#textneversent

day twelve

It rains today. It’s still winter, but not cold enough to form snow. So, instead, the heavens above cry out and rain litters the London streets. It’s the day after Valentine’s Day. Sherlock and John did not celebrate - they’re simply not the type.

Sherlock stands facing the window, curtains separated so he can peer out to the street below. London is both sad and beautiful during a rain shower. He balances his violin over his shoulder and plays a simplistic song that bellows throughout the flat. John’s in the shower and Sherlock plays this song for no one at all. It is not John’s song and simply something he composed somewhere in between his travels. It’s not that it doesn’t matter, he’s simply misplaced it in his mind palace and he doesn’t quite have the need to detail out where, when, and why he composed such a piece. So he plays because even though they have nothing on and it’s raining and he should be bored, he finds comfort in this.

It’s not been easy nor has it been perfect but this is what he has pursued for over a year and a half. He’s wanted this moment - one of many - and now he is allowed to have it. He enjoys this.

John comes from the bathroom sometime later. His hair is wet on the edges and he drapes the white towel around his shoulders. If you looked close enough, you could see several gray hairs line his forehead. He’s getting old and there is no doubting that, but he feels of youth as he makes his way to the sitting room. He sees his flatmate - his something not yet titled - justthere. He hadn’t been there for over a year and a half and this transition, this motion from past to present allows John to feel something beyond time working against them.

He slips behind Sherlock because he is allowed to do so and he folds his hands around Sherlock’s waist. Sherlock does not pause - nor does he miss a note, and John simply presses his cheek to the younger’s shoulder. Seemingly, this should be odd or different or something that John is not but this is home to him - to the both of them - and this is what the both of them want. John would not trade this for the world and he tightens his hold on the detective at that thought because if he were to die at whatever age, he knows now, he would want just one more second to hold onto this man and never let him go.

“You’re thinking,” Sherlock says, pulling the violin away from his chin, ceasing the music from livelihood.

“Your deductions are becoming better by the day.” John retorts, enjoying the casual yet silly banter shared between the pair. He sighs, nonetheless, and closes his eyes, burying himself between the hollow of bones he finds on Sherlock’s back. “What piece was that, Sherlock?”

“I don’t remember,” Sherlock replies. He pulls away, only slightly, and sets the violin down in its case before turning to face the opposite. He really is taller than John, or perhaps, the doctor is just far too short. But he’s smiling, handsomely so, and Sherlock likes when John smiles. If he could announce it, even just mentally, he could say that he loves when John smiles. We’ll just say it for him.

“You never forget,” John says, tilting his chin up. Sherlock can see the teardrops of water clinging to the end of his hairs. He wants to run in the rain with John.

“I’ll never forget you.” Sherlock says. It’s the truth and both of them know it. John only smiles, not articulating a reply, and presses his face into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

This time Sherlock holds onto John.

He doesn’t let go either.

*

day fourteen

John’s been picking up shifts and Sherlock’s been, well, keeping himself occupied. Lestrade offers him small cases, for now at least, but only because Sherlock finally gave way and said that one or two is alright. At least it tides him over until John comes home from whatever useless job he has – well, at least in Sherlock’s mind. Sherlock’s out today though, and John’s just come home from a ten hour shift at the clinic. They don’t really need the money, he knows that now, but he still enjoys working and he doesn’t plan to stop until Sherlock’s ready to retire or he just gets too tired to go in. He likes being a doctor, contrary to popular belief - at least it comes in handy when Sherlock tries to argue with an experiment. That happens quite a bit.

But today is not an emergency day, per se. Instead John simply stops by Tesco’s and picks up ingredients to make spaghetti and meatballs. He thinks they’ve ordered takeaway one too many times for the week and since he’s off early enough in the day, he’d like to cook a meal for Sherlock and himself. However, that all doesn’t go as planned because, really, what in the world ever goes by a particular plan when it comes to the residents of 221B?

