So, I just watched the new Sherlock special : The Abominable Bride. And then I saw this scene.

and then it’s like a wedding of Sherlock Holmes.

“We are gathered together here to unite this groom and this bride in the bonds of matrimony.”

To Groom:  Do you take this bride to be your lawfully wedded wife?

To Bride:  Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?

By the authority vested in me by the State of Sheriarty I now pronounce you husband and wife.

I’m sorry, I can’t help myself.

Surprise… Not Dead

It has come to my.. uh.. realisation.. that I haven’t updated either of my current two fics in.. a long time. Oops!

I promise I’m not dead.. I’m just an occasional tumblr lurker atm because university is being a pain in the arse and I’m getting thrown assignment after assignment and, quite frankly, I’m a bit sick of typing my mental health is also a bit not good but it’s just from the current stress of end of term essays..

However! After my next assignment (if I survive that long..) I’m planning on getting the next chapter written out for both my Mycroft and Sherlock stories!

Alternatively, I’ll struggle with the assignment and pretend to be dead for the next three years so my professors leave me alone could go either way… ANYWAY thank you all for your patience

12 Charing Cross Road, Westminster London

- Foolish Dreams and Unfulfilled Wishes -

It was a time the whole world had waited for in bated breath. It was a time when time seemed to stop and everything looked upon the two men who stood on the landing of 221B Baker street. All eyes were on them. Two friends, torn apart by violence, brought together by one final act of killing.

“May I come inside?”

Sherlock stood there waiting for John to answer, waiting for the resolution of the story. Waiting for the happy ending that most humans sought after. The whole world seemed to hold its breath. Nothing stirred and nothing existed except these two individuals right here. John reached towards Sherlock’s own face, wanting to feel the warmth of the other for himself. In those few moments when the face of Sherlock swam in his vision as tears glistened in his brown eyes, John felt relief wash over him. Months of waiting had come to a close and finally Sherlock had come home. He placed a gentle had on Sherlock’s cheeks, his fingertips tingling at the unfamiliar and sought after sensation. Looking into Sherlock’s blue eyes, something snapped within him at that moment.

The spell that had descended upon them shattered as the calm was broken. Months of pent up emotions and hardships surfaced in John’s mind. Before he realized what was happening John’s left fist had swung towards Sherlock. The other didn’t even move and accepted the blow as it came. Sherlock staggered backward, nursing the now forming bruise.

“You git!”

John Watson rushed at Sherlock, but rather than another punch, the older wrap his arms around the younger. The tears streaked down his face, and the sobs came forth from him. It was like a dam that had broken. A dam that had been constructed through months of grieving and mourning now gave way for the emotions and sentiments to finally spill over.

John Watson beat at Sherlock’s chest, his clenched fists slamming into the other, not all that forcefully. The will to fight had gone out of John Watson.

“Sherlock. You were dead! I saw you jump. I mourned you.. I called your name again and again. I begged you to come back.”

Tremors shook through his body as he collapsed unto the consulting detective. Sherlock slowly wrapped his arms around the doctor and said the three words that managed to reach John’s heart.

“I’m here now.” Sherlock said quietly.

John looked up at black haired man who had haunted his dreams so often. Whose face and whose voice had always consumed his thoughts. Long ago, Sherlock became the reason for John’s everyday and perhaps it could be like that again. Finally they would be able to go back to the routine that was theirs and theirs alone. Things would go back to the way they once were.

Following what should have been, John Watson would have said the very thing that Sherlock had been waiting for all this time:

“Welcome Home.” John said softly, for only Sherlock to hear.

