The first time it happens, he doesnât even notice.
Thereâs just a moment of inexplicable tension there that doesnât register under the storm of rage inside John; the rage drowns it out. Sherlock has gone still, completely still, doesnât blink or visibly breathe. John doesnât think he can even see his chest move.
The silence stretches, and when Sherlock doesnât react after five full seconds, just keeps staring at John as ifâas ifâas if something, John canât tell, but somethingâand John unclenches his fists automatically, and seeing Sherlockâs chest still hasnât moved, he takes a large, deep breath himself.
The moment passes as if⌠nothing.
Sherlock doesnât look at him for the rest of the evening.
The second time it happens, John notices.
Itâs not because heâs suddenly become hyper-aware of himself. He has worked on himself, yes, but he still has issuesâso many fucking issues, Christâthat he wouldnât say heâs okay. Heâs still shit. Heâs still shit, but he lives with Sherlock again, so itâs a manageable sort of shit.
Itâs because of Mrs Hudson that he notices. Itâs inevitable, really: Mrs Hudson has always reacted excessively to any sudden sort of noise or movement. Clearly a victim of abuse. No wonder, with that husband of hers.
Theyâre alone, John and Mrs Hudson, over dinner. John accidentally lets his fork drop with a clatter, and somehow that sound aggravates himâ221B has been so silent latelyâthat he snaps, âDamn it!â and bangs his palm flat on the table. He doesnât even know heâs done it until his own rapid breathing reaches his ear and his eyes fly up to find Mrs Hudson having shrunk back, her hand on the back of the chair and half out of her seat.
They stare at each other wordlessly. Come to think of it, thatâs something John and the people around him have been doing a lot, lately. Staring, saying nothing.
He breathes through the realisationâshe is scared of me; I am scaring herâand when heâs done, he gets up and leaves her, pale and shaken, without a word of explanation.
He spends the next days walking London until his feet hurt and his chest has gone dull with the ache.
The second time it happens, John notices.
Theyâve spoken more today than the last days (hell, weeks), and John feels cautiously optimistic. Theyâre on the couch together, watching telly. It raises feelings of nostalgia that leave goosebumps on his arm, but heâs wearing a jumper, so it goes unnoticed. They sit close. They tend to sit closely, these days. John tries not to think too much about it.
That is why, when he has a glass or two too much, he gets a bit careless. They often sit like this. Sherlock knows him; he knows him more than any other person on this planet ever has and ever will. No movement John can make will be a surprise to him.
Thatâs what John will think, later.
He stretches, the bottle of beer in hand, and yawns. He leans forward. Sherlockâs thigh is pressed against his. He isnât thinking.
He sets the bottle down on the table more forcefully than usual. He isnât thinking. Heâs comfortable, off his guard. Heâs had a drink too much, so his movements are more uninhibited.
He doesnât see it happen, only feels it.
Right that very second, Sherlockâs thigh just jerks against his. It jumpsâflinchesâa violent tremble, as ifâas ifâas if shot through with something, and John stares blankly ahead, remembers Mrs Hudsonâs shaken face, the pale impression of fear on her face, and he doesnât move.
He doesnât move for a full minute, and Sherlock doesnât move for a full minute.
The tension is there this time, as thick as Johnâs anger usually. This time John isnât angry. He was relaxed. Happy, even, if thatâs something he still can be.
Now, everything inside him runs cold. Like a phantom ache, his knuckles itch. His palm. His foot, too.
(âslapped Sherlockâslapped him, and slapped him, and it was just once but felt like moreâincadescent, John was burning, burning out of his skin, the guilt, God, the guilt, and the liesâand a punch, his knuckles, Sherlockâs bruised skinâanotherâand then a kick, vicious, vile, God, he loathed himself, couldnât stop, couldnât stop, Sherlockâs bloodâ)
Itâs John who jerks away this time, full-bodied. He jumps up from the sofa and looks down at Sherlock, who is unreadable, face closed off entirely. He looks guileless, as if John didnât justâdidnât justâ
He needs to breathe, needs to breatheâ
âJohn? Itâs Mrs Hudson. Come back home, John. You know he needs you. Donât do this again.â
John listens to one out of seven voice mails and deletes the rest.
