Archive of Our Own

Mike Stamford couldn’t believe his luck.

The very same day that one Sherlock Holmes offhandedly—though not really offhandedly, Mike doubted he ever mentioned things in passing without some purpose behind it—mentioned he was looking for a flatmate, he happened to stumble across John Watson. John bloody Watson, limping through the park with his usual closed-off and slightly irritable expression, practically waiting for Mike to come across him.

“John? John Watson!”

True to form, John didn’t seem close to stopping until Mike called after him again and even started running towards him. He’d be damned if he let this opportunity get away.

After breathlessly reintroducing himself, because apparently the bastard couldn’t be arsed to remember his name, Mike began mapping out a route of conversation that would trap John into staying with him and then allow him to bring up the subject of flatshares.

There was a possibility that John was doing perfectly well on his own, that he was in his own flat or staying with a girlfriend, but Mike had been at Bart’s with Watson and he knew him fairly well. John hadn’t had a girlfriend long enough to move in with his whole life. Besides, if he was fine where he was he would look at least slightly less miserable. And what kind of man would Mike be if he didn’t help an old friend out?

He made the mistake of mentioning the leg and John closed off even more, replying with a dry comment. Mike could practically see him preparing to excuse himself, so he immediately mentioned coffee. For a moment the other man looked caught off-guard but accepted after a second’s hesitation.

Once they were seated on the bench, John asked his own question and Mike felt relieved. He cracked a joke and John even went as far to pretend to laugh along with him. Encouraged by this, Mike casually asked about where John was living and for the second time his expression shutters.

“I’m not the John Watson you knew,” he told Mike coolly. Mike stopped himself from rolling his eyes— he knows, of course, that John had been shot and most likely through hell and back in Afghanistan, but he was still the same arsehole that he’d always been— and instead closes in.

“Couldn’t Harry help?” he asked innocently, remembering John’s late night complaining about his sister and her drunken antics. He found it highly unlikely she’d gotten her act together during John’s deployment.

John snorted and made a snide comment, cementing Mike’s belief that he needed a flatmate. He needed one, Sherlock needed one—from what Mike could tell, and he was an exceptionally perceptive man, these two would get along like a house on fire. In fact, Sherlock was the kind of man who would actually set his home on fire and John would relish in putting it out, or maybe dramatically saving someone from its flames.

Fighting to keep a smile off his face, he went for it and said casually, “Oh, I don’t know… you could get a flatshare or something.”

Take the bait, Watson, he prayed, and John looked at him.

“Come on,” he said, looking amused. “Who’d want me for a flatmate?”

Sherlock Holmes would, Mike thought, and quietly chuckled, knowing John would immediately become suspicious.

“What?” he demanded, looking lost.

Mike finally allowed himself to grin, levelly meeting John’s gaze. “Well, you’re the second person to say that to me today.”

John’s eyes flickered away for a split second before he redirected his gaze at Mike. “Who was the first?”

And that is how you successfully kill two birds with one stone.

-

Mike led John back to Barts, mindful of John’s cane. He was practically bouncing with excitement—there was no way Sherlock could be such an arsehole once he started being regularly laid.

He pushed open the doors to the labs and noticed John glancing around almost wistfully. He happened across Molly, who was looking put out, and assumed she’d recently seen Sherlock. She confirmed for him that he was in his lab and Mike led John down that hallway, certain he looked half-deranged with the smile plastered on his face. It was only a minute before they reached the right door, and Mike held it open for John, noticing the man’s gaze quickly move over Sherlock’s bent form. He wanted to roll his eyes at how blatant John tended to be about his interest in men and wondered—not for the first time—how no one else seemed to have caught on.

John looked away from the curly-haired man and instead assessed the room around him, expression torn between nostalgia and appreciation.

“Bit different from my day,” he remarked, and Mike chuckled in agreement.

“Oh, you have no idea.”

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? There’s no signal on mine,” Sherlock said suddenly, not bothering with addressing John or even acknowledging their arrival.

“Well what’s wrong with the landline?” Mike returned, knowing the argument was futile. He just hoped John happened to have his phone on him.

“Oh, I prefer to text,” Sherlock replied, condescension dripping in every word.

“Sorry, it’s in my coat,” Stamford said, and he could practically see Sherlock lose total interest in him. Come on, John.

“Uh, here,” John cut in, puffing his chest out slightly while he dug his phone out of his pocket, “use mine.”

Mike looked down at the vials in front of him, grinning like an idiot. Classic Watson. He might’ve offered his phone to Sherlock even if he wasn’t model-attractive, but the way he shifted his position and even sucked in that rattling breath gave his intentions away instantly. He was already interested. That was something.

Sherlock glanced up, taking John in properly for the first time. “Oh,” he said, looking quickly at Mike as he got up as if asking Mike if this man was really who he thought he was. No one ever believed him, but Mike was convinced that half of the reason why Sherlock was so cold was because he was lonely. Maybe John was just what he needed. “Thank you,” he added, and Mike could’ve left then and there and it wouldn’t have made a difference. This was a done deal.

