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what happens when the heart just stops

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Sherlock sat awkwardly in the conference room, in a suit that John had bought him years earlier. Of course he would wear this suit, it was his last attempt to make his husband, soon to be ex-husband, think about the decision that he was about to go through with.

He looked at John who sat across from him. John was wearing that dark grey suit, with shoes that didn’t quite go with the outfit.
For the first time in his life Sherlock Holmes had only one thing going through his head, and that was how absolutely beautiful John looked in that suit.

Sherlock had never thought that he would be able to love anyone so much as he did Dr. John Watson. He would always love the man who took his socks and shoes off and walk around on the carpet floor after a long day at the Clinic. The man who didn’t take any sugar in his tea or coffee, and the man who always gave him a small squeeze on both shoulders if he had gotten up before John and was at the kitchen table bent over an experiment.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked down at the mahogany table, everyone was looking at him. He looked up and directly into John’s eyes.
“John, if this is what you want, honestly. I will sign these papers for you, we can end this right now. There will be no need for the lawyers or foolishness.” He paused. “Do you want this?”

John was silent for what felt like a thousand years, the ex-army doctor looked down at the table and then very slowly back up to lock eyes with the consulting detective.

“Yes.”

Chapter Text

Benedict-Cumberbatch-benedict-cumberbatch-30757649-500-500

Twenty-Four years earlier.

Sherlock sat on the beach just half a kilometre away from the Holmes's holiday cottage in North Devon. He wrapped himself in a blanket from the house. A blanket from his bed. He looked out onto the Channel, watching the water slowly rise and fall against the beach, only a few feet away from him. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
He couldn't stand his mother. She had invited both he, and his brother to the cottage for a weekend. They had both discussed the invitation, and had accepted it. Sherlock had hoped that things would be different this weekend. The boy was brilliant beyond his years; he could tell what his classmates had been up to the night before, who they had been shagging and where, but he still clung to the notion that his mother was going to treat him with the respect that he deserved.

She hadn't.

Mycroft stopped a foot behind his younger brother, a scotch glass in his hand. It was filled with a ounce of Dalmore 62 single Highland malt scotch. "Only the best for us Holmes's." His father had said as he poured Mycroft his first glass of scotch when he was seventeen.
He had gotten into Oxford. Mr. Holmes felt that his son deserved a congratulatory drink with his father. This was the first time that his father had ever spent more than five minutes with the boy in his seventeen year existence.
He looked at his younger brother for a long moment, and then took a small breath, holding the glass up to his lips and then back down again, without taking a sip. He watched the water splash against the sand, until his brother interrupted his thoughts with the question Mycroft had been searching his brain for the last twenty minutes trying to find the answer.

"Do you think she meant that?"

Mycroft closed the foot between them and stood beside his sitting brother. "You know Mother. I'm positive even she doesn't know if she meant it or not."

Sherlock nodded, that was true, but not the answer he had been looking for.
Mycroft knew this.

"I believe there is at least one person out there for each one of us, Sherlock." Mycroft said as he sat down on the sand. Deciding that he didn't care too much about the pair of khaki coloured chinos he was wearing.

Sherlock continued to stare out at the water. He was silent for a few minutes, listening to the water, and to the soft slurping noise his brother made each time he took a sip of the scotch. "I hope you're right, Mycroft. I do worry. I'm not liked at School."

Mycroft nodded, he understood. "The person who ends up loving you, Sherlock, will be the strongest person you will ever know." He looked at his brother. "I am sure of that."

Sixteen years later, the two brothers would have a similar conversation outside of St. Bart's Hospital Morgue. Sherlock would point out a grieving family and say, "Look at them. They all care so much." He would pause for a moment then ask, "Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"
Mycroft would answer, "All lives end. All hearts are broken." He would look at his younger brother. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."
Sherlock would change the topic with a comment on the cigarette his brother had just given him.

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0006

Nine years earlier
2011

John was lying to him. Lying to keep his emotions from being hurt, or at least that was what John thought he was doing. Telling him that Irene Adler was in America, witness protection. Surely that was Mycroft's solution. John was simply going along with it because he didn't want Sherlock to think she was dead. He didn't want Sherlock to react the way he had before, when Irene had faked her death the first time. Sherlock felt...relieved that John was doing that. Grateful. It showed just how much John cared for him.

Love, sentiment. Things John thought Sherlock didn't understand, but oh! did he understand them. He sometimes wished that he didn't. It would have made his younger years bearable, his university years tolerable. But, the great Sherlock Holmes felt. He cared for those around him, though he, most of the time, was rubbish at showing it.
There were times when He thought he was being illusive with his emotions, but that was when they were on display the most.
Complaining, when he thought he was simply telling Molly that John was going away for Christmas. Kicking John out of his bedroom on Christmas Eve, when he thought that Irene Adler was dead; or simply saying "Happy New Year, John." When his flat mate brought up the fact that Adler was alive.

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, hand outstretched. "There's nothing on it anymore, it's been stripped."

"I know, but I... I'll still have it." He wasn't looking at John, again trying to make it seem like he didn't care, though his body language and the way he paused screamed that he cared.

"I've got to give this back to Mycroft, you can't keep it." Sherlock didn't reply, he simply moved his hand closer to John. "Sherlock, I have to give this to Mycroft. It's the government's now... I couldn't give it..."

"Please." He stretched his hand closer. John carefully placed the camera phone in his hands. Sherlock moved slightly to place the phone in his trouser pocket. "Thank you."

"I better take this back."

"Yes."

John walked out of the room, and back in. "Did she ever text you again? After... all that."

"Once a few months ago." Sherlock replied, still looking into the microscope.

"What'd she say?"

"Goodbye Mr. Holmes."

John tried to come up with something to say, but he couldn't. He simply left. Sherlock watched him, though it looked like he was still concentrating on the microscope.
Her heart. Adler's heart. Both men knew the significance of the phone. John had never been told it, like Sherlock had, but he wasn't an idiot. He could determine that the woman cared deeply for her phone, that her whole life was on that phone. She had, after all, gone to John to get the phone back when Sherlock thought she was dead. The way Sherlock had protected it, after the incident with Mrs. Hudson. John knew. He suspected why Sherlock wanted it back.

Sherlock waited until John was out of the room to take the phone out. He was at the window, thinking about how she was still out there. This was her phone, and it represented her. It was her heart. She had loved him. She had admired him. He had admired her. She was, after all, the woman who had beaten him. Not just literally. He would keep it safe. He wouldn't take it out and look at it, as some people did when they kept items for sentimental reasons. He would simply just keep it. He would always know where it was, and that it was safe.

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Five years later.
January 15, 2016

John was going through Sherlock's desk. Sherlock was sitting in his regular spot, simply strumming the strings on his violin. He was allowing John to go through his things because he didn't feel the rush to find the paper, that John was feeling.
He heard the shuffling of papers, and drawers opening stop. He didn't look up, or look over at John. If his husband wanted to show him something, he would do so.

"I see you've kept Irene Adler's phone." John's voice said, a little surprised.

Sherlock simply made a "mmm" sound.

John turned to look at Sherlock. Sherlock did not move. "After all these years?" John asked.

Sherlock turned and looked at John. "Is that a problem?"

