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More Earth Than Fire, Part 2
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Sherlock steps into the pub. It's dim and smells of stale beer and cigarettes even though no smoking is allowed on the premises. John is sitting at one of the tables lining the perimeter of the room. He has already spotted Sherlock. He sighs and looks down at his pint. Sherlock goes to the bar and orders one for himself. The last time they went to a pub together was John's stag night. This may not have been the best idea after all. Sherlock dismisses the thought. It's too late now. He takes the glass from the barman and walks back to John.
John slides over on the bench to make room for Sherlock, but Sherlock opts for one of the wooden scrollwork chairs on the other side of the table instead. He's not sure he could keep his mind on task with John's thigh pressed against his.
John doesn't even wait for Sherlock to pull his chair in before he speaks. "I wondered if you were ever going to talk to me or if you were just going to spend the rest of your life following me around."
Sherlock would do, if he thought it would be useful. "I have tried to contact you several times," he points out. He settles back and stretches his legs out. He deliberately angles them away from John.
"Yeah. Lack of response didn't give you a clue?" John mutters. He flicks his gaze at Sherlock but looks away almost immediately.
Something unpleasant stirs in Sherlock's gut. Well, he can't make it much worse, he reasons. He's not leaving without getting some answers, at the very least.
"Are you... angry at me?” he asks. “Have I done something?" But that's the wrong question. Sherlock hasn't done anything. That's precisely the problem.
John's face folds into an impossible number of creases as he lifts his eyes again. They're not empty, but this is almost worse. "No," John says, his voice almost strangled. "No, God no, it's not you. I'm sorry. It's-" He leans back and pushes his drink away. "I can't. I'm not ready to talk about it."
The unpleasantness loosens. "I sometimes don't talk for days at a time," Sherlock offers.
John almost smiles. Not quite, but at least the lines on his face start to turn around and his eyes don't seem quite so despairing. He shakes a finger at Sherlock. "That wasn't very nice of you, you know. Luring me there under false pretences."
Sherlock allows himself to hope that things aren't entirely broken. "I'm not a very nice man." He means it playfully, but it seems it was the wrong thing to say because John suddenly becomes serious again.
"That is not true," John says, slowly and deliberately. "I'm the one who's not very nice."
Sherlock frowns. He's not sure whether John means because he's walked out on Mary or because he's been avoiding Sherlock or something else.
"You're having a rough patch,” Sherlock says. “It's perfectly understandable you'd want to take some time for yourself."
John snorts. "Yeah, is it? Because I have no idea what I'm doing. I've abandoned my grieving wife, I've handed in my notice so I'll be out of a job come the end of the month, and I've alienated the only person in the world who I actually want in my life. And, I ordered this fucking artisan beer and it tastes like horse piss. Which, I actually know what that tastes like, ta very much."
"That was an important piece of evidence," Sherlock huffs. "It ended up proving that jockey's innocence."
John catches Sherlock's eye and his face does the most glorious thing, everything lifting and curving upward, and then he's giggling. Sherlock takes a snapshot of his face and carefully folds it into one of the empty spaces he's been left with, the ones that not even cases and cocaine can eradicate or fill. He wants to put his hands on that face and hold it just like that, put his own face against it and feel the lines and curves, the bumps and ridges, against his cheek, his chin, his mouth. Imagining it makes him feel light, and Sherlock can't help joining in with John's chuckles, which quickly turn into a full-bodied laugh.
Sherlock has no idea why they're laughing. He only made a factual statement in defense of the frozen horse urine in the ice cube tray. In the past, such exchanges have resulted in outraged shouting and lectures on tedious things like informed consent and public health risks. Sherlock decides it doesn't matter why John thinks it's funny. It occurs to him that perhaps there is something to Molly's secret formula theory, even if the formula remains a mystery to Sherlock as well.
As their amusement fades to a faint soreness in Sherlock's cheeks, he decides to press forward with the reason he's here tonight. He facilitated their reconciliation once before. He can do it again. This will make John happy, in the long run. Molly is right: John shouldn't be alone. Anyone can see that alone does not make him happy.
"She'll forgive you, John," Sherlock sighs. "What am I saying, there's nothing to forgive, and she knows that too. You can go back to her whenever you're ready. She loves you." Sherlock adds that last bit because it's the kind of thing that matters to John.
