In all pasts and presents and futures and other lives: Sherlock loves John, even when John does not love him back.

Oh wow. Some fanfics are more like gorgeous pieces of tangibly visible artwork than simple writings. This would be one such pieces of work. But don’t be fooled by its immense beauty. It’s a tragic piece. The best way I can describe it is if you take a shard of glass, jam it into your chest, and just make a rough incision across your sternum. Because that’s what I feel like at this moment. Sherlock comes back to find John doesn’t remember him, but this is not like other fics with amnesia. I’ll say no more on that and instead move on to the writing itself, because that is what makes this fic utterly unique. It’s written from Sherlock’s perspective, giving a look into his mind as he comes to terms with what has happened. It makes the reader see everything through his eyes and feel right alongside him and it hurts. There are vivid descriptions of his inner thoughts, ones that only Sherlock would have and wouldn’t be terrifying, because it’s Sherlock. His emotions are as raw and as jagged as the wound left into your chest. Definitely one for super angst lovers and fans of jellyfish. A special thanks to Rachel for the suggestion. A warning of brief sexual content and mentions of gore.

Words: 7,671

My Rating: A

Read it here, fic by 5pips

Review by: Taylor

John might be touching Sherlock a little more often than is strictly necessary. Sherlock probably hasn’t even noticed. Right…?

Don’t let the super cheesy title make you think this is just super cheesy. Well, it is a little, but in the best way. Set after Sherlock’s return, the ball gets set in motion when Sherlock finally calls John out on his recent obsession with touching Sherlock. A single sentence and John and Sherlock are faced with the reality that they aren’t quite better yet and start the path to getting there. The tension between them is almost able to be felt by the reader. It’s a bit more realistic in pointing out that, even after the initial conversations, there will still be things that leave their mark. The reason this fic deserves a read is primarily the voice. The author writes a great John, sometimes giving way to a more, dare I say, cheesy line of thought. The “crouching panther” comment is the best example of this. I must say, however, the epilogue is (in my opinion) an accurate summary of what Sherlock would truly be like when promised something of that nature. A very nice read and an excellent use of the internal monologue. MATURE READERS ONLY.

Words: 7,755

My Rating: B

Read it here, fic by kedgeree

Review by: Taylor

5:51 PM: St Bartholomew's Hospital, West Smithfield London

- A Fated Meeting -

“It’s different.”

“What is?” Lestrade asked John.

“The world.” John said simply.

John Watson had a lot of time in his hands. He was on forced leave from work, in order to recover from his suicide attempt. The fact that it was a failed suicide attempt need not be mentioned, for John Watson won’t even be here if he had succeeded. He had Mycroft Holmes to thank for that unfortunately (for obvious reasons John hated being indebted to Mycroft. He wanted to pay back the man somehow to continue hating him in peace).

He had spent the past few days going around London, going to places he loved. Half of these places were somehow related to Sherlock. But when before, he would be instilled with a deep sense of sadness, at the end of his search he found something else besides that pang of sadness. This time around, he found peace. He was finally coming to terms with his best friend’s death.

It felt like waking up from a dream, quite unsure of your bearings at first and torn between the reality of your dreams and reality of life. You tried to hold on to fragments of dreams you could recall but find they slowly fade away to the deepest recesses of your mind. Soon the dreams were forgotten, with only fleeting images and imprints n our minds and hearts left behind as evidence. The dream… The fantasy was his life with Sherlock Holmes, but now he had to learn to live on his own again. To live a life without Sherlock Holmes. He had done it once, he could do it again.

His search had brought him to St. Bart’s. John Watson stood on the roof, looking down on the world below, seeing in the same way that Sherlock must have looked upon the city all those months ago.  London was a bustling city as always, with people going about their business, the regular cab zooming past. John had come to realize the world did not revolve around Sherlock Holmes, even if his own world surely did.

The world moved on, and now John Watson was beginning to as well.

It was the first time he had ventured to this place. The place where Sherlock had died.

John thought back to that dreadful day when he was the one looking up at Sherlock from the streets below. Sherlock was far stronger than him. Sherlock was able to put aside his own fears in order to do what he must: take his own life for the sake of his friends. It was ironic how friendship, which had been a concept that Sherlock himself had come to disregard only months prior, became the cause of Sherlock’s downfall. Now, John needed to be strong both for Sherlock’s sake and his own. There was no running away now, no escaping the pain and the harsh world that surrounded him. He must live on and find that happiness that Sherlock said he so rightly deserved.

“I wanted that happiness with you.” It was a soft whisper which was easily carried away by the wind that swept around him.  A future with Sherlock was the only thing he wanted. The one thing he would selfishly ask god for if there ever was a god but it was the one thing he could never have. And he had come to accept this.

“But I know I can’t have that. I can’t have you.”

The wind blew stronger now. He closed his eyes as he heard whispers in the wind.

“I believed in you.” John swallowed, feeling his throat tighten.

He extended his arm forward, letting the roses dangle there for a second before opening his hand. He watched the three roses fall towards the ground in the same way that Sherlock Holmes did.

“I will always love you.”

He wondered whether Sherlock’s last thoughts were of him as he fell.

It probably was. John thought sadly.

He grabbed a piece of paper from his jacket pocket. He unfolded it and gazed at it somberly. It was the letter that Mycroft delivered to the flat a few nights ago. It contained irrevocable proof that against all odds, Sherlock Holmes had loved him too.

He heard footsteps behind him. He turned around to see Greg Lestrade there, looking at him tentatively. John considered him before stepping back from the ledge.

“You too eh?“ 

Lestrade didn’t need John to elaborate on that. Ever since Sherlock’s death and finding out the truth, Lestrade came up here once in awhile to think.

“Couldn’t get the git out of my mind today.” 

John smiled. “Yeah, he does that.”

They stood there in companionable silence, thinking of the good man that saved their lives. 

“It’s different.” John spoke up suddenly.

“What is?” Lestrade asked John, looking at the other with a curious expression.

“The world.” John said simply.

Lestrade approached the ledge and gazed at expanse of the city laid out before them.

“The world hasn’t changed John. It’s still the same crappy place.”

Lestrade turned his head to face the younger man.

“It’s you that’s changed.”

John felt his mouth tug up into a small smile. He held the letter loosely in his hands. The words he found there had given him newfound hope that happiness was something he could accomplish, even without Sherlock by his side.