It starts with John returns to that particular flat. He’s dropped off the groceries in the kitchen and removed both his jacket and shoes. He likes, just after toeing them off, when he sets them by Sherlock’s own pair. But Sherlock’s not home today. However, someone is. He hears a noise coming from the bedroom and he raises a brow - odd, really. A sign that Sherlock is home is that his shoes are there (coat and scarf included) and quite obviously, Sherlock is not.

“Sherlock?” John calls. “You home?”

He wanders the spare amount of distance between the bedroom and sitting room and peeks in. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson is doing the cleaning (the sheets really, reallyneed tidying for apparent and obvious reasons). But it’s rather the opposite when he peeks into the bedroom - theirbedroom.

“Um,” John says, almost as if he’s caught off guard by to the random man standing in said bedroom, “Wrong house?”

He’s really gotten soft in his age because, in the past, he would have pulled a gun or at least lifted a fist. But no, apparently now, if you wandered into 221B, you were greeted with a man who sported a rather comfortable looking jumper and just a tad awkward smile. But it was a rather handsome smile nonetheless.

“Oh, hello,” the opposite says, turning and offering a brilliant smile in return, “I was looking for Sherlock. I’m not sure if he told you who I was?” John just blinks and shakes his head minutely, “Of course not. Sounds like Sherlock. Anyways, hello - John, yes? - I’m Victor. Victor Trevor.”

There’s roughly forty-three seconds in time that exist where John’s (right) fist collides with Victor’s (right) cheek and another nineteen seconds when John comes to term with reality versus anger and bends halfway over, touching Victor’s shoulder. “Oh god, I’m sorry. That - that, yes, sorry.”

Victor only laughs because there are so few men like Victor in the world and regardless if he is hit or shot or hugged, he is going to make the best out of everything. It’s just the type of person he is and it’s the type of person he loves to be. He touches his cheek and sits up slightly, using his free hand on his knee to hold his steady. “Nice to meet you too, John Watson.”

If John and Sherlock hadn’t already made love, John would have punched him again. Jealousy really is a spiteful thing.

Instead he offers to make tea and a cold compress.

*

day fifteen

Just over two weeks from their reunion, they find their selves settles on the sofa, collapsed on the opposite after a long round of lovemaking. John isn’t demanding of sex, but that isn’t because Sherlock doesn’t like it. Sherlock, in fact, enjoys it and will often gloat about it on his laptop to those he speaks with. John’s not particularly fond of the way his male body parts are discussed, but Sherlock just smiles broadly and replies, “You should be proud of the fact that you have a nicely sized penis. Some men out there do not and you know I have high expectations.”

That remark, obviously, leads to Sherlock’s face being hit with a pillow. They giggled for over ten minutes straight and Sherlock kissed him for just as long.

But today is rather different. The sun is rising and Sherlock is draped over John’s chest while a sheet covers them both. John loves these moments and Sherlock’s rather fond of them too. He enjoys the fact that he can be happy here - just here - in the silence that follows sexual activities. He knows it is beyond his control to even attempt to stay in this sort of situation all day (really, far too sticky) but he has no problem spending a good three-quarters of an hour basking in the afterglow.

“What did you do with Victor, Sherlock?”

Victor only stayed an hour or so the day prior. John sent a text to Sherlock and Sherlock arrived, via taxi, half an hour later. Sherlock grinned rather smugly at the sight of Victor Trevor holding a towel-wrapped package of frozen peas to his cheek and John only blushed. Perhaps there was something more then, but it was never going to be what Sherlock wanted - it was never going to be what Sherlock needed. They exchanged a small hug and Victor asked for them not to be strangers. They both knew that meant Sherlock alone and strangely enough, John was alright with that. As long as they no longer shared a bed of course.

However, again, back in this moment, Sherlock does not lie. Not to John and not about this. “We shared a bed on three different occasions. We kissed the same amount, though we never went beyond. He offered, to an extent, and while I had the opportunity to do so - he informed me that he didn’t want to be hurt.”