But that wasn’t what happened. Not at all. In a world of fantasy and fiction, perhaps that could have transpired but this isn’t fantasy or some game of pretend. This was reality. A reality that John Watson could not escape. You see, things could not easily go back to the way they once were. After everything that had transpired, the road that lead towards their past life was now barred by a wall. A brick was carefully placed there each day that passed after Sherlock’s death, sealing the past most effectively. Not even Sherlock himself was able to tear down that wall. What’s more, John Watson had already found himself on a completely different path. This was the road towards the future he, at one point, was resigned to having. What started out as John’s way of complying to Sherlock’s wish of him to be happy turned out to be something he truly wanted for himself as well. John wanted a future, John wanted a family and so he found himself walking down that path with a woman who taught him it was okay to love again. This woman named Helen tore down the walls around his heart and became a constant presence in his life. And so, instead of the heartfelt reunion that the whole world had been waiting for, another parting of the ways was witnessed, perhaps even more terrible than the last.

Snow fell heavily from the night sky, a cold had descended all over London but the coldness that John Watson now felt inside him had nothing to do with that. The still and calm London night was a complete contrast to the storm that raged within the retired army doctor. John turned away from the window, putting the sea of whiteness that was London behind him. He gazed around the familiar flat. It wasn’t 221B. For one, it had a more feminine touch to it. There were lace trimmed placemats and delicate pottery. There were one of a kind paintings decorating the walls of the flat. His favorite one hung over the fireplace. It was a depiction of the exact scenery John had been viewing moments before. Instead of the snowy expanse, the whole city could be seen in all its glory. But through the lens of a painter, the city came forth in a different perspective and light. There was hope that beauty could lie in even a harsh city like London. John tore his eyes away from the painting and looked around. It had a couch, but it John’s opinion it wasn’t as comfortable as the one in 221B. There were no armchairs that sat beside the fire. There was no skull on the mantelpiece. Perhaps, the only thing in common with 221B was the vast array of medical books that the shelves housed. The air was tinged with the small of lilacs. All was empty and quiet in the flat too, which John found very unsettling. The disquiet put him further on edge and his mind could do nothing but go back to the what followed after his parting of the ways with the now resurrected Sherlock Holmes.

*

John had run until he couldn’t ignore the pain in his chest anymore. The cold air shot through his system like a thousand tiny pinpricks assaulting his senses. On and on he went until his legs felt like lead and sweat glistened on his forehead despite the low temperature that came with the winter. John finally stopped, doubling over and placing his hands on his knees. He tried to get his breath back, yet he relished the pain that came with the fatigue. Finally his breathes came much slower and he was able to look up and take in his surroundings. He found himself in the park, more specifically the playground. He had spent a lot of lonely afternoons wandering around this part of London, and was therefore not surprised that his legs had subconsciously carried him here.

The snow was pristine and undisturbed. That was to be expected for the kids were with their families now, spending their Christmases around the dinner table, or sitting excitedly by the tree waiting for the clock to strike twelve. John crossed the playground towards the pair of swings that stood at the center. The swing creaked under his weight as he sat down. He swayed back and forth, using his legs to propel the motion. John didn’t know how long he sat there, staring at the night sky. The adrenalin slowly receded from his system. In its place was the anger that bubbled to the surface once again. Images of Sherlock Holmes framed in the doorway entered his mind, try as he might he couldn’t push it away. Sherlock coming back had been his most fervent wish for so long. Until John decided to move on that is.

John huffed in annoyance, muttering obscenities under his breath. It was as if his whole world had been turned upside down once again. It was all one big elaborate lie. Consequently, a play on his very emotions. John now didn’t know what to believe in and couldn’t even fathom the flurry of emotions that raged inside him. Were his feelings about Sherlock true, or was it just induced by the shock of supposedly losing him? When Sherlock didn’t even die in the first place, how could he know if what he felt was genuine at all?

John didn’t even look up when he heard footsteps behind him, disturbing the gravel and snow on the ground. He felt the newcomer pause in his advancements. John’s neck prickled under the penetrating gaze of the stranger.

“Did you know?” The question came out more harsher then he intended. Yet, John Watson was beyond manners now. He was like a wounded animal, cornered and desperate.

