There’s a long list of things Sherlock had wished he’d done before he’d decided that leaping off the rooftop of St. Bart’s was a good plan. Like warning Mrs. Hudson about what he’d left in the fridge, or the unsolved case files he’d taken from one of Lestrade’s desk drawers and taken the liberty of solving for the Yard. Mostly the list comprises of things he wishes he’d told John.
Like how sorry he is for that time at Dartmoor, or all the other times he should have asked for permission before going off and just…
He considers saying something for exactly three seconds, crossing lines off the list one by one, marking each one with he knows, he knows. In the end he settles for “goodbye, John.”
He hears a “no” from the other end before he unceremoniously tosses the phone behind him, to right beside where Moriarty’s corpse should be.
He knows, Sherlock thinks. And then, he jumps.
So imagine after reading what is pretty much the schmoopiest fic ever, this is the follow-up:
A year and a half of trying to bring down Moriarty’s network and Sherlock is tired and exhausted and he just gets sick of it and decides to just go home because he doesn’t care anymore (and because he can let the body betray logic, sometimes — he’ll just have to figure out how to fix it later).
He comes back in the middle of the morning and finds John on his old bed. He pulls the covers and sleeps on the other side. John wakes up in the morning and, well, what do you make of it? The dead don’t usually reanimate (not that he ever believed Sherlock ever really died), let alone end up on the other side of the bed in the morning.
So they continue without speaking of it. There’s no, I’m back / Oh god you’re back. Nothing changes— life goes on. It drags on for a week.
John is absolutely, genuinely, frighteningly nonchalant about it. Sherlock doesn’t understand. He finally decides to do some grand gesture.
And here is where the big reveal comes in: John’s been delusional for the entire time Sherlock’s been away. He’d thought the whole thing was just a figment of his imagination. That Sherlock was an effect of PTSD. That he’d made the whole thing up.
Okay, I wrote it like this to make it sound not so sad but yeah ok.
PG-13, John/Sherlock, 1200+ words (set before The Reichenbach Fall)
Prompt: “How’s about if you write something so fluffy I am going to die.” — Anonymous (after I demanded my followers to please give me a fic prompt)
Summary: Sherlock says love is a dangerous disadvantage. John says he’s missed the point.
“I imagine John Watson thinks love is a mystery to me, but the chemistry is incredibly simple and very disruptive.”
PG, John, Molly, Sherlock, 1400+ words (set after The Reichenbach Fall)
Summary: “I can’t believe it, but I did see it. So, the question is: how?”
“John, please let me edit the writing on your blog entries.”
“No, Sherlock.”
“The tone you use is appalling, it makes our work sound like a work of fiction. Frivolous. Like a Conan Doyle novella.”
“The reason people read my blog is because it’s written the way it is.”
“What are you implying?”
“I haven’t said anything.”
It has been one year since Sherlock Holmes has officially been dead to the world. Or, at least to London. And John Watson thinks, so has he.
That one fateful morning, however, he found that maybe that had not entirely been so. The public had given him his privacy, but he’s certain that there were still eyes and ears still watching.
The phone downstairs by the kitchen rings once. He ignores it.
The phone by the hallway rings as well. He ignores it.
His mobile phone joins in the chorus.
On the train to Dartmoor, after that restless morning and the business with the harpooning, Sherlock finally settles on John’s shoulder and descends to a quiet slumber. The elderly couple seated across take notice as they smile a little too sweetly.
The woman seated directly across John leans in and whispers, “your man’s fallen asleep.”
John explains for maybe the eightieth time this week, “oh no, he’s not my — we’re not like that.”
At the car rental the clerk tells them that they remind him of his parents. John thinks he’s heard this enough but, clearly not. The explaining becomes exponentially more exasperating each time. He supposes it’s because he never seems to convince anybody.
In the car, during a long period of silence, he finally asks,
“How come people always seem to think we’re together.”
“But we are together,” Sherlock says, like he’s not understood the point.
“No, I meant together-together. You know, like a couple.”
“What do couples do?”
John ponders on this very carefully. “Hell, we are a couple.”
One quiet night at 221B, maybe Christmas time, maybe not — any day of the year will do, really.
His phone rings and he receives a text — number unrecognized.
Message received:
I’m not dead
Let’s have dinner
SH
He’s in shock for all of five seconds. Tearful, hopeful shock, but one that quells after the brief suspension of disbelief. And then he laughs it off.
What a terrible prank.
Whoever came up with it was going to get a piece of his mind. Possibly a bloody nose if the poor bastard isn’t careful.
He walks onto the window to see if he can find the mysterious texter.
Nobody. He stays there, closes his eyes and breathes deeply. Nobody’s there, John.
A throat clears from behind. John turns around. He raises his fist.
That is precisely the moment when John Watson punches Sherlock Holmes. Right in the face. Same as he’d done, three and a half years previous, when he’d been asked to.
John is not on the verge of tears. He is not breathless, stunned, or weakened to the point of exhaustion. None of the reactions he expected whenever he dreamt this day would come.
He was, instead, extremely upset, and actually very, very livid. His fist was still clenched, poised to throw another punch. Just for good measure.
‘Three years?’
‘I asked you a question first.’
‘Three years, Sherlock?’
‘Dinner, John?’
They are silent as they step out of the flat, hail a taxi, get in, out, into a quiet corner restaurant, and finally settled. John is still upset, but it’s been eclipsed by an instinct, he seems, he hasn’t exactly been able to turn off, even after three years.
Sherlock Holmes leads the way, and John Watson follows.
They sit across from each other on a square table in a cafe. The waiter comes back with a menu and sets a candle in the middle. A brief laughter breaks the silence. And then, stillness.
It all leads to an overwhelming question.
‘So, how does this work?’ John asks, fingers absentmindedly scraping at the creases in the wood. ‘You can’t expect us to just pick up where we left off.’
