**This is a working title and one I’m leaning towards. It might change.**
John’s eyes open slowly, or more like not open. The lids are heavier than he would expect.They feel like mini lead aprons over his eyes. Like the ones used to cover parts of the body not being x-rayed. The weight of them us troubling. Just how long as he been asleep?
After stopping for an angry sigh and a cursory wetting of his lips, John finally cracks his eyes open only to close them again at the blinding light. He gasps in shock and starts coughing, his throat incredibly dry. He raises his hands to cover his mouth and rub at his eyes. But nothing is touching his face, not a single fingertip. Barely staving off panic, John takes stock of himself. All of his limbs are definitely intact. He can feel all of them, but they won’t move. Not one finger or toe, not even a twitch. Something is seriously wrong.
Ready to panic now, John forces his eyes open and blinks furiously until they adjust to the dim light of the room around him. It is obviously a hospital room. The beige walls and paintings of fruit bowls and island scenes attest to that, as well as the bed and other furniture - a few wall closets, a basin, a door that is most likely the loo, and a few moderately comfortable looking chairs for visitors. The blinds over the only window are drawn and John can’t see a clock anywhere. No way to find out what time of day or night it is. He furrows his brow, considering his predicament. There could be a clock behind him, but that doesn’t help at all anyway. He can only look around the room with his eyes, after all. He tries looking back to his right as far as he can and that’s when he notices the telltale curtain that can be pulled around the bed, and when he hears the steady, if not fast, beeping of a heart monitor.
Taking in all of this is a second or two, John casts his eyes down his own body and finds everything definitely intact. He can see that easily, even with his lower half covered by sheets and blankets. His upper half is not covered, his arms look far paler and smaller around than he has ever seen them. He looks at them more closely as he tries to move, not missing his inability to move his own head as he does it. The head of the bed is angled upward so he is sitting up a bit and thank god for that. It is the only reason he can see any of his own body.
He strains his muscles and screws up his face in concentration, biting his lip as he raises his head off the pillow, even if only a fraction. He watches as he tries to move his toes and fingers, but nothing happens. Dropping his head back in frustration, John lets out a loud sigh and tries not to scream. He wets his lips, lifts his head in determination, and tries again. This time, after what seems like days, his fingers twitch and his toes wiggle ever so slightly. He drops his head back on the pillow and lets out a few heavy breaths. John squeezes his eyes shut as he pants into the quiet room and tries not to panic.
What the fuck? What the hell happened to me?
He tries to remember, but he can’t. And that’s when John realizes he can’t remember anything. Not a thing. Who is he? How did he get here? Where is he? What the fuck happened to him?
Suddenly John hears the click of a doorknob and his eyes dart to the room’s entrance. A woman in her early thirties pops in, her brown eyes locked on his and she stops for a second before moving into the room. She closes the door behind and walks to his side silently. She is about five five and pale. Her dark brown curls bounce a little as she walks and John finds it familiar, comforting. He instantly feels he can trust her, though he doesn’t know why. He watches he with intrigue and she smiles.
“Hello. It’s so good to see you awake,” her voice is warm and flows easily from her lips. She isn’t whispering, but her tone is quiet as though wanting to spare him any loud noise. She pulls an ear thermometer from a wheeled cabinet near the bed. “My name’s Eileen. I’m your nurse. Can I take your temperature?”
Eileen. Why does that sound so familiar?
John nods, his chin moving minutely, but it’s enough and her eyes brighten. Passed his first test - comprehension. She gently places the device in his ear and he hears it beep. She removes it and records it in a logbook lying on top of the mobile cabinet. A logbook. Now that is telling. They only use a logbook for long-term cases these days. John furrows his brows. How could he possibly know that?
“I’m going to take your blood pressure, okay?”
John’s chin dips again ever so slightly, but a little more than the first time. Smiling again, she does it by hand and he watches her write the result in the book. She counts his pulse for a minute and records his heart rate. She looks at various monitors and enters their readings into the logbook, and then everything into a laptop on a counter nearby. Two copies. A paper one to refer to without logging in, something to be seen quickly.
The fingers of John’s left hand tingle and twitch, wishing they could hold that book and flip through its pages, see how far back it goes. It is the smallest of movements, but it’s enough to tell John that he will be moving again in time. However, he will be in physical therapy for a long while, if his arms are any indication. He needs to rebuild the muscle, reclaim his fine motor skills, walk again.
John’s thoughts cease abruptly. How does he know all this?
“Sorry about that. Just some things I need to take care of. Housekeeping,” Eileen jokes kindly. His lips start to move, to form words, and she pauses. “Are you okay? Do you have any pain?”
“Nnnnno,” he can barely be heard, even in the quiet room. He cringes and swallows, trying to create some moisture in his mouth and throat. As if reading his expression, Eileen moves closer and touches his hand lightly.
“You have an NG tube in your nose. Do you think you can drink water okay?”
John tries to say yes, but only mouths the word. The nurse nods at him with a tender smile and steps over to the bank of closets. She opens one to reveal a small refrigerator and removes a bottle of water. As she pours some in a plastic cup, John considers this new information. This is not a normal hospital. Individual rooms in ordinary hospitals do not have closets that hide their own mini-fridges.
“Here you are,” the nurse holds the cup and straw close. “Ready? Go slowly now.”
John sucks on the straw when it hits his lips and, oh my god, the ice cold water feels heavenly in his warm mouth. It flows gloriously down his throat as he swallows, feeling renewed and refreshed. Even when she takes away the cup, saying it won’t do for him to drink too much all at once, he sighs contentedly. He focuses his deep blue eyes on her when she turns back to him and speaks before he has a chance to try.
“I know you have a lot of questions and I’ll answer as many as I can, but I need to ask you some things first. Will you answer my questions?”
“Yes,” John’s voice is full of gravel and still very quiet, but he can tell the water has already helped and it will get better as time goes on.
“Perfect,” Eileen smiles. She touches his arms and hands, legs and toes asking each time if he can push against her hands or resist when she pulls. He tries as best he can and confirms that he can certainly feel her touch, but can do little else. She asks if he can tell whether or not his muscles are contracting or trying to move and he says yes. Not unexpectedly, this news pleases her. She takes a moment to explain that he is on IV fluids with nutrients in addition to the NG tube. He also has bags providing various medications, all of which she explains.
John listens intently and suddenly it strikes him that not only does he understand everything she tells him, but he knows what everything is and what it does before she says it. Based upon all the information she has given him, he has definitely been in this room for quite some time. But exactly how long and how does he know so much about medicine? Who has kept his muscle from wasting away completely and who has been shaving his face, cutting his hair? Eileen, presumably. How long has she been such a lifeline to him?
“How do you feel? Do you understand all I’ve told you?”
“Yes.”
“Good, good. That’s perfect,” she smiles again. She smiles a lot. ”Now I have some questions. Are you okay to answer them?”
“Yes,” John nods, noticing his head moved a little more this time. A warm tingle of excitement and adrenaline rushes through his body from head to toe. A corner of his mouth turns up.
“Good, good. Just let me know if you need to stop.”
“Okay.”
“Can you tell me your name?”
John looks at her blankly.
No. I have no idea.
Not ready to say those words aloud, John inhales deeply and closes his eyes. He tries to concentrate, tries to look inside his own mind for the answers. He once heard someone talk about turning his mind into a house. No, not a house, a palace. Suddenly he can hear a deep voice, absolutely delicious in timbre, telling John exactly how he does it. The rich and silky baritone explains dividing his mind into wings and rooms, putting information and people and events in the different places so he never forgets anything and can access it whenever he needs it.
Who are you? Are you real?
John looks into his own memory and tries to find rooms, tries to find anything. He can’t find enough to habitat wings and what he does find is hidden by panes of black glass. He tries to open one of them, certain that all the answers are hidden behind these panes of glass, but it will not budge. John hears Eileen’s voice asking him if he is all right. He takes a moment before opening his eyes. Eileen. Eileen. Why is that so familiar? And the dark curls, the pale skin…
A pane of glass nearby shatters without warning, startling John enough to open his eyes and gasp. Eileen’s eyes are wide with worry and she is leaning toward him, a hand on his shoulder.
“Are you all right? Are you in pain?” her voice is tense, but steady. John actually, shockingly turns his head to the left about an inch to look at her.
”John,” he rasps. The name behind the glass is his. He knows it’s his, but that is all he found.
“Yes, Yes, that’s good. Can you tell me your surname?” Eileen’s tone brightens and she straightens her posture again. John pauses and tries to think, to remember.
“No.”
“That’s okay. Totally okay,” she assures him. “It’s to be expected with a head injury. It’ll take some time to come back.
“What?” John tries to ask a full question, but can’t get all the words to come. He had surmised as much, but confirmation of a head injury is still welcome and key. Well, as welcome as that news can be. John wants to know more. He has to figure out what happened to him and who he is. “How. How did…”
“I know you have a lot of questions, John,” Eileen tells him sympathetically when he can’t finish the sentence, “but your doctor really should be the one to answer them.”
Doctor!
A piece of the puzzle emerges from the fog left behind the broken pane, behind his name. John is a doctor. It explains why he knows so much about medicine and hospital procedure. He fixes Eileen with a determined expression.
“Doctor.”
“Yes, your doctor’s name is Madison Hoover,” she tells him. “She’ll be able to tell you more when she comes for rounds in a few hours.”
“I’m a doctor,” John manages.
“Yes, you are. That’s wonderful, John. You see? It’s starting to come back already. It won’t be long now.”
John closes his eyes and another dark pane of glass shatters. The face of a young woman becomes clear.
“Molly Hooper,” John exclaims in a hushed and still rough tone as he looks at the nurse, who shakes her head.
“Hoover. Madison Hoover. She’ll see you as soon as rounds begin. I guarantee it. She’s been on your case from the start.”
“How long?” John asks in a whisper, but he can see immediately that the nurse is uncomfortable answering anymore questions. He will have to deduce it for himself. Deduce? Who has said that before? Yes, John, I deduced it.