Sherlock straightened his suit jacket as he approached John, and Mike chose that moment to further things along.

“This is an old friend of mine, John Watson,” he introduced. John passed off the phone and before Mike could say anything else, Sherlock opened his mouth.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John had been staring at Mike, an unfamiliar expression in his eyes (could it be gratitude? Was John Watson grateful to Mike for introducing him to this admittedly very attractive man?). At this statement, however, his gaze snapped back to Sherlock.

“Sorry?”

Sherlock, who had been exaggeratedly typing on John’s phone, looked at John over his shoulder. Oh, this was brilliant. This moment deserved documentation. This was the moment that Mike Stamford did everyone in bloody London a huge favor and brought together Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. He gave it a month tops before they were shagging.

“Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

John shot Mike another look before leaning back slightly and answering, “Afghanistan. Sorry, how did—”

The door creaked open and Sherlock cut John off, saying with an unusual bright tone, “Ah, Molly, coffee, thank you.”

John’s stance changed again and became almost territorial. Of course he would become jealous within seconds of meeting this man. When Sherlock gave Molly a once over and asked what happened with her lipstick, John even turned his body and glared very briefly at her.

“It, uh, wasn’t working for me,” she managed in response, and Mike wished she would hurry along and just go. He loved Molly, truly he did, but anyone with eyes could see Sherlock was gay as a picnic basket. She was relentless, though, and Mike pitied her for it as much as he admired her.

“Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth’s too small now,” he replied, waving his hand as he did so. He sipped the coffee and grimaced, immediately setting it down and making a soft noise of disgust.

“Okay,” Molly said awkwardly, sounding breathless like she always did whenever Sherlock was cruel to her, which was often. She turned and began making her way out, and Mike gave her a sympathetic glance that she could not see.

“How do you feel about the violin?” Sherlock asked randomly, and Mike nearly punched the air with his fist. The trickiest part of this entire scheme was making sure Sherlock would be interested, but it seems he had already made up his mind. Fairly quickly, too.

John, who had been watching Molly go with a look of almost satisfaction, gave Mike yet another odd glance before replying, “Sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,” he said easily, even going for that condescending wrinkly-eyed grin that he broke out only for the most special occasions.

Watson’s eyes flickered back and forth between the two of them several times before looking Mike head-on.

“Oh, you- you told him about me?”

Mike, who had suddenly become very interested in a container of some random liquid, shook his head. “Not a word.”

John looked away and focused entirely on Sherlock. Mike could practically feel himself become invisible to them both. “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

“I did,” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for,” he said, shrugging on his coat, “and now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn’t that difficult of a leap.”

John stood rigidly, head cocked in a dangerous way that was also pretty attractive, if Mike said so himself. Maybe Sherlock had a thing for military men. Wouldn’t that be lucky?

“How did you know about Afghanistan?” John questioned.

“I’ve my eye on a nice little place in central London,” Sherlock continued, totally ignoring John’s question. Stamford knew it was all for dramatic effect, that he was saving it all up for his big finale that would leave John speechless and possibly a little angry. He wondered if he wanted to be in the room for that particular conversation. He wasn’t sure if he wanted John to jump Sherlock’s bones right in front of him. “Together we ought to be able to afford it. We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock. Sorry, got to dash. Left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

John’s gaze remained fixed at the wall opposite him, close to where seconds ago Sherlock had been standing. “Is that it?” he called after him, chest puffing out again. Mike rolled his eyes, knowing neither of them were paying any attention to him. It was just like John to act like he wasn’t already looking forward to the next night, like he wasn’t mentally boxing up all his possessions and preparing to move into the flat as soon as possible. They both liked their moments of drama.

“Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met, and we’re going to look at a flat.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “Problem?”

John looked back and Stamford, grinning in a way that any other man would have interpreted as disbelieving.

“We don’t know a thing about each other, I don’t know where we’re meeting, I don’t even know your name,” John listed.

Sherlock’s gazed sharpened and the way he tilted his chin a little alerted Mike to the fact he was finally going to impress John, just a bit.

“I know you’re an army doctor just invalided home from Afghanistan, I know you’ve got a brother who’s worried about you but you won’t go to him for help because you don’t approve of him, possibly because he’s an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know that your therapist thinks your limp’s psychosomatic, quite correctly, I’m afraid. It’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” He finished this analysis with a little smirk and opened the door, slipping out. Before he was entirely out of the room, however, he paused and stuck his head around it. “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is two-two-one bee Baker Street.” He winked, causing Mike’s eyebrows to raise in shock, which Sherlock no doubt noticed when he casually called out “Afternoon!” in Mike’s direction. He took that to be the Sherlock version of a thank-you.

“Yeah,” Mike said in reply to John’s appalled gaze. “He’s always like that.”

He amended his guess from one month to the end of the week.

-

A week passed. Then two.

Mike caught word that Sherlock had solved the serial suicide cases and mentioned it to John when he saw him getting coffee at Bart’s.

