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Sometimes John tells Sherlock that being dead did wonders for his personality.
It’s a long time before John will even refer to this period, those eighteen months when he believed that his friend was dead. It is even longer before he will joke about it with ease, without even a flicker of pain across his face at the memory. It is a long time before things are normal, though to be honest they never really are like they were before.
When Sherlock first returns, he assumes that John doesn’t want to talk about it because he is embarrassed. Sherlock understands that, when John’s first reaction to seeing him seated by the fireplace in 221B had been to collapse by the door in shock, followed by sobs of relief. He can understand how John would be embarrassed to have lost control that way, though he certainly doesn’t think any less of him. He had done the same in the moment after Sebastian Moran died in front of him. Tears of relief that the work was done and he could finally return home. He would tell John about that, later.
Sherlock thinks that he would have liked to have had John with him in that moment. John is dependable; he is strong and comforting and probably would have held him while he was overwhelmed, though they’ve never been physically close like that before. John would probably know that it would be okay at a time like that. Sherlock is not John and no one has ever been mad enough to think of him as dependable or comforting. So he does not do what he thinks John would do. Instead he comes to his side and helps him up and into his chair, sits across from him, and says, “It’s good to see you again, John. I was lost without my blogger.”
“You were dead,” is all that John has to say at first. Sherlock waits, because the last eighteen months have made him a much more patient man. When he is calm and Sherlock has presented him with a cup of tea (he wants to joke that he has not put poisoned sugar in, thinks John might have thought that funny in different circumstances, but decides this is not the time), John finally says, “Tell me why.”
“I had to pretend, so I could shut down Moriarty’s entire operation. No one would be safe until that happened.” It’s the truth. It is the non-sentimental version of the truth, and that is good enough for now.
John nods. “Did you? Shut it down?” He sounds hoarse now, and it gives Sherlock a dull ache in his chest to hear it, to know that he has caused that. He felt nearly this wrecked the first time he had seen John out in London (he was in an alleyway near the surgery, a sentimental indulgence that was not the first nor the last) using his cane again.
“I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”
They sit in silence for a while; they are both exhausted. “Thank you, for believing in me,” Sherlock says finally. “I saw the signs and I know it started with you. It was foolish of you, really, you were supposed to play along and believe it. But … thank you.”
“Always will,” is John’s only reply.
---
Sherlock rules out embarrassment and turns to the more obvious conclusion of anger. He had expected anger from John, naturally, but had been surprised not to see any – just relief and something strong and fierce almost like protectiveness, which would be ridiculous because Sherlock had just brought down all of Moriarty’s web on his own (well, he leaves out the help from Mycroft and Molly Hooper, he thinks that’s wise) and hardly needed protecting. Seventeen days and some odd hours after his return, he and John are on the other side of London, having just finished a mad, unsuccessful chase. No matter, Sherlock had the information he needed. He just thought the chase would be good for John, remind him of the way things used to be. They duck into a coffee shop together and John is panting a little as they sit down, but the smile on his face is reassuring and he thinks that this is the most he has looked like himself since Before.
The reassurance is ruined after they’ve sat there without talking for a few moments. Sherlock texts Lestrade (She was already married. Husband’s name Moulton, not dead as expected. Pity about the expense. – SH) and when he looks up, John has changed. He looks … well, Sherlock would call it wistful but that seems incongruent with the situation. He raises a brow in unspoken question.
“I came here once before,” John explains. “I was nearby, doing some things while you were gone,” he clears his throat and Sherlock nods because he knows both that he’s referring to the messages spray painted all across London (one a block from here, he knows because he slept under it), and that there is about to be an unpleasant confrontation. “It was a funny thing, actually, because something happened and I thought I was losing my mind.” He lets out a wry chuckle and Sherlock does not say anything. He tries to avoid meeting his eye but when he looks up, John is staring at him and he can see the realization click into his mind like the tumblers of a lock settling into place.
“It was you, wasn’t it? I thought I saw you, I actually followed you out of here but I lost you outside. Those … you weren’t even looking at me but I could have sworn I saw your eyes and that it was you but you didn’t even turn around when I shouted your name and I thought I must just be going mad, seeing you in every bloke with too-sharp cheekbones.” He looks like he might say something else but trails off into silence.