John looked down at the phone. He hadn't found the phone when he had been going through Sherlock's items when he had thought Sherlock was dead. Five years earlier. "Did you have it with you for those three years?" He asked ignoring Sherlock's own question.

Sherlock shook his head. "I did not. I knew it was safe, here."

John nodded simply. He was silent for a few moments, and Sherlock knew that he was trying to come up with a suitable question to ask so that he got the answer he was looking for from his husband. "Why?" He ended up asking.

Sherlock frowned for a moment, and then relaxed his face. "Sentiment I suppose. The same reason why I keep my mothers pearl necklace, despite the fact that I will never wear it." He hoped that answer would suffice, though he knew it wouldn't.

"So you loved her." John asked.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Love is not the word I would use. Admired." Sherlock rested his violin on his shoulder, moving his chin to the piece and picking up his bow. "I never felt anything towards Miss. Adler, as I do towards you. I love you. Therefore I would not use that word to describe the reason behind my keeping her phone." He moved his head from the violin to look at John. "Will that answer suffice?"

It would.

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ijOxr

Five years Earlier.

It was only a small affair. Nothing too upscale. That wasn't how Sherlock or John wanted things to be. They wanted to have a relaxing time. Just a few friends; well John wanted that, if it had been up to Sherlock the two would have gone back to 221b and gone straight into their next case. John had insisted though, and despite the fact that Sherlock had originally protested to the idea of some sort of reception, he was enjoying himself.
He had also only ever seen John laugh like that a few times in the years he had known John.

He watched his new husband from across the table. Lestrade, and Molly were on either side of Sherlock; Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson were sitting beside John. They had of course invited Harriet and Clara, but Harry was running late, despite the fact that she had been present at the service; and Clara was going back home to be with the children. Sherlock knew that Harry had been keeping her drinking from her partner, and from John, but he now knew when to say things regarding Harry's addiction, and when not to. He also sympathized with her. He had been tempted to fall off his own wagon a few times in the last few years, but he had the thought of John's disappointment to keep him in check. Harry was a weaker soul, and she also didn't realize that she had a good thing while it was still with her.

Sherlock took a sip of the expensive champagne, only the best for his wedding reception. He would only have it that way. He thought about the last few years, how lucky he had been regarding John Watson.
He had disappeared for three years. Three whole years, of trying desperately to stay in line and keep his head focused. That had been the most difficult part about his adventure after his fall. The tracking down Moriarty's players had been the easy part. The leaving John out of it, had been the difficult part. He had struggled with it for three years. Then finally, on May 12th 2014, Sherlock Holmes returned to 221b Baker Street.
Things hadn't changed much, John was of course seeing a woman. Mary Morstan, a beautiful young woman, and John had packed everything of Sherlock's away and put it in Sherlock's old bedroom.
The reunion had been a bit... tumultuous. That of course was to be expected. Sherlock had rang the bell of his old flat, and Mrs. Hudson had opened the door. He had prepared himself for her to have a heart attack, but she (being the incredibly strong woman Sherlock had always known her to be), had pulled him into a hug telling him that she had just about given up hope on him. John, had come home to hear a familiar voice coming from Mrs. Hudson's flat and had knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson had let him in and shown him to the Kitchen, where Sherlock had been sitting at the table. Looking tired, dishevelled, and blonde. He had gotten up to greet John and John had hit him square in the jaw. He had never doubted that during a fit of emotion, John Watson would miss his aim, but he had been hoping. He had nodded, allowing John a bit of space, but John had quickly grabbed him and pulled him into a hug. Telling him over and over again never to do that to him again.
Sherlock, had of course, promised.

He was lucky. Lucky that John hadn't kicked him out of his life for disappearing for three years. Lucky that John, when faced with the confession that Sherlock was in love with him, had broken it off with Mary. Lucky that John had kept his things. Lucky that John hadn't moved out of 221b. He was lucky.

He smiled as John looked at him, nodding a little. The ring on his finger was something he was going to have to get used to, but he could. He would, for John. This was the happiest day of his life. He excused himself from the table, and walked out to the lobby of the Hotel.
He looked out of the window, hearing footsteps behind him.

"Mother would have hated today. She would have complained about everything." Sherlock said as his brother joined him by his side.

"Mother, never knew when to shut up." Mycroft replied, the two brothers silent for a moment, then Mycroft continued. "She would have been happy for you."

Sherlock chuckled a little at that, shaking his head. "She would have been disappointed that I didn't prove her right."

Mycroft looked at his brother. "She would have never said it, but she would have been glad you proved her wrong."

Sherlock didn't chuckle.

"I was right you know."

Sherlock frowned a little.

"I told you that the person who would end up loving you, would be the strongest person you would ever know." Mycroft said softly.

Sherlock continued to look out the window at the rainy London below. A smile crossing his face.

"He is just that, Sherlock. You have picked the bravest, kindest, strongest person I have ever known. I wish you both the greatest of luck, and happiness." Mycroft looked out onto the city.

The two brothers stood there for several minutes in silence, before Sherlock spoke. "You're right." He said, his thank you to his brother.

Mycroft nodded. "You should head back to the party."

Sherlock did, a soft but small smile on his face. He was happy.

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Eight years earlier.

Sherlock shivered under the small sleeping bag he had wrapped around himself. He hadn't been prepared for nights like this. He thought that his time away from London, away from his cases and flat, away from John, that he would be sleeping in hotels around the world. He would be chasing down criminals that all worked for Moriarty. Which he technically still was, he was just in an area that didn't quite have a hotel anywhere near it.
He closed his eyes a little. He was in a bit of pain. There had been an incident with one of the snipers that had cause Sherlock to need a few stitches in his leg. It would heal soon.

Victor turned and looked at Sherlock. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded. "I'll be fine. I'll be fine."

Victor Trevor had been Sherlocks roommate during his few years in Oxford. The two men hadn't stayed in contact much after Sherlock had left Oxford. There was no real point. Sherlock was wrapped up in his addiction, and Victor was wrapped up in studying psychology. They had simply lost contact.
After Sherlock had left London, he had been in Amsterdam and while going through some medical records of one of Moriarty's criminals, he had run into Victor.
Victor had always been accepting of the way Sherlock was, and he noticed that Sherlock was sad, more so than usual at least, and he wanted to find out what had happened to make Sherlock so sad, and scared. It didn't take long for Sherlock to open up to his old friend about John, and Victor had quickly figured out Sherlock's feelings towards this Dr. John Watson. He swore he would be of any help to Sherlock, if Sherlock needed it.
There hadn't been much help in the last six months, but this one. This illusive hit man, Jackson. Finally, after searching and hitting dead ends with his sources, he called in Victor. Who turned out to be more help then Sherlock had ever thought possible. He was so skilled at his profession, that he could almost manipulate people into telling him what he wanted to know.
They had been in England when Victor had gotten it out of his last source where Sherlock would be able to find Jackson. Victor had of course, insisted on coming along. Sherlock, a little lonely (but never willing to admit it), had accepted.

So, the two were in Alberta, Canada in November. Camping. Not the smartest idea that Sherlock had ever had, but he was that much closer to going home. He was closer to seeing his friends. Seeing John.

"Do you ever think about him?" Victor's voice broke the silence of the tent.

Sherlock turned to look at his friend in the sleeping bag next to him. "Who?"

"John."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. He took a deep breath, and nodded. "All the time."

