occupying 90% of his thoughts during the day and the other 10% was Sherlock. Once the workday was done, whenever that happened to be, everything switched and it was all Sherlock. There was no time to think about the nagging, scratching, craving in the back of his mind that demanded a drink. It was still there. It was relentless and like a badly behaved child in church, it would often choose to scream at the worst possible moments. But so far, his voice was firmer, louder. But...though he didn't like to admit it, it was less in control. To continue the analogy, he was not the calm and cool collected parent, quieting the noisy child. He was stressed, strained and gradually losing his patience.

But for now, he still had a grip on it, a grip he hoped to maintain.

As for Sherlock, he was currently in a hickey stage. He certainly didn't mind receiving them but he was probably most eager to give them. As a result John's body was peppered with love bites most of which were easily concealed by clothes. There was occasionally one or two on his neck that required he borrow one of his partner's many scarves. And hough he pretended to be irritated, he actually found it funny.

When John had first told him that Mrs. Hudson could hear them and hear them very well he'd blanched. It had taken quite a lot of coaxing and soothing, gentle teasing to get the normal colour to come back to his face.

"Look, if it bothers you so much we can go up to my bedroom, sorry, my old bedroom for awhile. You know, when we're in the mood. It doesn't put me out in the least."

Sherlock had appeared to consider it for a few seconds before shaking his head.

"No. That's impractical in the long run. We shouldn't have to hole ourselves away to have sex. We can be vocal but respectful, I suppose. It's a subtle balancing act that will take time but I believe we can manage it."

"Me too." John said. They'd been standing in the kitchen at the time and John had his hands on his boyfriend arse. Enjoying the firm, roundness beneath his palms he gave Sherlock an appreciative squeeze which the younger man was just on the edge of getting accustomed to.

"Speaking of the bedroom," He'd began.

"Yes?" John had asked with a smile.

"You know...I mean, it would be so much more convenient for you to move your clothes and such into our bedroom. You have to dash up the stairs every day for clothes and underwear and socks."

"Oh." John had said and nodded before continuing on. "That's not where I thought you were going with this but, yeah, of course. I guess I'm just being lazy, you know? I'll get to it."

He was still getting accustomed to this Sherlock. All this time, all these years he'd carelessly laboured under the idea that his best friends emotional depths were shallow at worst and unplumbed at best. Sherlock was reserved, not cold, but...distant. But now he looked on their past together with different, more discerning eyes. One event that stood out in particular for so many different reasons was the incident in the train car. Sherlock, tear streaked, claiming to be unable to defuse the bomb, begging for forgiveness, receiving it, confessing he'd stopped the timer long ago and then laughing heartily.

Oh, your face! Your face! I totally had you. Oh, those things you said – such sweet things! I-I never knew you cared!

Teasing. Mocking. Sherlock the overgrown child. Sherlock the emotional cripple. Sherlock the manipulator.

Of course, he'd said he'd forgiven him. He loved the prick, even if he was, well...a prick. But, as they'd discussed in therapy, he'd still harbored bitterness from that day and many of the days before it.

But now John realized he'd been so wrong. What he thought was Sherlock delighting in playing him for a fool was really a poor performance on his best mates part. Trying desperately and simultaneously to both shield and reveal his true feelings.

Oh.

Your face.

Your face.

I totally had you.

Oh. Those things you said.

Such sweet things.

I...I never knew you cared.

Sherlock revealing himself in the only way he knew how; by hiding.

Sherlock asking for forgiveness and the subsequent look of surprise on his face when it was bestowed, clearly telegraphing he didn't expect it.

John had known him so well.

John hadn't known him at all.

They weren't demonstrative in public. They rarely touched unless it was to yank the other one out of danger or hold them back from something. This was not a conscious thing. It was simply the way they worked. They way they always worked. John had been afraid that becoming partners would, in essence, set fire to the friendship. As if friendship was a level below and lovers was a promotion as he'd teased him about the first night they'd been back home. But the friendship remained, strong, steady, solid. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were best friends. John Watson and Sherlock Holmes were also romantic partners. These were two facts that didn't conflict or override one another.

And while they were friends in the flat as much as they were outside, once the door was closed and the clients sent away and Mrs. Hudson was blissing out on her herbals soothers unlikely to visit them again they rarely spent a moment without touching. Sherlock brushing past John in the kitchen, touching his arm, his lower back, his cheek, his arse. John coming behind Sherlock's chair to peer over him at his phone or laptop, squeezing his shoulder, pressing their cheeks close for a better view, resting his hand on his chest.

They were undeniably a touch clingy with one another even though they'd never admit it and never call the other one on it. John still felt rather sensitive of his feelings being so raw and obvious, at least on certain days. And he knew Sherlock did as well. That didn't stop them from lovingly shadowing the other like puppies. For instance, John liked the solitude of a hot, solitary shower, he always had, but lately, he'd found himself missing Sherlock's company even for that short time.

One day he'd invited him to come along.

"No, thank you, John."

"You don't have to get in." John insisted. Sherlock was still, for reasons John wasn't going to nag or harp on, body shy. He'd seen enough parts of him naked to put together what was likely an impressive full picture. But he'd never seen all of those parts together. Not yet. John, on the other hand, had no qualms about being nude in front of his partner.

"Just...come talk to me. Put the lid down on the loo, have a seat and just talk to me."

Sherlock had smiled at the idea and John was surprised and pleased that he was game.

And that was how that tradition started. Sherlock reclining, back against the wall, legs sometimes propped up against the sink. John, standing in the iron bathtub, talking a bit louder over the rush of the shower spray, eyes shut against the assault of shampoo.

Sherlock caught him up on the latest trash telly he'd been viewing. John mentioned a book or two he'd been interested in getting from Amazon, a few thrillers, and mysteries.

"I could get two copies. We could read it together if you like. Our own little book club."

It was so domestic John almost cringed as he waited for a reply.

"No." One copy will do. I prefer when you read to me."

What a lovely no it turned out to be.

