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2015-01-25
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Not Today Nor Yet Tomorrow Then Some Other Day

Summary:

Sherlock waits for John to come and take him home.

Notes:

I am telling you right now, this is not my usual work. It is different in style, content, theme, and mood.

I said that I would never write Johhlock angst, that there was already too much of that, that I wanted to bring more happy to the fandom. And then this happened. All I can say is that if you feel so incredibly compelled to get something out, in whatever form it is presenting itself to you, you should listen.

It does, however, have a peaceful, happy ending. At least, I think so.

I would like to VERY LOUDLY acknowledge and thank KarlyAnne for the time, energy, and effort that she put into helping me with this. After she volunteered to grammar-check The Dead Letters for me, I asked if she'd be willing to look at this, too. Not only did she help with the grammar, but she weighed in (and solved) a stylistic issue I was struggling with, and then quoted poetry and music to help me find the right title. Let me be clear: I don't know this person. She doesn't know me. At the time of this writing, we've interacted via email for maybe a week, but the depth and quality of her input has been inspirational.

People are wonderful. People want to connect, to be asked, to be heard, to be helpful. Fandom is beautiful. If it sounds crazy that falling in love with and writing about two fictional characters from a television show has brought me tremendous happiness, mostly because of the people I've interacted with while doing so, then go ahead and call me crazy.

The title is from Dream Theater's song, Pull Me Under.

(See the end of the work for more notes and other works inspired by this one.)

Work Text:

The rain is torrential, coming down in sheets, pelting sideways and blowing upwards, rivers of it running in the dirt lane in front of the house. Sherlock thinks that he should check the post, make sure the garage door is closed, maybe bring the recycling pail in, but when he steps outside he is instantly drenched, soaked to the bone, wisps of white hair plastered to his skull, so he changes his mind and retreats. John would not approve, he thinks, of him catching his death. 

He leaves small puddles of water on the hard wood floors, squishing in his threadbare socks as he goes, peeling off the too-short cardigan that is never going to fit, no matter how many times he pulls down the sleeves. He drops it in a pile on the floor in the small utility room off the kitchen. He tugs the rest of it away, as well, the too-small plaid flannel shirt and his slightly baggy corduroy trousers. He stares at his pants for a moment, thinks that they look like old man pants, then huffs and takes them down, too. They are old man pants, he thinks, and he is an old man.

The socks are harder, because he has to sit down for socks, but there is no chair in this little room, so he braces himself against the wall with one arm, his bony, crooked fingers splayed open on the ancient plaster. One sock. Two socks. The wet pile on the floor is not large enough to necessitate running the washing machine, no, but the pile next to it is enormous, far too much to do in one load, growing as it has for weeks, and he just doesn't feel up to that tonight.

He's naked now, and shivering, so he makes his way to the lounge and grabs Mrs Hudson's crocheted monstrosity of an afghan off the back of the sofa and wraps it around him, too short in the front, trailing on the floor in the back, and he walks to the back door and leans his head against the fogged-up pane of glass and peers out into the night, watching the trees swoop and the shed door blow open and shut, hard, harder still. He can't hear it over the thunder and the lashing downpour, but he imagines that it is furious and tired, like he is. He'd never got around to fixing it, and doubts he will any time soon.

Something catches his eye, a flash and swipe of black and white in the corner of the garden, so he opens the door and calls loudly, Cat, come Cat, and she comes, soaking wet and spitting mad, her ears flattened back and her tail tucked down low. She bristles, sending drops of water all over the room. Well, that's all right then. No harm. John wouldn't want the animal to suffer. 

He stokes the fire and lowers himself down to the sofa, dragging the afghan with him, and he watches Cat begin the long, tedious process of drying soaked fur with her pink rasp of a tongue. Short, quick licks on her paws and over her face, long, sweeping licks down flanks, belly, and back. Cat saves her bedraggled tail for last, holding it up with one delicate, white-tipped paw, and then, finished, stretches with her rump in the air, curls into a ball, and falls asleep. Sherlock should do the same. Should try to sleep.

He huddles under the blanket and turns to the back of the couch, not thinking about the empty bed upstairs. He hasn't slept there in months. Just before he falls asleep he realizes he didn't dry his hair, thinks that John would call him an idiot and dry it for him, his movements becoming less exasperated and more soothing as he worked through the tangles and tutted under his breath, Sherlock, what would you do without me, hmm?

Well, now they know.