“No.” The gruff response of Greg Lestrade came back. The response was simple yet it told tomes about the other’s situation. John turned his head to see Lestrade walk towards him and take the swing beside him. He was pale and his eyes were haunted by a pain that John knew quite well. It was obvious something was plaguing his mind. The detective inspector sighed and pulled out a box of cigarettes from his pocket with an accompanying lighter. He shook the box against his palm until a stick fell out. With well practiced motions he placed it on his lips and lit it with a flick of his lighter. The tension on his face eased a bit as the nicotine wove its way into his system. He extended the box to John, silently asking him if he wanted one. For the first time in years John helped himself to a stick. The roll between his forefinger and middle finger felt like he was welcoming an old friend back home. He placed it in his mouth and leaned forward for Lestrade to light it. After a sharp intake of breath and exhale later, John felt a bit better. The tremors that shook his body lessened to a certain degree.

“I left Mycroft.” Lestrade said. There was sadness and anger there. Two emotions that John was very familiar with and could easily distinguish.

“He knew.” John replied. It wasn’t a question. John already had a deeply rooted anger against the older of the Holmes brothers. He had never forgiven Mycroft for killing Sherlock Holmes, and now to find out that the man was involved in this elaborate hoax. It did nothing to improve his standing in John’s eyes.

Lestrade nodded as his brows furrowed in frustration. It wasn’t everyday you see the detective inspector in such an emotional state. But one could hardly fault him. He had just left the man he once loved, very much like what John did too.

“I received a call about a gunshot near The Abbey pub. We were already shorthanded at the Yard so I decided to go alone and investigate. When I got there, Mycroft was there…”

“Mycroft?”

Lestrade nodded, pausing for a moment before continuing. He looked at John and there eyes locked on each other’s. “He was holding a gun. Standing over a body in the alley. I asked him what the hell he was doing there but he wouldn’t answer me at first. I rushed at the body to see who it was Mycroft had shot. It was…” Lestrade faltered at this moment. John urged him to continue.

“Sebastian Moran.” Lestrade finished, turning away from John.

“S-sebastian? Sebastian’s dead?! Mycroft shot Sebastian? Why?!” The hysteria in John’s voice was very much evident now. This night was continuing to spiral downward as the world that he once knew slowly became an unholy land where nothing made any sense.

“Imagine my confusion at finding Mycroft at a crime scene like that.” Lestrade was having trouble hiding his own anger at the situation they were in. “At first I thought it was some secret operation by the government of some sort. Maybe Sebastian got into some spot of trouble. The truth, though, was further from anything I ever expected it to be.”

Lestrade paused. “Did Sherlock tell you anything?”

John shook his head. “I didn’t give him the chance to explain. I don’t know. I was just….”

“Angry?” Lestrade supplied.

John nodded.

Lestrade fished an envelope from his coat and handed it to John. He opened the envelope and numerous files spilled on his lap. On top of the pile was Sebastian Moran’s file. The picture placed there wasn’t the Sebastian he knew. The image before him was of a cold hearted killer. Bottomless black eyes that reflected nothing but death. He scanned the file and his eyes halted on one line:

Assassin. Employed under Consulting Criminal Jim Moriarty.

John’s breath caught in his chest. He closed his eyes, willing to wake up from this hellish nightmare. The man who had, in many ways, rescued him from the pain was nothing more than an illusion. The man he considered a best friend was all but a trick of the mind. In many ways he had given a lot of trust in the Sebastian Moran he knew. John didn’t easily trust people, nor did he share his problems with anyone. With Moran it was different. It was so much easier. Life became a lot better. To find out all of that were simply lies was devastating to say the least.

“He wanted to kill me?” John’s voice was soft and scared.

Lestrade nodded.

“I guess this would make more sense when I start from the beginning. Sherlock faked his death. With the help of Molly.” Lestrade spat the name. John’s eyes widened when he heard it. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He felt his sanity slowly being chipped away with each revelation he heard.

“Molly knew…” First there was disbelief. Then came the anger. He remembered all those times when Molly had comforted him and then those times when she had wanted to say something but thought better of it. This was the big secret.

“So did Mycroft. The both of them were in on it all this time. While the rest of us made a fool of ourselves mourning his loss. They played the both of us as idiots.”  Lestrade said. The words were harsh but it was the truth. The phrase the truth hurts didn’t even begin the describe the situation.