“I know it doesn’t seem like it, but you do need your rest and it’s very early. Rounds aren’t for hours,” Eileen lets him have another drink of water. John’s lips curl up contentedly once he is finished and she puts the cup on the side table.
He has so many questions and concerns, but the cold water on his throat is like a magical relaxant and he actually does feel sleepy. In spite of this, John has absolutely no intention of sleeping. He has his own plans to find the answers to his questions. Strangely, he feels almost excited. It’s like a mystery that he must solve. Why does he feel like he has done that before? Not once, but many times over.
But not alone. I wasn’t alone.
“Try to sleep, John,” Eileen touches his hand gently. “I’ll be back in a bit to check on you.”
John nods, his head moving more than the previous times, and he thanks her. She smiles, goes to the door, and slips out.
**And that’s the first chapter. I’d love to know what y’all think and hope you enjoyed it. There’s more to come!**
** I would’ve posted this days ago, but something was missing when I was editing and it took a while to carve out some time to add it. It’s also been a shit week, but getting this up has helped. It’s longer than they have been lately, so get ready to dig in. I hope you all enjoy. **
When John opens his eyes, he is lying on a soft bed. There are blankets pulled up to his chin and a chilled wet flannel rests over his forehead. He looks around the dimly lit room. It is rather large - two chests of drawers, a padded bench at the foot of the bed that is covered with wrinkled clothes in neat stacks, an antique wardrobe, a door ajar and one that is closed. He can see that the open one is an ensuite and gathers the other is a closet, possibly a walk-in. There is a third door on a sidewall that must lead to the rest of the flat, judging by its placement. Light from outside gleams under its bottom.
A long, tall table on the opposite wall covered with beakers, a microscope, lab equipment and chemicals tells him he is definitely in Sherlock’s room. A small refrigerator in the corner catches his eye and John chuckles to himself. Sherlock must have finally stopped storing body parts in the kitchen fridge. John grows quiet almost immediately. Why did he think that?
John worms his arms out from under the covers and takes the flannel from his head as he sits up. He surveys the room again - looking at paintings, photos and nick-nacks, wondering if any are his or if Sherlock removed everything that would remind him. Perhaps it was too painful to face them every day. His eyes fall on the clothes at the foot of the bed. Three distinct piles consisting of buttondown shirts, jeans and trousers, and jumpers. They must be his because John has never seen Sherlock wear jeans and certainly not a jumper. Sherlock must have taken them out of storage for John’s homecoming, but surely he had more clothing than these three small piles. Or maybe he didn’t. He always wore a doctor’s white lab coat at the surgery anyway. That much, he knew. Why is it still so damn easy to remember his studies and career, but nothing of the man he loves? And while he’s thinking about it, why won’t Sherlock kiss him?
Before he can dwell on that question, John’s gaze is drawn to the door on the sidewall when its knob turns and its catch released. It opens slowly and the man himself pops his head in, curls and all. When he sees John staring at him, he slips inside. He pads across the room in his bare feet and sits on the edge of the bed. His eyes take in every detail of John’s condition, demeanor, thoughts. He sees that John is troubled, but whatever it is takes second place to the issue at hand.
“How?” the word bursts from his flatmate’s lips as it all comes back to him. The mere sight of Sherlock and he can see it all over again and it kills him. He wants to close his eyes and never see it again, but it is still there in the darkness behind his eyelids. John speaks slowly and in a measured tone. “You...you killed yourself. You lied about being a fraud and you jumped. How are you here now? How did you…” John pauses and lets his eyes look around the room suspiciously. “Am I dead too? Is that what all this is?”
“No,” Sherlock’s lips curl ever so slightly and he shakes his head. “No, John, you aren’t dead. Neither of us is.”
“Then how?” John demands.
“You were not wrong before when you said it was fake,” Sherlock sighs. “Or that it was to…”
“To save us,” John interrupts. “Greg, Mrs. Hudson and I. He was going to kill us all if you didn’t.”
“Yes. Do you remember?” he asks hesitantly.
“Not everything. A man, he had gunmen. He was on the roof with you to make sure you did it,” the doctor pauses, studying the detective carefully. “He shot himself and you jumped.”
“It was the only way.”
“You made me watch!” John snaps and Sherlock finally sees the anger he has expected for so long. “You made me. Why? Why would you do that?”
If Sherlock had explained this before even once, doing it now would be annoying. Sherlock detests repeating himself, which Rosie quickly learned. But he has never explained it. John never asked. Not once. He yelled, cursed, shouted, but never once asked for an explanation. Sherlock, why? Why did he do it the way he did it? Why did he keep it a secret for two years? Why didn’t he give John some clue? John simply exploded, got married, and let it go. Sort of. Did he talk to Mary about it? Or Lestrade? Or swallow it up, hide it inside himself? Sherlock always wondered when it would resurface. Until then, there had been only veiled anger. John was so angry when Eurus shot him. Now Sherlock can finally try to explain.
“You had to see it, John,” he begins, watching his flatmate carefully. “You never would have believed if you hadn’t seen it with your own eyes. Moriarty was relentless. If anyone he left behind thought you knew something, you, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade would all be dead, without question.”
“And that’s why you didn’t try to contact me or tell me you were okay.”
“Yes,” Sherlock states flatly and then rushes to explain away the hate that must be building in John again. “If he had threatened only you, I...I might have risked it. Only because I know you would’ve wanted me to. You would have accepted the risk. But I couldn’t put Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson in danger. I...I couldn’t. It was already my fault that they...”
He trails off without finishing. John looks angry. His features are hard, but his eyes are soft. Sherlock doesn’t know what to say. For once, he does not know what to make of John’s expression. There are so many questions running through the detective’s mind. So many things he wants to know and doesn’t have the nerve to ask. How much does John know? What does he remember? Does he know how long Sherlock was dead? Does John know what happened while he was away? Does he remember Mary or the wedding or...what does he remember and how can Sherlock even ask?
Sherlock pushes off the bed and falls to his knees, his forearms and elbows still on the bed. His hands clutching at the blankets close to John, but he doesn’t dare touch him. His face is full of desperation and his voice reflects it when he speaks. All of the thoughts and feelings rolling around in his mind are always hidden. Sherlock has always guarded himself carefully, but right now he doesn’t care. He doesn’t care! He has to explain everything he has kept inside for so long because it can’t happen again. John is so open to him now and he could not bear it if he closed off again.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Sherlock says urgently, pleading. John looks startled, but Sherlock can’t stop, won’t stop. He cannot stop the flow of words from his mouth. “I didn’t know what else to do. I went through all the possibilities and you survived none of them and I couldn’t lose you. I can’t lose you, John! You are my life, my…”
Sherlock stops himself from saying love. He can’t confess that, not now. It’s too much. He is not sure he can ever reveal it, in spite of John’s unknowing confession at the hospital. Sherlock’s eyes are wide and scared, his fear growing. He clutches the blankets tightly, wishing he was holding John instead. Before he even realizes what he is doing, more words are bursting from his lips like water from a dam.
“I dismantled Moriarty’s network for you. All to save you. Two years, I worked. I was tortured and hunted, even as I hunted them, and I knew I couldn’t stop until they were all dead. There couldn’t be any danger. I couldn’t risk it. I couldn’t lose you. When I came back, you knew I’d changed, but you never asked what happened to me and I was afraid to tell you. Afraid you would leave and hate me for what I’d done. You were already so angry, so angry,” he stops to take a breath for the first time in what feels like hours. John is shocked. His deep blue eyes are wider than Sherlock has ever seen, his jaw has dropped, and still Sherlock continues. It’s far too much to tell John without negative effects, but Sherlock is barely aware of what he is saying anymore. Like a complete idiot, he babbles on and on. “And then Eurus shot you and it broke me. You died on the table and I...I... But they brought you back...back to me,” Sherlock swallows back tears. “Hoover. I owe her so much. And if it hadn’t been for Watson, I’d have lost my mind. I...I” love you so much.
Sherlock gasps and shuts his mouth. His head snaps up to look at John and he leaps to his feet. He had been so close to saying those last four words instead of thinking them and he will say them if he stays. He has to leave. He has to leave right now.
“Shit,” Sherlock closes his eyes. John looks very concerned when he opens them again. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
“I have to go.”
“What? No.”
“I’ll take the sofa. I don’t sleep much anyway,” he spins on his heel to dart out of the room, but John lunges for him and clamps down on his wrist with a steely grip. Unprepared for the abrupt stop, Sherlock loses his balance and topples over backwards onto the bed, sprawled across John’s legs. Surprised, the detective gasps and looks at him.
“All right?” the doctor asks with a smile on his face and a laugh in his voice. “You look a bit...startled.” Sherlock gapes. John seems to be joking. After everything that just spewed from Sherlock’s mouth, how could he possibly be joking? “Sherlock?”
No, no, no. If John asks him to stay he won’t be able to say no.
“No!” Sherlock sits bolt upright. “Yes.”
“Well, which is it?” John laughs outright this time, thoroughly amused to see his flatmate so out of sorts. Sherlock’s eyes shift back to John’s.
“I’m fine. I just...I can’t stay.”
“Sherlock.”
“I’ll keep you up all night,” Sherlock pauses. John isn’t smiling anymore. His fingers tighten around the detective’s wrist.
“I would rather stay awake all night with you.”
“John.”
“Sherlock…”
“Please don’t,” Sherlock shakes his head. His tone is just shy of pleading. “There’s still so much you don’t know.”
“Is there? You’ve just said a mouthful and it’s a lot to process, but I also know everything you’ve done for Rosie,” John tells him, cupping Sherlock’s cheek with his right hand. His left still holds firmly to the man’s wrist. “And I know you packed away all my things, if you think that will upset me. God, it must have been so hard for you.”
Sherlock pulls back a bit, freeing his cheek from John’s light touch, an uneasy look on his face. John fixes a deep blue gaze so full of sincerity on his flatmate, then glances toward the piles of clothing at the end of the bed. Sherlock’s gaze darts to follow and then focuses on John again. He swallows hard, fighting not to thrust his cheek back into John’s hand and lean into the touch.