He wakes some hours later to silence and a warm weight on his hip. John. No, he remembers, swallowing hard, not John. He reaches down and feels Cat's head where it rests in the hollow of his waist, her body perched precariously from his hipbone to his ribs. He stills his hand, tucks it back under his chin. It's nice. It's nice to feel something alive and warm pressed up against him again. The rain has stopped. He wonders if he managed to catch pneumonia last night. Pneumonia would be fine. He falls asleep again, and he dreams.

 

 

They are young and strong and driven half mad by each other's bodies, wrestling on the bed, panting and wanting, sheets twisted around their legs. He lets John pin him down, wrists held high above his head, and he bares his throat as John plunges down, all teeth and hot wet tongue on his neck. His left foot is still trapped, and he yanks it hard, spreads his legs, squeezes his thighs around John's waist and ruts up into him, uncontainable, unstoppable. Yeah, John moans, god yeah, hold on, hold on, you impatient git. Then John is in him, John is all around him, his belly pressing down against Sherlock's impatient erection, their flesh slapping together, the headboard banging out their rhythm. That's it, that's it, come on, come for me Sherlock, fuck yeah, right there, that's it, come on –

Sherlock wakes with a start, gasping. He reaches down and feels his soft cock nestled in the crease of his thigh. Soft, dry. Even his dreams know that John isn't here anymore. Cat is sitting on the back of the couch, cleaning her whiskers. Fastidious. He touches his fingers to the tickle on his cheek and they come away wet. Not dry, then. Oh, John.

 

...

 

He is still wearing the afghan later that morning when he hears a polite rap at the front door. He's too tired to answer it, too curious not to. When he opens the door Cat races past him and out into the front garden, launches herself up and over the wall. His visitor has turned to watch, too, then turns back and smiles up at him. Molly? No. Too young.

She calls him Uncle Sherlock and then he remembers, this is Molly's granddaughter, barely an adult, really, but the spitting image of his old friend. It's Saturday, she says, how come you aren't ready?

Oh, I'm ready, he says, I've been ready since February twenty-second.

She lays her hand on his arm and pats it, much like he does to Cat, and says, I know, Uncle Sherlock, I know. Come on then, she chirps, go get dressed and we'll go, okay?

He stands in front of the open closet, the room dim and smelling of damp. The windows must've been open last night, he thinks, and now the floorboards are wet, and the edge of a pillow. He turns back to the closet and steps in as far as he can, jostling the hangers as he buries his face in John's shirts and jumpers. The familiar scent floods into him, overwhelming, choking. He's shaking now, and his fists are clenched, pulling handfuls of clothing to the floor with him when he sinks down.

Molly's granddaughter calls up to him, worried. Are you all right, Uncle Sherlock?

He is only capable of one muffled sob, and then she's next to him, her slender arms wrapped around his shoulders, shushing and rocking him where he sits, rocking him like a small child.

Ssshh. I know, I know. I'm so sorry.

When he stops shuddering he turns and looks up at her and sees that she, too, is crying. But of course. She knew him, too. How could anyone who knew him not cry? How could they not?

He tries to be like John now. He tries to soothe her, to make her feel better. It's okay, he tells her, it'll be all right. He's coming for me soon, he whispers, I know he is. But that only makes her cry harder, and kiss his cheek, and then smile a very weak smile.

Finish getting dressed, Uncle Sherlock, okay? Do you want help?

He shakes his head and she smoothes his hair with her fingers a few times before pushing herself up off the floor and leaving the room.

He sorts through the shirts still bunched in his hands, choosing a worn and faded flannel button-down, tan and brown and ivory. John's perfect disguise. No one would expect such vibrant, witty, sexy, intelligent, perfection to come in such a boring package. 

Sherlock used to tease John incessantly about his old man clothes, even when they were young, when they had not yet stopped to consider the inevitability of aging. Then he realized that the drab beige wardrobe was working to his advantage, perhaps keeping away the hordes of men and women who would try to keep John for their own if they knew who he really was. He had told John his theory, but John had laughed and told him that no one else was coming around because they knew they'd never make it past Sherlock, not for one minute. He smiles now, almost laughs.

He pulls on John's shirt and buttons it from the very top to the very bottom. His fingers hurt a little bit and don't work as well as they used to. He's aged twenty years in the last few months, he's sure of it. Well, at least that's what he heard Molly tell her daughter the last time she drove out, talking on her phone in the back garden, not realizing that he could hear her. Twenty years? No. A lifetime. An entire extra lifetime, one he is eager to shed.

He picks a russet-coloured cardigan off the floor and ties it around his shoulders, the way John did once they weren't running up and down alleys anymore, once he no longer needed the extra layer to keep his gun hidden where he'd tucked it into his trousers. Sherlock used to tell him that he'd blow his own arse off one day, and John would laugh and say, yeah, well, unlike you, love, I don't have any extra to spare, so let's hope that doesn't happen. John had absolutely loved Sherlock's arse, made sure everyone knew it, too.