Sherlock could see Victor, out of the corner of his eye, nod a little. He was silent for a moment and then he asked the question that had been playing on Sherlock's mind. "Are you in love with him?"

Sherlock was silent. Victor worried that he had offended his old friend. A friend who during University, had been hated by so many due to his skills. The friend who came off as one of the most arrogent, egotistical men he knew, but who in reality, was kind and caring. The friend who seemed to be doing this more for the people back home, than for himself. Finally, after several long minutes, Sherlock answered. "I want him to be safe. I want to see him happy. I want to return to him. " He was silent again, and Victor knew Sherlock well enough to know that the man wasn't done. "I guess if you were to put a label on my emotions in regards to John Watson, I suppose you could say I am in love with him."

Victor smiled a little to himself. He had never thought that Sherlock Holmes would be the type of man to love anyone. He knew that Sherlock cared for people, he wanted the best for certain people around him, but he would never have thought that Sherlock would be in love with one of them.

"I suppose I am a psychologists dream client." Sherlock said with hint of humour.

Victor laughed a little. "Why do you think that?"

"I have been told all through my life, by my mother and father, that I would never find anyone to be happy with. That I would never find anyone to love. I have been told time and time again that I am a machine, that I do not care for others. I have made it clear to many people that I do not. I pushed away all those who were close to me, for I thought that my mother might be right. I feared it so greatly, that I began to make it happen." Sherlock was speaking as if he was on a regular rant of deduction. He was deducing himself. "It's been almost a year since I faked my death. The people I care about all think I am dead, and I am traveling around the world to ensure that they are safe. I only admit to myself now that I am in love with one of them. Thousands of kilometres away from the man himself. Some psychologists might say that I am only admitting my love for John, while so far away from him, because I still feel that I am not the type of man John, or anyone for that matter, would ever be able to love back." Sherlock fell silent after that.

Victor was astounded. He had never seen Sherlock so open. So willing to share things. He stared up at the ceiling of the green tent that was around them. He was about to say something, comment on how right Sherlock was, and how wrong he was on many other levels. He was interrupted though.

"We have work in the morning. We're close to the cabin. Should only be a hundred or so kilometres away. We should sleep." Sherlock said, as if he hadn't just confessed to Victor all that he had.

Victor coughed a little, nodding. "Right. Of course. Goodnight, Sherlock."

"Goodnight."

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sherlock1_0635

A year later.
2021

 

There was no one for Sherlock.
He had always known that. There had never been anyone, save for a few people who he tried out, but nobody that stuck. Not like John Watson had stuck. Nobody would stick like John Watson.
Sherlock was alone now, and a year after the divorce he was starting to get used to it... again. 
He was accustomed to silence now, he was getting used to the way the flat looked without John, and his belongings. There was no one to complain about his equipment on the kitchen table twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. Nobody was yelling at him for not eating, or sleeping when he was working.

John Watson had been the only person who Sherlock had allowed into his life, willingly letting him take over his flat, his health. John Watson would always be the only person that Sherlock let into his life in a romantic and sexual nature. 
He had several opportunities in University, but sex and love had never been something of interest to Sherlock Holmes. He had been lonely, yes, loneliness was something most human beings shared. Though, Sherlock didn’t acknowledge his emotions, despite the fact that he felt them.

Now, after eight years of having a companion, and for six of those years a husband, he was alone again. 
He sat at the kitchen table, all his instruments sitting around him in a cluttered and neat mess. He had a few neat stacks of books, one of them had a open book perched on it. He read a few lines, and then looked at his microscope. 
His phone buzzed with a text message.

“John. Can you pass me my phone?” He asked out loud.

Nobody answered.

Sherlock continued to look at the book and back to the microscope. This experiment was not working out. 
Footsteps on the stairs indicated Mrs. Hudson was coming up for a visit, something she should be doing less of since she was getting older, and her hip had been acting up lately. Sherlock didn’t address this though.
She walked into the kitchen and smiled a little.

“Morning, Sherlock dear.” She greeted him, walking tenderly to the kettle and pouring in new water, setting it back on the stand and clicking the button to make it boil.

buzz.

Mrs. Hudson walked to the phone and looked at the screen. “It’s your phone.” She said, walking the few steps to Sherlock in his chair and holding it out for him.

He looked up and at his aging land lady. “Ah, yes. I had asked...” He stopped, nodding. “Thank you.” He said, a wave of sadness flowing across his face for a second before disappearing. He looked at his phone.

Two murder victims.
Possible murder-suicide.
Montague Place Hotel.
Can I count on you?
Lestrade.

Yes. Will leave soon.
Try to keep your lackeys away from the bodies and rooms.
SH

Sherlock stood up, and walked into the sitting room. He barely went in there, unless he had to. It was rather empty since John had taken most of the things. He grabbed his coat from off the couch and smiled at Mrs. Hudson.

“It’s good to see you smile.” She said to him.

He nodded, “Hmm. Yes. Murder suicide always cheers me up.”

She laughed a little as he went to her and kissed her on the cheek. “You don’t have to worry about cleaning anything, everything is in it’s right space.” He said with a forced smile, and she nodded.

Sherlock Holmes left 221b Baker Street and hailed a cab. He got in, wrapping his coat around him tighter as he told the driver the address.
This was his life now. Same as usual. Just minus one Ex-Army Doctor.

Chapter Text

Seven years earlier.
March 2013.

John walked down Baker Street in the dark. It was almost past midnight, and yet the city still seemed so alive. That was one of his favorite parts about living in London. It wasn’t until three or four in the morning when people started leaving the clubs, going home to their beds. New York was the city that never slept, but London was British. They knew they needed sleep.

John was coming home from the clinic. He had finally gotten back to work almost four months after Sherlock’s death. Four months spent searching. He finally gave up though, in Paris. He wasn’t as talented as Sherlock, and with a visit from Molly Hooper he finally admitted to himself that his best friend, Sherlock Holmes was dead. He had needed to give up the search. So, he had gone back to the flat. He left things exactly as they were, just as he left all of the money Sherlock had left to him in his will in the bank. He still had a ounce of hope that one day, Sherlock Holmes would return. There was just no possible way that Sherlock could give up like that, that easy.

He unlocked the black door, and up the first few steps towards his flat. Mrs. Hudson was usually asleep by this time, so he tried to be as quiet as he could be. The stairs always creaked though in the same spot, and just as he normally did when he got in late he made a small face and a silent apology to Mrs. Hudson.

John took off his coat and hung it on the coat stand. He put the kettle on and walked into the living room, sitting down and kicking off his shoes. 
He looked around, the skull was there still on the wall wearing headphones, the books were all there in their proper places (or at least in the places that Sherlock had left them). Everything was the same. Except one thing.

The kettle popped and he pushed himself out of the chair, he stopped when he saw someone in the kitchen. A small smile appearing on his lips. Walking to her and wrapping his arms around her waist, and resting his chin on her shoulder.
“Did I wake you?

Mary smiled a small smile and shook her head, leaning her head against John’s head. “No, I was up reading.”

He let go of her waist and nodded. “I’m glad. I hate waking you up. I hate these late shifts, have I apologized enough for them?” He asked, a playful smile playing on his lips as he looked at her, as he got the teapot out of it’s hiding place behind one of Sherlock’s microscopes.