“Yeah, he was brilliant,” John said with a smile. A real one, this time— not the forced ones he’d been full of just a few weeks ago. “That’s why I’m here right now, actually. He’s in the lab and needed my help.”

“Is that help fetching him coffee?” Mike joked, and John laughed with him.

“It seems like it, yeah. He doesn’t like how Molly makes it.”

Mike could scarcely believe how already besotted John seemed. “Well, I won’t keep you. Glad you’ve settled in nicely, then.”

“Yeah, we have,” John said, eyes glazing over a little. “Yeah.”

Mike debated casually asking whether or not they had begun sleeping with each other before deciding against it. It’d come up, eventually. “Well, if you ever want drinks or anything, let me know,” he told John, and was delighted to see John nodded in what seemed like earnest.

“Thanks, Mike,” he replied, and Stamford couldn’t help but think he meant that in more ways than one.

It wasn’t long before he got a text from John asking to meet him at a local pub. Mike practically wept with excitement— surely that meant John would finally find it appropriate to mention that he and Sherlock were together, and Mike could finally feel totally satisfied. Sherlock had been loads better at work ever since that meeting in the lab. Instead, however, Mike was in for a nasty surprise.

John was getting a job at a surgery near Baker Street and was very interested in his boss, Sarah. Mike practically spat out his drink when John mentioned it.

“I— really? Wow. You aren’t— really!”

John looked baffled. “What?”

“Er, nothing,” Mike replied quickly, waving a noncommittal hand. “Forget it.”

John gave him another quizzical look but dropped it.

When John cut their meetup short after receiving an urgent text from Sherlock and left with a sheepish grin, Mike pushed away his pint and ordered something stronger.

He’d forgotten how bloody stubborn John Watson was.

-

He found John’s blog and skipped over the self-deprecating, mocking posts directed toward his therapist and instead read through the few he had already posted about Sherlock. He read the one titled “A Strange Meeting” and groaned as he read through it. Pathetic, honestly. Even one of John’s old army mates was picking up how gone on Sherlock John was, and he wasn’t there to see the way they interacted in person! Christ Almighty. Perhaps they just needed a little extra nudge. Sherlock was probably going to be less than accepting of Mike’s advice, but he didn’t need to piss John off and effectively sever that connection either. So, he popped into Sherlock’s lab a few times the next day, but the detective never showed up. In fact, it wasn’t until three days later that Mike finally came across him.

“Morning, Sherlock,” Mike said casually, and Sherlock didn’t bother looking up.

“What is it, Mike?” he asked pointedly, and Mike decided to skip the niceties and get right to it.

“How’re things with John?”

That caught Sherlock’s attention and he glanced up quizzically. “Fine… do you need something, Mike?” It was an obvious dismissal. Mike sighed, turning away. He didn’t want to push his luck. “Tell him I said hello.”

Sherlock hummed in reply, clearly no longer paying any attention, and Mike headed for the door. Just before he left, though, Sherlock called after him.

“Mike?”

Stamford turned expectantly and was surprised to find Sherlock actually looking at him.

“Is this just a polite thing, or did John mention something?”

Mike’s expression softened. “Just a polite thing. John seems rather pleased with how it all turned out, actually.”

Sherlock nodded briefly, clearly trying to school his expressions into his typical cool mask. Mike slipped out, reassured that this wasn’t in fact a lost cause. Sherlock hadn’t quite managed to keep the pleased look out of his eyes.

-

John’s blog entries were becoming more and more homoerotic, Sherlock and John were becoming more and more inseparable, and Mike was ready to break down in frustration. He was one more lingering, pining look away from snapping and smashing their lips together himself.

John broke up with Sarah (surprise bloody surprise!) and stopped mentioning any girlfriends at all during their occasional meetups, instead ranting endlessly about Sherlock and his antics. It was painfully obvious to Mike that John was mad about him, and evidently it wasn’t just him that had cottoned on. Disbelief dripped from each comment someone left on John’s blog.

Mike once had to drop something off at their flat and their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, took it for him since they were out.

“On a case?” Mike asked offhandedly, and she rolled her eyes with a huff.

“Oh, maybe! What do they ever tell me, hmm? Could be chasing a murderer, maybe they’re at whatever new restaurant opened down the street. Who knows with those boys,” she said in reply, and Mike immediately understood what she must be going through. He was the one who failed to get them together and now Mrs. Hudson was dealing with the consequences.

“Listen, Mrs. Hudson, I—I hope this isn’t odd of me to say, but do you think that John… d’you think those two—”

“Are absolutely silly and need to stop being foolish and have a good rumple in the sheets?” she supplied.

Mike’s eyes widened. “Yes, pretty much.”

Mrs. Hudson looked relieved. “Oh, I knew I couldn’t be the only one! Would you like to come in for tea?”

“I would love to,” Mike replied, and they passed several hours moaning about how utterly stupid they were for two extremely intelligent men.

When he heard the two stumble back in, both clearly tipsy, he rose to go out and greet them but instead paused and listened to them bicker.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, of course that woman is cheating on her husband,” Sherlock argued, words slurring only slightly.