Molly's granddaughter is waiting downstairs, petting Cat, who must have begged to come inside again, and she smiles at him, nods her head, tells him he looks quite handsome now that he's cleaned himself up. He stands a bit taller at that, hears John tell him to say thank you, so he does. Tells her not to get her hopes up, because he's taken, married almost forty years now.

She tucks her arm through his and sighs. I know, Uncle Sherlock, but you let me know if you ever change your mind, alright? Good men are hard to come by these days. She winks up at him and he does laugh then, a real laugh, from deep inside, where John lives.

 

...

 

The local café is quiet and the service is slow, which is fine, as he has nowhere to go, nothing much to do. He wouldn't be able for the work now, even if anyone called. He's still quick to deduce, but too slow for the chase, and he refuses to lower himself to substandard cases involving adultery, petty crime, insurance fraud.

The bees are gone, too, the hives relocated to an interested neighbour a dozen miles away. John said they were too old for the honey production, that Sherlock wasn't being careful enough anymore, that he didn't want to find him dead in the back field covered head-to-toe in bee stings. As if that could've happened. Although, he thinks, the alternative – this – is far worse than death-by-bee would have been. 

These days he gardens, tries to maintain all of John's hard work. He's not bad at it, he has to admit. He never would've thought to do it on his own, but he does it now, to keep busy, to keep John. He pays particular attention to the teacup rose bushes in the front of their house, deadheading and pruning like John showed him, aerating the soil, fertilizing. These must grow, must live, because they were John's favourite, the pale ivory blooms gathered tight like a good punch, and sweet, like peaches and hay.

John used to leave the blossoms for Sherlock to find, in his coffee cup, in the post box, on his pillow, in a slipper. He put them in what he called the Sherlock places, places where Sherlock worked and lived and touched, places where he'd find them, sooner or later. Once he hid one down his pants, but Sherlock found it right away, always aware of the exact proportions of John's penis. Lord, he'd had a beautiful penis.

Molly's granddaughter calls him back from where he is lost and tangled in his thoughts. She taps on the back of his age-spot-riddled hand and says, Hey you, still in there?

Mm, he sighs, and runs his spoon through his soup again, picking out the chicken and carrots, ignoring the celery and mushrooms. John knew to make the soup without these offensive vegetables. John knew everything. 

Uncle Sherlock, she says, would you like something else? They have a lovely apple crumble here, I had it last time.

He swirls his spoon in the soup until he finds the last of the chicken, and eats it, then he wipes his mouth with his soggy paper napkin and puts it back on his lap.

Yes, he says. I'd like a very big piece of that chocolate torte on the counter, with whipped cream.

Good, she says, You need a bit of fattening up, and at those words Sherlock stops breathing, feels his eyes well up again. God, when did he become such a sentimental old fool?

He eats all of the torte, hopes John is watching.

 

...

 

He follows her around the tiny grocer's shop, letting her pick out canned soup and tuna and cat food. She puts a few apples in a brown paper bag and folds the top over, and selects three almost-ripe bananas, too. She knows which brand of tea to buy, and full-fat milk instead of reduced-fat, and the thickly sliced brown bread that he eats slathered with real butter. She asks if he needs shampoo, or anything like that, and he says he doesn't know, so she buys a small travel-sized bottle just in case, and some toilet roll, and when they check out she doesn't say anything about the bars of Dairy Milk that he tosses in the cart.

 

 

The last stop is the cemetery, set on the crest of a hill near the local church. They had never gone to the church, neither of them believers in gods or external salvation, but it's a part of the rest of his life now, and one that he resents. They had talked about this, about the concept of a final resting place. Sherlock had wondered if John might prefer to be near his parents and Harry, but John said no, he wanted to be near Sherlock, that he'd be more than fine staying in the back garden, if it were legal.

He walks up the hill now, Molly's granddaughter staying behind in her small box of a car. He's not sure why he comes. He doesn't feel close to John here. He has a hard time imagining that he is really there, so close, just six feet away. He feels closest to John when he's home, where he can still see and smell the proof that he had once lived. That he had been.

The cenotaph is roughhewn stone from a nearby quarry, warm in hue, interesting only for its angles and edges. Carved across the front it says, simply, John Hamish Watson, and below that, 1971-2056. All the other epitaphs, beloved, loving, forever, always, everlasting, all the words, the living words, exist in the space between the two of them, and not for those who might come and see them etched into cold stone.

