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John had nothing against hospitals – up until he was a patient in one. There’s an old adage that doctors made the worst patients and if Doctor John Watson wasn’t living proof of the truth in that statement, then no one was. He picked at the IV tape as he sat outside his hospital room on a bench. He’d already alienated both paramedics, three nurses, and their main physician – and even now, he was looked at with quiet disdain, yet no one bothered to drag him back to a hospital bed. He would probably feel guilty for his bad behaviour later on, but right now? He was far too worried to care.
The past seventy-two hours played on loop in his mind.
When James hadn’t returned right when he said he would, that immediately caused Sherlock to panic. John remained worried but had a sense of calm, insisting that they wait at least an hour before gathering up a search party. Anything could have happened to delayed James’ return, he reasoned (to both Sherlock and himself) and he had to absolutely be fine. Sherlock very passionately disagreed and there was a deeper gash in the mantle above the fireplace from how passionately he demonstrated his temper with his knife. John’s attempts to talk Sherlock off the ledge of a full blown tantrum spiralled out of control into a rapidly burning argument and took a very quick leap into the explosive.
John had stormed out with ears ringing from very poorly placed insults and the crashing of several of Sherlock’s beakers hitting the floor. As a result, he found exactly what had happened to James in the few hours he’d been missing and not in a good way.
Love or The Work, Mr. Holmes. You can’t possibly have both. That would be greedy.
John blinked out the events the best he could, because now he was here – in a hospital where he didn’t want to be, with a few cracked ribs and a mild case of dehydration. James had fared a bit worse, with a dislocated arm, being treated for hypothermia, and the early signs of frostbite on one foot.
And Sherlock… well, Sherlock had disappeared after Moriarty had let them go. When John and James had been carted off in an ambulance, Sherlock hadn’t followed as he’d promised.
That was seven hours ago. So now, John was worried. The fact that both Greg and Mycroft had incredibly well trained people whose livelihoods relied solely on their abilities to find missing people did very little to soothe the churning bundle of nerves in the base of his stomach. If Sherlock didn’t want to be found within city limits, he simply wasn’t going to be.
He still kept his phone in his hand, a reminder to breathe on his lips, and his eyes peeled for even a glimmer of that Belstaf swishing in his peripheral vision. He checked the series of messages he’d sent to Sherlock repeatedly, combing through the words for the unnumbered time in a vain attempt to keep himself from thinking about how these nightmarish days could end with bad news and the need of a funeral.
Sherlock, please come to the hospital. – sent 1:48 am
At least tell me where you are. – sent 3:06 am
Sherlock, we really really need to talk. – sent 3:52 am
Please? – sent 4:37 am
Sherlock, I promise you I’m not angry at you right now, but if you turn out to be dead I will strangle your lifeless corpse. – sent 5:10 am
I really want to see you, love. Please. – sent 6:24 am
John scrolled up and down through the one sided conversation until he finally placed his phone back on his knee. His screen lit up from a text notification, but before he had a chance to register it, he caught sight of the man he’d been looking for.
“Oh thank god,” he sighed in relief as he ripped the IV out, ignoring yet another protest from a passing nurse, fisting Sherlock’s scarf in his hands and pulling the man down into a tight embrace. “I swear to fucking god, if you do that to me again…” he whispered, his threat cut short at the relief of simply being able to hold the other man. “Where the fuck have you been?” he whispered, taking Sherlock’s cheeks in both his hands and looking at his eyes.
“I’m not high,” Sherlock insisted.
John ran his thumbs across Sherlock’s damp cheekbones before his shoulders dropped at the way Sherlock averted his puffy and red eyes. He’d been crying. “Oh, love…”
“Where’s James?”
“In the hospital room where he should be…” John hushed Sherlock before he could even ask, “He’ll be fine, love. It’s okay. We’re fine.”
“Except you aren’t fine and you wouldn’t have been in this mess if it weren’t for…”
“Moriarty,” John insisted firmly. “I swear to Christ, Sherlock if you start blaming yourself for what this psychopath has done, then you’re a bigger idiot than I originally thought.” He cupped Sherlock’s face in his palms and just stared into his eyes with a desperation equalled only by a dying man searching for God. “Do not. Deal with this. Alone. Please.”
Sherlock’s eyes widened as the crack in John’s plea struck his very core. He crumbled, dropping his head to John’s shoulder before curling his hands into fists and pressing them gently to John’s back. “I’m so sorry…” The timbre of his voice was lost, his words but an exhale as grief clamped down on his throat. John held him gently, hands on his hips before he pressed his nose to Sherlock’s hair. “Hey… We need to tell James you’re here.”