She looked at him and laughed a little. “Yes, you have. I have told you, you don’t need to apologize. We have the weekends together, and two days with you is better than no days.”

He nodded, as he began to make the tea.

She watched him for a moment and then took a deep breath. Everything was left the way it had been when Sherlock had been living there. She had only met Sherlock once, two years earlier. Her father had gone missing, and she had been receiving mysterious letters and gifts from someone who told her they knew her father. Sherlock had found out who the men were, and that her father was dead. That was how she had met John. The two had flirted, though she had never expected to see him again. 
She knew he still mourned Sherlock, it had been obvious to her when she had first met the duo that they were best friends. Brothers even. But, she had never expected to see the flat looking exactly the same as she had first seen it. She loved John, but she hated that she was living in Sherlock’s shadow. She would always live in Sherlock’s shadow.

John looked at Mary. “Mary?” He asked again, holding out the teacup for her to take.

She shook out of her thoughts, looking at the cup and smiling at him as she took it. “Thanks, babe.” She said with a weak smile.
He looked at her for a moment, taking a sip of his tea and then frowning. “Are you okay?”

She nodded. “Yes. I’m going to bed.” She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips.

He kissed her back. “Goodnight, love you.”

“Goodnight.”

Mary walked back to the bedroom they shared, yet was still his. She still had her own flat, despite the fact that she was sleeping at Baker Street most nights.
She knew that John didn’t love her. She knew that he loved Sherlock Holmes. That he would always carry a special place for the man in his heart. Unlike John though, Mary knew that Sherlock was dead. She knew that there would never be a day when Sherlock would come knocking at the door of his old flat and be happy to see that all of his belongings had gone untouched. She knew this all, and still she was prepared to wait. Wait for the day when John Watson dedicated his whole heart to her. She would wait, just as John was waiting for Sherlock to return. Both prepared to wait a lifetime.

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marple_2i

Twenty-one years earlier.

Sherlock walked along the path away from the Church. His favorite Aunt walking beside him. Ruth had always been lovely to Sherlock. Treating him like a human being, when his mother, her sister, was so hard on him. 
He was only twenty-three years old. Recently out of rehab, though his family was keeping that hush-hush in case it might destroy the special occasion. That was why he was here, fresh out of rehab, back in Devon with his Aunt Ruth, walking away from a church.
Mycroft was supposed to be getting married tomorrow. Tonight had been the rehearsal dinner; and it had gone quite unexpectedly. To everyone, but Sherlock.

“Do try and behave yourself tonight, Sherlock.” Mycroft had told him as he tightened his younger brother’s tie.

“Don’t I always?” Sherlock asked annoyed, and pulling away from Mycroft. He really did hate wearing ties. If it was up to him, and it most certainly was not he had been reminded by his mother, he wouldn’t be wearing a tie at all.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a look that told him he didn’t appreciate the joke, before turning and looking in the full length mirror.

Sherlock nodded. “Anything you want brother, on the night before your big day.” He said with a pat on the shoulder, his voice filled with fake kindness.

They had gathered in the church, Mycroft standing at the altar with Sherlock beside him, and the two had watched Jane Seymour walk slowly down the aisle. Dressed in a classic white Coco Chanel suit.

“Doesn’t she think that’s a bit hypocritical?” He said under his breath, “Isn’t white supposed to represent virginity in these types of situations?”

Mycroft turned to him and shot him a look that told him to shut up. Sherlock continued to look at Jane, as if he hadn’t said anything.

The future bride and groom finally stood together at the altar, the minister telling each of them what he would get them to vow tomorrow. Sherlock was bored, and trying to decide if it was right to tell Mycroft about the obvious thing Mycroft seemed to be ignoring completely. 
Jane had been out the night before, with some friends. That was obvious to Sherlock, the small bags under her eyes were a clear indication that she had gone out on her Hen Night. That was obvious, to everyone. The thing that Mycroft was over looking was the clear signs that she had been with someone that was not Mycroft Holmes. So, Sherlock stood there beside his brother trying to decide if he should speak up in front of everyone, or pull his brother aside and tell him in private.
He decided on the latter.

Jane was talking to one of the annoying bridesmaids, the blonde one who was extremely annoying, and wouldn’t stop touching Sherlock’s arm.
He pulled Mycroft’s arm.

“What?” Mycroft asked, turning around. His voice seeming calm, but his eyes ablaze with annoyance at his younger brother.

“May I speak to you in private?” Sherlock asked.

“No. I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

“I think you would rather I tell you this in private, than in front of everyone. Mycroft.” Sherlock replied with the same annoyance as his brother was showing.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and excused himself from Jane’s mother and the minister, and walked a few steps into the aisle with Sherlock.

“What is it?”

“I take no pleasure in telling you this, Mycroft, but your future wife, was not faithful to you last night.” Sherlock said, calm, not trying to feign any sort of sympathy. He couldn’t fake it, so why should he try?

“What?” Mycroft spat.

Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. “Look at the small bruises forming on her bicep, those are new. There are three of them in a row, with the same amount of space between a man’s fingers; and look at the bags under her eyes. She has them, but none of the bridesmaids do. Which would indicate that she was up well past the rest of them. She couldn’t look at you as you whispered you loved her. She is clearly hiding something.”

Mycroft stared at Jane for a moment, and then walked calmly toward her. Taking her to the side.
Sherlock walked to his Aunt Ruth, who was sitting in one of the pews. He sat down, and watched Mycroft and Jane.

“You’re never going to be happy, Sherlock Holmes!” Jane had very maturely yelled at him as Mycroft announced that it had been Sherlock who told him. “You are a horribly selfish cocaine addict!”

“Do you think I was wrong in telling him?” Sherlock asked as Ruth and he left the church and made their way back to the cars.

Ruth shook her head. “You did what you thought you should do.” She responded.

“But was it right? Should I have left him to think she was faithful to him?” He was nervous that he had done the right thing.

Ruth smiled at him, “Don’t worry so much about what that horrible young woman thinks about you. You did what you thought was right for your brother. I’m sure he will thank you for it in the future.”

Sherlock was silent. “She isn’t the only one to think that I will never be happy.”

Ruth stopped and looked at her youngest nephew. “Who else told you that?”

“Mother, Father, several females at Oxford.”

Ruth laughed a little. “Ignore my sister and her husband, as for the female students they’re just jealous that you have no interest in them.”

Sherlock smiled, looking at his aunt. “So you think I’ll be happy?”

Ruth, put a hand on her nephew’s arm, looking up at him. “I think you will find someone who makes you feel what true love is all about, and you two will be happy for the rest of your days.”

Sherlock smiled at her. “I appreciate that.” He said finally after a few moments of silence.

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John had that look on his face again. Sherlock hated that look. The look reminded him so much of all the looks that he had gotten in University, and Prep School. The look that people got when they were just so annoyed, and frustrated with him. 
There was something different about this look though. John usually gave in. No matter how much it was obvious that John hated himself for giving in so easily to Sherlock, he would. Sherlock knew he would, and John knew he would. It was inevitable. Right? Or maybe it wasn’t this time. Sherlock was unsure. He didn’t like being unsure.

“I want to make this better, John.” Sherlock whispered as he stood a few feet away from John’s chair. John shook his head. “I’m not sure how I can make it better, but I want to.” Sherlock told him again. God he needed John to forgive him.