Sherlock doesn't fall into dramatics when he visits this place. He does not throw himself down on the grass, he does not beat his fists against the headstone, or pull his hair. He does not cry. He stands in quiet reflection, trying to understand how any of this is possible, and before he walks back to the car he says, John, I can't. I have no more miracles. It's your turn now. Come back for me.

 

 

Back at the house she makes him a cup of tea and sets him up at the kitchen table with his newspaper, and then she says she's going to change the rain-soaked sheets and do some laundry, and to call out if he needs anything. He needs so much, he thinks, all of it impossible, but he doesn't tell her this. She disappears upstairs to deal with the linens and he stares at the newspaper, and stares at the table, and stares at his cup. 

In the days just after, after it was over, Sherlock broke a lot of teacups and mugs. He kept making two cups of tea, out of habit, and then he'd remember, and he'd throw the extra cup, hard, shattering it against the counter or floor. He would retreat, leave the other one to cool, untouched. Now he takes a small sip and hums. She's made a decent cup of tea.

When she goes, hours later, she reminds him that her mom will come on Wednesday, and asks if he wants her to write it down. He thinks he'll remember, but later he sees that she's left a note for him on the refrigerator, under the Buddha magnet that says We Are What We Think.

Mom will come on Wednesday at 10 am
There's tuna salad and roast chicken in the refrigerator
Feed Cat!
I love you!

 

 

He falls asleep on the sofa again, still dressed and with the additional layers of John's old peacoat and fuzzy knit cap. Cat curls up on his belly, and he lets her stay. The fireplace is a study in orange and red and ash-grey on black, glowing embers slowly dying. Soon it will go cold, but he has remembered to turn on the heating system, just in case the temperature dips low overnight. 

That night John comes, and Sherlock is sure that this time it isn't a dream. John kneels beside him and strokes his hair and face until he wakes up.

Oh John, Sherlock says, look at you ... you're so young!

John smiles, and nods, and says that Sherlock will be, too, when it's time.

Sherlock wants to know when, reaches for John, begs for it to be soon.

John joins him on the sofa, presses up to him as close as he can, kisses his lips. It's not mine to do, Sherlock, but I know it will be soon. I hate how much you miss me, love, he says, and Sherlock cries and cannot talk for long minutes.

John holds him so close and says Please, love, please. I can't stay long. Please, Sherlock, don't.

Sherlock rubs his gnarled knuckles across his eyes, opens them, focuses hard on John. You're so beautiful, he says, you always were, but now, now you're quite lucent, John.

John laughs and kisses him again, and tells Sherlock how good it's going to be, how he can't wait for them to be together again.

What will we do, Sherlock asks, and John says that they'll do anything they want.

Will I have to check in or something, Sherlock wants to know, and John laughs, head thrown back, he positively roars, and he says No, Sherlock, it's not a hotel, you don't have to check in.

Who else will be there?

Those you've loved, those who loved you.

Will we have to come back, do this again, or will we just be like … that … forever?

Only those who believe they are unfinished go back, love, John whispers.They go back until they're done.

Done with what?

Whatever it is they need to do to be complete.

Well then, Sherlock, sighs, relieved, we won't have to come back. We were replete, you and I, you were the absolute culmination of me.

You're a sentimental old fool, John says, and he kisses him again, and Sherlock wraps his hand around John's wrist and says that it was John who made him that way.

John burrows his head into Sherlock's neck and tells him to go back to sleep, so Sherlock does, warm in John's presence, at peace for the moment, clinging to something that will be a memory in the morning.

 

 

Sherlock spends the next several days putting his affairs in order. John said it would be soon, and Sherlock feels a renewed energy toward dying. He empties out drawers and closets and cabinets and sorts through the clutter, tossing all manner of the unnecessary into plastic bags that he then ties closed and stacks near the already full bin on the side of the house. His shoulders and back are sore and tight and tired, but he hasn't felt this kind of burn in too long a time, so he revels in it, pushing himself to do more. He doesn't waste time reminiscing. He is efficient and ruthless, only keeping those things that he thinks may be interesting, or useful, to someone else.

He keeps his case journals, all of their books, and all of the first editions that John wrote and published about them, about the Work. He keeps his compositions, their photographs and love letters, and most of the acquired artefacts of their life together. He keeps the skull. He keeps all of their legal documents, including the deeds to this home and Baker Street, John's book contracts, the marriage certificate, and finally, his last will and testament, which he places on top of everything else.

When he is done he has found seven more teacup roses, tiny in their dry, fragile clusters. He keeps those, too, in a tin with all the others John had given him.