John would get out of the shower, unabashedly naked and smile as he felt Sherlock's eyes run over him. He'd often delay getting a towel just to give him a better look. It wasn't a tease just to tease as he was just as likely to put the towel on the floor, sink down upon it on his knees, unzip his lover's trousers and suck him until he was pleading for release in the echo-y bathroom.

It didn't happen all the time. There wasn't an expectation or demand. And that was nice.

That said, he had become quite enamored of Sherlock's cock. Any initial shyness was gone and he found himself eager to indulge and indulge him whenever the mood struck. The most recent time was just two night prior. John had been sitting in his chair and his boyfriend was in his own talking animatedly to his brother on the phone. He was clearly stressed, agitated, irritated and John gave him a lazy smile. After removing his shoes he raised up in the chair to tug it slightly forward. Sherlock watched with interest and only paused his argument with his brother to mouth "What are you doing?"

But John simply continued smiling as he sat back down and extended his leg. Slowly he began to part Sherlock's knees with his foot, a move the other man allowed still not quite sure where this was going. Though he did appear to be getting the idea.

John had then placed his foot firmly but gently against Sherlock's crotch and stifled a laugh as his eyes had gone wide.

"John!" He mouthed but John's only response was to establish a rhythm, stroking, grinding, pressure. It didn't take longer than a few moments for him to feel Sherlock stiffen under the ball of his foot.

"Wha-what was that, Mycroft? Yes, of course, I'm listening. It's a baa-bad connection. No. No. Sheep? Yes, funny. I...I...what?"

He was breathing harder now and John was keeping unrepentant eye contact as Sherlock stumbled through his phone conversation all the while starting to push back against the foot.

"Mycroft...Mycroft, I have to go, Something's come up. I'll ring you later...maybe. Good evening." Sherlock hung up the phone and let out an especially filthy groan.

"You know I wanted to do this on my stag night. Nearly did. You just sitting there all beautiful and willing. I saw you open your legs for me. You felt me put my hand on your knee."

"You remember that?" Sherlock asked gripping the armrests of his chair.

"Mmmhmm I also remember putting my feet on your chair but not daring to be as forward as I'm being now."

"John...John this feels so good." Sherlock wrapped a palm around his boyfriend's foot, guiding it where he wanted it to go all while rutting against it."

Just as he was getting too accustomed and too close John pulled his foot away.

"Unbutton and unzip your trousers for me and take your cock out. Stroke yourself, right there."

"Here?" He asked with a touch of dismay that John found both endearing and highly erotic.

"Right here, posh boy. Right in the open. I want you to sit in your £1300 Le Corbusier chair and take your hard cock out of your Calvin Klein pants, out of your £200 Spencer Hart Savile Row trousers and stroke it for me. And I want you to worry that I'm going to make you come so hard you spurt all over your £500 Dolce & Gabbana shirt. I want you scandalized."

For just a moment Sherlock paused.

"John, I am impressed. You managed to come within £50 of being absolutely correct. Tell me-"

"Did my guessing the price of your clothes turn you on? Because if not, I think we're losing the narrative thread here."

"Deductions, brains, clarity, observation always turns me on. Plus, as you said, I like to be pretty." Sherlock replied quirking his lips.

John laughed and shook his head.

By God he loved this man.

"Be a good boy and do as I said. I can appraise your wardrobe later if that's what gets you going."

Sherlock obliged and John was pleased to watch him make a bit of a show out of unzipping his trousers and slipping his hand inside.

After a moment he was groaning softly as he stroked his erection.

"Now take it out for me. Let me see it."

"You should...why don't you try to do it as well?" He asked as he removed his cock from his trousers.

"No, sweetheart, this is just for you." John replied. "Plus, I just enjoy watching you. You have the most expressive face, Sherlock. You're so gorgeous and open and beautiful. No, don't stop now. Keep going, darling."

Sherlock slumped farther down in the chair, opening his legs wider. John watched as he loosened his grip, clearly wanting to take his time. There were no more clandestine trip to the loo for sad wanks. When he masturbated he did it without apology and sometimes he requested John's voice in his ear as he did so. He had an equal affinity for both the naughty and the nice. He loved when John talked dirty to him, when he extolled the virtues of his hard cock, when he spoke blatantly about how he wanted to fuck him and be fucked by him. But he was just as excited when his boyfriend spoke tenderly, sweetly, gently about how beautiful he was, how beautiful they were together and how he'd always, always wanted this, even when he didn't know how to express it. He also enjoyed a combination of both, the commands, the demands but always concluded with the sweetest of 'Sweetheart's'.

He liked learning what Sherlock liked and he liked watching excitement bloom in his eyes as he had what could only be termed a sexual awakening. It was lovely and brilliant and John felt lucky to be the sole witness.

"Cup your balls, Sherlock. Give them some attention." He commanded and his boyfriend immediately did as he was told. Slipping his other hand into his pants to massage his bollocks.

The groans coming from his lover's mouth were loud and deliciously sinful. But how could he not be sinful with that resonant voice, those beautiful lips, that pale, gorgeous body, that slim frame, those articulated fingers working with an even grace John had thought was reserved only for his violin.

"John..." He whispered and though it wasn't a question John decided to tease him a little.

"Yes, Sherlock? Do you need something, darling? Is there something I can do for you?"

"Please, please..."

"Please what? Please suck you?"

Sherlock flashed bright eyes at him as his tongue darted out to wet his lips.

"Yes." he said drawing out the 's'.

Taking his time John rose from his seat and walked over to his partner enjoying the wide-eyed, desperate look he was greeted with.

Bending over he kissed Sherlock, lustily, putting a hand to the back of his head and giving his curls a gentle tug. He'd learned that Sherlock liked the tug. Nothing rougher than that or the odd teasing spank to his firm arse as he passed him in the kitchen. But it was just enough to thrill them both.

Pulling away before either was satisfied John sank to his knees. He opened Sherlock's legs wider and without preamble took him in his mouth.

His boyfriend let out a broken cry and slapped the arm of the chair for emphasis.