“It would have been dangerous for you to know it really was me,” Sherlock insists.
“Right,” John says, mouth twitching into a hard line. “Right, I can’t handle danger so it was just better to let me think I was crazy.” He pushes away from the table abruptly and is out on the street when Sherlock catches up to him. He puts a hand on John’s arm to stop him, but it is pushed away and John is facing him. His voice is cold and hard and only shakes a little. “Were you in London, right under my nose the whole time?”
“No, Moriarty operated outside of London as well, you know that.”
His face is a battle zone between control and anger, and Sherlock knows which one will soon win out. “So did you just follow me around, check up on me all the time?” He barely waits for Sherlock to shake his head, and he is yelling now. “Like watching me fall apart, then? How fucking weak I was without you?”
“No,” Sherlock says emphatically. He grasps John by the shoulders, staring hard into his face. “I hated it, I hated every moment of hiding.” He does not say that he hated seeing John, could not bear to watch him in that state, but also could not stay away from him.
“Oh yes, such a hard business, pretending to be dead, lying to your friends and family. I bet it never crossed your mind what it would do to the rest of us.” He wrenches away from his grip again and he goes quieter, face pained. “I didn’t just think that you died, Sherlock, I thought that you killed yourself. You tried to make me believe that it was all a lie.”
He has nothing to say, no defense to that, because for some reason he can’t bring himself to explain that it was all for John, and for Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. That it had all been more important than his silly reputation. He lets John go when he begins to walk away.
It is two days before John comes back to Baker Street. There are no apologies and no acknowledgement of their argument; they don’t speak about Sherlock’s death again. The kitchen is strewn with experiments and John is once again the reluctant owner of a tie index, and things feel almost normal. Sherlock ignores the look on John’s face the first few times that he hears him playing the violin again (it had been packed away in his bedroom with all the other things no one could bring themselves to get rid of), and John does not comment on the fact that Sherlock seems nicer to people, or that he spends a lot of time in the mortuary with Molly when he’s bored, instead of at home draping himself over furniture petulantly.
---
Then one evening Lestrade casually mentions that John knows why it took him so long to stop playing dead, and why he did it in the first place. “Was telling John I never realized you liked us so much,” he says with the hint of a grin.
“Hm?”
“Can’t be that easy to fake a death just for our sakes. Mycroft told me about the snipers, what they were going to do.”
“Oh!” Mycroft, Sherlock thinks bitterly. Since when does Mycroft talk to Lestrade anyway? “And what did he say?”
“Quiet about it, but that’s Doctor Watson for you lately, innit?” He turns back to the crime scene and catches sight of Sally. “Oi, Donovan!” he calls and trots towards her, gone before Sherlock can ask what else was said, exactly.
So that night when John comes home from Tesco he finds that there are no body parts in the refrigerator but there is already milk (uncontaminated) and miraculously his favorite brand of jam that he hasn’t been able to find in years, since before his last tour of Afghanistan. And there is Sherlock on the couch, sitting with his knees pulled up to his chin and leaving plenty of space for John to sit next to him. He does, and Sherlock begins to tell him everything.
Because he knows that John would like to hear it, he doesn’t leave out the times that he felt scared, or alone, or more than a bit mad because the whole plan was utterly improbable, wasn’t it? He tells John that he missed him, that he almost caved and sent him messages from time to time, but it was the thought that it would put his life in danger, force Moran to move on John and possibly get everyone killed, that kept him from it. He tells him that he was watching him at the cemetery that day, heard what he said (John, who had been listening with sympathy, clenches his fists and his jaw at this and swallows hard), and explains about Mrs. Hudson being there as well and getting snatched away. How that helped to slot the final piece into place and pull the strings taut around the remainder of Moriarty’s syndicate. He admits that Molly Hooper helped him pull it all off, and that Mycroft found out afterwards, but that they only knew because, hard as he tried, he couldn’t go at it alone.
“I didn’t want to tell you,” he admits, when it’s all finished. Solid, dependable John has pulled him so that Sherlock’s head rests against his shoulder and he thinks that this is even better, more comforting than he had imagined. Because now everything is okay, and John does not think that he is weak.