“Those were your favorites,” he explains, grateful for the change of topic. “None of them will fit you. You’ve lost so much weight, but I thought you might want to see them or try them on anyway. I’ve already discarded the rest. I’m sorry.”
“Do you have any photos?”
“Of your old clothes?”
“No, you git,” John laughs, patting the hand he holds in his own. “Of me. What I used to look like.”
“Oh. Oh, yes, of course. They’re all on my mobile.”
“Can I see them?”
“Um...I left it in the kitchen,” Sherlock bites his lip. He is wearing a dark blue dressing gown, his favorite, with pajamas beneath and detests the weight of his mobile in the pockets. “Sorry.”
“No worries. We can look at them tomorrow,” John says quietly. The corners of his mouth turn up and Sherlock nearly swears under his breath, knowing what’s coming. “Please stay.”
“John, I can’t.”
John is still gripping Sherlock’s hand and wrist with both of his own. He squeezes tightly and looks at Sherlock with an intense gaze.
“Sherlock, I know we haven’t slept in a bed together in over five years and it makes perfect sense for you to think I wouldn’t be comfortable doing it now,” he inches closer. “I know I don’t know everything about us, but I’ve spent the last two months learning who you are and I feel like I know you pretty well by now. Please stay with me.”
“Okay,” the word is out before Sherlock is conscious of the fact that he’s speaking. He nearly tries to take it back until he sees the brilliant smile that spreads across John’s face. He can’t help himself. He reaches for John and cups his warm cheek, his palm lightly touching the corner of John’s lips as he leans into the touch. Sherlock swallows hard. “I’ll just get ready. Do you need help changing?”
“I’m fine. You take the loo.”
Sherlock falls against the loo door as soon as he closes it. Heaving a breath, he runs his hands through his curls.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he steps forward to the sink and braces his hands on either side. He is breathing fast and beads of sweat are just beginning to spring from his forehead. The detective raises his eyes to look at his own reflection.
What the hell is he doing? Yes, he loves John. Yes, he would love nothing more than to spend the night with him, to comfort and hold him, kiss him. John knows him. Sherlock has no doubt of that. Despite John’s only knowing him for two months, they are very close. But there is so much John doesn’t know. All the dark things in their past. Eurus, Mary, Magnussen. He doesn’t even remember they worked cases together! Or Moriarty and the pool. Fuck, the pool. That was the night Sherlock knew for certain that he loved John. When he first saw him, he felt confused and then betrayed. The fleeting thought that John was somehow involved with Moriarty and had played Sherlock had torn through his chest. It ripped a painful scar right through the center of his heart, but it was nothing compared to the all-encompassing horror he felt when he saw the semtex strapped to John’s chest.
Ever since that day, Sherlock has known. And he has hidden it. From John. From the world. Damn it, how can he take advantage of John now?
Sherlock slams his hands on the sink, the force sending the hand soap dispenser and plastic cup to the floor. Sherlock stares at his own reflection, his intense grey eyes narrowed in anger. A soft knock at the door and John pushing it open as he says the detective’s name startles him. Sherlock spins to face the pajama-clad doctor standing in the doorway.
“John!” he gasps.
“You okay?” he asks, glancing around the floor for the fallen items. He looks back at Sherlock with concern in his eyes. “I heard a crash. Thought you might have fallen.”
“No,” Sherlock answers hastily. “No, I’m fine. I didn’t...I just...Did you walk here on your own?”
John straightens and blinks at him.
“I can walk on my own, you know. Just not long distances yet.”
“Right, right. So you don’t need any help.”
“No,” John laughs and asks in a playful tone. “Do you?”
Sherlock stares at him. What the hell was that? John Watson cannot be flirting with him. He stumbles forward foolishly.
“No,” he says quickly and then smiles in a feeble attempt to hide his discomfort. “I’m fine. I’m good. I’ll be out in a minute.”
“Okay,” John smiles. “Holler if you need anything.”
Sherlock nods, a timid smile on his lips, and John pulls the door closed again. The detective falls quietly to his knees, his hands covering his mouth. After a moment, he rises and turns to the sink. Splashing cold water on his face, he tries to think before cleaning his teeth and toweling off. He looks in the mirror one last time, steeling himself. Into the breach.
He opens the door and steps out into the bedroom. John is sitting on one side of the bed, covers pulled up to his waist and a book in his lap. He smiles at Sherlock, who wonders at John’s ability to push aside everything that just happened and look completely at ease. If only it were that easy. Sherlock bites his lip and walks to the bed.
“Is this okay?”
Sherlock looks at him blankly.
“I don’t know what side you sleep on.”
“Oh. Oh, no, this is fine. I usually end up in the middle anyway.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
The detective’s cheeks color. He takes off his dressing gown and climbs under the covers, careful to stay on his side. Resting one hand over the other on his chest, he stares up at the ceiling for a moment before closing his eyes, ready to settle into his mind palace and try to understand the man sitting next to him. They snap open again and dart to John when he feels a hand on his shoulder. The doctor is smiling down at him warmly.
“I’d like to read for a bit,” John’s brows raise. “Will that bother you?”
“Not at all,” Sherlock answers, angling his head for a better view of his flatmate. “I’m going to my mind palace. Someone could scream bloody murder next to me and I wouldn’t notice.”
“God, is that safe?” John’s expression changes to concern in a second.
“Perfectly. I will hear if you were to shout.”
“Just me?”
“Yes. And Watson, of course. You see. Perfectly safe.”
“If you say so,” John replies warily. “What do you do in there? Your mind palace?”
“Research mostly,” Sherlock shrugs. “I look back at everything I know and have seen. I just open a door and walk inside.”
“Oh,” John breathes. It sounds more like a gasp than a word. His face is somewhere between amazement and envy. “I wish it was that easy for me.”
“Have you tried?”
“Mine isn’t really a place I can enter. I can only look in and see the windows. Only a few are broken or cracked. The rest are still dark,” his eyes fall sadly to the book in his lap. Sherlock reaches out to place a warm hand on John’s leg. The doctor looks at him with soft eyes, so much like Rosie’s, but more experienced and knowledgeable. The eyes Sherlock remembers, the ones he has looked into so many times before. The detective’s lips quirk up. “You will remember, John. One day it will all be open to you again.”
“Yes, well, now that you bring it up,” John clears his throat and shifts nervously. Sherlock narrows his eyes. “I was thinking maybe you could help me with that. Tell me small things, nothing big, and see how it goes.”
“No. Absolutely not. I’ve already told you too much.”
“Come on, Sherlock. It’s been two months and I haven’t remembered a thing!”
“Yes, only two months, all of which were spent in hospital. You’ve only just returned home,” Sherlock clips the last word, hearing his own lie. 221B was his home once, but not for over two years at the time he was shot. Sherlock shakes it away and continues. “You need to give yourself some time now that you are in a familiar setting. You saw what happened earlier when you, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson were all together for the first time.”
John looks unconvinced, but just conflicted enough that Sherlock knows he will acquiesce without further argument. John sighs and leans back on his pillow again.
“Okay,” he sighs. He looks at Sherlock fondly and gestures to his book. “You’re sure it won’t bother you?”
“Positive.”
Sherlock settles himself again, hands resting together on his chest and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, the bedroom is filled with light and his alarm clock is beeping. His long arm swings out as if by rote, his fingers silencing it adeptly. Sherlock rubs a hand over his face. He can’t even remember the last time he heard his alarm ring. He always wakes well before it. It is only there as an insurance policy, to make sure he is up in time to have breakfast with Rosie and get her to school. A back-up measure he has never needed to use. Before today.
The detective shakes his head and angles it to look at his chest, absently wondering why the bedclothes feel so heavy. He lets out a yelp of surprise when he finds the golden-grey hair of John’s head resting there. He gapes at the doctor, panic consuming his mind. Shit! Shit! Shit! John must have moved about in his sleep. Sherlock hadn’t even considered the possibility when they climbed into bed the night before. He assumed only he would move and took special pains to stay in the same place all night. He can’t do this! He can’t take advantage of the situation!
“Oh, hello.”
John’s sleepy voice brings all of Sherlock’s thoughts to a screeching halt and the vision that now greets him is nothing less than adorable. And amazing. John has lifted his head from Sherlock’s chest just enough to look up at him and smile. His eyes are still a bit hazy with sleep and his hair is mussed. The cheek that was resting on Sherlock’s chest is pink from the pressure, its skin bearing the imprint of a wrinkle from his pajamas. In short, John looks absolutely perfect and Sherlock sighs blissfully.
“Your alarm went off,” his gorgeous flatmate observes, his voice sounding less sleepy. Sherlock blinks and his mind resumes its normal processes.
“Yes. I must get Watson to school.”
“Ah, of course,” John slides off his chest and rolls onto his own back, looking at Sherlock all the while. “Need any help with breakfast?”
“No. Watson will assist me, but we would love to have you join us,” he replies, scolding himself silently for not keeping the hope from his tone.
“I’d love to,” John smiles just before a knock sounds on the bedroom door, startling them both.
“Papa?” comes Rosie’s uncertain voice. In all the years of her life, her father has never once been in his bedroom when she woke in the morning. “Papa, are you okay?”
“Yes, Watson,” Sherlock sits up quickly, feeling as though she caught them in the act. Stop it. Stop it! “I’m speaking with Daddy. I’ll be out in a minute. Why don’t you dress and brush your teeth?”
“Right,” she resolves, “I forgot to brush.”
They hear her little steps run down the hall. Sherlock turns his head to look at John and sees a quizzical expression.
“She cleans her teeth before she has breakfast?”
“Oh yes, John,” Sherlock’s tone is most serious, “she vomits if she tries it after.”
“Really?”
Sherlock nods and rises from the bed.
***
When John steps into the kitchen, Sherlock stands at the stove rapidly stirring the scrambled eggs in the skillet on the hob. Rosie sits at the table with butter and jam and a plate full of toast. Neither of them notice him at first.
“Papa?” Rosie stops with a jam-covered knife about to smear onto a piece of buttered toast.