 

 

Molly's daughter comes Wednesday morning, just like the note says. She gives Sherlock a big hug and kisses him on his withered cheek, then pushes past him and goes to the kitchen to make a pot of tea. She does not mention or seem to notice that Sherlock is wearing John's knit hat and matching scarf inside the house.

They have known each other for decades, since she was a newborn curled at Molly's breast in the maternity ward at St Bart's. She is older now than he was when he first met John, older than he was when John came to his bed, older than he was when John put a ring on his finger. He tugs the looped scarf tighter around his neck and wonders, not for the first time, how the space-time continuum managed to warp itself so much to his disadvantage.

She asks if everything went well on Saturday, and he says yes, that he had an exemplary chocolate torte at the café, and that he now has more clean laundry than he'll ever be able to wear before John comes back. She raises an eyebrow at this, and he observes, because at least he can still do that, that she wonders if he is losing his mind. He explains what John said, that it will be soon, that they will be together again, that they will be, and that chances are good they will not have to come back.

Sherlock, she says, having long ago given up the Uncle title, I have no doubt that you will be with him again. No one who ever had the privilege of knowing the two of you could ever doubt that. And when you see him, she continues, I want you to hug him as hard as you can for me, and tell him how much I miss him. Will you do that?

He pats her hand and nods and says of course, but you can tell him yourself, because I'm pretty sure he knows what's going on around here. She smiles and wraps her fingers around his, and they sip their tea.

She asks why the cottage looks so clean, and he explains about the decluttering job he's done, that he wants to make it easier for everyone when he's gone, and he talks at length about what he is leaving and why. She listens intently, and he can tell that she is truly paying attention, that she is not humouring him, that she and her daughter and mother will take care of everything when the time comes. She promises that she will take excellent care of Cat. She is the closest to a daughter, to a child, that he and John could have hoped for, had they hoped.

 

 

John had not been sick long. The first indication came with the results of routine blood work, and the rest spiralled from there. The prognosis had fallen out of the oncologist's mouth like bricks, landing heavily around them, vibrating through gut and heart and throat. John had been stoic, had listened calmly to his treatment options, then had reached over and grabbed Sherlock's hand and looked at him, not the doctor, when he said, Thank you, we'll discuss this at home and let you know how we wish to proceed. Sherlock had remained seated while John stood up and shrugged on his coat, had remained seated while John stood behind him with one hand on his shoulder and said Sherlock? I want to go home.

Sherlock had been so sure he'd be first. He most selfishly had wanted to go first.

The conversation about treatment options was relatively short. John was stage four, inoperable, and they could only hope to stall the inevitable for a few months, maybe a year. The radiation and chemotherapy would diminish his quality of life, make him sick, and weak, and unhappy.

I'll go with you, Sherlock answered.

Sherlock, my love, I know you would go with me, but even having you next to me, right by my side during the treatments, won't change the side effects or the outcome.

John hadn't understood. It wasn't what he had meant. No, he explained, I mean, I'll go with you. When it's time.

John had cried then, had held Sherlock in his arms and kissed his head and cried into his hair. No, you beautiful, beautiful man, you will not. No. You will stay here and live the rest of your life, and you'll take care of my fucking garden for me, and Cat.

Sherlock cursed the garden, said it could rot in hell for all he cared, said the house could burn down and take half of England with it, but he wasn't going to stay, not without John. They fought about it for days, until Sherlock said that he didn't need John's permission, that he would do it as soon after as he could.

And John had stared him down and said, Listen to me, you infuriating git, listen to me right now, because I'm only going to say this once. I am dying, but you are killing me. Stop. Can you do that, for me, please?

So Sherlock stopped.

The world shrunk down into smaller and smaller circles after that, limited to the house and gardens and field, the two of them and Cat and brief visits from old friends. And then it was just the two of them, and Cat, but John never left the house anymore, and eventually it was just the two of them, upstairs, in bed, Sherlock making trips up and down the stairs with tea and soup and toast, and in and out of the bathroom with warm, soapy washcloths, and the bedpan, and whatever else the visiting hospice worker suggested might make John more comfortable, ice cubes and candied ginger and herbal tea and morphine. A lot of morphine.

 

 

On the last morning John told Sherlock that it was going to be soon, and so Sherlock crawled into bed and pulled John close, and John laughed, a soft, hoarse type of laugh, and said, well maybe not in the next few minutes, and Sherlock told him to shut up, that it wasn't funny.