The downward creases have returned to John's face. He shifts uncomfortably on his seat. "She tell you that?"
"She doesn't need to." She wouldn't insult Sherlock like that.
"Because I would have thought you could see from how my shirt's buttoned or something..." John mutters. "We're petitioning for a divorce. Turned in the initial paperwork a couple of weeks ago."
Sherlock is momentarily knocked off balance. How did he not see that? That meant they'd already submitted the papers before Mary approached Sherlock at the cemetery. Sherlock is startled by the implication.
"I'm sorry," he says rather formally. He really is. Whatever faults Mary may have had, whatever errors she may have made, she did give John something he wanted, some elusive element that Sherlock was never quite able to duplicate. He's not sure now how to proceed.
John lets out a soft sigh. "It's all amicable. I mean... Obviously it's been over between us for a while. I'm not worried she's going to come after me, shoot me in the chest at point-blank range or anything." It's a terrible attempt at humour, which John seems to realise as soon as he's said it. He blanches and mutters, "Sorry."
"It's fine," Sherlock says. He's been using that phrase far too often lately. Mary's motives were complicated. Still are, for that matter. But mere jealousy or possessiveness was never part of it. She was — and is — a professional. There's no room for emotion in that line of work. Sherlock knows this. "For what it's worth, she does still love you," he repeats. It's a paltry attempt at comfort, but Sherlock has nothing else to offer.
"God." John runs his hand down his face. "I don't think either of us knows what love is. No, scratch that; I..." He presses his lips together, then says carefully, speaking to the condensation running down the outside of his glass: "The people we thought we loved never really existed. Me and Mary, those were two people who saw what they wanted to in each other. Not what was really there."
Now Sherlock is curious. "What did you see in her?" He's fairly certain it's not the same things he himself saw that first night he met her.
John's shoulders sag. "I don't even know now. Stability, I guess. The prospect of not being alone. Having something to show for my life. I think not a small amount of wanting to prove to myself I was my own man... You know, that I could do something, be something that didn't involve you." His lips curve upwards in a vaguely bitter smile. "And we did have fun. She is witty and clever. And even with everything, she's..." He shakes his head. "I don't believe she's a bad person. But she's not... When I finally had everything I thought I wanted — a lovely wife, a solid position, the respect of my peers — it was like getting to the end of the rainbow and finding the pot of gold, only it turned out what I really needed was cash if I wanted to buy anything." He lifts his glass and takes a deep draught.
Sherlock understands what John is trying to say: that the wife and the job mean nothing in the face of a tragedy like the death of a child. But the basic ingredients are still there. He needn't throw everything away. "You'd only have to sell the gold to get cash," he points out.
But John doesn't seem to understand what Sherlock is trying to say. He shakes his head again. "It's not literal, it's... The point is, I found out all that wasn't what was going to make me happy. There wasn't anything wrong with it, but it's not what I needed. Not what I need,” he corrects himself, “or want. It didn't matter so much with Gloria on the way... I meant to be a good father, or at least try my best, and I could deal with all the rest. But when she died, it was as if... I woke up or something, I suppose. I realised that the woman I was married to wasn't the person I thought she was. I'd known it for a long time already, really, but like I said I was willing to move past that for Gloria. Mary was just playing a part, and maybe she was good at it, maybe she could have kept it up for the rest of our lives, but I couldn't." He takes another drink, nearly draining his glass.
Sherlock tries to process everything John's said. It doesn't seem to add up. "But you said Mary's the only person you want in your life."
John grimaces at the taste of his beer, then frowns and blinks, backtracking mentally. When understanding dawns, his expression softens. "I wasn't talking about her, you nit," he says gently.
Sherlock stares. He experiences a similar feeling to the day when John asked him to be his best man. Not specifically the best man request per se, because he certainly hadn't been looking forward to performing that particular duty, but the fact that John had said Sherlock was one of the two most important people in his life, that he was his best friend, and that he loved him. In whatever capacity that might be. And now he's saying... what exactly is he saying? That he wants Sherlock in his life? That Sherlock is the only person who matters to him? Surely that can't be right.
"But if you..." Sherlock's brain is incredibly slow to return to the thread of the conversation. It's like trying to gain traction in a marsh. "Why have you been ignoring my attempts to contact you? Why didn't you speak to me earlier?"