“A change in perspective, I guess…” 

John sat down on the cold concrete ledge, right where Sherlock had jumped. He sighed, folding the letter and placing it back in the inner pocket of his jacket, right in front of his heart. He let his hand linger there for a moment, feeling his heartbeat.

The heart that beat for Sherlock.

He was finally trying to pick up broken pieces of his own life. He knew it would take awhile for him to be whole again. But that was alright. John Watson had a lot of time. In fact he had the rest of his life.

“I’m not moving out, Greg”  John said, answering the question that was sure to come anyway. It had been a regular discussion of theirs the past few days and now finally John found his answer.

“You sure, John?”

“Yeah” The doctor answers softly but with determination. 

Perhaps renting out a new flat would be the last thing John did to finally prove to himself he had moved on but for now, it was something he couldn’t imagine doing. He was still holding on to fragments of his dream, of his fantasy, his past with Sherlock.

“You alright?’ Lestrade asked.

“I will be Greg. I will be.” John figured that with enough repetition one day he’d wake up and realize that everything was indeed alright.

Lestrade and John made their way down from the roof, parting ways at the spot where Sherlock had died.  John lingered there for a moment, while visions of a bloodied Sherlock swam in his mind. Now, the blood had been wiped clean off, as if it never happened. In a similar way that Sherlock Holmes was wiped from the face of the earth, evidence of his sacrifice had been swept away. There was no monument given to the fraud consulting detective. But none of that mattered. The memory of Sherlock and his sacrifice will linger in John’s mind even when the rest of the world forgets.  

“I will always remember.” John promised himself.

John turned around and made his way towards the flat. So lost was he in his thoughts that he failed to notice what was right in front of him. He walked into someone and stumbled as he lost his footing.

“Doctor John Watson.” A deep voice said.

John looked up as his name was said. For a second the sunlight blinded John, obscuring the face of the man before him. John struggled to get up.

“W-who are you?” John said, confusion evident in his voice as he tried to get his bearings. His mind was still muddled as he gazed at the man in front of him. He squinted and his vision cleared. He was looking at a tall brown haired man of about six feet with broad shoulders and muscled arms and legs.

The man smiled at him. It was a smile that could easily be classified as a smirk.

“Sebastian. Sebastian Moran.” 

John Watson’s Chatbox

As some of you may have noticed, I have recently set up a chatbox on my blog. Being recently discharged from the hospital (I got confined for my stupidity according to my dear sister) and being on leave from the surgery (forced leave thanks to Greg) I have a lot of time on my hands. Molly said I should use my newfound free time to do something productive and this came to mind. 

You see, to my surprise, my blog has seen quite a bit of traffic. I do keep wondering what people find interesting, for I am simply a retired army doctor with a more peculiar past than others. (Perhaps some of you can enlighten me) I set this up, to get to know the people who spend the time reading my entries and more importantly get to know those who send their well wishes and support. 

I thank everyone who has extended their support during these hard times. Your sentiments are much appreciated. 

A good night to everyone. 

- JW 

The End and The Beginning

It was the End. 

It was often said that regret came at the end.

The end of one’s career.

The end of one’s journey

The end of one’s life. 

And it seemed that John Watson had come to his.

The Final Chapter of John Watson’s life.

John Watson was a man filled with regret. Many of which involved Sherlock Holmes.

He was sitting on the cold wooden floors of 221b with his back against the wall. He was right under the window. The same window that Sherlock Holmes had once frequented. Enough moonlight came through the panes to illuminate the emptiness of the flat. No matter where John Watson looked, he saw nothing but Sherlock’s absence from his life. John looked down at his right hand, the pills seemingly placing a heavy weight there. His left hand held the phone that once belonged to Sherlock, the screen displaying Sherlock’s final note. It was a recording of Sherlock’s final moments, as he was forced to take his own life in exchange for John’s, Lestrade’s and Mrs. Hudson’s. It was Sherlock’s final moments. The truth had finally come out.

The guilt that had been compounding for months had now come crashing down at him, tearing at his very being. For months, his own sanity slowly ebbed away like footprints on the sand being washed away by the tides. It was finding out the truth that finally pushed him over the edge. 

It would be so easy. John Watson thought. To end everything. To escape the pain.

He was a doctor, he knew what was going to happen as soon he ingested the sleeping pills, he knew exactly what dosage could kill him. He would fall asleep, the lethal dose shutting his body down. If his comatose state remained unremedied, his brain would shut down and he would eventually stop breathing all together. Simple steps to his escape.  

It wasn’t an escape. John considered.

This was my atonement. It was all my fault.

He had arranged for Lestrade to meet him here at the flat in the morning. John did it to spare Mrs. Hudson from discovering his body by accident. By that time, it would be too late to do anything and John would finally be at peace. 

“I’m about to join you soon.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.” John said weakly. “I’m not as strong as you thought I was.”

One regret surfaced above all the rest as he held the pills in front of him.

“I never got to tell you I loved you…”

This single thought consumed his mind as he downed the pills that were sure to end his life.

The sleeping pills began to take effect, a numbness descending over him that seemed to dull even the pain of his own heart.

Soon, it would be over.

The pains that plagued his heart wouldn’t trouble him any more and for once, he would have a peaceful sleep no longer afflicted with nightmares of the past he once had. Some would call John a coward but to John this wasn’t cowardice at all. A good solider knew when to stand down and call it quits. When the odds were severely against his favor, the rational thing to do would be to retreat. Anything else would be sheer stupidity. This was what John was doing, retreating from the battle of his life. He was finally laying down his weapons and retiring to a place where he couldn’t be of harm to anyone.

He kept his gaze on Sherlock’s empty chair, willing his imagination to at least give him a sense of comfort in these last few moments. But even his own mind couldn’t conjure up a Sherlock Holmes to hold him in his final breath. Until the end, he was all alone.

Sherlock’s phone slipped from his grasp as his muscles began to slacken. His eyes began to droop and soon, it took much effort  to keep his eyes open so he kept them closed.

Waiting at 221B.

That had been John Watson’s life ever since Sherlock’s death. For months, John Watson did nothing but wait for an impossible miracle, for an absolution that he was sure would never come. But he continued to hope, for Sherlock Holmes was capable of great miracles. It was this small hope that lingered which allowed John to wake up each day.