The black car is waiting for him outside in the street. John freezes when he sees it, hand still on the entry door of the building where he works.
As he just stares and doesnât move an inch, his phone buzzes. A text. Some variation of, Get in the car. MH, that John has ignored for the last month.
He ignores this one now, too. He walks towards the car, stares stonily at it, and makes a sharp curve away from it to round the corner.
For once, the car doesnât follow.
One thing John had alwas feared worst was turning into his parents.
He sits on Harryâs sofa, stares at all the bottles around him, and is horrified to find that he canât distinguish the smell between himself and Harry anymore.
Harry hadnât asked. She hadnât needed to. Sheâd pressed a bottle into his hand and willingly gone down under with him.
After four nights in a row of this, John doesnât just feel sick of the alcohol.
At three thirty in the morning, he gets up, moves into the bathroom, closes the door behind him, turns on the light, and disrobes. He stares at himself in the mirror, nude, and forces himself to take his own reflection in. What he sees is a piece of shit, unworthy, undeserving, justâ
âCut the drama, John,â Mary says from behind him. âYou know thatâs Sherlockâs role.â
âdespicable, vile, how could anybody love him, heâs such a bad person, God, he never wanted toâ
âSeriously. You donât even look half as good as he does when youâre theatrical. Drop it.â
ââI donât want to be like my father,â he confesses in a rush, breathless, words so fast they almost trip over themselves. He feels light, weightless. âBut I am, and Iâm worthless, and I canât everâcanât everâŚâ
Mary would have let him finish, but he canât finish. He canât get the words out. Even in his own head, he canât say it.
He ends up sobbing into his own shoulder, his dead wife sitting on the bathtub before him, oddly silent for once.
After forty-three days, Sherlock writes him.
John has never both loved and despised words more than these. Come home. As if he could justâ!
âYou can,â Mary tells him from the door.
Johnâs head snaps up. Itâs the first time in over a week that heâs seen her since the bathroom incident. His hand is still bandaged, and Harry wonât speak to him unless he buys a new mirror for her.
âI canât,â he snaps back, tired of these conversations. As if he doesnât know better.
âYou do,â Mary says, going on relentlessly. âYouâre just too much of a coward.â
Itâs really shit having a talking, walking subconscious.
John deliberately takes a deep breath and inhales and exhales through the anger, until itâs somewhat passed.
He doesnât answer to Mary. Thereâs no need to.
They both know itâs true, anyway.
He can, and he does. Therapy, twice a week, with a man. He loathes it, every second. Itâs hell.
He goes through it. Heâs been through hell before, and Sherlock has been to hell, too, because of him. For him. He does it for Sherlock.
Sherlockâs one message is the only text heâs kept. Mycroftâs numerous texts and the odd missed call and all of Mrs Hudsonâs angry voice mails, he long deleted.
Sherlockâs textâCome homeâhe keeps. Come home. As if itâs that easy. As if itâs okay.
But he can, and he does, because nothing ever was easy, and nothing ever was okay. Some things are unacceptable, and even sayin them doesnât make that all right.
Working on them, though, possibly, just might.
The first time he sees Sherlock again is after three months and six days. Itâs early summer. Itâs much too beautiful to be having tense conversations, but here they are, in a neutral restaurant, both eating and averting one anotherâs eyes.
When Mary tells him the third time to, âTalk, John, Jesus Christ!â John swallows.
He very slowly puts the fork down.
âSherlock,â he begins and doesnât know how to go on. How do people have these conversations? This is awful. He hates this. Itâs hard for him. He clears his throat, tries to get the panic out. âSherlock.â
âDonât be stupid,â is all Sherlock says. âItâs fine.â
Johnâs mouth is still open, mid-speech.