“Is it really okay for me to go in there?”
“It’s fine and fuck it if it’s not.”
John gently took Sherlock by the hand and led him to James’ bedside – the other man propped up in a sitting position in his hospital bed as he watched the news on mute. He turned his head, the smart quip he planned to fling at John stopping just short of being voiced as he saw Sherlock, shifting his attention.
“You son of a bitch,” he whispered – though his words lacked any venom to be offensive – “Thank God, you’re okay. Come here.”
Sherlock hesitated when he got to the side of James’ hospital bed, “Your arm,” he whispered as he seemed to just stare at the sling.
“It’s fine…” James reached up with his weak hand as far as he could stretch it before Sherlocked dropped down and pressed his forehead to James’ closing his eyes and nodding as James parroted the same request as John. “You’re not alone in this, Sherlock. Don’t disappear on us now.”
Sherlock ran his thumbs across the rough patch of skin on the back of James’ hand before he settled in a chair next to him. He remained quiet and distant for the duration of James’ hospital stay, barely responding whenever someone addressed him. John and James allowed it, realizing all they could do was wait.
Not another word was spoken until they were back to 221B.
Sherlock was sitting on the couch, knees pulled to his chest, and looking far younger than he had any right to. He was so rigid that John could swear he could see him practically vibrating as he kept his muscles tense.
Both John and James had kept themselves at arm’s length, since Sherlock seemed to flinch if they’d dared to take another step closer to him. He seemed skittish almost, but not like an injured animal being approached. More like the person approaching the injured animal, scared of further aggravating it further or possibly getting hurt in response. He’d taken one case since Moriarty walked away from them in disinterest and had failed to tell John about it. “Barely a four,” he had muttered, “Didn’t see it proper to even bother you.”
But that had been days ago and right now, as John watched Sherlock silently work his brain up into a rocket-powered frenzy, he couldn’t take it anymore. This self-induced mental torture Sherlock insisted on dragging himself through had to stop and John decided the best way to do that was to burn himself on the bed of coals that Sherlock had stranded himself on and coax him back onto cool, dry land.
So he set aside his laptop and closed their distance, taking a seat next to Sherlock’s stiff body and slowly – very very slowly – unfolded his limbs and coaxed him to lie his head in John’s lap. They were quiet for a few minutes before Sherlock breathed in the smell of John’s jeans, reminding himself of each individual ingredient that combined to create the doctor’s scent. Detergent, fabric softener, soap, cologne, and buried beneath was the sweat and smell of skin. It was all there if Sherlock could dig deep enough, and he buried his face just above John’s knee and inhaled, holding in there before breathing it out with a soft groan. The way John’s fingers curled into his hair and tugged lightly at it with each pass of his hand over his scalp kept Sherlock from bolting.
“You know,” John began, keeping his voice steady, “James and I both asked you not to disappear… yet that’s exactly what you did.”
“I’ve been right here.”
“No, you haven’t.”
John’s tone stayed even, but it did little to soften the blow. The sofa creaked as Sherlock awkwardly planted his feet and turned himself to look up at John’s face, reaching out to press a palm to his cheek.
“You’re right,” he finally relented, giving up the silence that had continued to dangle between them. “I’m sorry.”
John managed a smirk and a soft laugh before he looked around the empty apartment, “The one time I get you to say those words in the same sentence without a hint of sarcasm and I don’t even have a witness.”
“Technically, those were two separate sentences in quick succession.”
“You just had to ruin the moment.”
The laughter that bubbled up and escaped from their mouths made the air feel lighter and brighter. The gleeful sound swept up the melancholy and anxiety that had clung to each emission of breath weighed by unspoken words and pushed it towards the darkened corners of the room where it would lay forgotten amongst clusters of dust. It made James’ heart skip several beats as he heard it, jogging up the stairs, and finding John and Sherlock locked in a tight embrace.
James took the necessary steps to close the gap between him and the loves of his life with a wide gait, crossing the distance quickly as he came to stand behind Sherlock, who leaned back against him and looked upwards. “You’re back with the living, I see,” he remarked before he reached down and ran his fingers through the knotted curls. “Think we can coax you into a shower?”
Sherlock reached up and pressed his palm to James’ cheek before nodding, trailing his fingers to the back of James’ neck and pulling him down so their foreheads would touch. He then obediently stood at John’s beckoning and both soldiers marched their detective down the hall into the bathroom.