“You’re an idiot,” John replies, affectionately. “A complete idiot of a genius, because you would have to be completely, utterly, stupidly brilliant to have done all that.” Sherlock laughs. This might be an accurate assessment. It’s something he’s thought about himself sometimes in those long months of hiding. “I’m still angry,” John continues, “because if you had let me help—“
“Couldn’t risk it,” he interrupts.
“Maybe you couldn’t,” John glares at him. “I deserved the choice.”
Sherlock will not concede the point. “I could not have risked you. There is no reality in which I would not have jumped to keep you from being safe.” He sits up and directs the full power of his gaze at John. “I would go through it all again, one hundred times over, to keep you safe.”
John looks stunned before he pulls him into a bone-crushing hug. “Try it again and I’ll kill you myself.”
---
John is right, of course. Being dead has brought about a kinder Sherlock, in some ways. Smoothed some of the harsher edges of his sharp and prickly persona, though it certainly hasn’t dulled them all. He will never welcome Mycroft, for instance, or tolerate the presence of Anderson in a crime scene. He is, however, nicer to Molly, who has moved beyond her crush (living with Sherlock will do that for anyone but John, it seems) and no longer lets him get away with so many little favors. He will call Lestrade “Greg” sometimes, and deign to join him and John for a pub night that he does not ruin by deducing embarrassing facts about the other occupants but does sometimes ruin by complaints about boredom. He suspects that he would maybe not insult John’s girlfriends, but he hasn’t had one to test this theory on. Surprising even himself, he seems to have become more tactile, not that he was ever particularly respectful of anyone’s personal space before. But there are more handshakes, and since John breached it first and he knows that it’s alright, there are hugs between the two of them from time to time.
Sherlock is more relaxed, as though after living on the run he can now appreciate the quieter moments between cases when they come. The appreciation doesn’t last long, but it does at least exist now. There is a day when he’s been without stimulation for nearly a week, is beginning to test the limits of which of his flatmate’s possessions he can ruin in experiments, when John tells him that he’s being childish. In any other mood he might have ignored it or even stomped off to sulk, but today something about the statement strikes a chord inside him and he begins to laugh. John looks almost offended because he suspects that Sherlock is making fun of him. That laughter has a power over him, though, and he can never listen to it for very long without joining in.
“I suppose you’re going to let me know what’s so funny,” John says finally, after they’ve managed to laugh together so long that they’ve slowly slid into the floor from it, backs against the wall. John is clutching at his side in pain.
“You called me childish,” Sherlock explains. “And really, John, you have no idea.”
---
“Uhm,” Molly says, in that hesitating way she still has sometimes in Sherlock’s presence. “Your door was open and Mrs. Hudson sent me up …” she is staring at them. John and Sherlock are standing on the couch, backs pressed against the wallpaper. “Am I interrupting something?” She could hear them laughing as she came upstairs, though now they’ve stopped and John is looking at her expectantly, eyebrows raised. Sherlock is looking at him, clearly waiting for him to explain what exactly they’re doing.
John stays quiet and everyone staring at everyone else is starting to become uncomfortable, so Sherlock sighs impatiently. “The floor is lava, Molly, do keep up.”
“Oh!” she gasps and immediately hops up onto the nearest bit of furniture, which happens to be John’s armchair. “There ought to be a sign on the door to warn people before they just step right into it.”
John has a fresh fit of giggles at this, while Sherlock carefully steps onto their coffee table and reaches out a hand to Molly to pull her onto it too. “What can I help you with, Molly?”
“I tried texting but there was no answer.” Sherlock points towards the kitchen, where the nearest non-floor surface is just out of reach even for his long legs. She nods as though this is perfectly reasonable and continues. “I’m heading to Bart’s; there was a call about a corpse whose internal organs are now external due to excessive suction force and I thought it was the sort of thing you might like to see.”
Sherlock looks positively giddy, like Molly has just handed him a beautifully wrapped present and he can’t wait to tear it open. His impulse is a celebratory jump, but he doesn’t think the coffee table is quite that sturdy so he settles for pecking Molly on the cheek. “Brilliant, yes, I’ll be right behind you.”
She smiles and does a little hop back to the armchair and then to the door. “I’ll wait for you to start.” She’s off with a wave over her shoulder, as Sherlock rejoins John on the couch.