"Fuck!" Came the shout as John felt Sherlock's arse rise off of his seat. In an effort to calm him John settled his palms on his boyfriend's hips to keep him in place. This prompted the other man to whimper with obvious frustration which only made John grin around the cock currently in his mouth. He bobbed his head slowly up and down on Sherlock, loving the way he twitched and pulsed against his tongue and lips. A hand found it's way to the back of his hair providing gentle pressure unable to help pushing his head just a touch lower.

Raising up slightly John made eye contact as he ran his tongue messily, wetly over Sherlock's tip, lavishing the slit before taking the glans in his mouth again and curling his tongue around the corona. Knowing how sensitive the frenulum was he backed off. Sherlock whined but quieted as John began to place soft kisses on the elastic band of tissue. It only needed the lightest of touches to produce results. A fact that proved itself to be true in theory as well as practice as on the third kiss Sherlock came with a gasping whimper. Ejaculate leaked from the tip of his cock cascading down to cover John's lips. He groaned before rising up and taking Sherlock in his mouth once again coaxing him through his spasms. When he went still, breathing heavily and having sunk so deeply in the chair he might as well have been part of it John pulled away with a smile. He'd licked him clean and with care he tucked Sherlock back in his pants and trousers and zipped him up.

"I really like the taste of you, Sherlock. And you look absolutely wrecked." He said admiringly.

"You wrecked me." He said and then lowered his voice as if the next words he said were a secret. "I've never come alone the way I come with you."

John allowed Sherlock to pull him up and then forward until he was straddling him on the chair, knees on either side of Sherlock's thighs.

Christ, but he hoped soon the day was coming when he'd get to ride him in this chair, just like this. Bouncing on that hard cock of his until-

"Is there anything I can do to help you, John?" He asked before the latter tugged him in for a kiss. John didn't want to discuss his deficiencies, what he couldn't do at the moment or what he wanted to do in the future. He hated that every moment had to be tainted with what looked like his inability to participate. He wasn't cross with Sherlock, not at all. But still, he felt he was participating. He was happy and he really wanted his partner to worry a great deal less.

"You're doing everything perfectly, Sherlock. I'll get there. But for now, why don't we get up from here. You shower. And when you come to bed I'll read from our book until you fall asleep. Ok?"

"Ok." Came the reply, happy, content and sated.

Speaking of books...Not willing to just coast on instinct, though it had served him well so far, he'd been logging onto Amazon to begin researching guides to gay sex. There were a few, some campy lifestyle guides that didn't interest, some more serious like marriage and raising children together. The latter scared him. It seemed like too much, too soon, too easy of a way to be disappointed. He clicked off those quickly, but not before adding them to his cart to "Save For Later". But outnumbering any other subsection of this theme were the self-help books. It seemed he couldn't look up something as innocent as 'how to please your male lover' without coming across texts dealing with addiction. "Love and Addiction". "The Gay Man's Guide To Sexual Health and Recovery". "Chasing The Next High". "Addiction And The Gay Man". "Drug Abuse and The Drug Of Love". Queer Sexuality And The Cycle Of Abuse.

Without intending to he got lost down the rabbit hole of these books. Some of them sounded like nonsense but some...some hit a little too close to home. Perhaps he should have found it comforting but he didn't. These, after all, weren't books written by fire and brimstone types. These were written by advocates, health professionals, people with real knowledge and experience, people in the community. It should have made him feel better. But it didn't.

Why were there so many? Why were these two things so intertwined? He was willing to wager that if he looked up sex instructionals for heterosexuals it wouldn't yield quite so many sad sack results. He hated the idea that his addiction might be wrapped up in his sexuality. Something about it all made it sound like the reason you're gay, or in his case bi, is because there's something wrong with you. And the reason there's something wrong with you is because you're gay. It was a snap judgment and a snap summary and though a part of him knew it was wrong he couldn't shake the implication. Correlation did not imply causation. There was nothing tainted about the way he felt for Sherlock or the way he'd felt for Duck before him. The alcohol, the abuse, the anger, these were all separate and he was going to work on them separately. These were lines he didn't want muddied and wires he didn't want crossed.

He went in search of books on anger management next...but not before adding a few of the ones that rubbed him the wrong way to his cart as well.

There was also the pile of books Hanah had given him when he'd left rehab. A pile he hadn't touched though he didn't know why. He hadn't told her that and she hadn't asked. But there wasn't even a part of him that doubted she knew.

"How have you been sleeping?" Hanah asked. She was somewhere new now and he could just make out rolling green hills behind her. It looked peaceful.

"Well enough." He nodded with a smile.

But when he thought about it, this wasn't entirely true. That easy way he'd had in the beginning of slipping into bed, into Sherlock's arms and subsequently into dreams wasn't so easy anymore. He was still getting some hours in but not as many as before.

"You look a little tired, John. And that's just what I can see through the camera. Are you eating properly?"

"I really am going to make more of an effort when it comes to that." He said honestly. It was true. The shopping list had been full of actual food. Fruits and vegetables and he'd discovered a clean kitchen made him slightly more inclined to cook. But it wasn't consistent. He wasn't consistent. For the moment they were sidestepping old habits, leaping over them when need be. He didn't like to think about what would happen when they'd be too big to vault over.

"What about dreams, nightmares?"

"All good on that front. I sleep better next to him and we've got a good routine down."

"Good, at this stage routine is good. And how are the two of you getting along in general?"

"Very well. It's like we picked back up where we left off. And, I don't even mean before Mary died. I mean before he ever left..."

"Ok, and what about intimacy?"

"Well..." he started and then paused. It was easier to talk about what they weren't doing than what they had done so far. "I'm still having issues in that area but we're working through it."

"Working through it?"

"Yeah...um...alright, so we've had oral and sort of...progressed from there."

"Would you be more comfortable discussing this is Sherlock was here too? I'm not opposed to having him come to some of our sessions."

"No, no I'm just not ever going to be comfortable talking about copping off with my boyfriend."

"Embarrassment aside, it's going to be vital to discuss these things at some point. But we don't have to tackle it today. Tell me how you're coping with alcohol."

"I'm staying away from it. I mean...God, this is going to sound so cliche but I don't think I realized how it's just bloody everywhere. Everyone's flat, every restaurant, every other place I pass is a pub or an off license, every shop has a huge, expansive, glittering booze aisle."