John stared at Sherlock, his face falling. He didn’t know how much longer he could last in this room with his husband. He didn’t know how much longer he could last pretending to be angry when really he felt like his entire body was about to crumble with emotional and physical pain. He swallowed, suddenly he moved his gaze off of Sherlock’s face. He couldn’t stand to look at him, not now. He got up, pushing himself out of the chair with his hands. He walked past Sherlock, flexing his left hand once, twice, three times. Sherlock watched the regular habit of his husband. Three flexes was not good.
“I don’t know how you can make it better.” John’s voice hit him hard. He closed his eyes. A small nod escaping.

He heard John’s footsteps as he left the room, he began making his way to their bedroom. Sherlock would give him peace tonight. He would sleep on the sofa. He had slept in worse conditions before. He had slept on a rocky mountain when he was dead, he could last as many nights on the sofa as John wanted. He couldn’t let his husband go to sleep without hearing what he had to say. “I’m going to find a way to make this better. I can promise you that.”
There was silence for a moment and then a few more steps and Sherlock heard the door closed.

He would spend the entire night up, researching similar cases to his. He would think of ways to make John love him again. He would barely get a nights sleep for three weeks, the sofa is less comfortable than he first though. Then one night he hears footsteps in the hall. Footsteps that stop just in the doorway. John’s voice would quietly say “Come to bed.” Sherlock would get up off the sofa, and follow his husband into their bedroom. John is laying there already, his back to Sherlock. Sherlock slides under the cover and lays on his side looking at the curves of John’s back, his eyes linger on the a small scare on John’s right hip, and then he moves closer and wraps his arm around John. Pulling his husband to him and holding him as John cries into the pillow. They stay there. Spooning, with Sherlock’s arms wrapped around John’s torso. They don’t move, except for the small convulsions that John has as he cries. At about five in the morning John finally stills and his tears have ended (almost an hour before), Sherlock leaves a small kiss on John’s shoulder just before the two fall asleep. They both sleep for ten hours. 
Sherlock wakes the next morning hoping things will now go back to the way they were before he messed up.

Chapter Text

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Six years earlier.
2014

John looked at Sherlock. "You owe me an explanation. I want it all, Sherlock. Before I get myself into anything else with you. You owe me an explanation." He was holding himself together quite well. There was no tears falling down his cheeks, though they sure threatened to. He wasn't shaking, though he felt like he was; and he wasn't flexing his hand, like he normally did when he was upset or frustrated with Sherlock. Instead he simply just sat there, waiting for an explanation.

Sherlock was amazed at the composure that the man across from him, the man he had discovered, over the course of three years, he loved. He swallowed. There was a purple spot already appearing on his jaw, and the ice was cold against his skin. He had expected the punch, but he hadn’t stopped it. Of course John Watson, ex army doctor, would hit him when he returned. This thought always used to make him smile. It was a form of intimacy, at least between them. Of course John would miss his mouth and nose, again. Which he had. The punch to the cheek that he had suffered by the hands of John, but by his own request, so many years ago had been less painful than this one. Maybe it was because he had been gone for so long, and it stung just a little bit more knowing that he had caused John that much pain.
Sherlock nodded. He did owe the man an explanation, of course he did. He took a deep breath.

“I needed to save you. Moriarty, he had snipers waiting for you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. I faked my death in order to save the three lives that mattered the most to me.” His voice, a little raspy from the cold he had just gotten over.

John nodded. “And you couldn’t tell me all this when we were on the phone?” John was forcing himself to sound okay with everything. Sherlock knew that.

“I couldn’t. The chance that one of the snipers was listening in was too great.” Sherlock put the ice bag down on the table. He folded his hands in front of him. “I realize that I’ve hurt you. That I’ve caused you pain, and for that I am truly sorry. I was in pain as well. The last three years have not been easy on me.” He swallowed. “I needed to finish the job before I returned.”

“The job?”

“Moriarty’s web. I killed his snipers, the last ones around the world.”

John didn’t blink, didn’t ask if Sherlock was okay with taking lives. He simply nodded.

“During my explorations, I acquired the assistance of an old friend by the name Victor Trevor. He and I had several conversations while we were together.”

John twitched at this. Together how?

Sherlock continued. “He made me realize something. Something I never thought would ever happen to me. Would you like to know what that is?”

John nodded once.

“That you are all I want in life. You are what has been missing in my miserable existence.”

John didn’t move. He didn’t twitch. He sat there. Finally he sat up straighter. “I have a girlfriend.”

Sherlock nodded, this time. “I didn’t think you wouldn’t have....”

John shook his head. “You’re an idiot.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and a small smile danced across his face.

John smiled back. The two men stared at each other for a moment or two. Taking everything in about the other. How they had both aged. How Sherlock looked a little more tired than he normally did. How John had acquired a few more grey hairs than he had three years ago. Finally John looked around.

“I’ll speak to Mary tomorrow.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest.

John shook his head. “Just shut up.” He got up from his chair. “Tea?”

“Yes.” Sherlock answered.

John made tea.

Chapter Text

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Two years later.
2022

John sat in the balcony of the church. It was empty.

He thought about what his last wedding was like. The way it had been so formal. So, well, not like this one. This one had flowers, and garlands, white and blue colours decorated the church inside. He took a deep breath. He knew what his wife to be was doing, she was at their apartment. She was getting ready. John had been kicked out two days earlier, told to go and be with the guys while she was with her girls. The thing was, John didn't have many guys to be with. There was Stamford, and Lestrade. There was just one missing. One who John wished deep in his heart would get up in the middle of the service and object. The one he wanted to be with most of all. He would never show up. John didn't expect some grand gesture. Not from Sherlock Holmes.

He was nervous. That was all he could say to describe his feelings. Was he doing the right thing? There was a small part of him that was telling him yes. Almost screaming at him. That was his guilt, his common sense, the part that always did the right thing. He was doing the right thing for her, for them. For himself. He had to be. That was just what he was going to do. In an hour, people would begin to walk into the church, and he would stand up at the altar and say "I do." He would marry her.

He heard the old wood of the stairs creak behind him, but he didn't think anything of it. It was windy outside, old churches like this always creaked when it was windy.

"She's really done a number." A familiar voice said behind him.

John looked up, and turned to where the voice was coming from.

"John." Sherlock greeted with a nod. "May I?" He nodded toward the space on the pew beside John.

John nodded.

Sherlock sat down, his hands gloved in those leather gloves he always wore. The scarf that Molly had given to him the christmas of 2018, now four years earlier.

"I didn't think you'd come."

Sherlock gave a small nod. "I didn't miss the first one."

John nodded. "Yes, right." Of course Sherlock was going to be his usual self.

"Quite different from ours, is it not?"

John looked at all the decorations, a small laugh escaping his lips. "She likes to decorate."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I only wonder what your house must look like." This got a proper laugh from the ex-army doctor.

He took a breath. It was all he could do. This was him, John, sitting on the balcony, looking down on the place where he was about to get married. And his ex-husband and best friend was sitting beside him. He didn't know what else to say but, "She's..."

Sherlock nodded. "I heard. I suppose a congratulations are in order."

"You don't sound like you mean that congratulations."

"I don't."