And now, all he had to do was wait a little longer. Wait to die and wait for that resolution that would finally come.

The End.

A final thought, latched unto John’s consciousness. 

Sherlock.

The last thing John remembered before he slipped into unconsciousness was his own heartbeat, ringing loudly in his ears. 

His heart beat for Sherlock, and Sherlock alone.

Then, there was nothingness. No Sherlock. No John. There was simply a darkness that held no light, no joy and no despair.

***

One often wondered if the dead dreamt during their last moments. John didn’t know whether it was simply vestiges of unconscious desires or if he really did go the world beyond but at one point in his unconscious state he found himself in the living room of 221B. From the darkness, Sherlock’s chair sprouted out of nowhere followed by his own. Other familiar articles of furniture came into being around him: the couch, the fridge, the telly. Soon a familiar world was constructed around him. Things were the same, yet completely different at the same time. It wasn’t the lonely flat he had come to know. It felt like home. A lone figure was standing before the window, silhouetted in the morning sun.

“Sherlock?” John called out to figure staring out the window. His voice echoed unusually in the small flat.

The mysterious man turned around to reveal not Sherlock, but someone else entirely. Still, it was a man John thought he would never see again.

“Dad.”

Instead of the anger that he had expected to feel, there was simply a calm acceptance there. It seemed that without realizing it, he had come to terms with the role his father had played in his childhood, or lack thereof. Hamish Watson looked over his eldest child with a look of sadness.

“What have you done, John?” There was no accusation in his tone.

John tried to remember what exactly he had done. Images of Sherlock’s phone and sleeping pills flashed before his eyes.

“It was for Sherlock…” John said softly.

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes  

“Is he here? Have you seen him around?” John asked. The desperation was evident in his voice as he looked around the flat, trying to see a hint of a trench coat or scarf that alluded to the fact that Sherlock was indeed here and that they would finally be reunited.

“No, John. It’s only us.”

John slumped into the couch. The couch that he and Sherlock often occupied together. The disappointment spread  through him like wildfire. John placed his head in his hands, looking up when he felt the opposite side of the couch slump. His father sat beside him, looking at him with a familiar penetrating gaze. John felt like his seven year old self, under the scrutiny of his old man.

“I didn’t turn out like the son you wanted… I  joined the army.. hashed that up… I became a doctor too but screwed that up as well. Now I got myself all bent and broken. You wouldn’t want a son like me.” John said bitterly.

“None of that matters, John.” Hamish paused and looked at his son squarely in the eyes. “Were you happy with him?“ 

John blinked, taken aback by his father’s response. John grew up under the strenuous demands and expectations of his father wanting the perfect son. John constantly sought for his father’s approval but nothing he ever did was good enough. And now despite telling his father he was in love with a bloke, all of it seemed fine.

“Yeah… I don’t know if he felt the same way but… “ John looked around the flat. “For the first time in years, I felt all was right in the world.”

John sighed, his eyes lingering on Sherlock’s empty chair, wishing so desperately he could talk to Sherlock Holmes.

“Where’s Sherlock?” John asked. His father simply smiled a knowing smile before placing a hand on his son’s shoulders.

“Do take care of Harry.” Hamish said softly, a silent plea in his eyes

“I always have.” John said defiantly. “I tried… better than you ever did.”

“I know.”

“I made a lot of mistakes son. You know that. Don’t follow your old man.” There was a vulnerability in Hamish’s eyes that John didn’t even know could reside there. His father wasn’t one for emotional proclamations but he guessed the afterlife changed the man. Death had a way of placing things into perspective, as John himself had come to realize.

“It’s too late to change any of that now.” John said regretfully, thinking of the many things he had left behind. Thinking of Harry, whom he never apologized to, thinking of Molly, Lestrade Mrs. Hudson whom he never said goodbye to.

“It’s not yet your time, son.”

“Wait! Dad!” John got up and called out to his father, as the world began to be consumed by darkness once again.

***

A kind of pain and numbness descended upon his body. Noises assaulted his senses and  groan escaped his lips. The smell of disinfectant and alcohol flooded his nostrils.

If heaven felt like this… then I got ripped off John thought, gasping and opening his eyes. From the emptiness the figure of Lestrade standing over him came into focus and it was easy enough to come to the conclusion that his suicide attempt had failed.  Relief flooded the detective inspector’s face.

“He’s awake! John’s awake.”

John heard a scuffle around him, he squinted to get his bearings and see who else was in the room. Harry’s face came into view, along with Molly’s and Mrs. Hudson. It was a stark contrast from the solitude of his attempted suicide. Harry shoved Lestrade aside and took her brother into her arms.

“H-harry.” John said weakly, still heavily sedated from the drugs injected into his system to get him out of the coma.

“You idiot." 

John blinked as he felt white hot tears fall upon his face. He raised his free hand (for his other hand was inserted with various intravenous medicines keeping him alive) and placed it in the small of Harry’s back, rubbing it like he used to when they were younger. Harry was the more headstrong sibling between the both of them, and seeing her breakdown like this pushed any thoughts of his failed suicide from his mind at the moment.

“Sorry, Harry. I’m sorry.” John said quietly. He vaguely recalled a promise made about Harry and he held his younger sister closer to him. “I’m sorry.” He said again.

Mrs. Hudson was sobbing in the corner, blowing her nose into her embroidered handkerchief. Molly was more composed than Mrs. Hudson but tears were quietly rolling down her face. Everyone except John himself was rejoicing from his return from death’s grasp. Once everyone finally calmed down and said their well wishes John was finally left alone save for Lestrade. John lay back down and closed his eyes in exhaustion.

“What happened, Greg?”

“Mycroft. He found you just in time.” Lestrade’s voice was even but it was evident he was trying to control his temper, the anger he felt at John was bubbling close to the surface.

“Why?” Lestrade asked, after a moment’s silence.

John looked at Lestrade with sad eyes. “Sherlock.” John said simply.

“Why?” Lestrade insisted. “You think this is what he would’ve wanted? For his sacrifice to be wasted? For your to throw your life away like this.”

John looked away from the detective inspector.