He’d quickly showered first to rinse himself off of all the grim that had built up the last few days before asking if John would help him wash his hair if he drew a bath. John had obliged to the whim and Sherlock settled into the tub once the water had settled. He cupped his hands and watched the warm-just-below-scalding water pool into his palms as John lathered his hair. He dipped his head downwards, just allowing himself to feel John’s fingers carefully pluck the tangles loose before he sunk further into the bathwater with a relieved sigh.
James perched silently on a small footstool before he reached out and helped John the best he could. It was serene, gentle, the silence interrupted by displaced water softly splashing with every move. Sherlock blinked his eyes open when he heard John’s voice, softly grunting in a monosyllabic plea to repeat whatever he’d said.
“I said–” John remarked with a soft smile, “If you insist on going through these long sulks, we’re going to have to cut your hair.”
“It wasn’t a sulk…” Sherlock protested weakly before he closed his eyes again as John rinsed out the shampoo. “I was thinking.”
“About?”
“You know what…”
John’s sigh was doubled with James’ joining one before they both gave Sherlock a look that made the youngest man shrink down a little. He clutched the side of the tub before he sighed, giving in to their silent request with a bit of a shaky start.
“Okay fine,” he cleared his throat to steady his voice to its natural vibrato as it threatened to pitch up an octave as if he were an adolescent boy, “I was thinking about… what happened. About Moriarty’s ultimatum and I still… don’t have a solution.”
“I don’t think it deserves one, Sherlock,” James offered.
“But it does make me greedy, doesn’t it? Wanting both?”
“I think that just makes you willing to allow yourself to be happy,” that stunned Sherlock back into a silence that made him blink for several minutes. James shifted where he sat and rolled his shoulder before looking back to him, “Sherlock, there is no ultimatum. The world that Moriarty lives in is that of an extremist and a psychopath. He doesn’t get to judge you, or us by extension.”
“Is it really that different to the rest of the world, though? With the constant explanations and disclaimers…”
“The rest of the world can go fuck itself along with Moriarty as far as I’m concerned,” John remarked bluntly before he slicked Sherlock’s hair back from his face.
James placed his hand on John’s shoulder before he began to slowly sort through the bleak tracks that Sherlock’s train of thought was navigating. “Is this about all three of us together or something else?”
Sherlock drew in his lip with his teeth, worrying at it before he leaned forward slightly, “Moriarty wasn’t making me choose between you and John… he was making me choose between you both… and The Work.”
“The invisible fourth member of our triad.”
“Is that how you see it?”
“Is that not what it is?” The lip biting commenced again at James’ question. He took it as a very blatant answer. “We already know, Sherlock. We’ve known since we got back that we share you with each other and your career. It’s not a shock. You need all three of us, otherwise you’ll shrivel up.”
“Speaking of shrivel,” John quipped, taking Sherlock’s hand to look at a single pruney digit. “I think you’ve had enough bathwater for the night.”
Sherlock stood before John dripping and naked, bowing down his head so the shorter man could towel dry his hair. “Shouldn’t I prioritize you two over it?” he asked before John pulled the towel down over his shoulders.
“Love, that’s up to you. But within these walls, within this unit – no one is requiring you to do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a part of you and it’s a part of how we are. We love you, we love The Work, we love each other. We’re all consenting adults here and this is how this whole thing stands. Do I need to start doing cartwheels for you to understand that we’re all on the same page? And can I ask for an alternative gesture of equal value? Because my shoulder is not the same it use to be.”
Sherlock just laughed, sniffling a bit in the cold air, tears collecting at the corners of his eyes as his face stretched tight with a large smile. John stared at him, this feeling he’d burst beginning to burn his nerves and warm his skin before finally he took both of Sherlock’s hands in his and squeezing his fingers before he released one, found James, and pulled him into view so he could look at them both.
“Sherlock Holmes, Major James Sholto… would the two of you do the honor of marrying me as well as each other?”
The air was kicked out of the small bathroom so fast it made all of them see spots. Sherlock, for once, was the quickest to recover.
“John, I’m fairly certain what you are proposing… I mean… your actual proposal… if not illegal, is considered very socially unacceptable.”
“Society can go fuck off with the rest of everything. I don’t need anything legal. Just you, James, me, and the omnipresent Work to agree that we’re all married. The ultimate commitment to battle a frankly bullshit ultimatum. That’s it.”
John looked between the two of them, that burning feeling beginning to rise to his cheeks and paint them a bright red as he waited for any kind of reaction from James – who still remained very stoic on the immediate topic at hand. Until…
“Let’s do it.”