John sucks in a breath and huffs it out again. "Because there are things I need to tell you. And they're going to be hard. And I really didn't want to. But I think it's time." He nods as if to punctuate his statement. "Right, so, you going to finish that?" He raises his eyebrows at Sherlock's drink. John's own glass is already empty, horse piss or not.
Sherlock has completely forgotten about his beer. He only bought it to have an excuse to sit down. He pushes it across the table toward John.
"No, that wasn't-" John starts to say, but then he shrugs a little and picks up the glass. He drinks about half of it in several long gulps, then holds it out to Sherlock. "Here, finish that off and let's get out of here."
Sherlock takes the glass back and puts it to his lips, making sure to drink from the clean side. It would be too dangerous to presume John's meaning here. He drains it as quickly as he can, his eyes never leaving John's.
---ooo---
"You can uh... sit down anywhere," John says as he closes the door to his flat behind them. Although calling it a flat is generous. It's a room, and not much of one at that. There isn't much choice when it comes to seating options, either. The inventory consists of a single bed, a wardrobe with one door missing, and a table slash desk with a television bolted to the wall above it. The lone chair is nearly buried under a heap of what looks like all of John's laundry. Altogether unlike the tidiness Sherlock recalls from various unsanctioned forays into John's room at Baker Street. A counter with a hot plate on it juts out on one side of the room, forming a kind of niche. Sherlock can hear the buzz of an inefficient mini-fridge somewhere on the other side. Sherlock (defiantly, selfishly, greedily) chooses the bed.
John doesn't seem to notice. He walks past him to the table, which is cluttered with newspapers and other papers.
"You never saw her, did you?" John asks.
Sherlock knows he means Gloria. He shakes his head. "No." There was no funeral, just a small graveside ceremony. He wasn't invited anyway. He watched from his vantage point in the trees.
"Hold on." John moves some papers aside and picks up a blue folder. He brings it over and sits down next to Sherlock.
He opens the file and balances it on his lap. Sherlock can see it contains medical records and official-looking certificates. It also contains photographs, the kind taken with an instant camera. John picks up one of the photographs and hands it to Sherlock.
It is of a newborn infant cradled in someone's arms; John's, Sherlock realises immediately. The picture shows only his chest and arms, but his wedding ring is visible on the hand that's caressing the baby's — Gloria's — cheek. He is wearing a blue hospital smock, the kind they give you to toss on over your street clothes. It was an emergency C-section. They'd gone for a regular non-stress test in the thirty-first week and found Gloria was struggling. Her heart rate was erratic and dropping dangerously low. In the picture, she is wrapped in a yellow blanket with blue and pink stripes around the edges. All of the monitoring equipment has been removed. John's hand obscures half of her face, but Sherlock can still see that her skin tone is too grey, her body too limp.
"They let us hold her after they unhooked her from all the machines. Here's another one, you can see her a bit better." John lifts out a second photograph from the file.
This time Mary's holding her. She's pulled back the blanket and picked up one of Gloria's hands. The tiny, stubby fingers are purple.
"She actually breathed on her own for a while after," John says. His voice is uneven but he keeps going. "Kept starting and stopping. There were a few moments when... I thought, one more miracle, you know. Like you did. She never cried, never made a sound at all. I don't even know exactly when she died. We just realised she hadn't taken a breath for a few minutes and ... yeah. They called it."
John had rung Sherlock what must have been several hours later, delivering the news in a flat, tightly controlled voice. The same voice he'd used at Christmas when he'd told Mary he was coming back.
'It was a girl,' he'd said. 'She lived five and a half hours. She had a transposition of the great arteries, which is uh... her blood was basically circulating backwards. She inhaled meconium and arrested in utero. They worked on her a long time, but she'd been without oxygen too long before they got her out. We let her go.' The last word ended in a squeak, and was followed by silence. Sherlock wasn't sure whether John was waiting for him to respond or trying to regain control over his voice. Sherlock was about to say something — what, he had no idea — when John added one more statement: 'We named her Gloria Scott Watson.' Then he'd ended the call. It was the last time John had initiated contact between them. He'd moved out of his and Mary's flat a week later, once Mary was home from the hospital.