John let out a ragged breath. He hadn't quite realized how much he'd avoided talking about this until he started talking about it.

"How do you feel about it?"

"I want it. I want to go to Tesco, sit myself down in the middle of an aisle and dive into a bottle, any bottle. I want to taste it again, I want it on my tongue, I want..." He stopped feeling disturbed at what he was saying. "Jesus, I sound so...pathetic."

"That's absolutely normal. That should be the impression you get when you speak in the AA meetings."

He didn't so much answer as give a slight shrug.

"How are the meetings going?"

He'd been zigzagging all over town, always at a new one, it seemed. Even when it was a location he'd visited before he chose a different day or time. Always trying to settle in and feeling absurdly out of place. He didn't know why. He couldn't put his finger on why. Maybe it was because as much as he feared truly getting into the meat of their issues, his issue, he was frustrated that nothing real ever seemed to happen. Some of them appeared to be more for socializing, some seemed to be just for free coffee and biscuits, some were so closed off, so suspicious of newcomers he sat like a statue in his seat waiting for it to end. And some of them, well some were very understanding, very kind, very sympathetic, very, very willing to listen. And perhaps upon leaving he felt just a tad better, but it didn't last. It was ephemeral. They weren't seeking or asking for solutions. They were just there. And inevitably on the ride home, he would realize while there was succor to be gained from hugs and pats on the back and unaccusing cow eyed stares, it wasn't what he wanted. He didn't want to just be there. He wanted a solution, guidance, support, help.

He didn't know exactly how to put that into words for Hanah. And he was starting to think that what he did want he wasn't going to be able to find. In light of that, the truth was he'd half heartedly given up. He still attended meetings in person every now and then, but for the time being, he believed he'd found a better solution.

"Alright, John, as you haven't answered, I'm going to play a hunch here, go with me."

"Ok."

"Sherlock made you a very diverse list of available AA meetings, correct?"

"Yeah."

"And you've been to likely every meeting on that list, except one."

Damn.

"Yes, that's true." He said with a sigh.

"And that remaining meeting is the LGBT one, correct."

"Yes." He said shifting his position.

"Are you still going to the other ones?"

"Yes, and no."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I found some online and a few by phone."

"John, those are meant to be supplementary. You are not ill, you are not bedridden, you are not agoraphobic...yet, you are chronically socially anxious. You're not on a business trip, far from home in a city without meetings you can attend. You should be meetings with others in person."

"It's different from the Location." He replied careful, not to sound like he was whinging. Even though he knew he was whinging at least a bit.

"Yes, it's going to be." She insisted.

"No, you don't understand I feel...discomfort. No, that's not the word. I feel unwelcome. The last two I went to felt downright hostile. The others...they just don't feel like they're for me"

Hanah took a deep breath and released it.

"Ok, I hear you, I'm listening and I want you to feel comfortable. I need you to feel comfortable. But I also need you to know that this is normal. People can attend dozens of AA groups until they hit what they feel is their right one. The one for them, the one that helps them want to stick with it. If you had been successful right out of the box I would have called you the luckiest man alive. As it is, you're just average, like everybody else. So, why not try the one meeting you haven't?"

He didn't know why except he just didn't want to. He'd scanned over it, taken cabs past it, decided to go and then at the last minute changed his mind. In the interim, it had now become this looming thing, this mountain that seemed far larger to attempt to climb now than it had at the start.

"For God sakes I just accepted the identity of being an alcoholic do I have to-..." He trailed off, not at all liking where he was going with this.

"Accept the identity of being someone who's not straight? Accept the identity of someone who is bisexual? Yes, you do. Yes to all of it. I know, this is a crash course. And it's unfair. But this holding pattern you've been existing in, in so many different ways has been negatively affecting your life for decades. "

He drew the laptop closer and made both the volume of his computer and his own voice lower.

"Yes, I guess so, yes."

"John, there are a lot of different factors that make up who you are and your identity. This is one of them. Believe it or not, it wasn't just about coming out or even starting a relationship with Sherlock. I'm not saying that when you go shopping you have to have it in your mind, "I am a bisexual man shopping for eggs and butter." Of course not. However, you also cannot compartmentalize this down so small that it only exists in the space between you and your partner."

"How does it have anything to do with anyone or anything else besides Sherlock and I, and our families of course?"

"For a private individual, it might not. But you're in the public eye and likely to remain there. Correct me if I'm wrong but, in a perfect world, you're prepared to settle down with Sherlock."

"Yeah, absolutely." He said without hesitation.

"Legal marriage?"

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I mean, I don't know if- ...I don't think Sherlock is the marrying kind."

"You also didn't think Sherlock was the romantic type or the relationship type, you've been wrong before. But you're right, we are getting ahead of ourselves especially given the fact that you're still wearing your wedding ring. But we'll get to that later."

He looked down at his hand and ran his thumb over the underside of the ring.

"But, continuing on, in a perfect world you'll be raising a child together."

"There's a lot of "if's" that have to be tackled before something like that."

"I said in a perfect world, John."

"Ok, yes, in a perfect world, yes, that's true."

"You'll also be continuing your consulting detective work, you may seek out other employment. All of these situations are going to entail interacting with people who will possibly be familiar with your sexuality. Like it or not, your life and the way you've chosen to lead it will be a political statement."

"I don't like it. I don't like it at all. I'm not a joiner or a flag-waver. I just want to live my life with my boyfriend, peacefully, quietly. I don't want to be anyone's spokesman or symbol or token."

"Openly, unapologetically loving a man is still, even in 2016, a bold and radical statement. And making inroads into a community of which you are now a part might be a good way to help you prepare."

"I'm not a homophobe." He insisted and it sounded knee-jerk and defensive even to him. He closed his eyes and rubbed at his temples.

"I never said you were."

'I don't expect to walk in there and have everyone behaving like bloody John bloody Inman. I'm not expecting a Panto for Christ's sake. I know people are people, I know that, I do. I just..."