John traces a figure on Sherlock’s chest. He feels childish in his response but he’s never loved someone like this. “Did you love him? Do you?”

Sherlock snorts and tilts his head to the side, pressing his lips to John’s forehead. “You’re ever the idiot, John,” he sighs softly and closes his eyes - he’s got about another quarter-of-an-hour before he needs to reoccupy his mind, “The only person I could ever love is you. I haven’t the room, time, patience, or want to love anyone else.”

John could make a joke about loving Mycroft or Mrs. Hudson or his skull, but instead he basks in the glory of being the love of Sherlock’s life and it guides him to sleep.

*

day nineteen

Mycroft visits. Apparently the British Government can get slow from time to time. He doesn’t carry his umbrella but he has a briefcase and he wears a tired smile that seems to have made a home as of late on his face. Mrs. Hudson is the one to let him in and everyone can see the spark of sadness in his eyes when he glances in the direction of Sherlock and John. John is sitting on the sofa with the newspaper held in his hands while Sherlock lies opposite, his feet piled into John’s lap. Mycroft wants that and everyone knows this because Mycroft’s never really had love before Greg Lestrade and everyone knows that men like Mycroft rarely ever get it in the first place.

John says something before Sherlock does. He knows how brutal their relationship can be.

“Have a new case to beg Sherlock to take?”

“Actually, no,” Mycroft responds. He takes a seat in Sherlock’s chair and watches the pair of them. John’s shown the decency to place the newspaper back onto the coffee table but apparently, Sherlock can’t find the time to do anything besides turn to his side and face the back of the sofa with a huff. John just chuckles and settles his hand (the right) on Sherlock’s side. John glances back at Mycroft and he can read the world on his face because he’s worn that face before. He knows what it feels like.

“What can we do for you Mycroft?”

Mycroft swallows. This is hard for him. He is not a man of weakness. “I would like for you to talk to Gregory for me, on my behalf, if you could.”

John licks his lips but Sherlock does not move. “Are you sure that’s a wise idea, Mycroft?”

“I haven’t the faintest clue of what else to do. You - Sherlock, either or both of you, if you could. I don’t know if you’ve mentioned me in prior conversations with him, but now, at the very least, I’d like you to extend a few words to him for me.”

John looks down at Sherlock now. Sherlock’s eyes are closed and his face is pressed into the cushion of the sofa. It’s unlikely that Sherlock will help and John knows this for a fact. He knows that Greg has been hurting and Greg is just as stubborn, if not more, as him. They talk about Mycroft only in passing, spare bits of words here and there, and he doesn’t know what else more he can do. But here Mycroft is and John’s not a man to say no - nor is he a man to see another hurting, even if itisMycroft.

“What would you like me to say?”

Mycroft is watching the empty fireplace as if a fire is illuminated. This is hard for him but he will do this for Gregory because he is at his wits ends and not even the Queen could save him now. “Tell him that I miss him and that I am sorry,” Mycroft says, quietly and to almost just himself, but John can hear just enough, “and that I have thought about him every day.”

It’s quiet in 221B and John does not reply. It’s only a matter of seconds before Mycroft stands up. This is hard on him - really hard - and he can only find the decency to straighten his suit jacket and nod in the direction of John before making his way to the door of the sitting room. John stops him first though, words just as quiet. “I told you before, Mycroft, he misses you too.”

“Will you tell him what I said?”

“Of course.”

Two and a half minutes later when the sedan downstairs is gone, John focuses on Sherlock whom has yet to move an inch. John’s fingers are massaging Sherlock’s side gently because it is as natural as nature. Perhaps another three minutes later, Sherlock finally turns on his back once again and gazes up at John. His eyes are not wet nor does he read much of any emotional expression that can be deduced. He is a master of disguise and only his words can explain everything.

“He is my brother,” Sherlock says. His fingers have found their way onto John’s jumper and they hold on tight because just like Mycroft, emotional announcements do not come easy. “And I may not understand him, nor do I like him - much. But I do not like to see him hurt.”