“According to Mycroft, after he faked his death, Sherlock hunted down Moriarty’s men. The last of Moriarty’s men was – “

“Sebastian.” John finished for him. Knowing the man could have killed him at any moment was not a welcoming notion, but he couldn’t help think he had lost a friend. Or perhaps, his friend never existed in the first place. John shuddered as he was able to fully comprehend the situation. He had thought Moriarty to be gone, but even from beyond the grave he was still able to destroy their lives.

“You’re taking this better than I expected.” Lestrade said. There was no cocky smile or twinkle of the eye here. It was a statement of fact.

John scoffed. “I punched the damn git and left him standing there in the damn cold.” He couldn’t even bear saying the name Sherlock now. The name only brought him pain.

John stood up, the files spilling on the snow topped ground but he paid them no mind. He started to pace around, leaving crisscrossing footprints in the snow. He threw his cigarette in the thicket, not even bothering to stomp it out.

“Lies! All Lies…” John’s breath hitched in his chest. There was a lot of anger inside John Watson. Anger at Moriarty for tearing their lives apart, anger at Mycroft for playing this idiotic game, anger at Molly for making him a fool, anger at Sherlock Holmes for leaving and playing with his heart.

John’s breathing was heavy as he shouted frustratingly into the heavens. He sat unceremoniously into the ground covered snow and placed his head in his hands. He carded his hands through his hair, wishing that everything was just a bad dream.

Lestrade gazed at the same stars John was looking at moments before. They twinkled sadly above them. “I thought I knew Mycroft. I thought he had allowed me to see a side of himself that no one had the privilege of seeing. Behind the titles and behind the power, Mycroft Holmes was just a man. A man who just needed someone to understand who he was and stand by him. I thought I was that man. I don’t even know anymore if that was the real Mycroft Holmes or if it was just part of this game he played with the rest of us.” It was tinged with bitterness but sadness as well. John wasn’t the only one who lost something tonight.

John listened, for the first time his mind wandering from his own predicament and thinking about something else: the relationship of Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. As far as John knew, Mycroft didn’t have girlfriends or anything of the sort. Mycroft had colleagues and connections, not friends. Lestrade, it seemed, was the exception. When John found out about Lestrade and Mycroft, he had doubted the older Holmes was capable of emotions such as love but he reasoned it was his own personal biases speaking. Lestrade obviously saw something in the man and that was good enough for John. It looked as if they complimented each other in many ways. He may not be privy to their interactions but he knew Lestrade was happy. In very much the same way that lies had torn apart Mycroft and Lestrade, the lies were destroying what John and Sherlock had.

Lestrade got up and dropped his cigarette, before stomping it out with the sole of his trainer. He walked to where John was and placed a hand on his shoulders.

“Let’s get you home.”

“I don’t know where home is.” John replied sadly.

Home was once 221B, where he and his best friend spent their days together and lived the routine that was their own. Home was once 221B, where the memories he held dear made themselves present in John’s everydays. Home was once 221B, where he would wait for the day when Sherlock would finally come back to him. Home was once 221B, the place where he confined himself and willed the pains of the world to go away. Home was once 221B, his own respite. Home was once 221B, where he thought he could live his happily ever after with the woman he had given his heart to.

John shook his head. “I won’t go back there. I don’t want to see him. He never died so it’s still his flat.” John stared at the white snow underneath him. “I was going to ask her to move in with me Greg. I was going to ask her tonight. I prepared his old room and everything. I fixed up the flat. I was finally able to put all his things in the attic. I was finally able to move on without looking back. And then this happens.” Tears silently rolled down his face. John was past pretending to be strong. He was now nothing but a broken man. Broken not by Moriarty or by Mycroft but by Sherlock Holmes.

After all the anger had been spent what was left was an emptiness that could only be described as being lost. He looked up at Greg Lestrade and the expression on his face was quite clear. ‘I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know what to do.’