“Hm?”
“Do you think Daddy likes jam?”
“Oh, trust me, Watson. Your daddy loves jam.”
“Daddy!” the girl springs off her chair and wraps her arms around John’s legs.
“Hello, my dear,” he bends down to hug her. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yes!” she giggles excitedly. “Did you?”
“Yes, I did. Much better than in hospital,” John answers. She grins in approval.
“Do you like jam on your toast?”
“I love jam on my toast.”
The grin broadens as she takes John’s hand in her smaller one and guides him to the table. Sliding a piece of toast buried under globs of jam across to the nearest chair, Rosie drops his hand and nods toward it.
“You can sit here.”
“Thank you,” John says as he sits. “You’re too kind.”
Rosie giggles loudly and sits next to him, taking another piece of jam toast from a plate and shoving it in her mouth. John cannot suppress a laugh. Rosie, jam all around her lips, joins him. Meanwhile, Sherlock finally turns from the stove, skillet full of scrambled eggs in hand.
“Eggs are ready. Watson!” Both Watsons stare at him with wide eyes and guilty looks. He struggles not to chuckle at their identical expressions and carries on scolding. “We do use plates and so does your father. That is why you put them on the table.”
“Sorry, Papa,” she answers somewhat timidly, pushing a plate at John. Sherlock dishes out the eggs, replaces the skillet on the stove, and sits. They all eat rather quickly, especially Rosie and Sherlock who have a time table to keep. John begins to contribute to the conversation less and look down at his plate a bit more as breakfast goes on. Sherlock quizzes Rosie as they eat, but their voices fade away as John becomes lost in his thoughts. He would love to help take Rosie to school, but he isn’t strong enough yet. He will be soon. He will see to that.
“Watson?” Sherlock cocks a brow. The little girl looks at the clock and jumps out of her seat. She skips to the sink and puts her dishes in it. Turning around and running to John, she hugs and kisses him.
“Goodbye, sweetie,” he kisses her cheek. “Have fun, yeah?”
“Okay! Ready, Papa?”
“Get your coat and things on. I’ll be right there.”
“Better hurry,” she calls, already running down the hall toward the door.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” Sherlock tells John in a steady tone. “You’ll be all right?”
“I’ll be fine, Sherlock,” John assures him warmly. The detective nods as he rises and places his own dishes in the sink. He walks back to the table. John looks up at him in surprise when he rests a hand on John’s shoulder.
“Mrs. Hudson’s number is on your mobile if you need anything,” he tells him.” She is more than willing to help.”
“I know,” John says solemnly. “I’ll ring her if I need to, I promise.”
***
When Sherlock returns, the flat is quiet. He stands near the door, his eyes combing over everything he can see. He takes one step toward the sitting room, but turns to the kitchen instead, the scent of fresh cinnamon tea filling his nostrils. He strides into the room only to find it empty. The pot is on the hob and still warm, made no more than thirty minutes ago. Sherlock leans back where he stands for a better look into the sitting room.
“John?”
No answer. Perhaps he went down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. No, he could never navigate the stairs on his own and capable though she may be, Hudders could never help him all the way down. An uneasy feeling gathers and begins balling itself in Sherlock’s belly. John may have had a flashback to Afghanistan or Magnussen or Mary.
“John?” he calls a little louder.
“In here,” John’s voice sounds from the direction of the bedroom.
Sherlock straightens and walks down the hall, slowing his stride as he enters. He takes a few steps in and comes to a full stop, taken aback by the scene that greets him. Where he feared there would be panic or fear is just...John. John sitting cross-legged on Sherlock’s bed, their bed? Open photo albums are laid out on the soft, duvet all around John, displaying images of Rosie as an infant and six months, nine months and everything in between. She is a year old on other pages, two and three and four. The book in John’s lap is from this year. He gazes at the photographs of her first day of school. His eyes are misty and his left hand is splayed over his chest.
“It’s unbelievable,” he sighs and turns his eyes to Sherlock. “I just can’t believe it. She was so small and...and now she’s such a wonderful, outspoken girl. And you… It’s all down to you.”
John had been gesturing at the albums, but has grown still and his eyes are locked on Sherlock.
“I will never have the words to thank you.”
“It’s the way it was meant to be, John.”
“I’m sorry you had to do it alone.”
“John,” Sherlock strides swiftly to the bed and balances on the edge. John’s hands are fumbling to clear a wider space and Sherlock’s close around them, drawing them near ever so slightly. “I’m fine. I was always fine. It was no imposition. I would have had it no other way, given the circumstances. Every moment was, and still is, a joy,” he pauses to collect himself, and it appears as though John needs to do the same. Breath catching in both their throats, swallowing to rein in their emotions. “As I said, you were never far from us or from our minds. I know it doesn’t seem that way to you because you were unconscious, but it is. I made sure Rosie knew you, loved you. You are her father, John. You were there for her in every way you could be and she loves you.”
“I know,” John returns in a solemn voice, “and it’s thanks to you. Thank you, Sherlock. You have raised our daughter beautifully.”
Sherlock nearly corrects him, but bites his tongue. Now is not the time to tell him how Rosie really became his daughter, his daughter? His ward. No, his daughter. Rosie is Sherlock’s daughter. And John’s daughter. And John is his...friend? Flatmate? But for how long?
“Just look at her face. Look at how she looks at you,” John is saying, mooning over a photo of Rosie looking up at Sherlock as her tiny fingers touch his chin. She is four months old and nestled in his arms. John glances toward the detective and then fixes him with narrowed eyes. “Sherlock, are you all right?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
John studies him carefully, knowingly. He lifts the album from his lap and places it on the bed to his left. He turns himself more toward Sherlock and smiles warmly.
“You said you have photos of me from before?”
“Yes. Yes!” Sherlock scrabbles at his trouser pocket for his mobile and begins searching through the photographs. He swipes about the albums at breakneck speed until he comes upon a photo of himself and John that pierces his heart hard and he just stares. Sherlock bites his lip and his brows furrowing as if in pain. His eyes shine and take on a certain wistful, but sorrowful quality.
“Sherlock?” John shifts closer. “Sherlock, what is it?”
“Ah, well,” he struggles for words, inhaling deeply and clearing his throat before he can carry on, “it’s us. The two of us. Just after a case.”
“Haha. What is that on your head?” John laughs when he sees the deerstalker, but falls silent upon seeing his own image. “God. My god, look at me. I’m...I look… I look healthy.”
“And happy,” Sherlock adds, turning his head to face John. He is very close now. Closer than Sherlock realized. He must have moved when the detective found the photo. If John were to face him, their lips would be mere inches apart.
“Yeah,” John breathes and turns his head.
Millimeters.
God, Sherlock wants to kiss him. His breath is hot on Sherlock’s lips and it is intoxicating. His eyes flutter when he blinks and his mouth goes dry. Gawwwd, how he wants to kiss him. Their eyes are locked, their breath mingles in the air between them, their cheeks tinted pink.
“Sherlock.”
It’s a passionate whisper, a veiled declaration of words unsaid.
“John.”
Sherlock’s lips are parted and his heart beats fast. He tilts his head and inches forward, stretching his neck to close the gap between them.
But he can’t.
He pulls his head back slowly and rolls it back on his shoulders to look at the ceiling. When he lowers his eyes again John is farther away, having moved back to give Sherlock the space he so desperately needs. Sherlock shakes his head minutely, hoping John doesn’t see but knowing he does. He sees everything and yet, he knows nothing. Nothing. Their past is a mystery to him and dark, so dark. Just like the panes of glass in John’s mind. To kiss him now, to make his feelings known would be wrong and dishonest. John has no idea of the pain Sherlock has caused him.
“I saw the pot on the stove,” Sherlock says, shifting away from John and glancing at his empty mug on the side table. “Join me for tea?”
“Yeah,” John replies. Disappointed, but a small smile on his face in spite of himself. “I’d love to.”
** Hello and Happy Mother’s Day to anyone that applies to! I join you tonight with another spellbinding chapter as I sit in bed with my laptop and my guilty pleasure playing in the background. I intend to do some typing and editing after I post. Gotta keep up and definitely, definitely not disappoint. Sadly, my meds have been knocking me out all weekend. Give me strength with positive Johnlock vibes. Haha. Y’all are the greatest. Thank you. **
John has been home for three weeks now. He has one week of physical therapy left, having continued to make such great strides that Dr. Hoover believes his work nearly done. John tends to agree. He is perfectly capable of nearly anything he could do before. At least, he thinks so. John has remembered precious little since his move back to Baker Street. A fact he finds very troubling.
He is not entirely discouraged, however. Sometimes when he’s reading a book he has actually read before, the words become familiar and he remembers something about the first time he read it. Maybe a feeling or the sun shining through the window and onto the floor of the flat or the expression on Sherlock’s face, the look in his eye. Other times, John will glance up from a book to see short scenes play out before his eyes. Sometimes he can hear what the players are saying and others it’s like someone has pushed the mute button on a remote control. No scene is ever complete and they seldom make sense. He always needs another piece or two of information, but never gets it. John often considers telling Sherlock. Perhaps he would fill in the blanks. He has not yet tested that theory.
Sherlock and Rosie burst through the door to 221B. The little girl drops her school bag and tears off her coat. She tosses it to its hook and hits the target perfectly. Sherlock raises a brow, following her slowly.
“Daddy!” she calls, making her way to the sitting room. Sherlock listens from the kitchen where he starts water boiling and begins collecting ingredients for pasta sauce. “Daddy?”
She walks into the kitchen with a perplexed expression on her face. Sherlock doesn’t even have to look over his shoulder to know she is there and what she is about to ask.
“Do you want to help with the sauce?” he asks. Still frowning, Rosie pulls the three-step stool from where it is slotted between the refrigerator and wall. She unfolds it and pushes it up to the counter next to her father. He hands her the open jar of tomato paste and a spoon.
“Where is Daddy?” she asks, spooning it into a pot.
“Well, he was at physical therapy until five, as you know,” he begins chopping an onion. “Lestrade picked him up to go to dinner.”