"You think they all have their feet firmly established in a world you don't. You think you'll stand out like a sore thumb the way you think you've stood out in every other meeting. You're worried this might be your last chance because if you've gone to so many and still don't feel like you've found one that's right, what if you never do? You feel in some ways that you're still in the closet and they'll smell it on you. You're worried you'll say something offensive. You're worried that you're not straight enough for the straights and not queer enough for the queers. You're not even remotely comfortable with the term queer. You're worried that upon closer inspection maybe you are homophobic. Perhaps, like your father was. It's got you to thinking that maybe all these years you did have a problem, even a slight one with your sister because she's a lesbian. You're worried that your mind has drawn an uncomfortable delineation between what you do and how you feel about Sherlock and what others do with their partners. You're worried you've set up an us vs. them before you've even begun. I'm not trying to put ideas into your head, John. But, since were physically apart, since we don't see each other every day as we used to I need to make sure that we still trust one another and that when I look you in the eye and say I believe you, I hear you and I understand that you believe me in return. So, am I right? Is there anything I've gotten wrong, anything you need to correct."

"You couldn't be more spot on than if you were in my head." He said with a helpless gesture. She still knew how to slice and dice him, open him up, peer inside and get started on clearing out all the muck. It hurt, it was frightening and embarrassing but he needed it and he needed her. Because, oh, how the bullshit did back up, clogging him like a stopped up drain when he let it.

"Anything I missed?"

"What if they don't like me? None of the people in the other groups have. Fuck, I sound like a kid in primary school."

"There's nothing wrong with wanting to be liked. That's one of the many things society has gotten wrong. There's only something wrong about twisting yourself into knots trying to be someone you're not. John, AA, like anything else can be extremely clique-y and closed off and hostile to outsiders. It's just the way it is. It's unfair, I know, but it is unfortunately unavoidable human nature. So, if that's what you think you were feeling when you went there you were more than likely right. Ok, how are you and Sherlock?"

John gave an imperceptible sigh of relief. Glad to be done with the previous topic.

"Good, actually. We're great. We're...affectionate, we're in sync. He's so...he's willing to talk to me."

"And you?"

"I mean, I feel wonderful about us."

"No, I mean are you willing to talk. Are you talking to him?"

"Well, yes, we're talking." He said with a frown. "I think I mentioned it to you before, my sister came round for lunch, with Rosie and she brought up our dad. I was rather wary at first but she admitted, basically, that I wasn't making up our childhood. I know you said that it was best to leave her with her own version of the truth. I was really content to do that. It's her life, her journey, I get that. But she brought it up and she even brought out some old journals and she read from them and we...we had a moment. You know? It was good. It mattered. I think, with some time, we might be able to, if not repair our old relationship, then start a new one."

"That's wonderful, John and I'm very happy for you. Please don't think what I'm about to say next at means that I don't believe that was an important and relevant step."

He stiffened as he waited for what she was going to say.

"But you didn't answer my question. Instead, you gave me an example of your sister talking. That was Harry communicating with you, with Sherlock. How have you been opening up to your partner? What have you divulged to him that goes beyond what he knew in rehab."

And like that he was frozen as he realized he didn't have an answer.

The silence stretched on for a bit before she ended it.

"Here's where I circle back round to the AA meetings and I know by the little relieved loosening of your posture earlier you thought we were done and you were glad to be done. But we're not. I realize that being open is difficult for you, especially when you don't trust people. I also realize that it takes time to build trust. While I encourage you to find a group where you feel safe I need you to know, no group will feel perfect. I also want to put it out there that there's a possibility that what's chafing at you is a reluctance to share; your story, your rock bottom, your recovery process. No one wants to be included in that more than Sherlock. I didn't have many occasions to speak with him one-on-one but when I did he expressed nothing but supportive enthusiasm. He wants to be there for you. He wants to listen."

"I used to be this private person. There are days when I truly miss it." He said with a derisive little laugh. "Ok, I'll...talk to him. I will."

"Fantastic. You celebrated 4 months clean not too long ago. We had a session that day and I waited for you to mention it but you didn't."

Shit. He'd had no idea.

"I...I'm inclined to lie but I don't think it would be productive and I think you'd see through me anyway. Yeah, I forgot."

"That's what I thought. John, I want you to start journaling again."

"You think that might be of help?" He asked earnestly.

"I do. When I first asked you to start you were very resistant to the idea but as time went on you were mentioning it more and more. I think it helps keep your thoughts organized and it's a good way to keep track of your progression."

"Or lack thereof." He supplied.

"You take to writing. I'm not sure if you're aware. That why I gave you that book. You know, one amid the stack of books I gave you as you left The Location. The stack you haven't touched." She said with a smile.

"I'm sorry, you're right."

"It's alright. I'd rather have you see it out when you need it then blunder upon it when you don't and ultimately dismiss it. I think books come to us in our own time." Are you blogging again?"

"Yes, yes, and glad to be doing it. I relaunched my page and I've been keeping track of every case we've had so far. Sherlock says I'm just as sacchrine and prone to exaggeration as ever so I know I'm on the right track."

"I'm glad to hear it. I'd like to talk a little more about that in the future. Once you're more settled. Anything else you wanted to ask or discuss?"

"I've got lunch scheduled with a mate of mine named Mike. He's a doctor, I may have mentioned him before. He's going to try and get me some work."

"That's what you want?"

"Want doesn't really factor into it. I need to contribute things are getting rather lean." 

"Have you made a move to put the house up for sale?"

"Umm...no, not yet. There are other things to consider."

Placated for the moment or at least appearing to be Hanah let it drop.

"Alright, anything else you want to discuss?"

"Just one thing, I guess. This meeting, I'm worried I'll have no idea what to say."

"You'll say, Hi, I'm John. I'm an alcoholic and I'm glad to be here today."

"You make it sound so easy."

"That's because that particular part of it is."

Authors Note: Miss me? Sorry for the unusual delay. I had one of those really annoying rah-rah-team-building-isn't-this-fun!??!! company retreats last week which sucked all the energy, creativity and joy right out of me. But, I'm back, I've got a few plans and I'm starting on the next chapter right now. :) In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this one.