John stayed quiet for the remainder of his stay at St. Bart’s, only speaking to others when necessary. Sometimes, he simply employed a nod or shake of the head but most of the time he would simply stare into space. No matter how much Lestrade, Molly or Harry coaxed him into talking, he never did. Half of John’s time was attributed to trying to remember the most peculiar dream he had before waking up in the hospital bed. The other half of his time was for wallowing in his failed suicide.

Losing Sherlock had reduced him to this. It was like some sick tragedy in one of his shows on the telly: taking his own life to be reunited with the love of his life. If he had enough common sense in him, he would come to the conclusion that taking his life wasn’t really the best thing to do but common sense went out the window when Sherlock Holmes and love was concerned. Both were a volatile combination that didn’t really lead to anything rational. Coming into contact with Sherlock Holmes had turned John Watson’s world upside down. In John’s eyes, without the consulting detective, the world seemed to stop, stand still and lose its worth. There were no happy endings in real life, and John couldn’t even have his tragic ending. He could never win. 

Soon enough, after the 72 hour mandatory observation period and a few tests to determine that John was physically healthy (for let’s face it, a man who just tried to commit suicide could never be considered mentally and emotionally healthy after just 72 hours of said suicide attempt) he was discharged.

“What are you going to do now?” Lestrade had asked him, before handing John his phone. Lestrade had obviously been going through John’s more recent Sherlock text messages. The detective inspector had brought John home, stopping over to take soldier’s gun under his care. No form of medication in lethal amounts was left in the flat either. John didn’t put up much of a fuss. A sort of passive acceptance descended over him as Lestrade cleaned out John’s flat of potential suicide paraphernalia. Fighting the pain and willing it to go away was a battle already lost, and so John allowed the hurt to wash over him like the pouring rain outside the London Streets.

“I don’t know Greg.” John said, softly. And that was the truth of the matter. John didn’t know where to go from here. He was like a traveler lost in the woods, compass-less and map-less. He was alone, without a guide to lead the way. He was a John Watson without a Sherlock Holmes. John took the phone in his hand before closing the door on Lestrade. He leaned against the door of the flat, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Love was a powerful thing, capable of tearing great men and great cities down.

Love was a hurtful thing, capable of bringing pain that no medicine can cure.

Love was a beautiful thing, capable of causing hope

Love was a spiteful thing, capable of sparking anger and despair.

What chance did John Watson have against it?

“Dying would be too merciful I guess. This is my punishment. Living the rest of my life with this pain. Living the rest of my life without you. I deserve it. It’s all my fault.” John said, to the emptiness of the flat as he slumped to the floor in defeat.

John didn’t know how long he stayed in that position. It may have been minutes, hours or even days but he was roused from his stupor by impatient knocking on the door. His limbs had numbed from prolonged idleness. He opened the door, surprised to find Mycroft Holmes on the other side.

“Good Evening, Mr. Watson, may I come in?”

John didn’t have enough strength in him to have a witty retort against the older of the Holmes’s brothers. So he simply ushered the man inside, directing him to the couch. John collapsed unto his own chair, it’s comfort not even easing John’s mind for a bit.

“Why didn’t you let me die…?” John asked Mycroft weakly. It was a thought constantly on John’s mind ever since he found out who had foiled his suicide.  

“It’s something else I can’t forgive you for.” John said, his voice full of spite. “Why don’t you just sod off and mind your own business, Mycroft?” His anger for Mycroft Holmes was the first burst of emotion that John had felt in days.

“I’ve always considered my brother’s business to be my own by default.” Mycroft said matter of factly, as if John wasn’t entitled to such explanations at all but he was simply entertaining the doctor by answering his question. This sparked further anger in John.

“And since my brother considered you to be his business, then I have taken it upon myself to ensure that you, John, are taken care of.”

John glared at the older man.

Mycroft sighed, his shoulders visibly drooping, his supercilious manner replaced by something more human. Now when John looked, he didn’t see the man who held the British Government in his hands, but a man who had lost a brother and a man ridden by guilt for having a hand in his brother’s death.  Rarely did he see this side of Mycroft and it was enough for John to put his anger aside for the moment. Mycroft fished out a letter from his coat pocket. Without saying anything, John realized who the letter was from. His name was scrawled on the envelope in Sherlock’s writing.

Mycroft brandished the letter. “Sherlock gave me this letter after your near death experience at the hands of Moriarty at the local pool.”

Mycroft let that information sink in before continuing “He said that it should be given to you only if something substantialhappened.”

John felt the anger spark within him again. “Substantial? Substantial?!” John got up from his chair and pointed an accusing finger at Mycroft. “Wasn’t causing your brother’s death substantial enough for you?”

Mycroft, as if expecting the outburst, simply continued on with his explanation. “My brother wished that this letter be given if and only if your life was in danger or if you, John Watson, have reached a point after my brother’s death wherein you needed something like this.”

Mycroft paused once again, letting his words linger in the air.

“Examining recent events it seems that both conditions have been fulfilled. You are a danger to your own life and no amount of advice from your peers would be enough to convince you that killing yourself isn’t the most advisable route.”

“After… his… death…?”  John enunciated each word. “He knew he was going to die?”

“My brother was neither infallible nor immortal. He knew he had limits and he knew those limits well. He simply weighed the probability of such an event occurring and deemed it appropriate to have such a letter in hand, if such events were to occur… And in accordance with his predictions.. such an event did occur, albeit in a way he didn’t expect.” John saw the regret in the older man’s eyes, as if the guilt had been eating at him in the past few months and have taken a heavy toll on his resolve. 

Mycroft Holmes was human after all.

John crossed the distance between himself and Mycroft and took the letter that was meant for him. It was a final piece of Sherlock that John was allowed to have. He held the envelope reverently in his hand.  He traced his own name written in Sherlock’s messy scrawl, recognizing the way in always he made his J’s.

John opened the envelope and began to read. He could hear Sherlock’s mesmerizing voice in his head as he read through each line.

John,

This letter may come as a shock to you, but in all honesty, I hope it never comes. I have let Mycroft know to only offer it to you should the situation arise where he felt that you could use me as a conductor of light for once. I may not shine as brightly as you, John, but I hope this comes to some use for you.

It is a cloudy Sunday afternoon and the incident at the pool with Moriarty was just four short days ago. Things have been adjusting around the flat. Things change when a friend offers his or her life for another. No one has ever thrown their life out on the line for me in such a manner and I am still trying to figure out how to react. But I wanted you to know such a thing was an eye-opening experience for me.