John figures it out. “You could not bear to look at him like that.”

Sherlock nods and they stare at each other for a long time.

Sherlock really is human.

*

day twenty-one

They solve a small case for Lestrade. It takes them roughly three and a half hours and John tells Lestrade what Mycroft has said. The detective inspector is slightly taken aback but John only shrugs his shoulders. Sherlock is too busy investigating what nonsense he can get into in Lestrade’s office. It’s mostly though, to ignore the conversation at hand. The last thing he needs to do is offer emotional advice on a situation regarding Lestrade and his brother. It’s a terrible experiment in the making.

“I’ll talk to him.” Lestrade announces. Sherlock’s turned away where no one can see his lips curl into a smile.

“Good then, yeah?” John replies, arms crossed at his chest.

“Maybe,” Lestrade shrugs his shoulders, “Doesn’t mean I forgive him. Damn well doesn’t mean I’m getting back together with him either - but, yeah, I’ll contact him.”

Sherlock’s smile fades a little. He thinks, deduces even, that even if Lestrade wanted to get back together with Mycroft, he probably wouldn’t. Not everything is perfect, Sherlock knows, but Mycroft has the Queen, country, and government to hold him over till he dies.

That evening they go to Angelo’s and sit in their usual spot. Angelo is not in so there is no candle and they sit just the same. John gets Sherlock to order and they each have a glass of wine to start with. This should be considered a date but they do not title it as such a thing. They just know it as dinner and laughing and grinning and well, trying to get Sherlock to eat at least half his meal. John finds it helpful when they just share an entree. For being such a sociopath, Sherlock does have romantic tendencies (ones he may or may not be aware of). For example, the detective is rather fond of their knees touching under the table.

It’s after the second glass of wine where John’s laughing so hard that there are tears pouring from his eyes, when he says, after fighting the laughter to stand inside, “Got anything on tomorrow?”

The restaurant is empty and it’s nearing closing time. This is not Sherlock being brave or romantic or going out on a whim. This is Sherlock seeing John - just John (you don’t need to add in details of the lighting or music or level of alcohol in both) - and doing something that he simply wants to do. He leans over, curving his body around the edge of the table. His hand lifts up and touches John’s cheek and he smiles - well, rather, both of them smile. “Perhaps.”

“Oh?” John says. He’s not caught off guard because he knows this is Sherlock just being Sherlock. “A case?”

“Of sorts.” Sherlock replies, their faces incredibly close.

“Will you be needing your blogger?”

“I’d be lost without him,” Sherlock says, and makes the leftover distance vanish.

John doesn’t need to say, I’d be lost without you too, because he’s too busy kissing Sherlock and sometime later, when they’re under white sheets entwined by limbs, he thinks to himself, he’s pretty sure Sherlock’s deduced all of this - all of everything - a hell of a long time ago.

Sherlock waits because he thinks John will come back. He always comes back.

There was the time with the missing favorite jumper that was dyed pink and shrunken down a size or two. There was the time when Sherlock placed a dissected pig on John’s bed, explaining that he had nowhere else to put it (mostly because John had told Sherlock that kitchens were not sanitary places for anything consisting of blood or body parts or anything but food, really). There was the six (seven, or eight, or maybe even fourteen) times that Sherlock had completely ruined John’s dates with either a barrage of text messages, simply showing up to the location of said date, or simply being in the sitting room the exact moment that John attempted to take his particular date home for (obviously) adult-related activities. There was the time that Sherlock told John that Harry was over at the flat and drunk, just to get him home because he, himself, was sick with the flu and couldn’t reach the cup of tea placed on the coffee table roughly two feet away from him. There was the time he faked his own death.

John always comes back, so Sherlock waits. It’s Christmas Eve, sure, and roughly an hour and a half to Christmas dawning, but he’ll wait. He’s got a decent sized bruise on his cheek - blue, gray, and a bit of purple (it sort of matches his scarf), but it’s not bleeding and he’s not dying and he really just wants to spend Christmas with John.