Sherlock talked to John all day, telling him their story from the very beginning, starting with the St Bart's introduction. He talked through the first cases, and Moriarty, and the jump, and Magnussen, and Mary. He story-told their biggest New Scotland Yard cases, and beamed with pride when he recounted the international syndication of John's blog. He spent a long time on what he had come to think of as John's courtship, and the first kiss, and the first everything. John smiled and corrected him from time to time, his voice growing sleepy and quiet as the day wore on.

At dusk Sherlock closed the curtains and turned on a small bedside lamp, and put two extra blankets on the bed, because John, so small, already almost gone, was shivering uncontrollably. He added his own warmth to the bed, close at John's side, gently pulled his husband to lie against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around his back and shoulders. Still, he talked, and John, slipping further and further away, murmured his acknowledgment here and there, and nodded his head an inch or two every now and then.

Sherlock, fearing he was out of time, jumped years and years ahead to this, their cottage, their respite, their end. Sherlock took a deep breath and paused, stopped his train of thought, put it aside, and told him the only thing worth telling at this place in their story.

John, he whispered against his husband's forehead, John. I love you more than words allow. I did not exist before you.

Always yours, John sighed. Won't change, love. So grateful. So very grateful. Not the end, Sherlock. Not our end.

Sherlock shifted John and put two fingertips under his chin, angling John up as he leaned down. He kissed him, anointed his forehead and eyelids and nose, his cheeks, his temples, and then once, twice, three times, his lips.

John smiled into the blessing, breathed out, Thank you love, so good to me. Such an incredible honour. They were his last words.

Sherlock held John well into the night, listening to his breathing grow more laboured, more erratic. His heart rate against Sherlock's chest was faint, a broken bird's wing, and with each fading beat Sherlock's own heart broke a little more.

Being strong for John was the hardest thing he had ever done.

It was not the lack of breathing that told Sherlock that John was gone. It was the fierce, hot sensation that moved straight through him, flooding his chest and heart and lungs. Sherlock knew without ever having considered the possibility that John had flown through Sherlock, had left a piece of himself behind in what remained of the widowed man. It would comfort him from time to time in the upcoming months, but not then. Then, Sherlock hugged John's body to him as hard as he could, and wailed, please no.

 

 

Molly's granddaughter comes again, and then Molly's daughter, and Molly, and the cycle repeats until another two months and a week has passed.

Sherlock busies himself with the garden, and as it gets warmer he cuts sprigs from the rose bushes and brings them inside. He does not put them in vases with water. He sets them on the left side of the sofa, or on the seat of John's chair, or in the refrigerator, or in the pocket of John's dressing gown, still hanging on the closet door. He wants them in the ordinary places where John would have looked and stood and worked, he wants to see them in the John places.

He misses John so much. It is shocking how heavy the weight of it is, how the grief is a living beast inside him, squeezing his lungs and pushing against his ribs and twisting his stomach. He knows he will not live long enough to see it diminished, he knows that it will only leave him when he is reunited with what he has lost.

 

 

The next time John comes it is through a dream. They are flatmates but not yet together, tightly wound, buzzing with adrenaline and the satisfaction of a narrow escape and a criminal well-caught. The details of the case make no sense, and the flat they return to does not look like 221b, the dream altering details of time and place and memory. What is entirely accurate is the tension between them, the spark and pull. The lure. Sherlock relives the wonder of being wanted that badly, of being deemed so worthy, of being the object of such desire. It is beyond heady. They cannot look away from each other, cannot move apart. They are standing so close, breathing so hard, and then John licks his lips and stares at Sherlock's mouth and says, soon, Sherlock, so soon now.

 

 

Sherlock hates not knowing. He wants a day to mark on the calendar, a large, black X in a small, white square, an end point to move toward. To move toward dying. He has always been impatient, so he is not surprised that this remains unchanged, even when the goal is to cease existing in the world as he knows it.

He promised John he would not force it, so he eats, and drinks, and lets Molly's family take care of him. He sleeps, learns to take advantage of that escape, and he waits.

John said soon, and Sherlock believes in John.

 

 

You can't will yourself to die, Sherlock, Molly's daughter says to him as she stirs milk and sugar into her tea.

Can't I, though?

 

 

Sherlock wakes at dawn, wakes to the sound of Cat howling at him. He tsks at her and checks that she still has food and water in her bowls, but she doesn't stop, so he goes to the front door, thinking maybe she wants to go outside. He calls to her, come Cat, come, but she will not move from the sofa.

He steps outside, barefoot, and wiggles his toes in the damp grass. The sun is only just up, but it's a gentle kindness on his skin, and he closes his eyes and raises his face to the sky.