John clutched the letter in his hand and held it close to his chest, imagining Sherlock penning the letter in this very room, envisioning the movement of his slender hands on these two pieces of paper. John didn’t even bother hiding the tears that fell. It didn’t matter that Mycroft could see. His mind was transported back to that night in the pool. It was the moment he realized he was in love with Sherlock.

The moment I realized you were more than my friend was when I decided to die for you, Sherlock. My biggest regret at that moment was the fact I wouldn’t be able to spend the rest of my life with you. – JW

I do not know why this letter has been handed to you, but these words I offer you are for you alone, John. Only you John. Only ever you and no one else. You may scoff at the end of it and ask yourself, was he always hiding such sentiment behind his heart, but I can only reply that you were the one to have given me such a heart in the first place and in essence, the ability to pen such a letter.

You are the most amazing person I have ever met. You may be the picturesque description of what is defined as ordinary but you draw the line between extraordinary and the norm, and you soar above it. I have never said this to another human being, John. I have never allotted such words of fascination and admiration and truth for another so please do not short change it. I do not know what has taken me away from this world, though I hope it was in efforts to save your life at the very least, but I want you to know that you have made my life worth living. If there is anything you have done with your time in the world, though I think you have done much, you have had the ability to turn a freak into a person and make them feel like they were good enough to exist in a world where he never felt like he belonged. I do not know when this exactly happened but it is something that has dawned upon me over the course of the weeks and months we have shared together.

Tears had fallen on Sherlock’s letter, making ink run on some parts. Here in this letter were words he would never think Sherlock would say, but here they were in abundance, going against Sherlock’s common notion that sentiment was both boring and unnecessary. All of this. Because of him. John Watson. Sherlock Holmes saw him in such high regard. In the same way that John Watson had seen a side to Sherlock Holmes that people rarely saw, Sherlock Holmes had seen something in John that no one else had been privy to, even John himself.

John thought of how ridiculously ordinary he was, but it seemed for Sherlock Holmes, ordinary was enough. John Watson was enough. His whole life, John Watson tried to meet the demands of everyone around him but here was the most brilliant man he ever knew, content with what John was. 

“You did… you saved my life you bastard.. Me.. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson.” John said softly. Shaking his head and clutching the paper tightly. John still blamed himself for Sherlock’s death but it brought great warmth to his heart to know that because of him Sherlock wasn’t only willing to die, he was willing to live.

“You were no freak Sherlock. You were perfect the way you were. The world was just to blind to see how amazing you were.”  John whispered, hoping his words reached Sherlock wherever he was now.

Sherlock and John were two individuals so lost and so alone. They found each other and made the other feel they were worth something. They were complete opposites, the genius and the ordinary man who complimented each other so well. Living didn’t simply become a bothersome chore, it became an adventure that both of them could share. One couldn’t be without the other. 

But now John Watson was all alone. Without his other half of sorts.

I do not know when, or if, this letter will ever be handed to you, John, but if it were in the future, I want to tell you what I see for you. I am not a man who holds much regards to emotions or hopes or aspirations for what one’s life may have if they dream or pray, but I do think you have wonderful things set ahead of you. I may be selfish in my mind to wish to keep you at my side until we retire of old age. To keep you to such an old age where I do experiments that you tidy up after when I’m too old to bend over and you rub your hands from arthritis while you pen the rest of our tales. I should not be selfish in my wishes to keep you at my side forever and take care of you, but I am. But should that not be the case, and I expect it shan’t, I see you in a wonderful life, John. If I am to have one wish given to me - one fortune cookie come to light - it would be for you to live a happy life. It’s not that I want it for you, but instead, you are a man who simply deserves it. You can define it as you like - beautiful wife with children, practicing doctor to an esteemed clinic under your name, author of all our tales - whatever you like, John. Whatever makes you happy.

It will be beautiful, John, if you let it. I can appreciate beauty in nature, and I can appreciate it even more in your life.

If there is a heaven or afterlife, I hope that after my downfall, I am allowed to spend the rest of my days watching your life from up above. It would be my greatest honor and privilege to see you flourish in life with all that you are due, all that you create, and all that you live.

One of the hardest things that John had to do was move on with his life after Sherlock’s death. For the past months John had been living a lie, living in the past and ‘what if’s’ of the future. John felt a tightening in his chest as Sherlock described the future that John himself had wanted for the both of them.

Growing old together.

It was something simple that both of them wished for yet, both were denied of it. It pained him to know that the dream in his mind could have easily become a reality if Sherlock was still here with them. Images of a house in the country and a content Sherlock Holmes and John Watson flooded his mind. John willed the images away, for it was too painful to think that it was a dream that both of them shared.

One thing became apparent to John Watson though, that Sherlock Holmes wanted him to be happy. Even without him by John’s side.

“Is that even possible?” John asked. John had lived in grief and despair for months on end. It seemed impossible to him than any other life existed for a man such as himself.

“But.. it’s you that makes me happy. And I can’t have you.” John said, with hopelessness in his voice.

I do not know why this letter was given to you John, but I want you to know how much you were cherished by me. Even at my grave, as I tend to have all the words in the conversation, I can extend that line out to say that you are still cherished by me. There is little room in the world for men like me and even less for them to have friends yet here you are, at my side, day in and day out. They may not always be the prettiest of days, but they are ones that I look at in the darkest of times to remind myself that if there was anyone in the world that I would risk everything for - that I would do anything for, John, it would be you.

You are not just the conductor of light in my life, John; you are the love of my life. Love to me has always been something composed of chemicals and a feeling that dwindles down over the first few months of a relationship and, if the consistency stays the same, it will manage through a marriage. However, I see a different spectrum of love that I have for you. It is one that dives past the labels of flatmate or friendship that we have titled our relationship as. It may not be one that I wholeheartedly understand, but it is something that is clear and concise and existent in this heart that you have crafted for me. There may be reasons as to why my mind and body were designed the way they were. Many people consider them flawless, but I know of the flaws that exist in them. In that same manner, I think, despite the sentimental value behind it, that there is a reason that I feel such a love for you.