Lestrade bowed his head. “I don’t know too, John. I don’t know.” For the first time, Lestrade didn’t have all the answers. He didn’t have any advice to offer to John Watson for he himself was as lost and equally alone. The only thing he could give was a helping hand.

“Let’s go to my flat for now. Helen’s still at her shift now right? I’ll call her and tell her to pick you up there.”

John could only nod, as what he felt was beyond words now. He allowed the detective inspector to carry half his weight as they made their way towards the street. Lestrade hailed a cab and helped John inside. John watched as the city passed by him in a blur of lights. He placed his forehead on the cool window and stared unseeingly outside.

They arrived at flat. The exhaustion caused by the night’s events had finally taken its toll on John’s body. He collapsed on the couch, burying himself in the cushions. Lestrade made as if to leave but before he could he felt a tug on his coat. John’s had had shot up and taken ahold of him.

“Please.” John said quietly.

Lestrade sat beside John and held him close. It was nothing romantic of course. They were brothers after all, brothers whom the world has wronged in very much the same way. Lestrade held John, like he had done all those months ago. He felt the subtle tremors that shook through the other’s body as the walls John had put up all those months had finally broken down.  The presence of another human being was a comfort to the both of them. The world has suddenly become a hostile place and this familiar feeling of comfort would help them tide through the night.

From somewhere in the flat a clock chimed, twelve rings to signify the coming of Christmas morning. A Christmas miracle had occurred but it brought nothing but pain to all.

 “Happy Christmas, John.” Lestrade whispered.

John couldn’t even bring himself to reply, so he simply nodded. The festiveness of the holidays had drained out of him. All that was left was a dull aching.

When the clock had chimed one, a knock came on the door. Lestrade stood up and made his way towards the door. Unsurprisingly, Helen was on the other side, holding a bag of presents in her hand. She smiled sadly at Lestrade before looking at the sleeping figure of John Watson.

“He just fell asleep. Should I wake him for you?” Lestrade massaged the crick that had formed on his neck.

Helen shook her head, stepping inside. The tiredness from her face faded as she touched John’s face. It was replaced by a look that could only be described as love. She gently traced the contours of John’s face with her delicate hands. John stirred. She stopped and leaned closer to hear what he was whispering.

“Sh-sherlock … ”

Helen stepped back, the sad look crossing her features once again.

“I’ve been to see him.”

Lestrade looked up at that. “You saw Sherlock?”

Helen nodded stiffly. “He had a bruise on his face. Probably, John had punched him. Sherlock was waiting there on the porch of 221B.” She glanced at John. “Waiting for him to come back I think.”

Helen sighed and sat cross-legged on the floor as she stroked John’s hand. “And he was doing so well too. Now that Sherlock’s back. I don’t know what the state of his mind would be.”

Both of them knew fully well what John had gone through. Insanity was but a step away for John. John’s suicide attempt was still fresh in their minds.

…

John woke up on Christmas morning to find Helen asleep on the living room floor still holding his hand. Despite having a few hours of sleep, he still felt the fatigue of last night.  It took a moment for him to recall what had happened transpired only a few hours before. It felt like a rather awful nightmare.

Dream?

No.

Real.

The confusion that initially filled his mind was replaced with anger and discontentment. John sighed and tried to will the pains away. He looked at Helen, sleeping soundly with her head resting near his own. In her other hand was the blue box that contained the key to 221B that he was supposed to give her. This wasn’t how he wanted the both of them to spend Christmas. He had planned a romantic evening for the both of them. It was nothing too extravagant, just dinner and a quite night together, ending with him asking her to move in. His dinner preparations had gone to waste. He had finally finished his preparations in Sherlock’s room. He had wanted to give her a room of her own. He wanted that future with her. The key symbolized that future, that happiness he had always tried to chase after.

The woman stirred as John sat up and let go of her hand. She followed his gaze and saw he was staring at the box.

Helen smiled sadly at him and opened the box.

“You wanted me to move in with you.”

“I still want-“ She cut him off as she placed a tender finger on his lips. “Are you sure John?”