Hello, gorgeous, John says, and Sherlock smiles, realizes he is still asleep, dreaming. He turns toward the voice and there's John standing a few feet away, inspecting his rose bushes, grinning like an idiot. His idiot. You are so beautiful, John says, and Sherlock laughs and takes a step closer to him.

No, you're the beautiful one, John, it was always you.

John's eyes are the blue of a rare Kashmir sapphire, but no gem on earth shines the way John's eyes do right now. His face is full and bright and smooth, and his mouth looks like it has never done anything but smile, smile and kiss Sherlock. John's shoulders are broad and unbowed, and he stands straight and sure on strong, steady legs. Sherlock joins him at the roses, reaches to run his hands down John's arms, touching firm flesh, rounded muscle, and John catches his hand and raises it to his mouth and kisses it, palm and knuckles and fingertips. Sherlock watches John's mouth until John stops and smiles at him expectantly.

Sherlock, John says, look. Look at your hands.

Sherlock's skin is creamy pale and unblemished, his fingers slender and straight, his nails glossy with health. The backs of his hands are smooth, the roadmap of veins almost invisible. Sherlock lets this register, then raises one hand to his hair and feels how thick and full it is, how soft, how the curls spring back when he tugs at them. When he touches his face he feels unlined skin around his eyes, and firm cheeks, and plump, moist lips.

He stares at John while his fingers wander down his neck, his chest, his abdomen.

John?

Yes, love?

What colour is my hair?

It's the darkest of browns, Sherlock.

John?

Yes.

Has it happened?

John laughs, takes Sherlock's face in his hands, and kisses him, soft and warm and long, oh, so long.

Yes, love, it has.

You've come for me?

I have.

Sherlock feels a brightness swell up inside of him, spill out of him, feels it expand, touch everything, everywhere. John nods, radiates his own profound light, and Sherlock feels it surge through him, a vibrant energy that he wants to define as love, or exaltation, or power, but he has no vocabulary for this.

Rapture, John says. It's your rapture, and mine.

Sherlock rolls the word around in his mind. Ecstatic joy or delight; joyful ecstasy; the carrying of a person to another place or sphere of existence. He holds his hands out in front of him again, spellbound.

We are as we were, Sherlock, when we were most alive, and then even more so.

Sherlock doesn't need to deduce this. It comes to him whole. I was most alive in the moment I knew you loved me back, when our yearning for each other was recognized in the other, and requited.

John shines outward in acknowledgement, and it touches Sherlock, caresses him as if John had actually taken him in his arms. John takes his hand, leads him toward the front gate. Sherlock turns to look at their home, says, What about Cat?

John smiles and strokes Sherlock's cheek. I've let Molly know. She'll come soon.

Molly? How?

I sent her a thought, like planting a seed. She won't know where it came from, but the thought will grow. Molly will have an undeniable urge to come check up on you, right away.

She'll call it intuition, Sherlock adds. You intuited it to her.

Makes you wonder, doesn't it?

Sherlock turns back to John and reaches for him, and John wraps him up in his arms and holds tight. He can feel John incarnate, warm and solid, but he can feel so much more than that, too. They are absorbing each other, meshing, a complex dynamic of combined psyche and spirit.

John, Sherlock asks, is it like this for everyone?

My understanding, John answers, is that everyone perceives it differently, based on what they believed in life. We believed in this, we believed that we would be reunited. That was our faith, our dogma.

And for others who have different belief systems?

Others believe in reincarnation, or heaven and hell, or a communal spiritual energy, or, I don't know, nothing at all, so that's what they find on this side.

Grand-mére, Sherlock reflects. Grand-mére believed in the twelve gates of pearl, and the throne of God, and the chanting of holy angels.

Then that's what she has, now. That's where she is.

But what if she believed she'd see me again, too. Would she be here, or there?

She exists in infinite parallels, Sherlock, and so do we. She has you next to her, right now, at the seat of her God. Your parents have you in their afterlife, as does Mycroft, and the others you've loved, or been loved by.

I'm pretty sure Mycroft believed in nothing, Sherlock muses.

Well, then he exists for everyone else, but not himself, John laughs, which seems to be how he lived his life, doesn't it?

And if I want to see them, too? Grand-mére? My parents? Mycroft? What about ... but he does not finish the thought, because it seems so foolish, so silly.

Yes, love, John answers, Redbeard, too. You'll see them soon. But for now, in the beginning, it's just us, yeah?

Sherlock readily accepts this. His life still clings, his grief like a shadow behind him, but having John again is so many dreams come true. He just wants to be. Be with John. One last question takes shape, swirls in his thoughts.

