John sighed. “Damn, I forgot the milk.”
His shoulders slumped in defeat as he spoke. He loaded the bananas on the belt a little more forcefully than necessary and pinched the bridge of his nose, pressing his eyes shut against the cold neon light. It was already dark out. They should be home by now, lounging in their chairs or on the sofa, watching something trivial on the telly. But between a particularly gruesome triple murder and flu season at the clinic, neither of them had had time to go out for groceries. With Mrs. Hudson gone to her sister’s, their emergency food supplier had forsaken them as well, leaving their fridge and pantries shamefully empty. They had had no choice.
In her baby carrier, Rosie gave another sharp wailing sound that drowned out the soft 80s music droning from the speakers. The little girl had begun to fuss and cry as soon as they had entered the supermarket, raising either annoyed or pitying looks from other customers. John had hardily ignored them while he put toast, produce, and diapers into their cart and bounced his agitated daughter.
Sherlock shot John a quick glance, eyes taking in the deep bags under John’s and the way his skin seemed to gradually lose its usual golden colour. He could all but taste the exhaustion oozing out of every pore, seeping through John’s shirt and coat, tainting the air with sleep-deprived resignation, so tangible it might actually be contagious.
“I’ll go get it,” Sherlock said before John could ask. He weaved past the other people in the queue behind them. “I’ll be fast.”
“Thank you,” John called after him as Sherlock disappeared into the next aisle, his long legs bridging the distance to the dairy section much quicker than John could’ve managed with Rosie strapped to his chest.
As he reached down and grabbed one of the cartons, a sad smile fought its way up to his lips. Buying milk. This used to be such an innocent annoyance when they had first moved in together, a cause for infinite bickering and countless jokes.
But that was before everything had changed. Before Sherlock had gone and come back. Before John had gotten married and Sherlock had been shot. Before Mary had jumped in front of him, had spared Sherlock a second bullet and given her life in return. Before her loss had rippled through the already stained fabric of John’s existence and torn it to shreds.
And yet, hanging on barely more than threads, John carried on, ever the brave soldier. Every day, every night, he marched onward with bleeding feet and steely stubbornness, Sherlock always by his side to catch him as soon as his legs would ultimately give in.
It had been two months and not a single accusation had left John’s lips. In fact, he had barely spoken at all. Uttering not one word too much, he had organized the funeral, taken time off at the clinic to arrange everything for Rosie, packed up all their belongings and moved back to Baker Street. Somehow, he had brought this impenetrable silence with him. Maybe it was the boxes containing what was left of Mary. They still stood in John’s old bedroom, a brooding monument of their marriage, filling 221B with her presence.
Sherlock knew—or at least strongly suspected—how unhappy John had been in the few months he had been married, not only because his wife had turned out to be an ex-assassin and shot his best friend. In John’s eyes, carefully covered with layers upon layers of self-preservation, swam something else, something like regret and longing and shame. Sherlock could catch a glimpse of it some nights, when John had numbed his sorrows with one too many glasses of whiskey. This look, this strange look he gave him, had grown so familiar over the years, its intensity waxing and waning. Lately, it had become so powerful that Sherlock was sure it would break through the surface at any moment. Or maybe he was just wishing for it, actively looking for the mirrored image of his own distraught face in those dark-blue eyes.
They hadn’t talked about it, of course. And now that Mary was dead the conversation seemed, paradoxically, even more out of the question. Her death had sealed their fate and their lips alike, presumably forever. Some things simply had to stay unspoken, unseen, unfulfilled.
Sherlock didn’t care though. John was back at his side again—a worn-out, almost pellucid version of him, but John nonetheless. This time, Sherlock decided, he would do everything right. He would be as supportive and kind and accommodating as he could muster, for John, and for his goddaughter. If this resemblance of togetherness was all that could ever be between them, he would take it. Even if it meant accompanying John on such tedious tasks as grocery shopping.
The milk slowly bedewing with little drops of perspiration, Sherlock hurried back to the check-out, finding that the cashier had already begun to scan their items. He shimmied past the other waiting customers and slammed down the milk just as the clerk picked up the last item, the box of formula for Rosie. Her eyes coolly eyed the packaging before wandering over to John who still tried to calm down the baby while packing up the groceries.
She pursed her lips into a tight smile. Her voice thinly masking her condescension, she said: “Someone’s a little fussy, I see, being out this late. You know that breastfeeding is actually much better for your child, don’t you? For their immune system and—”
“What did you just say?” Sherlock interrupted her, stepping closer and fixating her with an adamantine stare. John startled and halted in his movements, only his eyes flicking back and forth between Sherlock and the victim of his anger.
“Excuse me?” the cashier asked, her disapproval still written all over her face.