Chapter Text

Fifty-Three Days In

134 Days Clean

May 17th, 2016

"You sure you don't want something more substantial? My treat?" Mike asked with a grin.

John shook his head and winced.

It was his own fault. This had been going on since last year and he'd done absolutely nothing about it. There were days where his toothache was a manageable twinge, a pain that made itself known every now and then especially when prodded by something hard or cold. But mostly, undisturbed, it kept to itself. But other days, days like today, it was hysterical. Screaming at every little thing, every inconvenience. The best he could manage today at lunch with Mike was soup and his mouth was even treating that like he'd opted for a bowl of gravel and glass.

"I can pay my own way and no, I'm fine, Mike, truly. I've just got a thing going on here." He said gesturing vaguely to his mouth. They were finally having the lunch that John had been putting off for reasons he couldn't pinpoint. Now that he was here though he was actually having a nice time when he wasn't forced to chew. He'd always liked Mike and his gregarious company. He didn't like that he'd forgotten that or rather allowed himself to forget it. In any case, they'd been talking easily now in the restaurant for a good half hour and John was nothing but relaxed and comfortable.

"Ok, fair enough. So, I think I have something for you. It's through a friend of a friend. Locum work but it may become permanent."

"Sounds absolutely great." He said but a part of him cringed. When he first accepted locum work, long ago, he was only a few months into knowing Sherlock. He'd thought he could handle both; the real world and Sherlock's world. But it really hadn't turned out that way. Sarah was flexible, and not just in that one way he'd enjoyed. She'd gotten, as best she could, what he did with Sherlock, and what he expected, plus she was keen on him so she truly gave him a ridiculous amount of leeway. He wasn't daft enough to expect that again.

"They're four doctors looking for a GP to join a multidisciplinary practice. Beautiful surgery, quite modern, looking to serve the underserved of the city, young, multicultural, diverse. Great set-up, great blokes, there's even a sign on bonus. I put in a good word for you so with your CV and a great interview I think you're in."

Good old Mike, always coming through especially when he was most undeserving.

"I don't know how to thank you. I don't think anyone would even look at me on my own."

"I'm happy to help, John." He said with a wave of his hand before turning serious. "There is one thing."

"Yeah?"

"Well, obviously, you've made a bit of press. Now, it shouldn't matter. It might not matter at all but I was thinking it wouldn't be such a bad idea to get a full screening, physical, maybe even mental and certainly a panel workup. Look, they won't ask, they're legally not allowed to ask but if they seem hesitant you can hit them with reams of paper detailing your clean bill of health."

"Emphasis on clean." John said glumly. He knew this could and likely would be a factor but it didn't make it any less shameful. "I think you're right. It would be good to have in my arsenal. So, when would my interview be?"

"I can set it up as soon as you're ready. You have a doctor? I'd check you out myself if you like but they'd probably rather it was a stranger."

John laughed.

"I love you, Mike, but I'd rather it was a stranger as well. Never much gone in for a touch that personal coming from a friend."

"I feel the same, honestly. Alright, well, I'll write down a few names and numbers, you get an appointment and get back to me."

"I'm on it the second I leave here."

"Excellent. So...how have you been?"

It seemed like ages ago but he and Mike used to meet, almost exclusively, at any number of local pubs. They spend time getting just this side of absolutely shit-faced and cab themselves home. Come to think of it that was how they'd spent a good deal of their early relationship as well. Things were different now. Jesus, did they know each other outside of getting wasted?

John was so happy suddenly that he and Sherlock had never made a habit of getting trashed.

"Fine, really good actually." He said glancing up from his untouched soup. "Mike, what is your life?"

Mike blinked and then grinned at him.

"What are you on about?"

"Your life? Like day-to-day. Tell me about you. I feel like maybe I don't know and I think that's wrong. I want to be a decent friend. So, tell me. "

And with a pleased look, Mike launched into a story. He was teaching still. He loved teaching. Loved the students and their questions, their ideas. "We're in good hands, John." He said. "Those coming up behind us, nipping at our heels, they have the right ideas."

Mike had a steady girlfriend but he was not so keen on marriage. Lucky for him, neither was his girl. Mike had a house that he was close to paying off. Mike had never wanted kids and didn't plan on having any. Mike had a brother whose cancer was in remission. Mike had a mother who had trouble getting around sometimes. Mike had lost 1 1/2 stone.

All of this sounded familiar but in a foggy, hazy sort of way. He'd heard it but he hadn't been paying attention, not like he should have done.

In all these years he wasn't sure if he'd ever asked Mike just how he knew Sherlock. This was the perfect time to clear that up.

"You both seem like an unlikely pair, how on earth did you meet?"

"He and half of the Yard came barging into my lecture one day to arrest one of my students. This creepy bastard had been slowly poisoning his mum. I dismissed class and was about to leave myself but he, Sherlock, asked me to stay during the initial interrogation to confirm some things. I thought it would be about the bloke's whereabouts but it was about the pen he'd used to take notes and the pencil he'd used for a recent test I'd given. Somehow, that sealed his guilt and they carted him away. Sherlock thanked me and I said I didn't do anything. That crowd that bustled in with him left just as quickly leaving he and I alone. I looked at him and he just reminded me of someone. He'd come in so confident and now he didn't seem nearly so tall or sure of himself. I'll tell you, I'm the first one to admit the kids have made me soft. Everyone is a little lost lamb who needs to be brought in from the bloody cold. So, I don't know why, other than that, but I asked him if he wanted a drink. I said something like, anyone would need a bit of booze to fortify their nerves after all that."

"What did he say? I can't imagine he agreed right off the jump."

"He looked shocked. He mouth opened and closed like a carp before he finally offered a polite, Thank you. I took him to the Criterion Bar and we had the oddest chat. He read me from head to toe and I found it to be the most disconcerting, impudent, hilarious thing that I burst out laughing. Told him he had me dead to rights and that it must take a great deal of skill to discover all that by the fraying of the right pocket on my trousers. Again he didn't seem to know what to do, he seemed rather lost. I got the impression that his skill didn't go over so well with most people. But I liked him and I told him so. He mostly just looked confused. He told me about his consulting work, where he lived, how he lived and I found it all fascinating. But I was in the mood to make friends and he looked like he needed a friend. I proposed we meet the following week for lunch and he agreed before he could think better of it. We've been mates ever since."