“Can you believe it? Suction,” he says reverently, grasping John, who is still laughing, by the arms as his weight on the cushions makes them unsteady on their feet. Apparently his impulse for kissing is very strong today, because he finds himself leaning down and pressing his lips chastely against John’s.
This finally stops his laughing, and he exhales a little “oh”. With only a moment’s hesitation he is kissing back, a hand sliding up into Sherlock’s curls to rest against the back of his head. They are swaying slightly, standing on the couch like this still, and pull apart breathlessly, grinning, to step down to the floor. “That was unexpected.”
“Okay, though?” Sherlock asks. He lets the hope he is feeling show in his voice.
“God, yes,” John answers instantly. Then they are kissing again, surer and steadier.
Sherlock nips his lip before he pulls away with reluctance. “Molly will be waiting. Come with me?”
“Always,” John answers, lacing their fingers together. “You’ll have a hell of a time getting rid of me now, you know.”
---
The corpse is fascinating, because it’s not every day that entrails become extrails, and the Sherlock of before would have spent time observing every minute detail until all possible applications towards future cases had been exhausted. Sherlock as he is now does take his time, does process and catalogue and observe, but he is also distracted by the insistent, thrumming thought of John, John, John. He knows then that he’s found something more important, more captivating than mere research.
Well that’s not true. It’s a different sort of research. He wants to take John home and study every contour of his body, learn how to run his fingers over him like the strings of his violin and produce sounds every bit as sweet and varied as the music he plays. So many things to discover about his John (this is the only way he can think of him now, not just John Watson but his, irrefutably proven with an impulse and the test of time to belong to him alone) and why didn’t he think of this ages ago?
So it is not long before he’s done, leaving Bart’s and catching a cab back to the flat with John step in step the whole way. They’ve scarcely closed the door before Sherlock whirls around and presses John against the wall with his body. He leans his head down to nuzzle at the soft skin where jaw meets neck, indulging in the feel and smell of John there, before he asks, “Is this new for you?”
John’s breathing is fast and he has tilted his neck to give Sherlock more room to explore. Distracted as he is he almost takes this at face value, but he has his own genius in understanding what Sherlock’s sometimes enigmatic questions really mean. “I realized after you were gone that … that I was mourning you like I was a widow. Like this is what we were to each other,” he explains. “I’m not --,” he hesitates then laughs because it seems silly to make his token protests now. “But there’s you, and there’s nothing I don’t want to do with you.”
Sherlock rumbles his assent against John’s neck. He has difficulty pulling his attention away from mouthing at the expanse of skin before him, which is a strange and new compulsion that is entirely enjoyable to indulge. “Wanting to kiss you, wanting to do this to you--” he stops and sucks a bite below John’s ear, “it was imperceptible until today.” The truth is that its been running wild in his head since the first time he thought John could be in danger because of him. He didn’t have all of the necessary variables to arrive to a conclusion as to what the feeling was, what it meant, but it was there.
John understands again what’s unspoken. “Can’t expect a genius to know everything,” he says simply. Not one for being simply ravished against the wall of their flat, he takes Sherlock’s hand in his own and pulls him on towards bed.
---
Sherlock thinks that he can go slowly, take his time to trace the lines and planes of John’s body with his tongue, make a map of his skin to file away in the ever-increasing area of the mind palace devoted to this man; he is not unpleasantly disappointed to find that just mere moments of kissing and feeling stubble scrape roughly over his skin have him coming undone, rutting against John breathlessly, all thoughts of slow exploration thrown away for more and now. He loses buttons from his shirt in his haste to take it off and curses when John’s jumper gets caught around his head mid-removal. Trousers and pants come off easily enough, and when John pushes him down on the bed, slides on top of him, and grasps both of their cocks to press and stroke them together in one hand, he is entirely certain that he will never be capable of rational thought again.
It is overwhelming to the senses, messy, frantic, and divides his attention in too many more fragments than he ever thought possible. In short, it is everything that Sherlock should hate, would hate with anyone else, but with John it is okay. With John’s back pressed to his chest and his arms wrapped around him, Sherlock’s mind is quiet and calm. He presses a kiss to the back of his lover’s head and decides that it was all worth it, to have led them to here.