“I never said that I didn’t believe you!” John defended himself. “You’re the better observer here. I’m just saying—”

Sherlock groaned. “Oh, saying, you do too much saying, why don’t you just—”

“What?” John immediately asked when Sherlock cut himself off. They seemed to have stopped halfway up the stairs. “Why don’t I just what?”

“Nothing,” Sherlock said quickly. “All I’m saying is that it was hardly necessary for her to dump her glass of wine on me.”

“Clever of her, though,” John mused. “Usually it’s to the face, but she just went for your suit. You’re soaked.”

“It’s ruined,” Sherlock whined, and Mike quietly opened the door of Mrs. Hudson’s apartment just as John said, “Maybe not. C’mere.”

Mike walked over to the bottom of the stairs, observing the scene before him. John had Sherlock’s lapels fisted in his hands and was closely inspecting Sherlock’s wine stained shirt. Sherlock was watching him with soft, hooded eyes and a slightly crooked smile. John lifted his head to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

“Sorry, Sherlock,” John said. “I think the shirt’s done for.”

“I have more shirts,” Sherlock rumbled, and John let go. He placed one of his hands on Sherlock’s chest and smoothed down nonexistent wrinkles.

“Yes, you do,” he agreed. “Come on. Go change.” He stepped away and finished ascending the stairs. Sherlock placed a hand over the spot where John’s had just been and followed seconds after.

Mike stood there, mouth agape, until Mrs. Hudson came to stand next to him.

“They’re always doing things like that,” she said with a sigh.

“Thank you for the tea, Mrs. Hudson,” Mike said politely, and she fussed over him for a moment before sending him on his way with a plateful of freshly made biscuits.

“Do come around again, Mike,” she told him. “It’s far too tiring to have to keep all this to myself.”

“Of course, Mrs. H. Thanks again.”

And suddenly, Mike had an ally in this.

-

John uploaded an extremely vague post about someone named Irene Adler, and even though it was about four sentences he still managed to get his jealously across. The comments were a mess of flirting and domesticity, and Mike coaxed further details out of John the next time they met up at a pub. John practically turned green the moment Mike said the name “Irene Adler”, and he resigned himself to a long night of jealous ranting. It used to amuse Mike just as much as it frustrated him. Now it just made him impossibly sad.

-

When Sherlock killed himself, Mike spent the following weeks terrified that John wouldn’t be far after. Mrs. Hudson promised to keep an extremely close eye on him, but that didn’t stop Mike from turning his ringer on extra loud each night before he went to bed.

One day, about a week after Sherlock threw himself off a building, he walked by Sherlock’s old lab and was shocked to catch a glimpse of someone moving around inside. He immediately backtracked and peered into the small window, craning his neck to see who it was. Upon realizing it was John, he softened and placed his hand on the handle, debating whether or not to go in. Molly walked by just as he was about to push it open, and he turned to face her.

“Hullo, Molly,” he said, and she just nodded in reply.

“Did you need something in there, Mike? I’m not sure it’s open,” she said. Mike shook his head.

“No, I was just passing by and saw someone in there. I stopped to see who it was.”

Molly looked at him expectantly, and he sighed.

“It’s John. He’s just sitting in front of the microscope.”

Molly’s lower lip trembled and Mike rested a comforting hand on her shoulder. “I know, Molly.”

“Should we go talk to him?”

“I don’t know. Probably would be best if we didn’t.”

Molly nodded in agreement and gave the door an agonized look.

“I know I couldn’t ever have him,” she whispered. “I always knew. I gave up, eventually. I had to. He loved John. So much. And John loved him. And neither of them know.” Her face crumpled and Mike wrapped an arm around her, pulling her slightly closer.

“We know, Molly,” he said quietly. “It’s not enough, but we know.”

She sniffled and swiped at her eyes. “I’m sorry, Mike,” she said before scurrying away, and he couldn’t help but get the feeling she wasn’t really talking to him at all.

(In the end, he left John alone. He didn’t tell anyone about how he saw the other man’s shoulders shaking, or his red-rimmed eyes as he collected Sherlock’s personal things. He didn’t mention to anyone how he went home the same time as John and saw his hands start to tremble as he looked up to the roof. He didn’t tell anyone anything. He never would.)

John no longer met up with Mike regularly. When he did, Mike learned that he was going full time at a new clinic. He had a new girlfriend, Vivienne, but she didn’t seem to last more than two weeks. Nor did Lilly, though Mike did get to see her in person. She was the female version of Sherlock, and it unnerved Mike just to have a conversation with her.

The anniversary of Sherlock’s death arrived, and Mike put his phone’s ringer on high volume for the first time in month— just as a precaution. He didn’t get a call.

He began to see more of Mrs. Hudson than he did of John, and about a week after the anniversary Mrs. Hudson informed him that John was moving out. Mike took this information in with a heavy heart and left soon after. He thought fondly, if not a bit melancholy, of the early days of John and Sherlock’s friendship. He remembered introducing them, how seamlessly they had hit it off. If his eyes welled up a bit, well, that was no one else’s business.