Sherlock doesn’t come with tidings of joy or arms full of presents, but, still, he came to 221B and got to see John. Sherlock got to exist in the same realm with John for approximately fourteen minutes and thirty-two seconds, though about ten of those minutes were waiting for John to answer the door. The other four, well, Sherlock can’t quite describe them. Yeah, there was a punch (it had been expected) and John had left (again, expected), but Sherlock also got to touch John. To actually feel him and know that he was there, still existing in the world that Sherlock was dying to be a part of again. No, not society or in a sense of being on the cover of tabloids and newspapers as a great consulting detective. No, he was dying to be a part of the world that few knew of - the one that was hidden behind the door of 221B where there were sock indexes and cups of teas leftover from the week before and smiles hidden behind laptops because Sherlock never really learned how to smile and it always tickled his belly when John caused it. It was almost like a fantasy world, really, because despite having a skull and growing up around piracy - he’d never been allowed it and it’s all he wanted this Christmas.

And John, of course. That much was evident.

And so Sherlock waits as the hour of Christmas creeps closer and closer. At some point, when reality begins to settle in and the realization that time does exist wanes into the detective’s mind, he picks up the blue box that John let drop to the ground. He also picks up John’s mobile phone. They are both curious items and they both feel heavy in Sherlock’s hands in the same way they feel heavy in Sherlock’s heart (he has one, if you hadn’t already discovered - albeit not perfect, but  it is there and thriving and with the capability of both accepting and offering love, if allowed). His fingers tease over the box before opening the top to reveal a silver key. It’s simple really, and it’s identical to the one that John has and the one that Sherlock had. It’s not a ring, no, but it’s John letting someone else in. It’s John opening up his heart to another.

Living with someone teaches you many things, and in the same, you allow yourself to be seen not only in the light of the day - but in those moments when you just wake up to the hours before sleep where you’re really you. John’s planned to allow this with the woman he’s been seeing - John’s going to let her in. Sherlock stares down at the key before closing the box and tucking it into his pocket. It weighs down his heart more than it weighs down his coat, but he feels the heavy heat of it radiate through his body. He had once been allowed to live in the same dwelling as John, and yes, of course, he missed it. That’s why he’s here waiting here on Christmas Eve, covered in snow and hidden simply by the moonlight and not the horizon of Christmas.

He then focuses on the mobile phone. He sees the text log between John and himself. He can scroll through it, if he’d like. He sees the two messages he’d sent to John just a short time ago, and if he wanted, he could scroll to his heart’s delight and read every message that John ever sent him since his death (and probably even before that, knowing John). But he’s already read them and he doesn’t know if he can handle them right now. Because at the core of every consulting detective (be it a great one or not) is simply a human and that’s all he is in this very moment. He fingers the screen for another moment before sliding it into his pocket, too, right next to his own mobile phone. He remembers times when their phones lay haphazardly on desks and coffee tables and kitchen counters, waiting for the next big ding that there was a case or something to do. Now he only wants the quiet feel of mobile phone as John and he exist in the same world where he appreciates the fact that they have nothing to do. That they just have each other.

The snow falls heavy and the night wanes on. Still, he waits, because just like all the other times (and every time in between), John’s always returned home. Sometimes he’d return home after a pint at the pub, crawling up the stairways to the sitting area where Sherlock would be waiting. Even though Sherlock might have done something downright terrible or miserable, they’d just smile faintly at each other and John would make two cuppa’s of tea and Sherlock would play the violin (usually something more softer, just for John alone). No fight had ever been worth risking their friendship over, and that’s something that Sherlock loved about John.