Sherlock examined her closely; the way her cheaply coloured hair framed her turgid, starkly rouged cheeks; the company-issued t-shirt that clung to her sinewy body; the nicotine-stained fingernails. His voice dropped to menacing depths as he cocked his head and said: „Did you seriously just try to shame him for buying formula for his child?”
The woman didn’t avert her gaze but swallowed heavily. “I just—”
“Do you have any idea what this man has been through? His wife died only weeks after giving birth to their daughter and here you are, you sorry excuse for a human, and try to lighten the weight of your own meaningless existence by belittling a grieving father!?”
His voice was barely more than a deadly whisper but the cashier stared at him as if he had shouted. The look on her face—shock, confusion, defiance—made Sherlock’s synapses sizzle like high-voltage lines, sending white-hot sparks to his eyes and overriding his self-control mechanisms. How did this horrible woman dare to even look at his John with anything other than utter admiration?
The anger that bubbled up in him like boiling sulphur kept spilling out. “Oh, it’s so much easier, sitting in your chair and judging other people, without having to give their problems a second thought, you insensible woman. Just so you know: This man is a war hero, a doctor, and now a widower and single father. He’s the most hard-working, loyal, and intelligent man you’ll ever meet, but you wouldn’t recognize intelligence when it hit you in the face, now, would you? What have you ever accomplished in your life, apart from becoming a bitter, arrogant underachiever who can’t even work her way up the ranks by shagging the manager? What on earth gives you the right to spill your unqualified, self-absorbed opinions on decent men like him? You’re not even worth the dirt under his shoes so, for fuck’s sake, just shut up.”
The woman’s mouth stood agape, giving her the look of a carp in an existential crisis. Sherlock felt a grim sense of satisfaction rush through him and took a deep breath, readying himself to fire another round of words sharp enough to sever limbs. A warm hand on his forearm stopped him.
“That’s enough, Sherlock,” John said, his voice calm but stale. He lifted their shopping bags off the counter and made for the door without so much as looking at the cashier or any of the other customers. For a second, Sherlock stood there completely motionless, his eyes following John out of the store. The sight of his back, upright and sturdy as always, extinguished Sherlock’s anger as if John had emptied a bucket of ice water over his head, leaving nothing but wet, charred doubt.
Hastily, Sherlock grabbed the milk, threw a few pound notes on the counter, and hurried after John without waiting for his change. Outside, the chilly wind blew away the last wads of smoke still erupting from his curls. It already smelled of spring.
John was waiting for him, only a few steps away. The store’s harsh lighting illuminated his figure but his face remained hidden in the shadows as he bowed his head down to Rosie’s and cooed sweet words that finally seemed to calm her down.
Cautiously, Sherlock stepped closer. The milk carton in his hand weighed five stone at least.
“Why did you say that?” John asked in a tone Sherlock couldn’t quite place—confused but soft and… hopeful.
Taken by surprise, Sherlock took a moment to answer. “It just… made me so angry that she assumed you weren’t doing what’s best for Rosie. She shouldn’t—no one should be allowed to talk to you like this. Not on my watch.”
Maybe it was just the neon light playing tricks on his eyesight, but Sherlock was certain that John had smiled for just a second, even though his expression was more serious than he had ever seen when he finally looked up. “No, I mean, the things about me.”
“About you?” Sherlock knitted his brows. How he hated stating the obvious. “Because it’s true. You are the best person I know, by far.”
John moved closer, this unidentifiable thing floating in his eyes again, right beneath the surface. “So, you meant it?”
“Of course, I meant it. Every word,” Sherlock rasped out. Why was his heart pounding so fast? When John gave him a doubtful smile, he added: “John, you are amazing, how do you not know that? You’re an amazing doctor and a great father. You’re irreplaceable as an assistant and a friend. You’re talented and smart and funny and understanding and basically every good thing I could never manage to be. I never dreamed that someone like you would even consider putting up with someone like me. And yet, after all we’ve been through, you are still here and you are still as amazing as ever.”
With these words, Sherlock saw it finally break free, rupturing the invisible barriers between them and pouring from John’s eyes, iridescent and beautiful. Before he could as much as take a breath, John had let go of the bags, grabbed Sherlock’s face instead and pressed his lips to his in a desperate kiss. The world cracked at its hinges, tumbled over and spun around with twice its usual pace. Dizzying bliss flooded Sherlock’s system at this touch he had least expected and most longed for. His mind shut off, saturated by unadulterated happiness. He barely gained enough consciousness back to reciprocate the movement of John’s warm mouth against his and fling his arms around the man he had loved for longer than he dared to admit.
When they finally broke the kiss, both gasping for air, Sherlock felt something wet creeping through his shoes and into his socks. He looked down to find a white puddle slowly spreading on the pavement.
“I—I dropped the milk.”
John gave him a smile so bright that it seemed to wash off all the hardship of the past months. “Forget about the milk.”