Sherlock studies the two pictures in his hands, memorising every detail. This may be the only time he gets to see it. He tries to descry something of John in her features. She has wide set eyes and a rather broad nose. Her features appear thick and puffy, probably from the interventions they had to perform. "She's beautiful," Sherlock says. She is John's. Of course she is beautiful.
"Yeah. She had-" John clears his throat, but his voice continues to come out raspy. "She had blue eyes. She never opened them on her own, but when they were evaluating her neurological status we could- They were blue."
Sherlock's throat feels tight. "I'm sorry," he says in a low voice.
"Yeah, me too." John takes the picture of Gloria and Mary back and looks down at it. "I should have called you while she was still... There was so much going on. It's just excuses now, I know. But I wish you could have seen her."
"It's all right," Sherlock says, even though it patently isn't, because he doesn't know what else to say.
"No, it's not. But I can't change it now."
Sherlock isn't sure why John is sharing these pictures and this story with him. It's obviously painful for him to do so. The file was underneath several days' worth of newspapers. John clearly doesn't take it out very often. Sherlock imagines he's supposed to say something at this point, but he can't think of anything. He remembers what Mary said, that he and John were never really talkers. Maybe he doesn't need to say anything. If it were him, it would certainly be enough for John just to be there with him. Maybe it's enough for John, too.
So Sherlock waits. Holds the picture of John and his dead baby and waits, and wants. He's never been good at denying himself what he wants. He manages it for John.
John inhales sharply and starts to speak again. His voice is steadier now, more upbeat. "Back when Mary was pregnant, I used to imagine, you know? What it would be like after the baby was born. And the funny thing is — I didn't realise this until later, but — I never thought about me and Mary doing things with her. It was always me taking her to your flat. I'd think about whether it would be better to try and navigate the Tube with the pram or if I was going to have to suffer the indignity of one of those kangaroo packs." He grins, looking down at the picture of Mary and Gloria.
"I'd have paid for you to take a taxi, of course," Sherlock tells him.
"No, you would not have," John says sternly.
"Or I would have come to you."
John darts his tongue out over his bottom lip and appears to consider. "Yeah. I guess I didn't- That wasn't how I pictured it. It was always me, coming to Baker Street with her. I'd sit in that old armchair, you know, the one in front of the fireplace."
"Your chair."
"It's not... " John sighs but then purses his lips in a wry smile. "Yeah," he agrees, his voice soft. "My chair. And I'd be holding her — this would be before she could sit up properly. So I'd hold her, propping her head up so she could see you, and you'd be standing in front of the fireplace or the window, pacing back and forth while you played your violin, and we'd just sit and watch you. She would have loved that."
"I would have liked to play for her," Sherlock says. He can picture it too. John smiling at him in that way he used to, fondness mixed with a bit of what might be pride. He should have played for John more often. He didn't think it important back then, those quiet moments. He'd always been out for action, excitement, and stimulation, and John thrived on all of that too, so it was good.
But while he certainly wants John to join him on cases again, it's mostly the other things that Sherlock wishes he could have back. Sunday morning breakfast. Laughing over the classifieds. Two toothbrushes in the cup. Texts for no reason. Waking in the wee hours with a crick in his neck and his entire left side numb because they'd fallen asleep together on the couch. John twitching awake with a gasp, his heart racing from a nightmare. Putting his arms around John and holding him tight, back to chest, until he'd caught his breath. Murmuring against the back of his neck that they were safe at home and everything was all right. Having it be true.
"And then," John continues, "when she was a little older, you'd be sitting at the kitchen table looking at something unspeakable under the microscope — slices of cirrhotic liver or something — and she'd be on your lap, grabbing for the eyepiece and drooling on your Brooks Brothers."
"I don't wear Brooks Brothers, honestly you should know that, John."
John gives him a sidelong smile. "Yeah, probably should. You know the brand of every article of clothing I own, don't you?"
"I used to."
John's smile fades. "Yeah. I think you knew more about me than I did myself."
"I missed most of the important things."
There is silence for a beat or two before John says quietly, "I don't think you did."
Sherlock is fairly certain he doesn't imagine the way John's eyes flicker down to Sherlock's mouth. It's just a fraction of a second, but the moment is there.
John is looking at the picture again now though. He speaks with an almost forced briskness: "Or — just one more — later, when she could talk, you and she sitting on the floor with the skull between you, and she's reciting all the bones as you point to them."