One day he got a call from John and was pleasantly surprised to hear him lighter than he had in ages. When they got dinner together a few nights later, he seemed less pale.

Mary.

John was delighted with Mary, loved her short blonde hair and sweet smile and funny shirts. She was the opposite of Sherlock in everything but her clever gaze, and Mike disliked her immediately. It wasn’t him holding out hope for John and Sherlock, of course not. Sherlock was dead and it would be ridiculous and unfair for him to expect John to remain heartbroken forever. Still, he didn’t think Mary was the right one for John at all. He also had a funny feeling Mary was acutely aware of how Mike felt. She unnerved him, too, but in a different way than how Lilly did.

One evening he was surprised to find himself invited over to their shared flat (and he remembered how John had never shared a flat with a girlfriend before. Ever. Only with Sherlock) and had a perfectly normal meal with perfectly normal conversation, and it was unlike any experience Mike had had with John ever since he met Sherlock. Frankly, he was terrified for John.

“So, Mike,” Mary said pleasantly while John was checking on dinner. “You two were at Bart’s together?”
“Yeah,” Mike said, fighting not to show how uncomfortable he was. “He always liked showing us up. He was a brilliant surgeon.”

Mary smiled, looking fond. “A brilliant man.”

Mike nodded in agreement. “Well, I never thought I would see the day John Watson became domesticated. Cheers to you for managing it.”

(John and Sherlock had always been domestic.)

He didn’t miss the way Mary raised her eyebrows slightly, or the expression that flickered in her eyes.

“Well, I never imagined myself here, either,” she replied, and Mike wondered what that meant. “Maybe that’s why we’re so good for each other.”

Mike hated her.

The second anniversary of Sherlock’s death passed, but Stamford didn’t turn his ringer up that night. John was with Mary.

A month after that, John announced he was going to propose. Mike went home in a mood and snapped at his wife. He couldn’t help but think John was making a terrible mistake, but what kind of man would he be if he stopped his friend from finally moving on?

-

Mike wondered if it was purely coincidence or intentional that Sherlock came back the night John was going to propose.

He didn’t think Sherlock Holmes believed in coincidence.

He spent a few weeks half-expecting a text from John telling him he called it off with Mary, that having Sherlock back had brought him to his senses and they had declared their love for each other. Mike was to be best man.

Instead, he found Sherlock sitting in Mike’s lab one morning at work, looking blank and pale. It unnerved him to see Sherlock like that— so vulnerable, so totally shutdown and hopelessly sad.

“I’m going to be the best man,” he said, and Mike closed his eyes briefly.

“Oh, yeah?” he said with fake cheerfulness. “Good on you, mate.”

Sherlock looked at him with an expression of such heartbreak that Mike could feel his heart withering in his chest.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?” Sherlock asked.

“Did what?”

“Set me up with John. That’s what you were trying to do. Get us together. Not just as flatmates.”

“Yes,” Mike said simply. “It was luck that it happened on the same day. Good luck.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock whispered, and in that moment he looked so far from the closed off man Mike was accustomed to that he wondered if he was perhaps dreaming. “Thank you for trying, Mike.”

With that, he rose from Mike’s stool and slowly made his way out of the room.

When his invitation arrived in the mail, he didn’t hesitate before checking off that he was unable to attend. He could list a thousand things he would rather do than watch Sherlock be best man at the wedding of the person he loved most in the world. He didn’t want to see how in love with him John still was. He didn’t want to see Mary. He wanted nothing to do with it. Instead, he sent a telegram.

The night of the wedding, he received a call from Mrs. Hudson.

“Hullo, Mrs. H.,” he greeted her. “How was the wedding?”

To his horror, she sniffled loudly in response. “His speech,” was all the said, and Mike understood. “He may as well have told John he was in love with him. He left early, too. While John and Mary were dancing.”

“Christ,” Mike sighed, and Mrs. Hudson made a noise in agreement.

“I didn’t see it all, but… enough.”

“We always seem to see enough, don’t we?” Mike said resignedly. “Never them.”

He read Sherlock’s post on John’s blog, then read Mary’s several annoyed comments. He closed his laptop and poured himself a drink.

-

Mary was pregnant.

Upon hearing this news, Mike let go of his last tendril of hope. John might be able to leave his wife, but never his child. He hadn’t seen Sherlock at Bart’s since the wedding.

-

A month or so after the wedding, he heard a bit of a commotion in Molly’s lab and paused outside the door, listening. (His wife often chastised him for this. She told him he didn’t give a damn about anyone’s privacy. When he said that that wasn’t true about everyone’s privacy, just John and Sherlock’s, she made him sleep on the couch.)

Molly was shouting at Sherlock, but he couldn’t make out what it was. An unfamiliar drawl came after hers, mixed with Sherlock’s familiar baritone. He could also hear John and once or twice Mary. Only able to make out a few random words, he gave up and moved back up to his office. It was time to let go of this.