Asking her to move in with him was one of the surest decisions that John had ever made in his life, but after last night’s events he found himself thrust into doubt once again. What he thought of as truth was nothing more than illusions. The dilemma must have been evident on his face for Helen leaned in closer and placed a chaste kiss on John’s forehead. It was a comforting gesture.

“I don’t want to go back there.” John admitted. John had never felt so vulnerable in his life than he did now. She held him close and again, the tears fell and his body shook. His world had shattered and she knew it.  John’s world once revolved around Sherlock Holmes, a shining sun in the darkness and loneliness of the place called life. When the sun disappeared, John was thrown back into the darkness with nothing to gravitate towards. Nothing could compare to the sun that once was. Helen was but a moon, a mere reflection of the sun.

Now, the sun had returned but it was too late. John had been lost in the darkness, tethered to the moon, by the merest of threads. 

“I’m here, John.” John nodded at that. John now doubted a lot of things, but there was one thing he was sure of, and it was the woman that now stood in front of him. He looked into her green eyes and found the solace he had always sought. He caressed her face and tucked a stray lock behind her ear. Helen slid into the sofa with John. And silently, they watched as London life unfolded before them through the window of Gregory Lestrade’s flat. It was something very simple, yet to John it meant the world. Her presence was a foothold in the ever changing world.

John thoughts wandered to Sherlock, thinking of the tall black haired man framed in the doorway of 221B Baker Street. He wasn’t the Sherlock he remembered, yet he knew it was his Sherlock. Not some hoax nor some trick. The real consulting detective had truly come back from the dead. He remembered the way in which Sherlock had said his name. He never thought he would hear his name being called in such a way again.

“John.”Sherlock’s deep voice had always haunted his dreams and now he could hear his real voice again. He didn’t have to settle for recordings or vague memories.

“John.”

John looked up at Helen, who was watching him with concern in her deep green eyes.

“I saw Sherlock last night.” John nodded. He had assumed as much, seeing she had the key with her. “He wanted me to give you these.”  

She fished out two objects from her coat pocket. The first was one he recognized immediately. It was his phone, his coping mechanism for eighteen long months. It was his last connection to Sherlock Holmes. Despite knowing, that his text message would remain unanswered he continued to send them anyway. The other object was a phone he wasn’t familiar with.

Confusion crossed John’s features as he took both objects in his hands. He pocketed his own phone and examined the other. It didn’t take too long to realize whose phone it was.

It was Sherlock’s.

John stared unblinkingly at the phone. Sherlock didn’t do anything for absolutely no reason so it was safe to assume there was something inside the phone that was meant for his eyes but after last night’s events he wasn’t sure he could handle another revelation of sorts. He took a deep breath. There was nothing else he could find out that could tear his world apart in the same way that Sherlock’s return had.

He was wrong.

He saw the hundreds of text messages he had been sending Sherlock, sitting there inside the phone. Eighteen long months of suffering and of pain outlined for all too see. John’s heart ached as he looked through his own messages. Sending text messages to Sherlock became a part of his new routine. At the time, he believed Sherlock would never see the messages nor reply to them but he continued to send them anyway. It was a coping mechanism that was his own. The texts made it easier to pretend that Sherlock would come back home, that was why he held unto that hope. He saw his own descent into depression as the texts became more desperate. Some texts he remembered more than others. Many of them were pleas to come home, pleas that remained unanswered until now. Yet even more of them were confessions about his own emotions that he would have never been able to tell Sherlock face to face. He bore out his heart and soul into those text messages. Finding out that Sherlock had been privy to these inner thoughts from the start wasn’t something he could easily digest nor accept. The anger did not come. Simply confusion. John had gotten another of his heart’s desires: for Sherlock to see the messages that John had sent him. Yet with the realization came the question: why didn’t he answer me? He knew yet he didn’t do anything. John Watson felt betrayed. There was nothing else that could describe the well of emotions inside him at this moment. To him, it seemed as if the whole world was in on the joke. A joke at the expense of himself. He had spent the better half of the past eighteen months mourning a man who wasn’t quite so dead.