“We’re going to a restaurant?” her eyes are bright and excited.
“No,” Sherlock turns his head, “Daddy and Lestrade are going to a restaurant. You and I are making dinner right now. To eat at home.”
“But why can’t we go to a restaurant too?” the girl pouts.
“Because Daddy and Lestrade want to talk. They haven’t had the chance since Daddy came home. They were good friends before Daddy went to the hospital.”
“I want to eat at a restaurant.”
“We’re making spaghetti, remember?” Sherlock holds out the cutting board covered with chopped onions. “You were excited about this all the way home. Now, are you helping or not?”
Rosie casts her eyes upward and quickly decides to abandon her strop in favor of dumping the onions into the sauce. Spaghetti is her absolute favorite and making the meal with her papa is even more fun than experiments. It’s always amazing how he knows the recipe without even opening a cookbook.
***
After dinner and the washing up, Sherlock settles in at his desk with his laptop. He is reading one of the cases from John’s blog. People still comment and send private messages, even though it has not been updated in years. Sherlock has found new clients nearly every time he has visited the website, not that he’s looking. His only desire ever to read John’s words and see into his mind again. While John was unconscious, the blog and his mind palace were his only solace. And Rosie, of course. They were the only ways to see that beautiful mind, the mind of the man he missed so much. Now that John is awake and even in the flat, Sherlock has found some relief, but the bulk of John’s mind is still shut off to all of them. Sherlock finds himself drawn to the blog, especially when John is not at home. He has the need for that connection they have always had through cases. That which they lack now, John still having no idea they have ever worked together.
As Sherlock reads the case, recalling the details and marveling at John’s skill as a storyteller, he glances toward the fireplace where Rosie appears to be setting up a colossal matchbox racing track. The release point is attached to the mantle, making for quite a sizable drop to gain the momentum required to make it through the many turns and loops in the track. She has made use of her blocks and dollhouse as supports for the drop, having already learned that the cars just fall off the track when it simply hangs from a tall spot. Sherlock smiles at her ingenuity and returns his eyes to the screen before him.
A couple of cases later, he feels a little hand on his shoulder and turns his head to look sideways at his daughter. As per usual, she has pushed the footrest up behind his desk chair to stand on so she is at his eye level.
“Have you tested it?” he smirks.
“Not yet. I’m taking a break,” she tells him with her eyes on the laptop. “What’s dee-cape-itation?”
“Decapitation,” Sherlock corrects. “It is having one’s head severed at the neck.”
“Severed?”
“Cut off.”
“Oh,” her expression is somewhere between disgust and intrigue. Sherlock grimaces.
“This is probably not the best reading material for you.”
“But it instrests me.”
“Irrelevant. It is inappropriate for a five year old.”
“Then you shouldn’t read things that are so instresting to me.”
Sherlock lets out a quiet laugh and pulls her into his arms. She giggles, grabbing both shoulders with her little hands and holding tight as he stands.
“Let’s test out this track, shall we?”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah!”
***
John leans back in the booth at Greg Lestrade’s favorite pub and pops a chip in his mouth. He laughs at his friend’s jokes as they share stories - police work, living with Rosie and Sherlock. A lot about Sherlock, to be honest. Greg tells some choice tales from crime scenes that have them both in stitches. Greg spears his fish with a fork and brings it to his smiling lips as he finishes a particularly amusing one. John tilts his head back and laughs heartily.
“Oh my god, that is priceless,” John looks to Greg again and then glances around the pub. Greg laughs around his bite and readies another. John turns to him again, sobering a bit. “This is a great pub.”
“It is at that.”
“Did we used to come here a lot?” he asks. Greg swallows the food and watches his friend, his smile fading a little.
“We did,” he nods. “When we wanted to relax or needed to talk. Or you wanted to get away from a certain detective. He can be quite a handful.”
Greg smirks, but John remains serious. There is something on his mind and he has to talk with someone before he goes spare. John studies the DCI with a narrowed gaze. His fingers hover around the rim of his pint as he decides how to best approach this.
“Can we talk now?” he tests the waters. Greg inhales deeply and gestures with his hand.
“We are, aren’t we?” he comments jovially.
“Not quite what I mean,” John fixes him with steady eyes. Greg grows more serious as he picks up his own pint from the table.
“What’s on your mind?”
“It’s Sherlock,” John wets his lips. “He’s troubled.”
“Troubled?” Greg asks in confusion. “About what? A case?” Greg’s eyes go wide and he leans toward the table, suddenly very concerned. “You’re all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. It’s not that,” John sighs and rests his elbows on the table, his fingers toying with his half-full pint. “There’s something I don’t know, that I don’t remember and Sherlock seems to...to dread it.”
“Have you recalled anything since you got home?”
“Not really. Sometimes a conversation or a feeling. Maybe part of a scene playing out, but it never comes together. It’s all so murky.”
“I’m sure it’ll come to light.”
“Yeah, but when?” John persists. “And why is Sherlock so disturbed by what I might remember? Can it really be so bad?”
“Well,” Greg purses his lips and contemplates John’s questions. He knows so much more about John’s past than he does right now and John wishes Greg would just tell him what he wants to know. He knows it is far better for him to remember his life on his own, but waiting is so damn frustrating. And feeling like he’s making no progress at all and what the fuck is Sherlock so worried he’ll remember?
“There were a lot of cases. A lot of enemies. It’s a recipe for danger.”
“But what does that have to do with me?” John looks befuddled, and irritated. “They were Sherlock’s cases.”
Greg’s eyes go wide, the beginning of panic, the realization that he’s said too much. John can see it all on his face before he schools it. If John could hear Greg’s thoughts, they would be curses. The DCI clears his throat and shifts in the booth uncomfortably.
“Right. Sherlock’s cases. You’re right,” his lips are a thin line and he bites his upper lip. His eyes dart away from John’s and he grabs his pint, hurriedly taking a pull.
John observes every detail thoughtfully. Greg is clearly nervous about what he just said, but it seems so innocuous. John had worked at a surgery. Sherlock worked the cases. Neither had anything to do with the other, but Greg’s words hinted at it. John narrows his eyes, considering the possibilities. Greg assumed John would know what he meant and became anxious when he realized John did not know. He said something he shouldn’t have and it is now absolutely essential that John know what it is this minute. His deep blue eyes grow wide as the pieces fall into place.
“Unless,” he begins, “someone kidnapped me. Used me to get to Sherlock?”
Greg’s gaze is locked on John. He doesn’t reply, taking a large swallow of beer instead. John hit the nail on the head and can’t help a satisfied smirk. Greg puffs out a bemused breath.
“Christ, you’re more like him every day,” he mutters. John’s lips curl down and he leans in, even more serious than before.
“He told me for years to not just see but observe. I finally feel like I can.”
“Did he now?” Greg places his nearly empty pint back on the tabletop, his face grim. He meets John’s eyes with a weighty gaze and there it is.
It pops into his mind and immediately fills him with a sinking feeling. It is on the edge of his brain, but won’t come into focus. This pane of glass is one of the darkest, like his mind doesn’t want him to ever know what it hides. An image flashes through his thoughts like lightning and he gasps.
“What?” Greg asks on high alert. “What is it?”
“I…” John opens his eyes, not even aware he had closed them, “remember a coat. A parka. And a swimming pool?”
Greg straightens and presses his lips together firmly. He pushes his pint closer to the center of the table.
“Look, John, I think we should talk about something else. This isn’t the place for that.”
“For what?” John challenges. Greg just shakes his head, looking at him with regret. Frustration peaking, John barrels on. “Fine. Fine. Then we can get back to my first question. What is Sherlock so afraid of?”
“John,” Greg begins, his voice filled with sincerity, “there are so many things you don’t know yet. A lot has changed.”
A hot flash of anger courses through John’s body. He wants to snap at his friend, tell him that Sherlock repeats that same sentence every fucking day. Okay, an exaggeration, but still something that pisses him off. He is acutely aware that he remembers virtually nothing about important parts of his life and the man he loves. He doesn’t appreciate having it thrown in his face, thank you very much and fuck off.
But John does not snap at Greg because his last four words stop John cold. ‘A lot has changed.’ Of course it has. Maybe that’s why Sherlock is so worried. John was in a coma for five years, a long time to be alone with a small child to raise. Maybe Sherlock met someone. Fell in love with someone. The very thought squeezes John’s heart sharply and pain bursts into his chest.
“Have I really changed that much?” he shakes his head in dismay. “Am I so different?”
Greg’s expression sparks in surprise before quickly settling into sympathy. He leans in intently.
“Oh, no, John, no. You are almost exactly like you were before. You’re still a good man. Always have been.”
“Almost?” John glazes over the rest. He is different and, even if it’s small, it’s driving Sherlock away.
“John. God, I know how that must sound, but it’s not like that. If anything, you’re more patient than you used to be.”
“More patient?” he questions, raising his brows.
“Yeah, but you act the same, think the same, more or less. Your personality hasn’t really changed, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“What I’m worried about is Sherlock,” John’s tone is all business. He may not remember being Captain Watson, but he can certainly adopt the persona when he wants to. “Things are so different between us.”
“You remember how it was before?”
“Well, no,” John clarifies, shrugging, “not as such. It’s more like assumptions, really. I have no doubt that we were happy and now… He’s happy, but he’s also sad. And scared. That’s what really bothers me.”
“Scared?”
“Yes. He’s scared of what I don’t know and what I’ll remember,” he pauses, taking care to gauge every detail of Greg’s reaction to his next words, “or what I’ll find out.”
His friend furrows his brow, his face somewhere between disbelief and utter confusion. John feels frustration building within, threatening to take over his brain. Sherlock has made every effort to make John comfortable since he moved back into the flat they once shared, but he goes out of his way not to touch him or change clothing in their bedroom at the same time. Or kiss him. God, why won’t he kiss him?
“He’s...distant at times,” John tries to find a way to explain and fails. Greg’s expression changes to one of knowing, certainty - like it’s to be expected.
“When he’s in his ‘mind palace’,” he raises his hands to make air quotes. “Yeah, he does that.”