When he woke up the next morning, he had a missed call from John. He hadn’t turned his ringer up that night.

“Sherlock’s been shot,” John told him the moment he picked up.

“Christ Almighty,” Stamford replied. “By who?”

“Dunno.”

“Is he going to be alright?”

“Dunno.”

“Oh, John.”

“Yeah,” John replied, voice thick. “Mike, listen… there’s actually something I wanted to ask you. Do you remember a couple of years ago—before, you know, Sherlock, uh…”

“Yeah,” Mike said, sparing John from having to say it out loud. His next words sounded grateful.

“Right. Were you trying to— oh, damn, I’ve got to go. Mary’s here. Shit. Okay, later Mike. I’ll let you know how he’s doing, alright?”

“Thanks, John. I’ll pop by at some point, I’m sure.”

He hung up and wondered if either of them would ever be allowed to move on from each other. He was starting to doubt it.

-

He met Detective Inspector Lestrade far later than he should have. He’d certainly heard plenty about him from John, and he already had a good opinion of him. When they met in person, however, Mike’s suspicions that anyone even relatively close to John and Sherlock knew about them were confirmed. He began to think that he, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson should start a club of sorts. A society. It certainly would attract enough members.

“Do you know who shot him yet?” Mike remembered to ask, and Lestrade shook his head.

“Not yet. I’m sure as soon as he’s awake Sherlock will give us more than enough information on him to find him. Or her,” he added as an afterthought.

“How’s John?” Mike said in a much gentler tone.

“About as well as can be expected, given the circumstances,” Lestrade replied.

Mike sighed and nodded. “I’d best be off. If John comes out at any point, tell him I’ve been round,” Mike said, extending his hand.

Lestrade took it. “Will do.”

They exchanged polite smiles and Mike departed, coming across Mary and not acknowledging her with anything except a glance. He felt her stare on his back all the way out the front doors.

-

John was living at Baker Street again, apparently. He didn’t say much about Mary.

When Mike saw Sherlock at Bart’s a few weeks later, he looked remarkably well for a man recently shot.

-

For the first time in a while, Mike actually had a reason to go see Sherlock in his lab. He had a question about the autopsy report Molly had left on his desk but she was out. Sherlock had been the one to find the body and solve the murder, and Mike figured he was as good a source as Molly—maybe better.

He pushed the door open and found John perched on the counter next to Sherlock, whose head was bent over his microscope but had his gaze set on John. John had a shit-eating grin on his face, and Sherlock was quietly laughing, his face slightly pink.

When they heard the door open, they both jumped and John shifted slightly away from Sherlock.

“Hi, Mike,” John said, sliding smoothly off the counter.

“Hullo,” Mike replied, wishing he hadn’t interrupted. “I just had a quick question for Sherlock.”

“What is it?” Sherlock snapped, turning back to his microscope and switching the slides.

John gave him a reproving look and headed for the door. “I’m sure I won’t be much help,” he said, turning the handle. “I’ll get us some coffee. Mike, you want anything?”

He shook his head no, and John nodded and opened the door.

“Black, two sugars,” Sherlock called after him, and John paused.

“Don’t act like I’ve forgotten,” he teased, and Sherlock grinned. John left and the door clicked softly behind him.

“Sorry for interrupting,” Mike said immediately, and Sherlock shook his head.

“It’s fine,” he replied. “We were just… talking.”

“Right,” Mike said awkwardly. “Well, anyways—”

They spent a few minutes discussing the case and exactly what the identical bumps on him were.

“You and John solve that one together?” Mike questioned casually. “I haven’t seen it on the blog.”

Sherlock snorted. “Have you seen anything new on his blog?”

Mike looked at the man next to him, but Sherlock was already back to gazing through the lenses of his microscope. There was no slide on the stage.

“What’s happened?” Mike asked suddenly, unable to keep his questions to himself. “With him and Mary? With him and you?”

Sherlock glanced at the door, making sure John wasn’t back yet.

“They’re fighting,” Sherlock told him, his tone carefully blank. “Just a normal couple’s spat. He’ll be back soon, I expect.”

“A normal couple’s spat doesn’t last for months on end, Sherlock,” Mike said sharply. “What’s going on?”

“You didn’t come to the wedding,” Sherlock shot back. “Why not? You didn’t give an excuse, and you’re a terrible liar, everyone knows that. You know it yourself. You weren’t busy, why didn’t you come?”

“I don’t like Mary,” Mike confessed. “I didn’t want to go to that wedding anymore than you did. It was supposed to be you instead of Mary, and I bet half the damn guests knew it too. I didn’t want to see that happen.”

Sherlock looked shocked at this outburst, even as tame as it was. “Mike,” Sherlock said quietly, and Stamford waited for him to say more. He didn’t. He just looked sick.

“Sherlock,” Mike said urgently. “It was supposed to be you on the altar.”

Sherlock pressed his lips together and shook his head.

“Thanks for the help, mate,” Mike said, briefly considering giving him a pat on the shoulder. He wasn’t sure Sherlock would appreciate it. “I’m sorry.”