“Can I at least get dressed then? It’s chilly and I would like to have some kind of dignity on wedding day.”
“Yes, that’s a good point. We should probably find a better location to do this, as well.”
The three broke apart – Sherlock to get dressed and John and James to find a witness (Mrs. Hudson) and a location that suited the occasion (the entryway – not ideal, but certainly better than the bathroom and had the perks of being the cleanest part of the flat and away from the prying eyes of the public that was about to go fuck itself as John wished).
John and James waited at the base of the stairs, looking up and smiling as Sherlock descended dressed in his best suit with a beautiful purple shirt that complimented the ethereal color of his eyes and hugged his body in all the right ways.
“And now we have our bride.”
“Shut up.” Sherlock rocked back and forth a bit, shooting nervous looks back to an already weepy Mrs. Hudson. “How is this going to work?”
“Well. I suppose… exchange vows and… something to signify rings? At least until we get rings…”
“Is now a bad time to mention that the concept of marriage is positively archaic and in no way conducive to modern understandings of human sexuality?”
“Yes. Are you ready?”
“… Yes.”
John and James used their dog tags – Mrs. Hudson finding a silver chain thick enough to handle the weight of one with John’s name and one with James’ name for Sherlock to wear. It was expected and predictable, but in all ways fitting.
John went first.
“Okay… how do I do this…” he exhaled slowly and nodded, “Okay. Sherlock… James…” he nodded to each as he addressed them before looking up towards the door of 221B for a moment before being brought back to the men standing in front of him, their hands intertwined in the center of them, the weight of what was happening concentrated in that small area of contact and warmth and bliss.
“Okay…” he began again, “I’d be lying if I said this is how I pictured my wedding day… if I ever pictured it… ever. I don’t know if I ever have, to be honest but… now that I’m here? It all just makes sense. It’s too crazy not to and I’m so thankful… that this is how it is. That it’s you two... and we’re here… and yeah. I love this and… I love you. And that’s just how this has always worked. So… I look forward to continuing this… too crazy to not make sense kind of life with the both of you in it for however long eternity stands for.”
There was a small hiccup from Mrs. Hudson as she clasped her hands to her chest and with a soft laugh, James said his part.
“I have spent… an embarrassingly large amount of my life trying to adjust it towards society’s expectations. Until I met both of you, I did what I could to steer away from what would be considered unusual behavior. Well, I suppose saying this is unusual behavior is understating the obvious, but I really don’t think of it being any other way. Nothing else feels… right. This… the life we have, what we’ve made with each other. This is right. So… I think normal is entirely overrated if it excludes this level of happiness and… I will gladly reject it if it means keeping you two with me.”
The harsh sniff from John was just a coincidence and was in no way an indicator that he might be getting choked up, as it were. Then, eyes fell on Sherlock.
“Um…” his voice quivered slightly before he cleared his throat softly, squeezing the hands he held in his grasp as he physically sought out strength. “When I was sent on that mission to Afghanistan… I was… well…” he huffed another breath to buy himself some time. “I had certain expectations, that’s for certain… but none of them included the two of you. I never, ever, could have predicted the two of you… and for once in my life I enjoyed being pleasantly surprised… only to have you surprise me again by your return… that was unprecedented. Never in my life did I ever think there could be such a thing as “the one” for me and I just want to thank you for proving that because there isn’t just one for me… there’s the two of you. And… shit, I don’t have anything…”
Sherlock looked around frantically before he broke away just long enough to grab his scarf hanging near the door. “This will do…” he created a tear with his teeth and with a few quick tugs, split the designer scarf right down the middle. “Where was I? Oh! Yes… I love you both… and… thank God you put up with me because otherwise, I don’t know what I would do…”
The last bit of his vow got a little lost in the blubbering that he wouldn’t admit to later, though Mrs. Hudson would be very quick to remind him that she was there whenever he would deny it. They exchanged their symbols – John and James hung their dog tags over each other’s heads before they both placed Sherlock’s set around his neck where they clattered just above his heart. Sherlock, in return, tied the each half of his split scarf around John and James’ neck with a simple knot. The took up their hands again and stood still for a moment, absorbing the gravity of what had just transpired.
Until Mrs. Hudson couldn’t bear it any longer.
“For goodness sake! You three are married now, kiss each other!”
And by the power invested in their landlady, their lips met – all three together at first before breaking off into their own individual kisses – the three newly named husbands basked in the joy, the serenity and the beauty of belonging to each other in a way they had yet explored.
Perfect.