“Look, I know that. He explained that,” John exhales his frustration. “This isn’t when he’s thinking. It’s different. Times when it makes sense for him to touch me or…”
Greg’s brow is down again, a frown on his lips. John swallows hard. He may as well go all in.
“Like when we’re in bed,” he goes on, abandoning all notion of decorum. He has held this in for so long and can stifle it no longer. “He doesn’t come near me. He doesn’t snuggle or sleep facing me. He won’t even hold my hand.”
“You..” Greg struggles to find the words. He look utterly befuddled. “You sleep. With Sherlock. In his bed.”
“Yes,” John answers simply. Greg blinks once and gapes at the doctor. He has absolutely no idea what to make of that. John is not entirely sure why Greg is so shocked, but fixes him with determination and continues. He’s too close to voicing his real concerns now and he can’t turn back. “Greg, do you think it’s possible that Sherlock doesn’t love me anymore?”
His friend’s face goes completely slack and a rush of breath puffs from his mouth. He leans back in the booth and looks at John for a moment before licking his lips and leaning forward again.
“No, John, there is no doubt in my mind that he loves you. But he doesn’t want to push you. You haven’t been awake long at all and you’re still recovering. It’s going to take some time, that’s all.”
John’s shoulders drop and he sighs, disappointed and frustrated. Gutted.
“I know,” Greg continues quickly. “I know that’s not what you want to hear, but that’s the reality of it. He wants to give you time. To remember, to be comfortable. Everything he’s doing, everything he’s done for the last five years, and even before that, has been for you. Just hold on. It’ll all make sense eventually.”
***
John white knuckles the armrests of his chair and his whole body tenses. He stares wide-eyed at the woman standing before him. The corner of her mouth curls up as she levels a gun at his head. He racks his brain, trying to find a plan of escape where there is none.
“I want to destroy my brother,” she tells him in an indifferent tone, “and the only person he cares about is our brother. His precious little brother.”
Her lips curl all the way into a broad smile. It is eerily familiar and pure evil. Her eyes are emotionless, unreadable, dead. She blinks slowly as she takes a step closer to his chair. He is frozen.
“The only person his precious little brat cares about,” she stops and tilts her head, eyes locked on John’s, “is you.”
John darts out of the chair as she pulls the trigger and misses, but the barrel follows his movements and she squeezes again.This bullet explodes into his forehead. The impact throws off his trajectory and his body falls to the floor awkwardly, landing on his left hip and shoulder. It should be painful, but everything is eclipsed by the searing burn of the bullet in his head. Or has it passed all the way through? John can feel the wet of the blood surrounding his cheek. It is growing larger, enveloping his head as his mind slips away.
“Rosie!” his mind screams loud enough that his head twitches. God, his little girl, his baby. He can’t leave her. She has no on else. No one.
John hears the woman’s footsteps as she comes closer to finish the job and he closes his eyes. Or are they open? He can’t tell anymore.
“Sherlock!” his mind screams again. Even louder this time. “Oh god, Sherlock. Please don’t let me die.”
John can’t see anything. He expects the shot. One shot is all it will take. Instead, a pounding vibration fills his ears. It is more noise than he has ever heard before and yet, it is quiet and far away. He hears footsteps hurry away and a cracking, splintering of wood. Footfalls rushing near, his name, and a pale face surrounded by dark curls comes into view. Or is he imagining that face?
“Sherlock,” John knows he isn’t really speaking, but he continues anyway. “Sherlock, I love you. Take care of Rosie.”
The detective is gone and there is nothing but blackness. It isn’t until that moment that John realizes his eyes were actually open all the time. Or was it no time at all? But now his eyes are closed. Never to open again.
“John. John,” the deep baritone fills John’s ears and he can feel strong hands on his shoulders. His eyes fly open to see a pair of panicked silver-grey eyes looking back. They look like...like hers.
John thrashes his legs and thrusts his arms up in between Sherlock’s, pushing the man’s arms away from John’s body roughly. The detective pulls back like he’s been burned. Without taking his eyes off those shocked grey eyes, John sits up and scrambles backwards until his back hits the headboard. The two men stare at one another apprehensively. Sherlock is on his knees at the foot of the bed, his arms still outstretched at his sides after John’s escape. He lowers his chin and looks at John gravely.
“John, it’s all right,” he says firmly. “You are safe at home. It was a nightmare.”
The doctor continues to stare. He doesn’t move a muscle. Why the hell would Sherlock not tell him he had a sister? A psychotic sister. If the dream is to be believed, and John is absolutely convinced it was a real memory, John had no idea at the time that his so-called therapist was a Holmes when she shot him. Why wouldn’t Sherlock have told him?
“John?” Sherlock draws John’s focus once more. He has not moved his arms and holds his palms out so John can see them, his fingers splayed wide as though John is a danger to him. “John, can you hear me?”
“Of course I can hear you,” John hisses. “Why wouldn’t I be able to hear you?”
Sherlock doesn’t move and his posture is beginning to annoy John. He isn’t some dangerous caged animal, ready to lash out at anyone who crosses his path. The detective continues to watch him with a measured gaze.
“You had a nightmare.”
“A memory, more like. And a bad one at that,” John lets out an almost involuntary puff of air, just tinted by a humorless laugh. He sets his shoulders and jaw, and then wets his lips. “I remember a woman. The woman who shot me. Your sister.”
Sherlock’s eyes close slowly and his face falls. His arms move to hang at his sides in defeat. John watches his flatmate sink from standing on his knees to sitting upon his calves and feet, his legs folded beneath his body. His shoulders slouch and he looks away as he opens his eyes again. When he finally meets John’s gaze, his face is pained, his eyes filled with such sorrow and resignation.
“Her name was Eurus. She was a year younger than me. She posed as a therapist to gain your trust.”
“She said she wanted to destroy Mycroft,” John says quietly, not wanting to push too hard.
This topic clearly brings Sherlock great pain. Sherlock told him in the hospital that the woman was dead, but never mentioned who she was. John thought it was because it didn’t really matter at that point, but now it all makes sense. Why Sherlock didn’t offer any information and why Mycroft was so interested in what John could remember. As much as he would love to spare Sherlock this pain, John needs to talk about this. He needs to know and he has to understand why Sherlock didn’t trust him all those years ago.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” John whispers as his eyes fill and shine. He shakes his head. “You couldn’t trust me?”
Sherlock’s eyes widen, lips parting slightly and then he ducks his head down.
“I didn’t know,” he begins unsteadily. He looks back at his friend to see confusion, wrinkled forehead and furrowed brow. “I had no idea I even had a sister. She...did something terrible when we were children. I was so traumatized I rearranged my memories to exclude her.”
Without even thinking, John lets the question slip past his lips. He regrets it immediately, but hasn’t the chance to take it back before Sherlock answers.
“What did she do?”
“She…” he pauses to steel himself and John feels like an ass for asking. The look in Sherlock’s eyes tells it all. He is about to apologize when Sherlock speaks again. “She lured my best friend to an old well and pushed him in. Mycroft couldn’t make her tell where it was and our parents wouldn’t believe she was responsible. Victor was never found.”
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John whispers in utter disbelief. His friend has such a far away look in his eyes.
“Then she set fire to our family home. It burned to the ground. No one was injured. Mycroft was already being courted and groomed by the government, so he used his contacts to manufacture Eurus’ death and held her in a maximum security asylum on an island. She grew up there and when she escaped…”
“She set about her revenge,” John interjects. “God, Sherlock, I’m sorry.”
“It was my own weakness that put you in danger.”
“You were a child.”
“If I hadn’t altered my own memory, I could have warned you.”
“I doubt that would have made any difference.”
“I could have protected you,” Sherlock insists, the tension in his voice growing.
“Stop,” John’s tone is commanding, yet gentle. He moves onto all-fours and crawls to sit on his calves inches from Sherlock. “You blame yourself. You have all these years. It’s not true.”
“It IS true.”
“No,” John’s hand is on Sherlock’s cheek and the man nearly gasps from the surprise of it. “You suffered a major trauma. You can’t blame yourself for what your mind did to survive. And if you’d known, you would’ve warned me, but would I have suspected my therapist? Would you? No.”
“John, I…” his hand closes over John’s and his eyes glisten with tears.
“You have been everything I needed you to be. I need you. So does Rosie.”
“She doesn’t.”
“Yes, she does. You’re her father and she loves you.”
“I’m not her father.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Not her real father.”
Sherlock’s face is cupped between both of John’s hands now. His left thumb brushes away a falling tear.
“You are the only father she has ever known.”
“That’s not true.”
“You have been the best father I could ever imagine. You have taken care of her and given her all the love in the world. She’s so happy and smart and I wish you hadn’t had to do it alone. I wish I’d been there and I’m glad I’m here now. With you. We will be...a family.”
Sherlock is shaking his head and pulling out of John’s grasp. He rises off the bed and walks to the door, mumbling no every few steps.
“Sherlock?” John is beyond confused and worried. He watches as the detective opens the door and slips part way through before he finally stops to look back at John.
“You won’t feel that way once you know it all.”
“We can work through it. It’s all something we can work through.”
Sherlock does not answer, except to shake his head as tears fall down his cheeks. He leaves the room, closing the door softly behind.
** Hi, y’all! I was going to post this tomorrow because it takes place on Saturday, but I’m not going to have time between getting Easter stuff ready and the roller derby bout. Yes! Pepto Dismal strikes again!! Except that I can’t skate for the rest of the year, but I have the honorable duty of keeping score. Perfection. Anyway, I hope you don’t mind another chapter so soon. I haven’t been able to stop myself. Comes from having such great followers. **
Saturday comes faster than Sherlock imagined. Both he and Rosie are thrumming with anticipation as they walk swiftly down the hall to John’s room, only to be intercepted by Eileen. She assures them that John is fine, but Dr. Hoover wants to speak with them before they go in to see him. They wait close to the nurse’s station restlessly for what feels like an eternity. Both snap to attention the moment they see the familiar doctor appear around the corner. They rush forward to meet her half way.