The phone held even more secrets. He saw the text exchanges between Mycroft and Sherlock. It was evident that Mycoft was deeply involved and aware of all of Sherlock’s activities. The grieving brother act was nothing but that: an act. John also saw the short exchanges between Sebastian and Sherlock. John paled as he read those particular messages. It had all been a game. John felt like a pawn in the grander scheme of things, being tossed around and played with. It only served to fuel the anger that continued to burn within him.

Yet, the most terrible secret of all came in the form of Sherlock’s unsent text messages to John. These were texts never sent to him. They were simply kept there, like a tethered lifeline. Eighteen months worth of messages stared back at him in all its glory. His heart clenched as he saw his own name again and again. John couldn’t believe it. The emotion in the texts wasn’t something he could easily identify with Sherlock. Sherlock was a man who dismissed sentiment and anything of the sort as trivial and not worthy of his time, yet here were messages that bore Sherlock’s heart and soul; similar to what John Watson himself had done. Perhaps death, or in Sherlock’s case, faking his death had afforded Sherlock a change in perspective.  In the same way that John coped with his own text messages, Sherlock had done the same thing. He felt tears fall roll down his face as he read through the messages and took the journey of the last eighteen months from Sherlock’s own eyes. He spent the whole of Christmas day going through Sherlock’s text messages. It was like a drug to John. He wasn’t foreign to addiction. He became so engrossed in the messages and the stories they told him. It can be likened to reading a good book. John couldn’t bring himself to stop reading until he came to the resolution of the story. It wasn’t a fanciful romantic novel though, to John, the story that unfolded before his eyes could be compared to only one thing:  a tragedy. A sort of hunger had come over him as he read through the texts. He saw that Sherlock had gone through his own suffering as well. It was a grotesque parallelism to John’s own torment. He expected to feel a sense of victory in finding out that Sherlock had suffered as he did but instead of victory, he felt defeat. It was a hollowness coupled with regret. The moon had shone through the window by the time John had set down Sherlock’s phone. He kept thinking about how the consulting detective’s slender hands had once held the phone, texting one message after another. John’s heart wasn’t filled with hopefulness or anything of that sort.  The best and perhaps most hurtful revelation that came with his journey back in time was the fact that Sherlock Holmes had loved him and that he had wanted to come home. Back to 221B, back to his experiments but most especially back to John Watson. To Sherlock, home was all these things. These thoughts filled John’s mind as exhaustion took hold of him and he was thrust into the darkness of sleep. John fell asleep on Lestrade’s couch with a phone clutched tightly to his chest. It was a very familiar position yet the only difference was that instead of his own phone he held Sherlock’s.

The days after Christmas was a blur to John. Helen had offered for John to stay at her flat at 12 Charing Cross Road for the time being and he had graciously accepted. He wanted to give Lestrade his space as well. The man was heart broken, that was evident for all to see. Trust became the failing of Lestrade’s relationship with his ex- wife and now, history seemed to be repeating itself. Sherlock’s return brought about more hardships for all involved.

John had stopped by 221B to get some of his things. He knew, from Lestrade, that Sherlock was staying at Mycroft’s but John still did not want to return to 221B. It held too much pain for him to bare it any longer. The flat was just as he had left it yet stepping inside felt like cutting a fresh wound open. The flat was the perfect embodiment of the cross roads he now faced. It was a mixture of the past melded with the future he thought he had wanted with Helen.

Molly Hooper had come over to Charing Cross Road at some point but John couldn’t bring himself to look at her let alone talk to her. Molly brought apologies along with her Christmas presents yet John accepted neither, simply telling her he needed time and wanted to be left alone. Trust did not come easily to John Watson and to have his trust betrayed in such a way had hurt him terribly. Molly wasn’t the only visitor at Charing Cross Road. A few days before the new year a young boy with black hair and blue eyes had knocked at their door. He couldn’t be older than nine. When he saw the boy, he first thought it was one of Helen’s patients but it turned out it was Sherlock who had sent the boy. Sherlock had asked the boy to tell John that he was sorry and wanted to speak. John of course couldn’t spill his anger unto the poor boy who was simply following orders. He didn’t want to think where Sherlock had gotten the boy. He sent the child home, with some treats for his trouble.