Oh yes, of course - that was already discussed, too. Sherlock loved John. You’d have to be more of an idiot than Anderson to think otherwise. It may not have been a beautiful love or one that made very much sense, nor was it the kind that was romantic or showered in rose petals upon white sheet sets - but it was there and it was gentle and kind and gods, really, Sherlock loved John.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes,” someone says. It’s faint, really, and it takes Sherlock a moment to realize that he’s still outside in the cold and snow and dusk of Christmas Eve to notice that someone else has inhabited his personal area. “You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

He turns, brows furrowing as he sees the figure a few feet in front of him, standing at the bottom of the small two-stair path that led up to 221B. She wears a warm black coat and khaki pants. She holds a bag in her hands - Christmas presents obviously - and her hair is brown and covered in flecks of snow. This is John’s lover - this is John’s love - this is the owner of the key held in Sherlock’s pocket - this is Sherlock’s replacement. Sherlock stares for a moment, fighting not to look dumbfounded but all things considered, he’s a bit caught off guard. Though, he finally speaks because that’s something he does best, “And you’re John Watson’s girlfriend.”

She’s analyzing everything because she’s smart. John could date someone who wasn’t, but after Sherlock’s death, he has expectations. Not high ones of course, just preferences. And she isn’t dumb. She’s not going to hit him or yell or even look confused. She simply stares, eyes wide, and takes in the situation because it’s quite different for the both of them. Sherlock’s staring at the woman that John Watson loves and she is staring at the man who had always held John’s heart. It’s not so easy.

“Does he know you’re alive?”

She is smart; she skips all the idiotic questions.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers, plainly. He doesn’t want to offer more because he doesn’t want to offer too much. He doesn’t know where to go beyond this because he’s never been in love and he’s never really been jealous and he just wants to go home.

She waits, shifts foot to foot, but still stares without blinking. “Is he home?”

“No,” Sherlock answers again, though he adds this time, almost in hopes to find clues - maybe she knows things he does not, “he left after I arrived.”

They stay quiet and Sherlock sees as she swallows hard every few seconds. It’s a delicate situation, and not because John is a delicate man. It’s that way simply because this has to do with John’s heart and that’s something you do not take lightly - neither of them does. Sherlock really does care about John, loves him with the entirety his heart. And this woman, quite obviously, loves him with enough of her heart (or maybe even more) to allow John in without reasons or requirements. She has accepted him and took his hand and made him smile and laugh and perhaps even made him fall in love with her. That thought makes Sherlock swallow, too. It’s almost Christmas hour.

“Are you alright?” She asks and it’s almost the most insane question Sherlock’s ever heard because he never expected such a phrase from her, least of all people. He blinks and moves his hands behind his back, tucking one hand into the other. Maybe it’s a compulsive behavior, he’s not sure.

He does not know how to answer because truthfully, he’s not alright. He’s actually rather sad because John’s not returned home yet and he really hoped to spend Christmas with him. He planned to tell him what happened and why he did what he did and tell him, under the lowlight of the fireplace, how much he has missed his best friend and flatmate. He hoped to have John make tea and when John brought the cuppa over to him, he would reach out at touch the doctor’s face (again) and tell him all over again, how much he’s missed him. He’s not alright at all because even though this all was expected (the punch, John running away), he had hopes. And the only consulting detective in the world had room for so few of them in the first place.

“Of course I’m alright,” Sherlock lies, because he knows how to and it’s something he’s good at.

She breathes out, fingers gripping onto the handle of the Christmas bag very tightly. Of course Sherlock notices that. “John always said that you hid your feelings.”

Sherlock’s stomach shifts because he’s caught in between anger that John discussed such things with this woman and compassion because he knows John’s had so few people to talk to. He ends up focusing on the latter because he could never be angry at John. “Did he?”

“Yeah,” she replies, moving closer and placing both feet on the first step of the doorway, leaving only a small gap in between the pair. “He’s said a lot of things actually. That he always thought you were alive and would come back.”

The words for him are left unsaid but left dangling from her lips.

Sherlock can’t help it and lets the right corner of his lips quirk into a smile. “It’s good to know that John hasn’t turned into an idiot while I’ve been away.”