"You'd have practised with her beforehand of course, to impress me."
"No, this would be all your doing. You'd-" John ducks his head and squeezes his eyes shut. He presses his thumb and forefinger against them. "Hell," he says after a moment, then clears his throat. "Sorry. But do you see? I wanted... I wanted her to be yours, Sherlock." He turns his head to look at Sherlock. His blue eyes are pink at the edges.
"She would have been," Sherlock says, and he means it with all his heart. "As much as she could have." He never wanted a child. He still doesn't. But he would have done everything John imagined for Gloria, and much more. And, he thinks, he probably would have loved her. He wants to take John's hand right then, the one that's clamped around the edge of the folder on his lap. Squeeze it and hold it and feel John's skin and warm, solid muscle and let him feel Sherlock's. It's an odd thing, because it's not something he ever would have done before. Holding each other's penises was somehow okay, but not holding each other's hands.
On the other hand, everything is different now. Maybe, now, Sherlock's hand over John's would be acceptable. He lays the picture he's still holding back in the folder on John's lap. Then, as he pulls his hand back, he lets his fingers brush the back of John's hand and pauses there. John doesn't flinch away. Sherlock slowly lowers his hand until it covers John's completely. He hardly dares to breathe.
John looks down at their hands. He inhales sharply and nods after a moment. "Yeah, she would have. But there was something else."
“What?” Sherlock's mind is vexingly distracted by the sensation of John's hand under his. It's a struggle not to let his thumb caress the back of John's wrist.
John takes a deep breath and lets it out again. "She had Down syndrome. We didn't know it then. Mary'd declined to have an amnio done, said she'd want the baby either way, but ..."
Sherlock's eyes snap back to the other picture in John's hands. He tilts his head to line up his view. Everything clicks into place. The flat bridge of her nose, the shape of her eyes, the short fingers...
"We agreed to genetic testing afterwards, to see whether the heart defect was caused by some syndrome that might be inheritable. In case we ever..." John shakes his head. "Not that we would have. There was no question in my mind, anyway, and I think Mary knew it too. Anyway, it turned out she had an extra chromosome. Half of Down's patients have some kind of heart defect. Not generally quite so spectacular, of course. Mostly some kind of small hole that can be fixed relatively easily. They don't usually end up with all the plumbing switched around."
Sherlock bumps his shoulder against John's. "She's definitely a Watson, didn't want to do anything halfway."
John laughs, briefly, but the sound is choked off before it can really start. John presses the fist with the picture against his mouth.
"Oh my God. Sherlock, I let my daughter die. I just sat there and watched her take her last breath and I didn't do a fucking thing about it."
"You were with her. You held her."
John shakes his head, a jerky motion. "I keep thinking I should have made them try harder, keep her on the vent longer. What if the surgeons had given up on you five minutes earlier?"
Sherlock doesn't like the reminder of how much grief he's caused John over the course of their acquaintance. "Her doctors would have argued against it if there had been any reasonable chance of her ever leading a meaningful life,” he tells him, avoiding the other point entirely.
"A meaningful life?" John exclaims, incredulous. "Who am I to judge? Is that what I have? Is this a meaningful life, right here?" He sweeps his hand around the shabby space.
Sherlock doesn't even need to think about that. The world without John Watson would not be right. Unthinkable. John Watson, Sherlock thinks, may quite literally keep the world on its axis. Sherlock's world, at any rate. He doesn't know how to say all that, but he hopes it comes through in his answer: "Yes."
Sherlock must not have said it right, though, because John turns to face Sherlock, his face distorted by anger and self-loathing. "I have failed at everything I have ever wanted to do." He pulls his hand away from Sherlock's so he can hold up his fingers and enumerate: "I failed as a surgeon. I failed as a soldier. I failed as a son and as a brother. I failed as a husband. I failed as a- a friend to you. And, my crowning achievement, I have now failed, utterly and completely, as a father. I mean, I know I didn't have much of a shot at it, but I couldn't even give my daughter a bloody normal set of chromosomes! I don't think there's really anything left," he concludes bitterly.
Sherlock's eyes flash his own displeasure at John's imbecilic, self-indulgent rant. "You are not a failure," he says, every word bearing witness to its truth. "You have never failed me, John. You did not fail Gloria. You must know that. You gave her a lifetime's worth of love in those five hours. And I'm certain Mary would say you didn't fail her either. You have never failed to give anything but your best."