The two were quiet for a few moments, before Sherlock hung his head a little, his bangs falling in his face. Had he gotten a hair cut? John wanted to reach up and touch the brown locks. He swallowed, and stopped himself.

"Was that all you wanted? A child?" Sherlock asked.

John sighed. "No. That's not all I wanted."

"Then why did you..." Sherlock was sitting straight again, emotionless face.

"Because you cheated, Sherlock! You betrayed me, and you betrayed me with her" His voice was quiet, yet the tone was just angry enough to give the same effect.

Sherlock winced.

"Here I had thought you were all mine. You were all I ever wanted, Sherlock. It was just the two of us, and I was okay with that. I didn't want children, I didn't want a life like this. I just want you." He paused, Sherlock had turned toward him, his eyebrows raised. John continued. "Wanted. I just wanted you." John's voice was almost a whisper. "And you slept with Irene." John's eyes closed. John had the same defeated look and tone that Sherlock had seen three years prior.

"I wanted to see..."

John shook his head, standing up. "No. You don't get to explain yourself. It was three years ago. We're no longer together, there are legal papers stating so. I'm with Mary now. I'm going to get up, and stand there." He pointed to the altar. "And I will say my vows, and I will wonder if the vows she says to me will mean anything. If they will mean something more than they did to you. Then, I will raise that child with her, and I will give it all the love and care that I can possibly manage. And I will never utter your name, I will never tell my child all the adventures I had with you, I will never tell my son or daughter that I was in love before marrying Mary. But inside..." John caught himself, tears threatened, and he felt as if he was going to collapse, but he held on. His grip tightening around the back of the pew in front of them. "Inside, Sherlock, I will be broken. Because that's what you did. You broke me."

Sherlock watched as John walked past him. He heard John walk down the stairs, and the large wooden doors slam as John stepped into the cold October air. Sherlock sat. He sat still for an hour. He watched as the church began to fill up with guests. He watched as Stamford stood next to John. He watched as Mary walked down the aisle. He sat there all through the service, and just as the Minister asked "and if anyone knows of any lawful impediment why this man should not be married to this woman, they must speak now or forever hold their peace." Sherlock got up and walked out of the church. He didn't care that people stared as he left. He didn't want to know what look was on John's face as he did so. This was it. This was the end.

Sherlock Holmes had broken himself and John the day he had cheated. Now, he would be the cause to why Mary, and their unborn child would be broken. He would continue with his life knowing this.

Sherlock waved down a cab. "St. Bart's Hospital." He instructed. Taking out his mobile and typing a message.

Back inside the church, John's face fell as he watched the back of Sherlock Holmes walk out on his wedding. He took a deep breath and turned back toward Mary. Forcing a smile on his face, a smile Sherlock would have caught as fake. He blinked twice, and nodded. "Love you." He whispered. There were no objections. John and Mary were announced as husband and wife.

Two hours later, John sat at a table alone. Watching as his wife danced with her best mate. He dug into his pocket and took out his cell phone. One text message. He pressed the screen and read the two words and the signature.

I object.
SH

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2019
One year earlier.

Sherlock sat there. His eyes directed in the woman sitting across from him in John’s chair. She was dressed in something a little less extravagant than she normally wore. She looked tired, yet she had worked hard on her makeup to disguise this fact. There was no amount of concealer and foundation that could hide this fact from the world’s only consulting detective.

“You didn’t invite me to your wedding, I’m offended.” She spoke, her accent dancing seductively throughout the living room.

He rolled his eyes, not exactly amused by her presence. She had dropped in unexpectedly, and though he had just been complaining to John via text message that he was bored without the company of his husband, he didn’t like unexpected visitors. 
She uncrossed her legs and crossed them the other way, leaning in towards him for a moment. Observing him. While other men found Irene Adler physically attractive, Sherlock had found himself being attracted to the brains, skill, and wit that were encased in that head of hers. He wasn’t normally attracted to women, well he hadn’t really been attracted to anyone before John, but Irene was the exception, she was the one woman.

“You’re not going to say anything to me? After all of our communication, and the fact that you saved my life?” She asked as she ran her hand up and down her calf a little. She wasn’t cold, he could tell that, she was trying to draw attention to her bare legs. The way that her calf muscle arched slightly, caused by the heels she was wearing and the way that she was crossing her legs. He wouldn’t give her that satisfaction.

“Where’s John?” She inquired, looking around the flat.

“Edinburgh.” Sherlock responded.

She smiled at the city name as it escaped his lips. She was pleased that he was talking to her. This wouldn’t last for long, Sherlock was working on a small case, well now that she was here, he was, and the wheels were turning in his head. He sat still in his chair as she watched him as she had done all those years ago. She remembered the way that she had gotten him to look directly in her eyes as she asked him if he would have dinner with her if it was the end of the world. She remembered that look, it haunted her in the best way possible. Because, like Sherlock, she wasn’t normally attracted to men, but she had found the detective to be intelligent, and brainy was really the new sexy. Though he had stopped communicating with her since the moment he had appeared to save her life, he still occupied a part of her brain, and heart.
She got up after an hour and began to make tea. He still didn’t stir, she found that fascinating. How she could do activities around his and John’s flat and he wouldn’t notice. She wondered what it must be like to be with him, and to share a life with him. She looked through their kitchen while the kettle boiled, then brought the tea to Sherlock. Setting the tea cup down on the table beside his chair, reached down and touched his hand with her long fingers. Feeling the beauty of his skin under hers. She wanted more.

“You still haven’t been with a woman have you?” She asked as she dragged her middle and ring finger across his hand.

He looked up to her. “Why would I? I am married to John. I have no interest, and I’m sure you can come up with a better conversation starter than that one, Miss. Adler.” He said in a tone that was very similar to disappointment.

She smirked. “Not even a little bit of curiosity? A wonder what John has experienced, and what you haven’t?”

His brow furrowed just slightly. This had been a thought that had crossed his mind. John had plenty of sexual experiences before him. He had heard, and one time accidentally walked in on John’s experiences. It was no secret that John had loved women before he loved Sherlock. Sherlock hadn’t wondered out of jealousy, but out of curiosity, exactly what the woman to his left had pointed out. He was curious what John had experienced. 
She smiled.

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John smiled to himself. He was going to surprise Sherlock by coming home early. The pathetic, lonely, and adorable texts had caused this idea to jump to the front of the queue. He got out of the taxi and grabbed his bag, walking to the black door of 221b Baker Street, and unlocked it. He was looking forward to seeing his husband again. He almost ran up the stairs. He began walking to their bedroom to drop off his bag. He stopped a few feet away from the ajar door.

“How was it?” A woman’s voice asked. Was that Irene in his bedroom? John wanted to burst through but he seemed to be nailed to the ground.

“Wet.” Sherlock’s voice responded. “I think I’ll stick with John.”

John’s heart dropped, as did his bag. He didn’t hear the loud thump that made Sherlock and Irene look toward the door, the sound was muffled as if he had cotton balls in his ears. He couldn’t move, he knew he was breathing because he was still standing, his blood as it quickened with the fast beating of his heart was loud in his ears.

Sherlock, having dressed quickly after, opened the door and saw John standing there. The two men looked at each other. Sherlock hadn’t thought of the consequences until he saw the look on John’s face. It was just sex, it wasn’t love. He was still completely devoted to the man in front of him, but the look on his husband’s face told him that he had done something bad. He had cheated. He swallowed, walking quickly to John and putting his hands on his husband’s cheeks.