The sarcasm doesn’t work on the woman. Instead, she grips the Christmas bags a smudge tighter and narrows her brows almost as if she’s putting together a puzzle with not all the time in the world. She knows, through discussions, that Sherlock’s never been patient and she wants to have enough knowledge and more by the time he leaves. “He’s anything but that,” she says, licking her upper lip. She waits because she knows what she says next is final and it matters and it just needs to be said because in her mind, she still counts. “John’s not an idiot and never has been. You and I both know that. I don’t know why you’re here and I can only summon the apparent reasoning as to why John left when you arrived, but I think you’d agree to that reasoning.” She stops and finally turns her head because she can’t bare to look at the taller any longer - not when she knows how much lies in between the balance. “I know how much you mean to him and I’m quite sure he matters just the same to you, but you don’t know what he’s been through while you’ve been gone. Maybe - maybe you’ve been watching and you’ve seen things, but, no - no, you haven’t been here.”

Sherlock swallows and her gaze turns back to the consulting detective. “You’ve not been here to actually see what he’s gone through. I’m not going to talk to him for you and I’m not going to take sides without knowing everything, but I am going to tell you that he’s been nothing short of hurt and traumatized since you’ve – since you’ve died, and you - you coming back, well, John,” she stops again and she chokes out a sob, “John doesn’t deserve to be hurt - not, not after all of this.”

The air is quiet and neither says another word because it’s Christmas and they’ve run out of dialogue. Sherlock’s not going to argue against science and he’s not going to argue against John’s emotions because he can’t. He’s not programmed to do so. Instead he reaches his right hand into his coat and fishes out the blue box that holds the key to 221B. Then his left hand follows suit and tugs out both John’s mobile phone and his as well.

He’s scared.

“John dropped this box and his mobile phone when he left earlier. I’m sure he’d like both objects returned and I’m sure you’ll see him soon enough,” Sherlock explains, and adds before passing both items over, “and if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you to give him this other mobile phone.”

“Is it yours?” She asks.

“Yes.”

She can assume many things as to why Sherlock is offering his mobile phone, but there are too many guesses and she’s not one to make wrong leaps - not as a pediatrician and not with John’s heart. She could decide not to - take the box and John’s mobile phone and be done with it, but sheis a pediatrician and despite the balance that hangs in between the two, she cares more for John than herself. She reaches over with her free hand and balances all three objects in her open palm.

“Should I tell him anything?” She questions. It takes some work but she tucks all three objects into her pockets, still holding the Christmas bag in her hand.

Sherlock answers truthfully. “I wouldn’t know where to begin,” and he pauses, eyes glassy and wet because he really is scared and hurt and lost and he just wants to go home (John, John, John). “Though you can tell him I am sorry. And I mean that from the bottom of my heart.”

She watches him carefully and offers a small nod. “He told me you had one of those, too. That he was lucky he got to see it because you hid it so well.”

“Did he?”

“Things must have changed because I see it worn across your face,” she replies, licking her lips again. The snow is starting to fall heavier - Christmas morning is just hours away. “I should go,” she says, “He’ll need someone.”

Sherlock cannot take those words and he wants to retch. He quickly steps around her - bounds one step and the next, but pauses on the sidewalk, turning his head over his shoulder to look at her, “Happy Christmas,” he says, “and thank you for taking care of him when I could not.”

She doesn’t know what to say and every breath she’s ever had gets caught in her throat, twisted into a knot she’s not sure she could ever pull away. She replies quietly, the light from the street lamp above accenting her saddened face, “Happy Christmas, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock leaves her there - leaves everything there, really, and wanders down the street. It’s hard to find a taxi on Christmas (at least, this early) and he hadn’t his mobile phone to call Mycroft. He’ll walk there, he assumes, and he’s got much to think about.

John’s always come back. He’s come back after ruined jumpers and dissected animals and severed heads. He’s come back after violin playing at four o'clock in the morning and drugs and after being dragged through the soot with case after case after case. He’s come back after having to deal with a chaotic flatmate who has always demanded too much and in returned, offered too little. He’s come back after fights and lies and impatience. He’s always come back.

But maybe he won’t this time.