John Watson x Reader II
“That’s erm,” your hands fluttered nervously at your side, “well, that’s quite a lot to unpack isn’t it?”
“I didn’t want to have to tell you but,” he grimaced, “I thought you deserved to know.”
John stared at you, his blue gaze passing through you into another plane of thought. He was acutely aware of the pain he had just inflicted on you. The behemoth of emotional injury that had been transferred onto your shoulders.
He didn’t want to. So why had he? Why had he chosen to burden this perfectly sane woman with his imperfectly chaotic life?
He waited to see how you would react. Would you collapse into a nervous mess? Cry and scream at him for crippling you with this knowledge? Leave in a flurry of expletives never to be seen again?
That was, after all, how any sane person would react when presented with the morbid chronicles of John Watson’s life. The soldier who never came home from the war. The man who sought adrenaline in the form of chasing after killers and putting bullets into those who would do the same to him. His only friend was a high functioning sociopath and his only wife had been a liar of considerable proportions who he’d lost just as soon as he’d gotten to know her.
He was not sane, as certain people had been quite eager to remind him, so he had come to accept these things as part of the fabric of himself. The threads that wove him together.
You, however, were sane. Ordinary and simple in all the best ways, just as he had always wanted his lover to be. You had no bones in your closet, no demons in your bed. Just a beautiful smile and an incredible laugh that had captured his heart with breathless desire.
Six months he’d fallen asleep with you by his side and now he had to let you go. It wasn’t meant to be. How could it? He didn’t fall in love with normal people. The ring he still wore on his finger proved as much.
He stood firm, and braced himself for your blows. With a sick sort of humor he realized he wanted to be punished. He wanted you to curse his name for ever dragging you into his demented life. He wanted you to leave him because otherwise, he knew, he would beg you to stay.
“So, let me make sure I understand you correctly,” you began to pace as you listed off the number of inconceivable truths you had just learned about your boyfriend.
“Your best friend is Sherlock Holmes, who has almost gotten you killed a dozen or more times and encourages reckless behavior on your part that is usually illegal. Your acquaintance is his brother, Mycroft Holmes, who is no less dangerous if slightly more nefarious, and he enlists your help on equally deadly tasks with little to no concern for your life. Your wife was actually a covert operative whom you met while you thought Sherlock was dead, but it turns out he wasn’t and she ended up taking a bullet for this man not long after your child was born.”
You paused and glanced up at John, his face was downcast.
“Did I forget anything?”
“No,” he clenched and unclenched his fists. It was a habit of his you found strangely endearing, “that would be everything.”
“Well,” you exhaled deeply, “here I was fretting about how to tell you that I spent a summer in Florence sampling wine and Italian men when I supposed to be studying agriculture. That all seems a bit humdrum now, doesn’t it?”
Surprise and confusion flitted over his face. He hadn’t quite processed the joke yet.
“It was during my Uni years,” you shrugged, “I worried it might make you think I was a bit too--shall we say--flighty.”
A chuckled escaped his lips and his eyes sought yours with a desperate intensity. Laughter bubbled in your chest and soon the two of you were doubled over with the absurdity of it all.
When your breath returned, you smiled and righted a lock of hair that had fallen over his forehead.
“It’s a tad unfair though,” you mused,
“What is?” his brow furrowed.
“Telling me all this after I’d already fallen in love with you. Now I haven’t got a choice but to stick around.”
John was speechless. This couldn’t be right. He didn’t understand. You weren’t supposed to be this understanding, it wasn’t supposed to feel this easy.
He searched your face for any trace of misgiving, not that he was very good at it. That was more Sherlock’s territory. Still, he could find nothing but fondness and compassion in your image. He was nearly ready to let himself believe it.
Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.
His arms sought you, enveloping your frame as he wanted--needed--to feel you against him. He kissed your temple and whispered, “Thank you.”
You were truthfully more than a little shocked by everything, but you would have time to process it more thoroughly later. John had entrusted his most painful moments with you and you would treat them with all the care and tenderness that someone as incredible as he deserved.
After a moment you pulled back and gave him a playful smile, “Now, you’re sure there’s nothing else? Rosie isn’t actually a forest nymph that was left on your doorstep?”
He feigned disappointment, “Ah, I was hoping you wouldn’t notice that one.”
His hands slipped down to your waist and his expression was curious, “About that summer in Italy. Is there, erm, anything you learned that you want to share with me?”
You kissed him lightly, testing his patience, “Oh, yes I can think of a few things.”
His eyes were bright with amusement as he captured your mouth with his own once again.
Perhaps you were not sane after all. Perhaps you were. All John Watson knew for certain was that he loved you and that was enough.
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Part 2 of ?