“John...” He started but was interrupted by the right fist of John Watson connecting to his cheek. He stumbled as John winced and began rubbing at his knuckles, shaking his hand out a little. Sherlock looked up at his husband, his hands touching his cheek for a moment. “John, wait...”

John saw Irene in the bedroom door, buttoning up her dress and then his eyes focused back on Sherlock. He shook his head. “No.” He spoke softly. He wanted to punch Sherlock again, he wanted to feel the beautiful and satisfying crunch of their bones as his knuckles connected to Sherlock’s protruding cheekbone. He wanted to watch the look of hurt and surprise on Sherlock’s face again, but he knew that Sherlock would be expecting another one. So he just clenched his fist so hard that his fingernails began to cut into his palm.

John took one deep breath and then bent down and picked up his bag. He stood up straight, as he had done so many years ago at Sherlock’s grave. Not willing to let anymore of his emotions show through. “You will not follow me. I will never speak to you again, if you follow me.”

Sherlock watched as John walked back down the stairs, his eyes closing as he heard the front door open and close. Irene walked up behind Sherlock and with a moment of hesitation, finally rested her hand on his shoulder.

“Leave.” Sherlock spoke softly. The hallway was silent for a few moments until Sherlock’s voice rang out through the flat. “NOW!” Irene jumped slightly, and walked past him. Leaving 221b Baker Street.

John would return after two days. He would try and make his life with his husband work. He would make Sherlock sleep on the couch, not wanting to even think about his husband inside that woman. He would throw out all the bedding that she was on. 
He would eventually invite Sherlock back into their bed, but it wouldn’t last long. John would not be able to get over this betrayal.

Chapter Text

sherloc

Three years earlier
2017

John lay there, on he and Sherlock’s bed. The blankets only covered his knee and that was it. They had been kicked from their actual job in the hurry. John closed his eyes a little and took a deep breath. He had never imagined in his life that he would be happy with another man. He had been friends with other boys, of course, and there had been experimentation before hitting puberty. Though, when John was a boy going past any sort of normal experimentation meant that you got called homo, camp, queer, gay; and as any little boy he didn’t want to be called any of those names, he only wanted to fit in. He only wanted to be cool, to be cool in the eyes of his father and friends. All the dads in his neighborhood. They were all cool, with cool jobs, and he wanted to be exactly like them.

He had continued living in that mindset for years after going through puberty. In fact well into his thirties. He discovered early on that he was good with women, and with girls his own age. The opposite sex always seemed to be attracted to him. Perhaps it was his kind eyes, or the way he wanted to take care of people, or perhaps it was because he stood out amongst all his friends. While every other boy wanted to become a mechanic, or welder, he wanted to be a doctor. He wasn’t from a wealthy family, nor was he from a wealthy neighborhood, and so to have such high hopes even into your teens was something to be astounded with. Every other seventeen year old seemed to be okay with getting married young, working hard, and raising a family. But not John Watson. No, John wanted to be a doctor, he didn’t apply to any other programs in University. He wanted to become a doctor, and that is what he would be.
He met a lot of women in University. He wasn’t going there without any experience of the opposite sex. No, School had been a wonderful time for him. He found he could flirt his way into any bed that he wanted to, if he treated them with a little respect, respect they weren’t getting from any other boy his age, well they seemed to love that. So, John used it to his own advantage.
University wasn’t very different. He thrived. Except this time he had girlfriends, getting more serious with women than he ever had. He even told one that he loved her, they were together for two years and she was beautiful.

Now everything was different. It had taken him a bit of time to be okay with everyone seeing him with Sherlock, but luckily neither one of the men were very affectionate in public. They liked to keep things to the flat, and that is what they did.

John opened his eyes and looked at the bare stomach of his husband rise and fall with each breath. He smiled to himself, oh this was what heaven was like. He had never experienced love like this. He wanted to give himself to Sherlock, more than he had with accepting his hand in marriage, more than loving him emotionally and physically. John wanted to go far beyond everything that was to be said of a normal love story. He wanted to love Sherlock until they both got old and they died, together. He wanted everything, and he wanted to give everything.

Slowly John reached up and touched Sherlock’s bare stomach. The sort of sleeping man reacted to the touch, and his eyes opened. John smiled a little at Sherlock as the other man, his husband, looked at him. Sherlock didn’t say anything, didn’t complain about being woken up, didn’t jump out of bed to go and do whatever experiment it was that he had put on the back burner (not literally of course) for the moment that the two had just enjoyed almost twenty minutes earlier. Instead, Sherlock moved a little and rested his cheek on John’s bare peck. Smiling a little, John nodded and closed his eyes.

“What are you thinking about? Your heart rate has increased.” Sherlock mumbled a little into John’s chest.

John shifted a little, and tried to cover himself up with the blanket. The window was open and it was getting into fall, and that meant there was a slight breeze blowing in. Even though it had felt good on his sweaty, naked body twenty minutes earlier, now it felt frigid.

“You.” John replied.

He could tell Sherlock was smiling. Both men didn’t say anything for quite sometime. Then John felt Sherlock’s head rise a little, John opened his eyes and looked at the other man.

“What?” John wasn’t as good at the whole deducting thing as his husband was.

Sherlock took a while to answer, he just stared at John and John stared back. The two looking deep into each other’s eyes, and for a moment John thought they were going to have another go. Which he would have loved, had he not been completely spent from the round earlier. The round which had knocked over a chair in the dining room, a lamp off of Sherlock’s bedside table, and had torn the sheets off of one of the bottom corners of the bed.

“I was just thinking about how thankful I am to have you in my life.” Sherlock spoke softly, a rare moment even within their marriage. John swallowed, a little nervous. Sherlock continued, “You have saved me from everything, John.” Sherlock moved so that he was looking down at John, his hand cupping John’s left cheek. John’s heart began beating wildly at this new position and intimacy from his husband. “I want you to know I will never do anything to hurt you. I want to grow old with you. I love you, my dearest Watson.”

John looked into the eyes of his husband. Smiling for a moment and then leaning up and kissing him. “I love you, Holmes.” Sherlock smiled, and buried his face into the nape of John’s neck, his leg wrapping around John’s leg and pulling their bodies closer together.

John wanted to make a joke, but intimate moments like this with Sherlock were rare. He didn’t want to jeopardize it in any way. Sherlock was being honest, and loving. John wanted to take that and remember it, which he would.
John fell asleep about thirty minutes after that. Realizing Sherlock was asleep. Both their naked bodies wrapped around each other. John slept soundly that night. The next morning he woke to an empty bed, and found Sherlock hunched over his microscope. The two shared a kiss, then John went about making breakfast. The previous night was not discussed, as every other physical moment together was not.
Except for one glance that was exchanged as they were both putting on their coats to go to a crime scene. A glance that put a soft and small smile on Sherlock’s, and a almost grin on John’s. The two were happy, and nothing would ever change that.