"I didn't with you," John says in a small, flat voice.
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't..." He shakes his head and mutters, "God, I don't know what I was thinking. You were — " He deliberately puts his hand over Sherlock's this time, lacing their fingers firmly together. "You are the best thing to ever happen to me, and I took it all for granted."
"I was the one who left," Sherlock says. His throat has suddenly gone dry.
John frowns minutely. He rubs his thumb back and forth against Sherlock's. "Before that, I didn't... I think I was afraid. That you'd laugh at me or say something about it all being beneath you, so I pretended it was all just a bit of fun. I was afraid of being utterly destroyed. But I have nothing left to lose now. I have lost, literally, everything that ever meant anything to me."
"You haven't lost me. You will never lose me." Sherlock's voice comes out as barely more than a whisper. He squeezes John's hand.
John nods. His eyes are fixed on their joined hands, resting there on Sherlock's leg. "That's ... okay, that's good. Because you." John presses his lips together and swallows. He looks grim. Or possibly petrified. "Are. The great love of my life."
It seems surreal that the most momentous statement ever made in the history of the world should be uttered as they are sitting in this frankly squalid little hovel, witnessed only by John's dirty vests, a week-old pizza box (Sherlock can smell it under the bed), and likely a colony of bed bugs (although the red marks on John's wrists and neck might also be due to the cheap washing powder he's been using).
John's chest is heaving as if there isn't enough oxygen in the room. Sherlock thinks perhaps there may not be. John continues to stare steadfastly at their hands. His grip has become almost painful. Sherlock wouldn't want him to loosen it for the world.
"I have a confession to make too," Sherlock says, once he's certain his vocal cords aren't going to betray him.
"What is it?"
"I have an unhealthy obsession with you." It's as close as he can get at the moment. He hopes John understands what he means.
John looks up. He understands. Of course he does. His eyes are bright and full of everything he's been holding back for the past six weeks. And the past three years. He laughs. He puts one hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulls their foreheads together. The folder on his lap slides onto the floor, all the papers fluttering out. Neither of them moves to pick it up.
John's breath puffs out against Sherlock's face as he laughs. His breath smells sour and yeasty. Sherlock breathes it in and out and in a little more. Particles that have been inside John's lungs are now inside Sherlock's. He wills them to cling to his alveoli. He will never let them go. John is apparently aware of this, yet he is still here. Sherlock is apparently the great love of his life. Sherlock isn't quite sure what that means, but it is probably good. Love is one of those things that eludes Sherlock, yet is important to John. Perhaps what he means is that he will always be here. Sherlock is fine with that. And he thinks, against all odds, perhaps that is what will make John fine again too.
Sherlock steps into the pub. It's dim and smells of stale beer and cigarettes even though no smoking is allowed on the premises. John is sitting at one of the tables lining the perimeter of the room. He has already spotted Sherlock. He sighs and looks down at his pint. Sherlock goes to the bar and orders one for himself. The last time they went to a pub together was John's stag night. This may not have been the best idea after all. Sherlock dismisses the thought. It's too late now. He takes the glass from the barman and walks back to John.
John slides over on the bench to make room for Sherlock, but Sherlock opts for one of the wooden scrollwork chairs on the other side of the table instead. He's not sure he could keep his mind on task with John's thigh pressed against his.
John doesn't even wait for Sherlock to pull his chair in before he speaks. "I wondered if you were ever going to talk to me or if you were just going to spend the rest of your life following me around."
Sherlock would do, if he thought it would be useful. "I have tried to contact you several times," he points out. He settles back and stretches his legs out. He deliberately angles them away from John.
"Yeah. Lack of response didn't give you a clue?" John mutters. He flicks his gaze at Sherlock but looks away almost immediately.
Something unpleasant stirs in Sherlock's gut. Well, he can't make it much worse, he reasons. He's not leaving without getting some answers, at the very least.
"Are you... angry at me?” he asks. “Have I done something?" But that's the wrong question. Sherlock hasn't done anything. That's precisely the problem.
John's face folds into an impossible number of creases as he lifts his eyes again. They're not empty, but this is almost worse. "No," John says, his voice almost strangled. "No, God no, it's not you. I'm sorry. It's-" He leans back and pushes his drink away. "I can't. I'm not ready to talk about it."