This love may not offer you kisses or the romance that you seek out through your strings of dates, but it is the kind that is pieced together by a careful friendship based on trust, devotion, care, concern, and eternal gratefulness. I am grateful for you John, and for everything you have ever done for me. I trust you; am devoted to you, and I care about you more than I have ever cared for another soul. If this is not the epitome of what love is defined as, I will just title it Sherlock and John and let the rest of the world be envious of what we have and what they do not.

For days John had wondered if Sherlock Holmes had loved him, he had mourned for he would never know the answer.  And here it was, the answer to the question haunting John’s mind. Sherlock Holmes loved him, in the way that John loved him too. It was the greatest gift anyone could have ever given John. If he couldn’t have Sherlock alive, at least he knew that while Sherlock walked the earth he had loved.

He had loved John.

I do not know why this letter was handed to you nor do I know why I have left the face of the Earth, but I want you to know that whatever is going on in your world where I no longer exist, that there is someone out there watching you from afar and only wishing you nothing but the best. I will not fill this letter with words such as it gets better or all struggles end, as I do not know the facts of the situation and I do not cross lines into things that are not evident, but I will tell you that you are loved, John. That much is truth. That much is evident. And to someone, to some freak you met by chance, you have changed his life and made it the greatest life he’s sure anyone has ever had. There is not one thing I can point out that made it so worthwhile, but a compilation of it all.

You have given me the perfect life.

You have changed me, John. You have allowed me to have a great life and to have things that I have found nonexistent before. You have given me a heart and let me see yours and the greatest thing of it all is that you have shared a portion of your life with me and it is the most wonderful thing I have ever had the chance to experience. There are no cases or murders or suicides that could ever compare to the moments that I have been allowed to have in your life, John.

Sherlock Holmes had given John his heart without John knowing. Theirs was a love beyond classification. It wasn’t something the world would consider as normal. But norms didn’t matter when it came to love and Sherlock. What mattered to John is that he loved and cared for a man named Sherlock Holmes and that Sherlock had loved him in return. He felt the outpouring of emotion with each word stringed together by the web of ink. Emotions he never knew Sherlock had. Emotions that he knew came from Sherlock’s heart.

Sherlock’s heart that beat for John.

John placed a hand above his chest, feeling his own heart that beat there. The heart that beat for Sherlock and Sherlock alone.

“Sherlock.” John called out. And then he felt it. A warmth in his chest that could only be described as love for any other word wouldn’t suffice.

“Sherlock.” John said again.

I do not know why you were given this letter, John Watson, and again, I hope you never have to read its contents. I hope we both live a long and great set of lives where, whatever the case, you live the happiest life of them all - but if this ever comes in your hands, if these words ever come to life, I hope you remember the most prominent fact of it all:

To me, John, you are the greatest person I have ever met, and you are cherished, cared for, and loved with the entirety of my heart.

Thank you for what you have shared with me, John, and I only hope that you have great things for the remainder of your life. I will never leave you, not really, and I will be by your side in even the darkest of times. My life may be dedicated to solving crimes and figuring out mysteries but my heart is dedicated to you and I thank you for that.

Very sincerely yours,
Sherlock Holmes

The flat, which had been empty for months, now felt like home once again. He felt Sherlock’s embrace around him. Sherlock Holmes had reached from the beyond and was able to accomplish what no one else could. John Watson felt loved. He stood up and placed a hand on Sherlock’s empty chair, positioning his fingers right where Sherlock would have placed his own hand. 

He turned around to face Mycroft Holmes, who was watching him closely. John closed his eyes and said the words that brought him such joy. 

“Sherlock Holmes loved me.” John said but then he amended it.

He opened his eyes.

“Sherlock Holmes loves me.”

These were four words that allowed John to see the world in a better light. The flat was still empty and the flat was still Sherlock-less but the flat was still home. A home he had shared with Sherlock.

Sherlock said John could be happy, and John believed him. John believed every word Sherlock had penned.

Sherlock Holmes loves John Watson and John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes.

This was something the harsh world could never take away from John Watson and it was something John would carry with him always.

It was the beginning. The beginning of the rest of John Watson’s life. 

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.

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

A/N- Honestly this is about three thousand words of utter filth.. Expect the next chapter to have similar themes- but I mainly wrote this one as a filler for the next one.. I may also have lied about only having two chapters left and I am going to try and round it to a nice twenty.. Enjoy, perverts!

Word Count- 3.1K

Saturday had been spent, much like a majority of your previous days, in a bout of sheer laziness and relaxation- the after effects of the whiskey and abundance of greasy takeaway having taken its toll when morning arose.

“I’m too old to spend a whole night on the sofa.” You groaned, stretching out your arms and peeking through slitted eyes.

“You’re too old? At least you were laying down- my back is going to severely regret this.” Mycroft’s voice was muffled with sleep, but his hand squeezed fondly where it rested on your shoulder. “Forty two years old and I couldn’t control my whiskey intake enough to take us to bed before the exhaustion hit- mildly humiliating.”

“Well it’s officially your birthday weekend, so you’re not allowed to feel embarrassed or be grumpy.” Sitting up from your position of laying in Mycroft’s lap, you leant over to give him a quick kiss to his jaw.

“There’s truly no need for such extensive celebrations. It’s terrible enough that I am a day away from being a year closer to fifty, let alone seeking joy in such a fact.” As Mycroft sat up, you heard the bones of his shoulders and lower back click in protest of his movements. “Though with a reaction like that, I’m feeling far closer to eighty than I would like.”

“In that case, you make for a very handsome pensioner. I daren’t put you in a home- the old biddies will be all over you and I fear I may end up punching somebody’s Nan.”

“Jealousy truly that intact that you’d seek violence against the frail?”

“Mycroft, a part of me is jealous of your clothes for getting to hang off you all day; the Grannies wouldn’t stand a chance.” His chuckle sounded low in his chest and you grinned. “Though part of me thinks you’d enjoy it.. Breakfast?” Mycroft made a heavy noise in protest and shook his head.

“I feel as though I ate so much last night that I should never feel hungry again. I’m not entirely convinced that I am able to move from this sofa for it. What is the time, anyway?” Mycroft’s eyes squinted towards the clock on the fireplace but to no avail.

“Almost nine. You know, you should really consider wearing your glasses more.” The man scoffed. “What? Didn’t think I’d noticed them practically gathering dust on your bedside table?”

“Ridiculous. I needn’t wear them- the optometrist stated that they need only be worn when absolutely necessary.”