John came back in the room just as Mike was leaving, and he gave Mike a surprised look.

“Leaving already?” he asked, crossing the room and handing Sherlock a mug. “I wouldn’t mind the company. Sherlock’s got a lot of slides to look at.”

Mike didn’t think it would be helpful to point out that they were obviously engaged in conversation when he came in.

“Yeah, I’ve got to get going,” Mike said with a quick smile. “See you around, John. Sherlock.”

John nodded and smiled at him, already turning back to Sherlock. “That ginger bloke was at the coffee machine again,” he informed Sherlock, sounding gleeful. Mike noticed Sherlock’s expression immediately shift, the same smile as when Mike came in lighting up his face.

“Was he wearing the—?” he asked, chuckling along with John.

“No, but what he was wearing was even better, I swear to God—”

The door clicked shut, and Mike couldn’t make out what came next. He just heard their loud bursts of laughter as John finished describing the ginger’s outfit.

-

One night, about two months after Christmas, he got a call from John.

“John?” Mike asked immediately upon picking up.

“Mary’s been sent to jail,” John told him.

“What?”

“She’s an assassin.”

“Christ Almighty!”

John just laughed, a loud, slightly mad sound. He sounded like he was on the verge of hysterics. “She’s the one who shot Sherlock.”

Mike was silent for a moment, absorbing this information. “Fucking hell, John.”

“I know,” John replied, sounding slightly crazed. “I signed the divorce papers weeks ago. Now I just have to get them to her cell.”

“Where are you now?” Mike said, suddenly worried that John was going to do something terribly reckless. “We’ve got a spare bedroom here.”

“I’m in 221B again,” John assured him. “Don’t know why I ever left,” he said, his voice much quieter.

“Well, I hate to say that I’m glad, but…”

John laughed again, and this time it was much more normal. “I am too, Mike. I haven’t felt this light in ages. Is that terrible? My new wife is an assassin and in jail for life, but…”

“I don’t think it’s terrible. Truth be told, I hated her.”

“I’ll have Sherlock add you to the list.” He paused. “I did, too, in the end. She wasn’t who I thought I was marrying.”

“Next time, you’ll just have to be sure,” Mike said lightly, and John was quiet for a moment.

“I am,” he said softly. “I’ll see you around, Mike. We’ll meet up for pints soon, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mike agreed, and John hung up. Mike stood staring at his phone for a moment, completely at a loss for what to do. He’d just had an extremely casual conversation about John’s murderous soon-to-be ex-wife. He felt pleased that his good friend’s wife was bloody incarcerated, because it meant that the two men he’d been trying to set up for years finally had a chance.

He stopped staring and dialed Mrs. Hudson’s number.

(They gossiped for two hours.)  

-

When he first got them together, Mike had estimated that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes would be together in about a week. In reality, it took six years and three months. Too fucking long, in Mike’s opinion.

He didn’t find out through Mrs. Hudson, or Lestrade, or directly from either of the men themselves. Instead, he found Molly beaming as she strode down a corridor, and she paused as they met in the middle of the hallway.

“I’ve just paid Sherlock and John a visit in the lab,” she told him breathlessly. “I’m sure they’d love to see you.”

Mike gave her an odd look as she continued down the hall but decided to heed her words nonetheless. He started up the stairs and completed the familiar route to Sherlock’s lab, trying to tamp down the hope that was building in his chest. He didn’t allow himself to expect anything out of those two anymore.

What he found when he walked in made him want to cry, or maybe shout, or wish that he had begun a pool with the Bart’s staff so that he could run off and collect money. Instead, he just allowed himself a small smile.

Sherlock was perched on one of the counters, just like John had been the last time Mike was in this lab just a few months ago. In between his legs was John, who had one hand tangled in Sherlock’s hair and the other cupping his neck. They were kissing—quite passionately, in fact. Mike wasn’t sure it was decent for public at all. Evidently they hadn’t heard him come in, so he decided to alert them of his presence before they took this any further. It had been a long time coming, sure, but there were some things he didn’t want to see.

He cleared his throat and, to his surprise, they didn’t immediately jump apart. Instead, John pulled back slowly, sucking a little on Sherlock’s bottom lip. Mike blushed.

“Hi, Mike,” John greeted him casually, but Sherlock turned beet red.

“Hello, John,” Mike responded. “Hi, Sherlock. Am I interrupting?”

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled, hopping off the counter. John didn’t let him get too far, though— he caught Sherlock by the wrist and tugged him closer to his side, wrapping an arm around Sherlock’s waist.

“Well, I just stopped by to say it’s about bloody time,” he told them with a grin, and John chuckled while Sherlock turned impossibly redder.

“Better late than never,” Sherlock muttered, and John looked terribly sad for the briefest of moments before Sherlock gently kissed the top of his head.

“Well, I won’t keep you,” Mike said, taking a step back to the door. “This is kind of nice, isn’t it? I brought you two together in this room, now we’re all three of us back here and you’re together. It’s like we’ve come full circle.”