The unpleasantness loosens. "I sometimes don't talk for days at a time," Sherlock offers.
John almost smiles. Not quite, but at least the lines on his face start to turn around and his eyes don't seem quite so despairing. He shakes a finger at Sherlock. "That wasn't very nice of you, you know. Luring me there under false pretences."
Sherlock allows himself to hope that things aren't entirely broken. "I'm not a very nice man." He means it playfully, but it seems it was the wrong thing to say because John suddenly becomes serious again.
"That is not true," John says, slowly and deliberately. "I'm the one who's not very nice."
Sherlock frowns. He's not sure whether John means because he's walked out on Mary or because he's been avoiding Sherlock or something else.
"You're having a rough patch,” Sherlock says. “It's perfectly understandable you'd want to take some time for yourself."
John snorts. "Yeah, is it? Because I have no idea what I'm doing. I've abandoned my grieving wife, I've handed in my notice so I'll be out of a job come the end of the month, and I've alienated the only person in the world who I actually want in my life. And, I ordered this fucking artisan beer and it tastes like horse piss. Which, I actually know what that tastes like, ta very much."
"That was an important piece of evidence," Sherlock huffs. "It ended up proving that jockey's innocence."
John catches Sherlock's eye and his face does the most glorious thing, everything lifting and curving upward, and then he's giggling. Sherlock takes a snapshot of his face and carefully folds it into one of the empty spaces he's been left with, the ones that not even cases and cocaine can eradicate or fill. He wants to put his hands on that face and hold it just like that, put his own face against it and feel the lines and curves, the bumps and ridges, against his cheek, his chin, his mouth. Imagining it makes him feel light, and Sherlock can't help joining in with John's chuckles, which quickly turn into a full-bodied laugh.
Sherlock has no idea why they're laughing. He only made a factual statement in defense of the frozen horse urine in the ice cube tray. In the past, such exchanges have resulted in outraged shouting and lectures on tedious things like informed consent and public health risks. Sherlock decides it doesn't matter why John thinks it's funny. It occurs to him that perhaps there is something to Molly's secret formula theory, even if the formula remains a mystery to Sherlock as well.
As their amusement fades to a faint soreness in Sherlock's cheeks, he decides to press forward with the reason he's here tonight. He facilitated their reconciliation once before. He can do it again. This will make John happy, in the long run. Molly is right: John shouldn't be alone. Anyone can see that alone does not make him happy.
"She'll forgive you, John," Sherlock sighs. "What am I saying, there's nothing to forgive, and she knows that too. You can go back to her whenever you're ready. She loves you." Sherlock adds that last bit because it's the kind of thing that matters to John.
The downward creases have returned to John's face. He shifts uncomfortably on his seat. "She tell you that?"
"She doesn't need to." She wouldn't insult Sherlock like that.
"Because I would have thought you could see from how my shirt's buttoned or something..." John mutters. "We're petitioning for a divorce. Turned in the initial paperwork a couple of weeks ago."
Sherlock is momentarily knocked off balance. How did he not see that? That meant they'd already submitted the papers before Mary approached Sherlock at the cemetery. Sherlock is startled by the implication.
"I'm sorry," he says rather formally. He really is. Whatever faults Mary may have had, whatever errors she may have made, she did give John something he wanted, some elusive element that Sherlock was never quite able to duplicate. He's not sure now how to proceed.
John lets out a soft sigh. "It's all amicable. I mean... Obviously it's been over between us for a while. I'm not worried she's going to come after me, shoot me in the chest at point-blank range or anything." It's a terrible attempt at humour, which John seems to realise as soon as he's said it. He blanches and mutters, "Sorry."
"It's fine," Sherlock says. He's been using that phrase far too often lately. Mary's motives were complicated. Still are, for that matter. But mere jealousy or possessiveness was never part of it. She was — and is — a professional. There's no room for emotion in that line of work. Sherlock knows this. "For what it's worth, she does still love you," he repeats. It's a paltry attempt at comfort, but Sherlock has nothing else to offer.
"God." John runs his hand down his face. "I don't think either of us knows what love is. No, scratch that; I..." He presses his lips together, then says carefully, speaking to the condensation running down the outside of his glass: "The people we thought we loved never really existed. Me and Mary, those were two people who saw what they wanted to in each other. Not what was really there."