“It’s okay, Rosie,” she says first, seeing the barely contained worry and fear on the girl’s face. “Your daddy is doing very well. I just wanted to tell you and your papa one or two things before you see him. Is that okay?”
“I spose so,” Rosie nods slowly in true Sherlockian skepticism. The doctor casts a knowing look at the detective and then squats in front of Rosie so they are more or less eye to eye.
“Physical therapy is going well for Daddy. He has fairly good control of his arms and his legs are becoming easier to move too,” she smiles warmly. “But he isn’t sleeping very well.”
“Why not?” Rosie frowns.
“Well, you know how you have bad dreams sometimes?” Hoover asks and Rosie nods emphatically. “He’s having bad dreams too and whenever something scary happens, he wakes up. Then he has a hard time getting back to sleep again.”
“I run downstairs and ask to sleep with Papa when that happens to me,” the little girl tells her. She bites her lip and crinkles her little brow. “But Daddy can’t do that here.”
“No,” Hoover lets out a short chuckle and just manages not to glance up at the detective to see if his pale cheeks are tinted pink, “he doesn’t. So after he finished physical therapy this morning, I gave him some medicine to help him sleep. Like a nap.”
“You mean sedatives?” Rosie asks with an expression that none too subtly suggests the doctor is an idiot. Classic Sherlock Holmes.
“I might have known your papa would teach you that word,” Hoover’s smile grows. This time she does shoot Sherlock a knowing look.
“Papa likes me to know the proper words for stuff.”
“Of course he does,” she nods. “Yes, Miss Rosie, I did give your daddy a sedative. A mild one. He may be groggy, but should be awake by now.”
“Hey!” Rosie is suddenly excited when the nearby water cooler catches her eye. “I could give him a glass of water! He would like that, wouldn’t he?”
“Yes, I think he would like that a lot.”
Rosie hops to it and scampers to the cooler a few feet away, grabbing a paper cup. Dr. Hoover watches her and then turns her attention to Sherlock, raising again to her full height.
“You were there with Mycroft?” she asks in a low voice.
“Yes.”
“What did he talk about?”
“He insisted that John attempt to recall his own shooting,” Sherlock replies vehemently. He knew it would have lasting effects and still hopes Mycroft crosses his path soon so he can punch his smug face.
“Damn it,” Hoover mutters. “I told that insufferable bastard to leave him be. I should’ve just barred his entry.”
“You can do that?” Sherlock raises a brow, looking mildly impressed. Hoover fixes him with a stern expression.
“Your brother may be high-ranking, but this is my hospital and I have the power to protect my patients from anything and anyone I deem a threat to their recovery.”
They share a very serious silence before Rosie approaches as quickly as she can without spilling her cup of water. The two adults break eye contact to look down at the smiling girl.
“Can we go now, Papa? Please?” she brims with excited energy.
“Of course, Watson,” the tall man replies, his lips turning up. “Just remember what Dr. Hoover said. Daddy may be tired.”
She nods enthusiastically and takes his hand, guiding him towards John’s door. Sherlock looks back at the doctor when she addresses him one last time in a tone of assurance.
“He will not be allowed in again.”
“Thank you,” Sherlock nods appreciatively. The last thing he needs is Mycroft paying John more visits. Normally he would not trust anyone to keep Mycroft from weaseling his way in, but he and Dr. Hoover have come to know each other quite well over the last five years. He has no doubt that John is safe under her watchful eye.
As they draw nearer to John’s door, Sherlock notices Rosie’s quick step faltering until they have come to a full stop just in front of it. He looks down at her. Rosie bites her lip, staring at the door. Sherlock instantly drops to his knees and gently turns his daughter to face him. Her eyes are uncertain and scared.
“It’ll be okay,” he gives her shoulders a squeeze. “Neither of you is going in cold. I have told Daddy so much about you over the last few days and…”
“You’ve told me everything about Daddy. I know, but,” she furrows her brow and sticks out her lower lip, decidedly troubled. Fidgeting, Rosie looks down at the cup in her hands and meets his eyes again. Her own glisten with forming tears. “Will he like me?”
Sherlock lets out the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding in a great sigh. Oh, his beautiful, precious girl.
“He will love you, Watson. Of that I have no doubt.”
“Really?”
“Absolutely.”
Rosie straightens her spine, pulls her shoulders back a little, and smiles once again. All of her excitement has returned and she can barely keep still, shifting her weight back and forth.
“Ready?” he asks with a grin. She nods vigorously. Sherlock’s smile broadens and he rises from his knees. He looks down at her once more and places a quiet knock as he meets her bright eyes. John’s voice faintly grants them entry and Sherlock lowers his hand to the knob, holding Rosie’s hand with the other. He gives her a confident smile, twists the knob and pushes the door open.
Sherlock turns into the room to see John sitting in his bed, a nervous expression on his face. Like his daughter, he bites his lip in anticipation, his hands balled together in his lap. At first, all John can see is Sherlock, but then the detective smiles and pushes the door open to reveal the sweet little girl hovering near him.
“Hello, John,” he greets in a deep, warm voice. “This is Rosie.”
John is frozen to the spot. His mouth falls open and he watches them approach with sparkling eyes that take in every detail. Then something in them changes and John gasps in shock. Sherlock observes him carefully as they walk to his bedside. He raises a brow and reads his friend like a book. Another pane of glass has cracked. Shattered, in fact. Have all its secrets been revealed or merely left a fog behind like his memories of Molly?
“Hi,” Rosie whispers. She holds out the cup. “I brought water.”’
John remains still. Rosie bites her lip and fidgets. She glances at the cup and then to Sherlock. She lowers her chin and looks at the cup again, swallowing hard at the lump in her throat. She pushes the cup onto the wheeled table resting next to the bed.
“I thought you might be thirsty,” she clarifies in a small voice. When she raises her eyes to look at her father, she lets out a little gasp and gapes at him. She is the mirror image of John, deep blue eyes, cute nose and all. The one, and most important, difference is the tear slowly making its way down John’s cheek. His forehead and brow wrinkle as his hands begin to shake. He presses his lips together and swallows, takes a breath. Completely mystified, Rosie somehow finds her voice again. “Daddy?”
“I remember,” John rasps. His hands move slowly, reaching for her but afraid to touch. Afraid it’s all a dream and she will disappear. “You were just a baby when..”
More tears slip from his eyes as he looks at his daughter for the first time in five years. Rosie lunges into his arms and they hug tightly. John’s tears fall onto Rosie’s golden hair and she buries her face in his chest.
“Oh my god, my baby,” John gasps. “Oh, god.”
He squeezes his eyes shut and sobs. Rosie does the same, her little hands clenching at his hospital gown like her life depends on it.
Sherlock takes an uneasy step back, suddenly feeling like an intruder. He shifts his eyes away and makes up his mind briskly. Turning for the door to give them the privacy they deserve, Sherlock sighs quietly in resignation. The iron grip on his wrist is what stops him where he stands. His turns his head back to find John’s deep blue eyes staring and though he says not word, he clearly asks Sherlock to stay.
Warmth floods through Sherlock’s arm and into his heart, spreading to his entire body in an instant. John smiles up at him through his tears and eases his grip. He slides his fingers from Sherlock’s wrist and wraps them easily around his hand. The detective finds himself grinning and closing his fingers around John’s. He is happy. Happier than he has been for a long time. Not that he isn’t happy with Rosie, but with John too, it is perfect.
Without a thought, Sherlock steps close and sits on the bed behind Rosie. He folds his long arms around both Watsons. Only then does he feel the tears rolling down his cheeks. A hateful needling thought inches into his mind and he tries to ignore it. He should feel guilty for taking advantage of the situation. John asked him to stay because he doesn’t know the truth He doesn’t know what Sherlock has done and one day, the past will pay him back for this indulgence. Sherlock tamps down the thought and hugs the Watsons closer to his chest.
He doesn’t feel guilty. He feels good. This feels...right. The three of them a family at last. The Watson-Holmeses.
But they aren’t a family and John will want nothing to do with Sherlock once he has all of his memories.
Tears drip from Sherlock’s eyes and this time they are not of joy.
** It’s been a little while this time. I’m combating total exhaustion after Saturday’s bout and Sunday’s Easter activities. Being the bunny is hard work. Anyway, brace yourself for what happens after John and Rosie meet... **
How long the trio stays this way, none can say, but Rosie eventually starts squirming and they break apart. Sherlock pulls up a chair and Rosie remains on the bed where she can touch John whenever she wants. John doesn’t mind at all. Nor does he mind the seemingly hundreds of questions she peppers him with. She asks for every detail about his last few days in hospital and insists upon ‘satisfactory’ answers.
“But what do you do all day?” she persists.
“Well, I go to physical therapy in the mornings and occupational therapy in the afternoons. They help me with my hands shaking and let me practice holding things or writing. That sort of thing,” he clarifies before she can ask. She nods in understanding and intrigue so he goes on. “Other than that, I tried watching telly, catching up on current events. That, uh, was a bit too much as yet, so Sherlock started bringing me books. And I’ve spent a lot of time talking to him, of course.”
The little girl stares at him with a mixture of amazement, awe, and disbelief. She licks her lips as she scoots forward to ask more questions.
“So you actually get to read all day?”
“Um, well, yes,” John purses his lips in thought. “I mean, aside from the therapy. I have a lot of work to do before I can go home.”
“I can’t wait for you to come home to live with me and Papa,” Rosie smiles wistfully, leaning back a bit and putting her hands on her lap. “Then I can see you every day again. I can show you my school papers and my unicorns.”
“Your unicorns?” John asks, unable to stop a grin. Rosie gasps, her eyes wider than he has seen up to this point, and she jumps from the bed to grab a purple bag. A jolly-looking unicorn and the word ‘Believe’ are emblazoned on one side. She climbs back up and opens the bag.
“I brought them with me,” she looks at him with a very serious expression, which John swears is the most adorable thing he has ever seen in all his life, lack of memory be damned. “They’re just from this week though. Papa said the whole year so far would be too much for just today.”