Say it, John says. I can hear your thoughts, but I want to hear your voice.

John, our belief in each other, we expressed that in many ways, didn't we? In the ways we saved each other, defended and protected each other? We may not have always had the words, John, but we showed each other, best we could, all that we held true, didn't we?

With our actions?

And more.

With our bodies?

With our bodies.

Are you asking if we can have that here, too?

Sherlock nods and runs his fingers up John's back and into his hair, nuzzles against John's temple and ear. I've missed you so much, he whispers, in so many ways. He kisses John's mouth, lower lip, upper lip, kisses his mouth open, and he smiles into it when John's thought comes to his own mind, unbidden, God, your mouth, Sherlock. Yes, we can have that here, too.

John takes Sherlock's face in his hands and holds him still and steady before he speaks. His next three words rush over Sherlock from all directions, sealing the reality of this new existence, so that there is no doubt, none whatsoever.

Welcome home, Sherlock.

 

 

The room is bright and airy, open windows, light breezes, warmth, sunshine. He smells baking and tea, chemistry and science, grass and teacup roses, and John, John falling asleep, and wrapped around him, and waking him up in the middle of the night. He hears the fluttering of leaves, and the buzz of honeybees, and the calling of birds. He hears John breathing. There is ancient wallpaper on the walls, and specks of dust slowly drifting in shafts of light. There are two armchairs, and a Belstaff and a cardigan, and there is a bed, piled high with white linens, centered in the middle of the room, on a bare hardwood floor.

There are doors scattered along the walls, doors that come and go, a different configuration every time he looks. They are each unique in size and colour and shape, but light shines through each of their keyholes and from under their thresholds. Gold, silver, white, some dim, some bright, all glowing. He looks at John, questioning, silent.

John shakes his head. I don't know, either. We'll figure it out.

You haven't been here yet?

This didn't exist until you came. It couldn't have existed without both of us.

This is our heart, Sherlock thinks, our core. We start here, and we'll return here. The doors lead to where we came from, where we're going. Always changing and presenting different choices, depending on what we do.

John looks up at him, praise and recognition in his smile. God, I missed that, how ridiculously smart you are.

They climb onto the bed, and for now, what lies beyond is forgotten, eternity holding the unknown until they're ready. The bed encircles them, enshrines them, and they reach for each other the way they have ten thousand times before. Sherlock feels John's hips and abdomen and thighs pressing solidly against him, warm skin on warm skin. John's muscles move against his own, the rough and soft and sharp and smooth of them fitting together effortlessly, their bodies remembering and acting without thought. 

He flings the duvet back and looks down, taking in their nakedness, relearning their bodies. John is as he was, compact, fit, a contrast of stature and strength. Sherlock burrows his nose into John's neck, his shoulder, his armpit, his navel. His fingers gloss through his hair, trace the shell of his ear, caress his face. He needs to taste him, too, it doesn't matter where, so he lowers his mouth and licks a small circle above his clavicle, sternum, belly, and yes, everything is as it should be, his John, all of him.

Sherlock observes himself, a long, thin stripe of milky paleness, lean and lightly sculpted. He runs his fingers over his own body, over nipples and ribs and hips, down into the line of darkening hair leading to his pelvis. The column of his penis lies on a bed of thick, black hair, the head nudging out of the foreskin, seeking. He runs his fingers up the length of it and startles at how quickly it responds. Oh yes, he is restored.

He looks at John and winks, and John winks back and grins. They laugh then, quietly, with wonder. To have had this once was extraordinary; to have it again is undefinable, inexplicable. He opens his arms in invitation, and when John rolls over, presses down on top of him, Sherlock spreads his legs wide, pulls them back with bent knees, rubs his calves against the backs of John's thighs. He revels in being able to use his body like this again, to let it speak for him, so closely aligned with his mind, which is chanting beloved, loving, forever, always, everlasting.

He flattens his palms over John's hips, rubs his thumbs into the dimples on either side of his spine, sweeps his hands down, down, until he can cup and tug. John sighs and dips into a kiss, one hand holding Sherlock's jaw, his thumb gently stroking into the hollow under a cheekbone as his hips begin to circle in their own rhythm. Sherlock sweeps his hands up John's back, kneads his shoulders, combs through his hair, and then he frames John's precious skull between those hands, pulls him back until their eyes meet and lock. Whatever is beyond this cannot compare to what exists in the infinitesimal space between them, in the faith and grace in John's eyes.

John, Sherlock whispers, my John, now you come home to me, and John bows his head with reverence, kisses the spot directly over Sherlock's heart, and comes home, home to Sherlock.