"And I thought I had the most unique story for becoming friends with Sherlock. I think you've got me beat. So, who did he remind you of?" John asked as he took a sip from his soup that he instantly regretted.

Mike smiled again, that smile that John used to just think was affable and kind. Now he was starting to view it as also amused and remarkably clever.

"You, John. He reminded me of you."

"Me?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes! The way you looked on the first day of med school. This thin veneer of I'm-so-sure-of-myself covering up the reality that you were terrified. I liked you straight away. Just like I liked him. I even mentioned you once to him, ages and ages before you came back from Afghanistan but he likely doesn't remember. Told him, I had a friend that put me in mind of him. He replied "I doubt that very much." So of course when I was fortunate enough to bump into you I decided to put you two up together."

It was strange hearing a retelling of a story he only barely knew, especially when he suddenly and unexpectedly appeared as a character, even if only as a briefly mentioned cameo.

"Were you joking, at my party, when you said there was a reason, after all, why you suggested us as flatmates?"

"No, not joking. I thought you'd get on well. I figure you'd have complementary personalities. I also figured you'd make a good couple."

John scoffed but not unkindly, more in terms of disbelief.

"A couple..." He said with a shake of his head. "Well, it turns out you were right."

"I usually am. You could have invited him along, you know. How are things between you two?"

John had actually invited Sherlock to have lunch with the two of them but he his boyfriend declined.

"Mmm, just text me when you're done. We'll meet at the police station." He'd said his lips against John's neck.

"Absolutely." John breathed as he threaded his fingers through his hair. "You're going to leave another hickey." He'd added with a chuckle.

"Sort of the plan, yeah."

John raised his hand, touched the tender but thankfully not obvious spot on his neck that Sherlock had indeed left and smiled.

"I'm not that guy, the one who gushes and goes overboard about how happy he is and how everything is rainbows and roses and how he wakes up every morning in delighted, grateful, disbelief at his fortune. I'm not going to be the guy who regales you with details about how sometimes he feels like pinching himself everytime he walks by just to know this is real. So, as I am absolutely not that guy I'm just going to sit back, steeple my fingers and say; Cool. Things are cool."

Mike laughed heartily.

"Well, good thing you're not that guy."

"Yeah, for both of us."

Mike turned serious again for a moment, glancing away as he spoke, unable to meet John's eyes.

"I was worried about you, John. Worried and useless. This past year I...I didn't know what to do."

"No one did. I didn't either. It's ok. Nothing to be forgiven for, just like I said at my party. I'm trying to set a new course now, you know? New life."

"I'm glad and I will help any way I can."

"Thank you. Can I...can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"The reason you couldn't make the wedding...it wasn't because you didn't approve was it?"

"There have been three relationships of yours, judging by the way you chatted to me about them over the years, that I thought might pan out. Sarah, Mary-"

"And Sherlock." John supplied.

"And Sherlock." Mike agreed. "I liked Mary. I liked how she took to you and took care of you after you lost Sherlock. She made you happy, what more is there to say? No, I couldn't come to the wedding because of my mum."

"Right, yeah, of course, sorry."

"I was happy you tied the knot with someone who had a knack for putting up with your bullshit."

"She did indeed," John said with a fond smile.

"There is no part of me that wanted things to come together how they did. But...I'm glad that they did. Does that make sense?"

"Yeah, yeah it does," John said idyll stirring his soup. "When I'm not feeling terribly guilty, I feel the same way."

He texted Sherlock as promised after lunch ended but plans had changed as they always did and he no longer needed to meet him at the station. In fact, his partner assured him that they'd soon have the culprit in custody due to a remarkable turn of events that he was eager to tell him about once it was all over.

That left John with an unexpected gap in his schedule. He gave the taxi the Baker Street address and then changed his mind.

He hadn't been there since December. 

He recalled the last time he'd walked in but not the last time he'd left. The door, which Sherlock had needed to bust through to get to him had been repaired. He tried his key, found it still worked and stepped inside. He hadn't known what he'd expected to find. Disarray, maybe. Dried vomit and urine on the carpet, the remnants of the EMT's attempts to resuscitate him, broken glass, empty beer and wine bottles, a refrigerator stinking with spoiled food.

Instead, it was all pristine, showroom new, in fact. Empty and furnished and waiting for his return. He stepped inside and seated himself on the couch.

"I thought you'd gone." he said quietly after ten or so minutes.

"Mary" turned to look at him.

"Just decided to lie low for awhile."

"After the uh...confession in Hanah's office."

She nodded.

"Are you angry?" He asked.

"Do you want me to be angry? Do you need that conflict?"

"What are you talking about?" He said with a weary sigh as he tongued the inflamed area surrounding his tooth. It was a stupid habit to have developed but he couldn't stay away from it now. Sometimes jabbing at it to encourage those flares of eye watering pain.

"You like an outside force and outside idea to rage against, to fight against. One of the reasons you're having so many problems right now is because everything is internal. You've never battled that well, John." She said looking at him earnestly. "That's why you pick fights."

He couldn't deny that.

"Sell this house, John. Let it go and sell it and move on."

"You're not trapped here, are you?" He asked knowing it sounded silly but unable to shake off the idea.

"No, darling, I'm not trapped here. I just wanted to talk to you some place private, quiet."

"This doesn't seem healthy." he said letting his head loll back against the sofa as he scrubbed his face with the heel of his hands.

"Avoiding the topic at hand. Would it matter if I were real or a figment of your imagination or if I were a broom that you danced with so long as I doled out good advice."

"Yes, it would matter a little bit if I were chatting with an old broom!" he said turning his head to look at her incredulously.

"I didn't say an old broom." She replied with a twinkle in her eyes.

After a moment they both burst out laughing.

"I miss you, Mary." he said with a fond sigh.