“Was that before or after you belittled their knowledge and decided you knew better?” You raised an eyebrow.

“I.. It was in regard for work. They were never too keen on allowing anybody to broaden to legwork if there was any means of.. weakness.” He explained, though it was a poor, near on twenty year old, excuse that you saw through immediately.

“Fine. That explains your appointment when you were twenty odd- but there’s no way there aren’t still government issued annual check ups, even though ‘leg work’ days are behind you.”

“Perhaps.. Even still- I merely just need a moment to awaken properly and then it’ll be fine. A shower should do it- and my aching bones.” Then, he smiled a little deviously and added. “Care to accompany me?” You smirked back but couldn’t help your following line.

“Why? Need a guide to find the shower?” He moved to flick your forehead but you stood before he could reach, holding out both of your hands and hoisting him off the chair. “Kidding. I’d never say no to seeing you naked.” Mycroft flushed at your words, despite being the instigator, and followed you up the stairs to the en suite bathroom.

— 

The hot water cascading down your skin was more than welcomed by your aching muscles from your kip on the sofa- and if the content look spread over Mycroft’s face was anything to go by, you’d wager he was equally enjoying the sensation. You ran the tips of your fingers over his bare shoulders, squeezing and applying pressure here and there where the muscles had felt tight. He hummed appreciatively, his eyes remaining closed as he focused his attention on the feeling of your hands on his skin paired gorgeously with the heat of the water trailing down his back.

“Mm, you shouldn’t do that. You’ll raise my expectations for any further showers we have.” His voice was low, almost raspy, and it caught you a little off guard.

“Keep talking in that voice and I promise I’ll do it every shower for as long as we both live.” You responded, moving to grab a handful of showergel before continuing your administrations. You moved to stand behind him, hands trailing from his shoulders, down his back and rounding back to circle the tight muscles around his neck- a trail of suds running down his body and circling the drain below. Mycroft could feel your fingers tracing the outlines of old scars, gliding over his hips where he had once felt so insecure over the small amounts of loose skin that clung to the bone, and circling back round to his chest where your digits ran soapily through his chest hair- your voice muttering in his ear how you adore his ginger streaks that he had spent so much of his life hiding. If actions like these were your intentions when you stated the need to celebrate his birthday for the whole weekend, Mycroft found himself feeling more willing to follow through with it all. “What are you thinking about in that pretty little head of yours?” You spoke with a grin, your hands now weaving shampoo through his hair- the strong smell of lavender and eucalyptus filling the air.

“Lucky.” Was the only word Mycroft could find his brain summoning, any other chance of pulling words from his brain diminished as you massaged his ear lobes in the midst of rinsing the white foam from his head. You smiled and let your fingers run down his jawline, stroking fondly at the small amount of facial hair that you had grown to love so much- and would miss dearly when it was once again removed for work.

“Lucky, eh? Didn’t think that luck and fate within the stars was really your bag, Mr Holmes.” You spoke teasingly. “Dare I say that I cloud your usual means of judgement? Should I be honoured?” You let your hands drop, fingertips skimming the skin of Mycroft’s thigh and trailing slowly inwards.

“Dangerous.” His eyes opened now, blue meeting E/C, pupils a little larger than usual. “I fear I lose a good ninety five percent of my usually extensive vocabulary around you.” Mycroft’s breath hitched in his throat as he felt your hand wrap around his quickly growing length, tugging slowly, tormentingly slowly.

“Only ninety five? Well that’s no good. Let’s see if I can up it to one hundred.” And with that, you quickly pressed your lips against his before dropping to your knees. Mycroft hissed as he leaned backwards, the warm skin of his back colliding with the bitingly cold tile of the shower. Wasting no time, you poked out the tip of your tongue and trailed it teasingly along the underside of his cock, relishing in the breathy moan that sounded above you. You feathered small kisses from base to tip before taking the head into your mouth, sucking slowly and circling your tongue around the sensitive skin.

“P-Please..” His voice was quiet but the begging undertones didn’t go unmissed. Electing to oblige to the wishes of the man on his birthday weekend, you began to bob your head, taking him in inch by inch and humming around the shaft as you went. “Oh, God..” You pulled away momentarily, a grin on your face.

“We might have reached a good ninety eight percent now, but I aimed for one hundred and I’m a girl of my word.” Shifting around more comfortably, you reached for Mycroft’s hands that had been bunched in fists at his side, moving them to rest clutching at your hair. “I’m all for you, Myc. Just take it.” You parted your lips slightly and glanced up expectantly at Mycroft who looked about ready to collapse.

“I- Are you-?” Rather than answering his unfinished question with words, you nosed along the thick shaft of his cock, licking lovingly at the veins pulsating at the sides and Mycroft groaned, his head rolling back to lay against the tiles as he fed you his length. He moved slowly, holding himself back, and stopping when he met resistance; making a move to pull back out but you quickly moved your hands around him and squeezed onto the gorgeous globes of his arse, encouraging him in deeper until your nose met with a light bristle of pubic hair. You sucked once, hard and long, guiding Mycroft out slowly and showing him how pleasurable this could be if he lets himself loose for a moment. His moans echoed off the tile, deeper than any you’d heard from him before and it only spurred you on, picking up the pace with your hands firmly planted on his backside until you felt the hands in your hair tighten and begin to guide you himself. He moved slowly at first, pushing in as far as he could before edging back with your lips around his tip, teasing himself with the light motions. Squeezing at his thigh softly, you signalled a moment to catch your breath- pulling from the swollen pink head of his cock with an audible 'pop’, and wiping away the small lines of pre-cum that began to dribble from the sides of your mouth.

“Good?” You smirked, your hand picking up the administrations of a mixture between slow, long tugs and quicker jerks of your wrist that had Mycroft debating the strength that remained in his legs.

“Mmmmm.” His only response was the low hum, his eyes now open but staring up at the ceiling, his lips parted as small gasps of breath left them.