John’s phone buzzed at random intervals each day, signaling that a new message had been received. Each time, John didn’t bother looking at who or what the message was, for he knew it would only come from one person: Sherlock. Despite the revelation brought about by the unsent text messages, John couldn’t bring himself to let go of the anger that still burned fiercely within him. But with each day that passed, confusion blossomed further in his heart. Now he was faced with a decision: to continue down the new path he had set for himself or go back and tear down the wall of his past. Now that the what- ifs that he so desperately wished for could become reality he was at a standstill.

*

John sighed and looked at the clock on the wall. It was two hours before the New Year. In the distance, the sound of fireworks could be heard. London was celebrating but there wasn’t an ounce of excitement inside his body. John looked up as the knob of the flat turned and the door opened, revealing Helen with grocery bags in her hands. She removed her coat and scarf and hung them beside John’s.

“They still had some Turkey at the store.” She smiled jovially at John. Despite the obvious air of sorrow that hung in the flat because of John’s brooding, her demeanor was neither forced nor faked. John couldn’t help but smile at her. He stood up and crossed the room to where she was unpacking the groceries unto the kitchen counter. She had been nothing but caring and understanding about the situation.

“Helen.”

The tone in his voice made her pause, she regarded John with a questioning look.

“Yes, John?”

“I’m sorry. About Christmas, and about the past few days. I couldn’t even prepare tonight’s dinner, like I should have.” John stared at the abysmal remains of his attempt at making New Year’s dinner. “You allowed me stay here for a bit yet I’m not even pulling my own weight. I’m sorry, I just-“

Helen had stepped closer and brought John into a tender hug. It took the wind out of John. He buried his face into her hair that smelled faintly of lilacs. She just held him there, by sheer will she managed to calm John’s fluttering heart. John relaxed but he couldn’t hug her back. His heart was torn between the woman before him who had saved him and the man halfway across London who had also saved him. His two saviors. His two loves. He couldn’t bring himself to make that choice. Helen drew away. She cradled John’s hands in hers, his calloused fingers quite the contrast to her own soft hands. It was moments like this they cherished the most, when without speaking they understood each other perfectly well. Helen knew about the conflict that now raged in John’s aching heart.  

“I’m here.” Two words that were so simple yet it struck through John’s heart like an arrow.

“I know.” John said, his voice cracking.

“I love you.”

There was a pause before John replied. “I love you too.”

John drew her closer and kissed her gently, a kiss that become more passionate with each passing moment. Helen drew back, her breaths coming heavily and quickly.

“John.” She exhaled, her eyes wide.

John pushed his worries at the back of his mind and focused on what was in front of him. He was here after all, not halfway across London. This was his life now. Without letting go of Helen’s hands, he led her to her room.

…

Helen’s warm hands were wrapped around him. Her head was resting on his bare chest. He watched the rhythm of her chest, seeing the slow inhale and exhale as her lungs expanded and contracted. He had an arm around her, his fingers absentmindedly playing at the stray locks of hair. Helen Rose was a wonderful woman, there was no doubt about that. She allowed him to feel alive and feel like everything would be okay. He continued to stare at her, taking in the features he knew so well: her soft lips, her long lashes, her flowing dark brown hair. There was a small smile on her lips, as if her mind was filled with happy dreams.

“Happy New Years, Helen.” John whispered softly into her ear.

His phone buzzed, without thinking he picked it up and saw the message there. John stared at phone his breath catching in his chest and his hands trembling involuntarily. Without even realizing it, he had typed a reply message. 

John couldn’t bring himself to hit send. He discarded his phone and turned away from the bedside table and wrapped another arm around Helen. He closed his eyes and willed to be whisked away to wherever dream land Helen was.

For once, despite Helen’s presence, sleep did not come for his thoughts were elsewhere. His mind was at the other side of London, with the man he once considered the only one who held his heart.

Sherlock Holmes.