“That sounds like something John would put on his blog,” Sherlock said with amusement. “Don’t give him any ideas, Mike.”

John rolled his eyes and Sherlock laughed. Mike could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Sherlock genuinely laugh, and each instance was when he was laughing at or with John.

“Mike?” John called just as Stamford was making his exit.

He turned, looking at him curiously.

“When you introduced us… How long did you think it would take for us to get together?”

Mike laughed loudly. “Not six bloody years, that’s for sure.” He sighed and rested a hand on the counter. “I gave it a week.”

They both looked pained and Mike instantly felt bad. “That’s just because I saw your chemistry. No pun intended.” Sherlock gave him a dirty look. “It just means you have six years to make up for.” He nodded at the counter, shooting them a knowing look. “I’ll leave you to it.”

The sound of their mixed laughter followed him out.

-

Mike Stamford never ended up being the best man at John and Sherlock’s wedding.

That privilege was given to Greg Lestrade, and Mike found that he was so elated that there was going to be a wedding at all he couldn’t bring himself to be bitter. Besides, Greg had seen them go through more than Mike had.

That didn’t stop him from delivering an extremely poignant speech about the trials of love and what a fucking relief it was that they had finally gotten their shit together. The crowd was laughing along with him, and Mike was sure that at least a third of them had first-hand experience with John and Sherlock’s sexual tension. His excitement was extremely relatable.

Sherlock stood up to give his speech and the guests instantly went quiet. The majority of them were people from John’s family or John and Sherlock’s mutual friends, most of whom had gone to John and Mary’s wedding. Mike’s only regret about not attending was that, according to Mrs. Hudson and Greg,, Sherlock had given the most devastating and emotional speech they’d ever heard. Mike could only hope that the one Sherlock gave today would be slightly less heartbroken.

“John Watson,” he said, his voice loud and clear with an undercurrent of emotion beneath it. He smiled softly down at John. “My husband, John Watson. John.”

That line caused Mrs. Hudson to immediately burst into tears and a long round of applause to start up, during which John pulled Sherlock down to kiss him thoroughly. Mike couldn’t help but feel he’d missed something.

“The last time I stood in front of you all it was as John’s best man.” He sucked in a deep breath. “It was only upon later reflection that I realized how extremely uncomfortable many of you must have been, considering it’s not exactly the norm to essentially confess your love for the groom during a best man’s speech. However,” he said, taking no breaths in between sentences, “I think you’ll all find that this context is for more appropriate for what I’m about to say.

“John Watson is the best man that I have ever known, and it is a privilege to know and love him, let alone be allowed to spend the rest of my life by his side. It took many years, many obstacles, and many separations to get to where we are today, but I would never for a moment consider taking any of it back if it meant I wouldn’t be standing here right now.

“I’m not the kindest man, nor the most approachable. Often I am rude and condescending, not always without reason—” a bit of laughter—“but before John I was outright cruel and far from deserving of a companion such as him. But John was—luckily—just as lost and lonely, and we bought a flat together within two days of knowing each other. He began a blog, and continues writing on it despite my protestations. Now, I can’t bring myself to disdain it they way I once did, because to me it is a documentation of our friendship and our time together. It is the progress of our love. The only thing I have to regret about my time with John Watson is that I wasted too much of it. There are not enough years in a lifetime to make up all the ones I spent without you, John. I can only hope that from here forward, we can spend all the rest of them together.”

John’s eyes were steadily welling up, and with a quick glance around the room Mike could see he was not the only one.

“Never in a hundred years did I think that I would ever have you, John Watson,” Sherlock said, voice low and thick with emotion. “And I don’t know why I’m allowed to call you my own, or how I could ever possibly deserve you, but I promise to you now that I have you I will never, ever let go. I love you, John, and there is not a fall, or a wound, or a person that can stop me from doing so for the rest of my life. I am yours for as long as you will have me, and even then, longer. Years ago I told you that caring won’t save people, that caring was a mistake. I was wrong. You have saved me, John Watson, and now I give to you one last vow: I won’t let anything separate us again. You are my partner, my best man and my best friend, the love of my life and now my husband. I love you.”

John leapt to his feet and pulled Sherlock into a tender embrace, kissing him with such fervor that Mike could no longer hold back the tears that had been threatening to spill all throughout the speech. The applause that followed was deafening, and Mike was positive there wasn’t a dry eye in the room. The couple only split once the crowd’s racket was beginning to die out, but the moment they turned to face the room full of people with their hands linked and eyes glistening the applause began anew.

Mike sniffled and silently patted himself on the back. He knew he didn’t know even a quarter of what they had been through together, but a love that could withstand the trials John and Sherlock faced deserved to be celebrated.

John caught his eye and gave him a nod, still tearing up from the speech.

Thank you, he mouthed, and Mike just grinned in return.

Exactly seven years after bringing them together in that lab at Bart’s Hospital, Mike was finally reaping the rewards. The look shared between John and Sherlock as they waltzed together for the first time was more than worth it.