âOf course itâs fine,â Sherlock says, chances a quick glance at him and a brief smile. âI deserved it.â
Oh, hell. Oh, Christ. The coldness is back, and John wants to hurl. Jesus Christ.
âNo.â There are earthquakes in his voice. Theyâre strong earthquakes. âNo, itâs not okay. Actually. Itâs not okay at all.â
Sherlock stares down at the table, brow furrowed. He looks confused.
âItâs awful,â John continues, and he feels like he canât breathe. He soldiers on, because itâs what he does. âItâs awful, and it should never have happened, and Iâm sorry. I am so sorry. I was a cock. I was an arsehole. I shouldnât have done that.â
âI hurt you,â Sherlock says, muttering, and John almost misses it because he says it to the table. âI hurt you, so I deserved it.â
It feels so surreal, he and Sherlock sitting here in broad daylight, talking about things. It feels so surreal and is long overdue.
John takes another breath. âMaybe some of it. That one time, before Irene Adlerâs house, that wasâyeah, you deserved that.â
The corner of Sherlockâs left mouth quirks up.
âAnd maybe, maybe you deserved a bit of punching too when you came back. Because youââ Christ, he has to say it. He has to say it. ââyouâyou left me, for two years. That wasnât. That wasnât good.â
The old familiar surge of anger and bitterness creeps up on him, but it isnât about that now. John pushes it ruthlessly aside and continues, squaring his shoulders.
âBut everything after thatâSherlock, no, you did not deserve that. You.â His throat is tight, so he coughs, tries to clear it. âYou.â The itch in his throat becomes a tear, breaking his voice apart.
Bloody bodies, the lot of them. Always so treacherous.
âYou did everything for me,â John says, and in the calmness of his voice, thereâs a tremor. âYou did everything for me, and I should have been there for you. I wasnât.â
In his hand, thereâs a tremor too. His hand is on the table.
âPleaseâplease forgive me. I should never have done that.â
His hand is shaking badly. Sherlock is looking at it, and John doesnât hide it, not anymore. Sherlock can see all of him now, if he wants to. If he still wants to, after all that John has done.
âItâs fine,â Sherlock says, and his voice has none of the brashness of before. Itâs low but firm. âI said itâs fine, John. Itâs fine.â
John forgets to breathe, does not do it and literally doesnt think of it, as he watches Sherlockâs hand cover his on the table. His large hand, engulfing Johnâs deficient, smaller one. Like itâs precious, even though it hurt him, even though it touched him in bad blood.
Yes, John thinks, and this time the voice is not Maryâs anymore, but his. Finally his. Yes, this has always been who he is. Heâs always been this brave.
John is stuck in a limbo, staring down at their hands. Sherlock is staring tooâbarely breathingâand then he closes his eyes and hisâ
his thumb moves. Brushes, just so, over the back of Johnâs hand.
John jerks his hand back as if heâs burnt himself.
Sherlockâs entire beautiful open face closes off in a single second, but not before John hasnât seen the hurt: cracked open, a vulnerability so devastating that it makes him react instinctually.
âNo,â he says, brings his hand forward again and snatches Sherlockâs before he can take it back. He holds it there, pressed down into the table. âNo, Sherlock. If weââ
A stab of panic in his chest, but John ignores it.
ââif we, if we ever do that, I donât want to touch you like this. I want toâŚâ He closes his eyes. Heâs such a fucking coward, canât look at Sherlock when he says it. â⌠When I touch you the first time, like thisâIââ
Say it, John. Say it. Years long, now say it, get the hell on with it.
ââl want you to know only love and pleasure,â John chokes out and canât help it: the tears slide down his face, sudden, unbidden, and ugly.
Sherlock lets him cry, as if he knows this is somethign John has to do on his own. He doesnât move his hand, though.
When John has finished crying, their hands are intertwined. Sherlockâs fingers are holding his, tightly. Like they donât want to let go.
Eventually, Sherlock looks up. His eyes are bright and red and beautiful.
Sherlock is so beautiful.
âOkay,â is all he says.
Maybe they will be. Okay.
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