“I think I’ve successfully achieved making you forget a hundred percent of your vocabulary, wouldn’t you agree?” Another hum. “Still, it’d be a shame not to finish up. Better get to it, eh?” You grinned, licking a line with your flattened tongue from base to hilt before giving control back to Mycroft and moaning against every snap of his hips to your mouth. It didn’t take long before they began to be on the verge of erratic and the noises that had begun to escape out of Mycroft’s mouth were nothing less than pure filth. He let out shaky, heavy breaths that were repeatedly cut off by a low moan that sounded from the back of his throat; paired with shaking legs and hands that tightened in your hair to keep you still while he regained his composure. As the volume of his noises increased, mixed with a variety of curses and shudders of your name, you felt yourself throbbing. With Mycroft doing the work, you trailed your hands teasingly down your chest, pinching at your nipples harshly before dragging your nails further down your skin until you reached your aching clit, letting out a guttural moan as your fingers traced circles over the bundle of nerves while your other hand pressed two fingers into your waiting hole. Melting under the sounds and vibrations of your voice, Mycroft found himself curious and tore his eyes from the ceiling to dare glance down at you. Christ alive.

“Oh.. fuck.” Hearing Mycroft swear was possibly one of your more unconventional turn-ons, but you let it spur you on nonetheless. Mycroft could barely stand it. His eyes had widened doubly as he looked down to you, the sight of his hard cock being taken in by your plump, overworked lips being an image that Mycroft would have burned in his memory for the rest of his days- part of him had even extended to wishing he could capture the moment physically on a camera and the mere thought of that was almost enough to push him over the edge. But what did it was his eyes trailing down to your hands, watching you work yourself, getting off to nothing but the mere action of pleasuring Mycroft- your mind focusing so intently on making sure Mycroft felt incredible that you didn’t even contemplate the idea of him needing to reciprocate anything, purely enjoying the fact that you were bringing Mycroft closer and closer to the edge with every little hum, or small trace of your tongue, and it was too much for him to handle. Mycroft’s hips began to thrust clumsily as he felt the knot in his stomach tighten, finding himself unable to blink for not wanting to miss even a split second of watching you in this very moment. You had felt your own build up getting closer and closer until you shuddered beneath your hand and let out an almost animalistic groan as you came against your fingers. The vibrations and witnessing of those final moments of your pleasure were the final straw for Mycroft as he reached his release, hips snapping one last time and the hands in your hair holding you against him, cumming down your throat in harsh stripes that you eagerly swallowed. His grip loosened and you slowly sucked him to completion, pulling your lips away from him with a trace of your tongue that left Mycroft shivering from the sensitivity.

It was only in this moment that the pair of you realised the water had begun to run cold, but the chill against the burning of your skin was gratefully welcomed as Mycroft pulled you from your feet and gathered you in his arms, his lips moving hungrily against yours. One hand dug fingers into your hips and the other ventured cheekily round to squeeze at your arse firmly, just once, before he pulled away, leaving just your foreheads against each other as you breathed in each other’s air.

“Early birthday celebrations don’t seem so bad now then, huh?” You spoke teasingly, your breaths becoming lighter as your lungs finally caught up and Mycroft laughed gorgeously- his eyes squinting and his nose crinkling in such a way that made you adore him impossibly more in that moment.

“I’m marginally disappointed it didn’t spread to the entire week.” You both laughed again and stood happily like this for a few moments more, until the cold of the shower left goosebumps against your skin and you needed to get out. Mycroft wrapped you lovingly in a large, plush towel that had warmed against the radiator in the bathroom and you accepted the warmth gratefully before heading back into the bedroom to find some clothes.

“Would I be pushing it if I requested we wear comfortable clothes for our last two days? Reckon you can forgo the suits?” You asked, almost pleadingly, when you saw Mycroft emerge from the bathroom wearing his dressing gown.

“I suppose if you are truly in charge of these early.. celebrations.. then it is only fair that I let you choose our attire, is it not?”

“Well if I had it my way of choosing the attire, then you would be wearing nothing at all for the entire weekend.” You spoke, edging your way towards him and relishing in the darker dusting of pink that covered his cheeks and spread to his neck. “All of that, and my little comments can still make you blush? I think you’re making me fall in love with you a little more each moment that passes, Mr Holmes. A dangerous road to go down- you’ll find yourself smuggling me into your office in your briefcase soon.” Leaning in, you dared place a few kisses down the side of his beautifully long neck before grinning against the skin and muttering, “or under your desk.” Feeling him swallow harshly, you couldn’t help but let out a laugh and walk away to get your clothes- leaving a blushing Mycroft once again lost for words and fighting every impulse to let himself imagine the scenario you had just laid out.

—

After the pair of you had got dressed- you electing for the overly casual loungewear of a pair of leggings and a stolen jumper from Myc’s wardrobe, and him in a slightly more casual pair of cord trousers and cotton shirt- you quickly headed over to the bedside table before you could head downstairs.

“Now, if I’m truly in control of the weekend, down to the very clothing that we wear, I have an insistence for something..” You walked towards the elder Holmes and stood on your tiptoes, laying his pair of round, tortoise-shell glasses against the bridge of his nose. “That’s better.” Mycroft’s nose crinkled in disapproval and he wandered over to the dressing table to glance at himself in the mirror.

“Truly, I don’t think this is necessary.”

“Why? Just realised that I’m actually really ugly and now you’re regretting everything?” You joked, following him and leaning up to rest your head against his shoulder as he glared unhappily at his reflection.

“Never. I just..” He sighed and shook his head. “Nevermind.”

“What?”

“No, it’s nothing. Just a ridiculous thought of vanity.”

“With a face like yours, I don’t think there would be anything ridiculous about you being a bit vain.”

“It’s just.. I feel wearing the glasses makes me feel.. As old as I am.” His gaze left yours in the reflection and he coughed from awkwardness, taking the glasses off his face and laying them back on the table. “I don’t mind so much of a night if I am reading, but throughout the day I feel as though they age me.”

“Myc, you’re literally in your early forties but you make it out like you’re ancient.” You dropped from your position against his shoulder to stand in front of him and put the glasses back on. “You’re aware though that it isn’t only older people that wear glasses? One of my cousins wears glasses and she’s only fourteen- she certainly doesn’t look like an old lady for it.” You laughed and pressed a kiss against his lips that had formed into a little pout. “Besides, I think you look good in them. Really good. Like a sexy professor- all you need is a tweed jacket with elbow patches.” Mycroft barked out a laugh and shook his head.

“I have three.”

“Of course you do. Right, come on, I have a relaxing day of your favourite classics on the telly, a walk through the park, and a fair few more instances of you without your clothes on planned.”