John lets out a little laugh and glances at Sherlock, truly charmed. As Rosie begins handing him paper after paper, she explains what each one is and leaves him little time to respond. John takes them from her in turn, looking over their content and making brief comments whenever he has the chance. Sherlock watches with an adoring expression he doesn’t bother to hide. He has dreamed of this moment for years and it is even more precious, more joyful than he imagined.
“And this is a worksheet for maths,” Rosie says, dropping another page on the sizable pile in John’s lap. She gestures at the circles both printed and drawn on the paper. “We’re doing subtraction. We’re sposed to use the circles for counting. Tedious.”
John raises his brows and the corners of his mouth turn up in utter delight. If Rosie’s curls were dark brown instead of golden, he would think himself speaking with a young Sherlock Holmes. John watches her roll her eyes and curl her upper lip just as the detective has done throughout their conversations.
“Watson,” Sherlock warns, startling both Rosie and John. He hadn’t spoken for so long that they nearly forgot he was there. Rosie looks at him as though caught with her hand in the biscuit tin and then back at John.
“Sorry,” she apologizes and then perks up again as if nothing happened. “I’m done so fast that I help my friend Jack and my friend Eliza. We sit at our desks together. When we get done we get to draw until time’s up.”
Rosie gasps again and if John thought her eyes were wide before, they are nothing compared to this.
“My unicorns! I haven’t showed you my unicorns!”
“No, you haven’t,” John declares with a wide grin on his face. His eyes brighten as she thrusts a page at him. He takes it with his lips rounding into a perfect ‘O’. “Oh, look at that. It’s beautiful.”
Rosie gives him a toothy smile and passes him page after page of messily drawn unicorns. Some are pink, others are purple or blue or yellow. She hands him a page full of bears, and one with hearts and flowers and what could be a princess. She stops briefly to tell him the first is Jack’s work and the second is Eliza’s. Then she pauses, holding a paper to her chest and smiling brightly.
“This one is my favorite!” she exclaims and flips the page to reveal a unicorn in rainbow colors with a lemon-yellow sun in the background.
“Oh! Oh, look at this. It’s beautiful,” John cries, taking the offered drawing. “You’re so artistic, Rosie. All of you are.”
Rosie puffs up her chest, glowing with pride.
“Thanks!” she beams and reaches for her bag. “I can show you more if you want..”
“Why don’t we stop for a moment, Watson?” Sherlock interrupts. Rosie and John both turn their gazes to him. Rosie frowns, bottom lip in full pout. “You have shown him homework and your favorite unicorn and quite a bit beyond that. It has also been a long time since you last used the loo.”
“But I don’t have to!” she protests in a petulant tone. Sherlock shoots her a sharp look and she closes her mouth with a snap. “Fine.”
Rosie mutters as she hops off the bed. John and Sherlock watch her as she lightly stomps to the open door of the room’s private loo. As soon as the door closes, John turns to look at Sherlock.
“Oh, Sherlock, she’s wonderful. Just wonderful. I can’t...I can’t tell you how much this means to me. I...” John struggles to find the words. “Thank you. Thank you for bringing her.”
“It has been my pleasure, John.”
“You’re going to leave soon,” John says urgently, his eyes filling with concern. There is an edge to his voice that makes Sherlock feel uneasy. Will he be all right once they are gone?
“Yes,” Sherlock replies slowly, “you are due for occupational therapy.”
“Don’t,” he says simply. “Please. It’s been such a good day. I love having her here. I love having you both here.”
“John, not only will your therapy begin in mere minutes, but dinnertime cometh and Watson is very grumpy when she doesn’t eat.”
“You could take her to the cafeteria while I’m in therapy and come back,” John suggests, his eyes almost pleading. Sherlock knows why. Of course he does. Because he has looked forward to today as much as John has. He has loved every minute just as much and, like John, does not want it to end.
“John,” he begins, already hating himself for not agreeing immediately, “she has a schedule that I must try to keep.”
“Right,” he sighs. He presses his lips together in a thin line. He watches Sherlock with cautious and worried eyes, clearly debating whether or not to go on. He wets his lips, his tone apologetic. “I’m sorry. I understand, I do. I just… I… It’s all right. It’s fine.”
Sherlock opens his mouth to respond when Rosie suddenly bursts from the loo and the occupational therapist enters the room with a brief knock. The little girl looks from the therapist to her fathers with a frowning pout on her face. Either not noticing or paying no mind, the therapist steps in briskly.
“Hello there,” he greets them. “Ready for therapy, John?”
“Hi, Ethan,” John nods amicably. “Yeah. We were just saying goodbye.”
“You’re leaving?” Rosie asks, now standing right next to the bed. John gives her a small smile and puts his hand on her shoulder.
“I’m sorry, sweetie,” he consoles.
“John has therapy,” Sherlock explains across John, standing on the opposite side of the bed, “and we need to make dinner.”
“But I thought,” she begins timidly, “maybe you wouldn’t since we’re here.”
John smiles softly and pats her shoulder.
“I won’t be able to go home if I don’t work hard every day.”
Rosie’s moist eyes change to look more determined than sad. She nods her head and launches herself into John’s arms.
“We’ll be back tomorrow, Daddy,” she hugs him tightly. “I love you and I hope you don’t have any bad dreams.”
And that’s when it hits Sherlock. God, he is an idiot. John doesn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, a torment Mycroft started with his damn visit. That’s why he wants them to stay. God damn. He is such an idiot. Sherlock wonders briefly if talking about the dreams would help or hurt. Then an idea springs to mind. One that will take a little effort, but is still easy enough to arrange and will be worth it to set John’s mind at ease. It should also result in getting Rosie to bed at a reasonably decent time.
John helps Rosie collect her papers and put them in her bag before turning to Sherlock and touching his hand. Sherlock meets his sincere gaze.
“Thank you, Sherlock,” he says quietly.
I love you, the detective thinks, but all he says is you’re welcome.
“Good night,” John looks from Sherlock to Rosie. “I’ll see you both tomorrow. You be good for Papa and get a good night’s sleep, yeah?”
“Okay,” she nods enthusiastically.
“Ready then?” Ethan asks. He snaps the bed rails up when John answers in the affirmative and wheels him out of the room. Rosie waves goodbye all the way.
Once they are alone, Sherlock picks up their coats and hands the smaller one to Rosie. She takes it and shoves her arms in the sleeves.
“How do you feel about fish and chips, Watson?” he asks, contemplating plans for the evening that are quickly coming into focus. “I know a good place just down the street.”
“Fish and chips?” she looks up from zipping her coat.
“I thought we could eat, come back, and visit Daddy for another hour or two. Aaaaaand, finish up with a sleepover at Aunt Molly’s,” he meets her wide, excited eyes. “If she agrees, of course.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah!” his little girl chants, hopping from one foot to the other and grabbing her bag. “And he won’t know. It’ll be a surprise!”
“Yes,” Sherlock takes her hand and begins walking toward the door. She follows along happily. “Yes, it will.”
They walk down the hall, giggling and giving each other knowing looks. Rosie skips all the way and pushes the button for the lift with gusto. Sherlock raises their hands high above her head and she twirls.
Roughly thirty minutes later, they are seated in a booth at a little restaurant. Rosie happily stuffs chips in her mouth while Sherlock speaks with Molly Hooper on his mobile. She is delighted by the prospect of a slumber party with Rosie and tells him they talked about building tents with chairs and blankets the last time Sherlock brought her to the lab.
“We’ll pretend to camp out,” Molly bubbles. “We can even make s’mores at the fireplace.”
She doesn’t ask why the hell Sherlock never told her John awoke. He hadn’t told Mycroft either. That resourceful bastard found out himself, though no surprise there. Honestly, Sherlock hadn’t told anyone, aside from Mrs. Hudson. He even went so far as to ignore Lestrade’s calls to help with cases so he would not be forced to tell the man why he was unavailable. Sherlock had only just rang Lestrade that morning at a time he knew the DI would not answer. He wanted to avoid the conversation. Talking to anyone would take too much of his focus from John and, as ridiculous as it sounds, it would be too much. Sherlock Holmes, a man who has faced serial killers and hardened criminals alike, simply cannot deal with anything but John right now. He is not sure how he feels about that, but cannot be arsed to care.
“Thank you, Molly. I will have Mycroft’s car drop her off at your flat around eight,” Sherlock glances at Rosie with a smile. She grins back before taking a bite of fish from her fork. “Please don’t let her stay up too late.”
“No such promises,” Molly laughs. Her voice sobers a bit and she finally asks after the doctor on both their minds. “You’ll be with John?”
“Yes. He’s having nightmares. I’m hoping my presence will help.”
“I’m sure it will,” she says in a soft voice. Sherlock sighs and turns away from Rosie slightly. He swallows audibly, trying to find the words.
“I’m sorry, Molly,” he tells her quietly. “I should have said something before now.”
“No, don’t worry about it, Sherlock,” she cuts him off quickly. “You’ve had a lot to deal with. I understand.”
On another day, Sherlock might have snapped that she had absolutely no idea and should not try to empathize with him because it is annoying. But not today. Today he can tell that Molly fully understands the depth of his feelings for John, and has for some time. Sherlock may have been good at hiding it in the past - a goddamn expert, in fact - but that had all changed over the last five years. If he didn’t have to hide it from John, why bother hiding it from anyone? They all thought they were shagging anyway, which they weren’t and never had, but Molly knew more. She knew about his genuine feelings for John ever since the Fall..
“Thank you, Molly,” he says humbly. He clears his throat uncomfortably. “He doesn’t remember much. Medicine and nearly nothing else.”
“A fresh start then,” she answers brightly and Sherlock wishes he had her optimism. “You’ll help him remember.”
Hi ho! I have finished writing another work and have decided to post it here. See how you all like it. It isn’t a sequel to my previous piece. In fact, they have nothing to do with one another. This one is my own Season 4 fix. I only changed a couple of things that actually happened in S4 and then continued. I’m still editing, but wanted to say that it’s coming soon and I hope you all give it a chance.