Chapter Text

John sat in bed. The room was dark, except for a small light that was peaking in through the crack under the door. The sheet fell around his body as he moved a little. He didn’t know what to think, how to react to what had just happened. He looked down and took a deep breath, slowly moving his hand to touch the sleeping man beside him. Sherlock rarely slept. All through their friendship, relationship, and then marriage John was used to Sherlock only sleeping after sex. It had sometimes been John’s way of making Sherlock get sleep, when he knew that his husband needed it.
Now, now it was different. It had been a mistake to do this. A mistake to take the cab to Baker Street, a mistake to kiss Sherlock as soon as he had walked up the stairs. It was a mistake to tell Sherlock that he loved him.

John slipped out of the sheets and grabbed his red briefs, taking a deep breath as he stood over the bed watching Sherlock. His entire body was yelling at him to go back to sleep, to crawl into the bed next to his ex-husband and hold him. But he didn’t.

Sherlock moved, slightly, his eyes opening. He didn’t move to look at John on the other side of the bed, instead he simply stared at the wall a few feet ahead of him. “You’re leaving.” He said softly. 
John nodded. “Yes”
Sherlock let out a little breath. “Very well.” Sherlock got out of the bed, and grabbed his house coat. Wrapping it around himself and walking out of the bedroom to the kitchen, leaning over files and evidence from his most recent case.

John dressed, slipping out of the bedroom and pausing for a moment outside of the kitchen, trying to think of something to say to the man he loved. He opened his mouth, but Sherlock interrupted.

“She knows. She has known for quite some time. You are an honorable man, John, but not the smartest. I do not know all the emotions that you do, but I do know that staying with a wife merely on the fact that you are expecting a child together, is not doing either of you any favours, nor will it do your child any.” Sherlock moved so he was sitting completely straight in his chair, back to John. “I made mistakes, hurt you and myself. But I recognize them, you are simply pushing them aside.”

John closed his eyes.

“I’ve called a cab, it’s waiting outside.” Sherlock’s voice echoed about the kitchen.

John nodded, and started toward the stairs. “Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t respond.

Chapter Text

John wasn’t sure how it had happened like this. He had simply gotten into a routine. A routine he wasn’t sure he enjoyed all that much. He woke up every morning at six, sometimes later or a bit earlier, depending on how Mary was feeling. He would get showered, make some tea and toast, and then read the newspaper while Mary showered, and then they would go their separate ways for the day, getting home roughly at six, and sometimes he would read, or he and Mary would work together on the nursery. He was excited to be a father. That was the one thing he was enjoying in his life, the nervous excitement that was accompanying watching Mary go through her pregnancy. She was almost due. Only a few more months and then everything would be better again. He and Mary would work on their relationship while learning how to be parents together. Wasn’t that how it all worked out? At least that was how he was hoping it would work out, it would have to.

He sat at the breakfast table, toast in front of him, tea in one hand and the morning paper in the other. He wasn’t really reading, skimming, looking for something exciting. Something that reminded him of the cases he and Sherlock used to work on together, or even better, a picture of mention of Sherlock. He knew what to look for, the journalists didn’t always credit Sherlock. John knew that Sherlock liked it that way, since returning he wanted his face out of the papers. He could help Lestrade with murders, he didn’t need to rely completely on what was written on his website, though Sherlock didn’t really have that anymore now that John was gone. Now that John wasn’t writing the blog. Both of the men knew that it had been John’s blog that brought in the jobs, even though Sherlock wouldn’t admit he knew that.

Mary sat down across from him, her big belly pushing on the table a little before she pushed her chair back a inch or so. “We need to talk,”

John looked up, a quizzical look on his face, but a smile appearing there. One that was forced, “Oh?”

“What happened to you, John?”

The smile disappeared, “What do you mean? Nothing has?” He hadn’t told her about the night with Sherlock. No, that was best kept between he and his ex-husband.

“I knew I was getting you second hand, but I was hoping that you would dedicate yourself to me.” Her voice was hurt, she was trying not to cry. You didn’t have to be Sherlock Holmes to know that.

His brow curled a little, “I am dedicated to you, I help clean, I’ve gotten the nursery already. I’m dedicated to you an this child.”

She shook her head, her eyes closing. “No you’re not. You’re always gone, and I don’t just mean at work. You’re searching the newspapers or internet for him,” She spat that word at him.

He nodded once. “And what do you want me to do? I was married to him, Mary. I had a life there, am I supposed to forget all of it?”

“Yes.” Tears began to fall down her cheeks. John looked at her, his heart feeling heavy. He felt horrible. He thought he was doing well. Perhaps he had it all wrong.

“I can change, I can start doing wha....”

She cut him off, “No. I don’t want a man who half-asses his duties as a husband. I want and deserve someone who loves me, as much as you love him.”

His hand clenched, habit. His gaze falling down onto the toast on the plate. “Ah,”

“You can start moving out today.” Her voice was sharp. She was trying not to show emotion, despite the tears. She was trying to stay strong for herself.

“What about the baby?” He asked, curious.

“You’ll have a part in it’s life. I won’t deprive you of that. I know you’re going to be an amazing father,”

John wondered how Sherlock would take that. Children was never something Sherlock had even considered. Now Sherlock was in his own world.

“Thank you.” He answered, “I’m sorry Mary. I never meant to hurt you.”

She nodded, pushing herself up with the help of the table and walked to the doorway, “I’m going to work. I’d like to come home to a house with no husband please.” She didn’t look at him as she walked out of the room.

John gathered whatever he could, whatever he thought he needed. Piling it all in his suitcase. He didn’t stay and look around the flat like he had done when he left Baker Street. He hailed a cab and gave the address. The black door was open, and he dragged his suitcase up the flight of stairs and then stopped at the door. He could hear Sherlock’s violin. Closing his eyes, and then pushing the door open.

“Did you tell her?” Sherlock’s voice came from the other side of the room as John took one step into the sitting room. Sherlock’s back was to him, his blue robe on, and his violin still held up to his chin, despite Sherlock’s straightened posture.

“No. I didn’t have to.”

Sherlock turned around. “You’re here to stay.” He remarked, his eyes looking at the suitcase.

“It would appear so.” John said with a small smile.

Sherlock took a breath, John knew that he was trying to compose himself. There was a few moments where Sherlock’s mouth flickered between a smirk and a smile of happiness, before he just quickly said, “You know where the bedroom is.” He placed his chin back onto the rest and began playing the violin again.

John nodded, dragging his suitcase back to Sherlock’s bedroom. Smiling as he looked around, nothing had changed. He was pretty sure that if he opened the dresser that had been his own, it would still be empty the way he had left it so many years earlier. He didn’t check though, and left his suitcase there as he walked to the kitchen.

“Tea?” He asked, Sherlock made a noise that meant yes.

As he began to prepare the kettle, the violin stopped and within a few seconds he could feel Sherlock’s hands on his waist. He smiled, leaning back, “I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how happy I am you’re back.” Sherlock’s deep voice rang in John’s right ear.

John shook his head, “You don’t.”

He felt a kiss on his neck and then a buzzing in his pocket. He sighed, reaching in. Flicking the text message open, not recognizing the number and as he read the message his heart froze. He felt Sherlock’s hands disappear from his waist,

“Sherlock,” He started, his voice filled with horror.

“Yes.” He could hear Sherlock’s quick footsteps in the sitting room. John turned just in time to see Sherlock bring his phone to his ear, “Lestrade, John and I need your help.”

John looked at the screen on more time,

Ready for some fun, John?

Baby and Mrs. Watson are.