"I know. I miss you too. But you've got him."

"Yeah, I do. I really do."

"And you've got Rosie. You two go on pretty well. Take her for a weekend."

"A weekend? Just Sherlock and I bumbling about with a baby?"

"Sherlock doesn't bumble. You bumble. You should take a lesson from him." "Mary" went silent for a bit and he glanced over at her. Her face was contemplative but he could tell she was holding back emotion. He was used to that face. He'd seen it a lot early on when they were dating. She had been trying so hard to hold back. More than likely trying to come up with a good reason to pull away. Run away. Never see him again because things were getting far more real than she had ever intended. Considering everything he knew now he understood. But she had failed miserably at trying to talk herself out of getting involved. He was glad she'd failed.

"We made something beautiful and perfect and more pure than either of us could ever be when we made her." She said fighting hard to keep the tremor from her voice.

"Yeah, yeah we really did," he said extending an arm about her shoulders and drawing her in. "Thank you."

"Thank you."

"Can we sit here for a little while like this, you and I?"

"Of course we can." She said snuggling against his side.

He didn't question why it seemed like he could almost feel her, why he could almost smell the Claire de la Lune, why he drew such comfort from this, but he did.

The house was dead silent, just the sound of his breathing, steady and even. It was strange when you really became aware of all the background noise, the humming of lights and appliances and dripping faucets and running toilets, all the stuff that was accepted as part of living in a space. And when all that was cut off and cut away it was shocking how quiet it was.

He couldn't stand it for very long.

"You should get home. He misses you." "Mary" said finally. It was growing darker outside but he could still see her in the gloaming.

"You always knew." he said not long after she spoke.

"You told me every day."

"That makes me sound like a monster."

"Not really. You never said you didn't love me while you were saying you did love him. I could more than live with that."

"You know what tomorrow is, right?"

"Mmmhmm."

He kissed her temple as he positioned himself to stand up from the sofa.

"Rosie does this thing with her nose, this little scrunching up of it when she's happy, it puts these little wrinkles on the bridge, right here." He said pointing to the spot on his own nose before moving his finger to hers. "It's just like you used to do. Happy Anniversary, Mary."

With that, he stood up and left the house locking the door behind him and headed home to Baker Street and warmth and light.

Hours later he and Sherlock were just finishing up Monty Python's The Meaning of Life and John was looking at him curiously. It had been a lazy, quiet evening. They'd wound up playing cards with Mrs. Hudson before eating a light dinner in front of the telly with John choosing the movie.

"You liked it didn't you?" John asked him.

"I underestimated this group of men. I assumed, wrongly, they mostly dealt in undergraduate humour, vulgar jokes and cross dressing. I didn't realize their wit was so incisive."

"They do love taking the piss out of storied institutions. And they love referencing class."

"I found it very funny and some of the scenes quite familiar, especially the one that took place in the classroom. My God, how much time I spent moving my clothes up and down to and from the lower pegs. Though thankfully none of my instructors ever engaged in full on sex with their wives on their desk. I liked the movie a great deal." He concluded with a smile. "Thank you, John."

"You're welcome, love. Still hungry? I picked up some biscuits on the way home."

"I could do with a few." He said with a smile, as he stretched out lazily on the sofa.

John stood and headed to the kitchen, put several biscuits on a plate and grabbed a glass of milk.

"John, can I ask you to clear your schedule for June 15th, 16th, and 17th."

He sat down next to Sherlock with an amused smile, leaning his body against his boyfriends. Sherlock slung an arm around his shoulders and pulled him closer. John grabbed a

John grabbed a biscuit, extended his hand and waited for Sherlock to take a bite.

"That's quite a ways off." He said as his partner sampled the treat.

"I understand. But it's Father's Day on the 17th and my parents would like to have us back at the house for the weekend."

"Oh. Oh? Really...both of us?"

"Yes, you and I. I'm hoping Mycroft declines."

"Have you told your parents about us?"

"Not as of yet as I'd rather do it in person. I don't speak to them often as you know. And I admit if I see they're calling I let it go to voicemail."

"Do they know you're gay?"

"Of course. They've known since I was young. Are you sure you don't want a biscuit? They're very good."

John shook his head, no, but remained contemplatively silent.

"Do you not want me to tell them?" Sherlock asked.

"No, it's not that. It's...do they know that Mary... Do they know she's the one who shot you?"

"No. And they never will. I gave them the same story as the press and general public. If you're worried they'll reject you because of that let me put that fear to rest. It won't happen."

That had been one of the things he'd been concerned about. So many incidents that had occurred they'd tried to keep within their tight knit group but it wasn't always easy. He was happy this one had stayed mum.

He liked Sherlock's parents. They were warm and funny and kind. So perfect, in fact, that they seemed practically scripted as if they'd been sent directly from central casting.

He liked them...now. Or rather, he liked what they had showed him and how they had treated he and Mary during that terrible rough patch.

But he couldn't help but harbor anger toward them. Sherlock and Mycroft (and Eurus) had suffered under their care. After Victor Trevor's murder, Sherlock had essentially, gone into a fugue state which they'd encouraged, or at the very least done nothing to prevent. Allowing their youngest son to suppress his memories and turn his dead best friend into a beloved, euthanized dog. Teenage Mycroft was apparently left to care for Sherlock while seeing to the institutionalization of their mad sister. And what had that amounted to in the end? An austere man who eschewed friends and any meaningful connection. A shadowy government figure not averse to manipulation and murder so long as his own hands didn't get dirty. A man who gladly spent the majority of his non-working life in self-imposed solitary confinement. And then, his brother, a relapsing heroin addict, bullied and mistreated as a child who eventually turned in on himself for protection. A man capable of such loyalty, care and love who'd worked his hardest to suppress it all for fear of being hurt and brutalized all over again. And a sister...well, he had a difficult time working up any sympathy at all for her. But the point still stood. The Holmes children had been spectacularly neglected and all of them, even the debased, devoid genius seemed to be willing to give Mummy and Daddy Holmes a pass.

His own father was a piece of shit. A violent, drunken, monster who terrorized and beat his children.