Now Sherlock is curious. "What did you see in her?" He's fairly certain it's not the same things he himself saw that first night he met her.
John's shoulders sag. "I don't even know now. Stability, I guess. The prospect of not being alone. Having something to show for my life. I think not a small amount of wanting to prove to myself I was my own man... You know, that I could do something, be something that didn't involve you." His lips curve upwards in a vaguely bitter smile. "And we did have fun. She is witty and clever. And even with everything, she's..." He shakes his head. "I don't believe she's a bad person. But she's not... When I finally had everything I thought I wanted — a lovely wife, a solid position, the respect of my peers — it was like getting to the end of the rainbow and finding the pot of gold, only it turned out what I really needed was cash if I wanted to buy anything." He lifts his glass and takes a deep draught.
Sherlock understands what John is trying to say: that the wife and the job mean nothing in the face of a tragedy like the death of a child. But the basic ingredients are still there. He needn't throw everything away. "You'd only have to sell the gold to get cash," he points out.
But John doesn't seem to understand what Sherlock is trying to say. He shakes his head again. "It's not literal, it's... The point is, I found out all that wasn't what was going to make me happy. There wasn't anything wrong with it, but it's not what I needed. Not what I need,” he corrects himself, “or want. It didn't matter so much with Gloria on the way... I meant to be a good father, or at least try my best, and I could deal with all the rest. But when she died, it was as if... I woke up or something, I suppose. I realised that the woman I was married to wasn't the person I thought she was. I'd known it for a long time already, really, but like I said I was willing to move past that for Gloria. Mary was just playing a part, and maybe she was good at it, maybe she could have kept it up for the rest of our lives, but I couldn't." He takes another drink, nearly draining his glass.
Sherlock tries to process everything John's said. It doesn't seem to add up. "But you said Mary's the only person you want in your life."
John grimaces at the taste of his beer, then frowns and blinks, backtracking mentally. When understanding dawns, his expression softens. "I wasn't talking about her, you nit," he says gently.
Sherlock stares. He experiences a similar feeling to the day when John asked him to be his best man. Not specifically the best man request per se, because he certainly hadn't been looking forward to performing that particular duty, but the fact that John had said Sherlock was one of the two most important people in his life, that he was his best friend, and that he loved him. In whatever capacity that might be. And now he's saying... what exactly is he saying? That he wants Sherlock in his life? That Sherlock is the only person who matters to him? Surely that can't be right.
"But if you..." Sherlock's brain is incredibly slow to return to the thread of the conversation. It's like trying to gain traction in a marsh. "Why have you been ignoring my attempts to contact you? Why didn't you speak to me earlier?"
John sucks in a breath and huffs it out again. "Because there are things I need to tell you. And they're going to be hard. And I really didn't want to. But I think it's time." He nods as if to punctuate his statement. "Right, so, you going to finish that?" He raises his eyebrows at Sherlock's drink. John's own glass is already empty, horse piss or not.
Sherlock has completely forgotten about his beer. He only bought it to have an excuse to sit down. He pushes it across the table toward John.
"No, that wasn't-" John starts to say, but then he shrugs a little and picks up the glass. He drinks about half of it in several long gulps, then holds it out to Sherlock. "Here, finish that off and let's get out of here."
Sherlock takes the glass back and puts it to his lips, making sure to drink from the clean side. It would be too dangerous to presume John's meaning here. He drains it as quickly as he can, his eyes never leaving John's.
---ooo---
"You can uh... sit down anywhere," John says as he closes the door to his flat behind them. Although calling it a flat is generous. It's a room, and not much of one at that. There isn't much choice when it comes to seating options, either. The inventory consists of a single bed, a wardrobe with one door missing, and a table slash desk with a television bolted to the wall above it. The lone chair is nearly buried under a heap of what looks like all of John's laundry. Altogether unlike the tidiness Sherlock recalls from various unsanctioned forays into John's room at Baker Street. A counter with a hot plate on it juts out on one side of the room, forming a kind of niche. Sherlock can hear the buzz of an inefficient mini-fridge somewhere on the other side. Sherlock (defiantly, selfishly, greedily) chooses the bed.
John doesn't seem to notice. He walks past him to the table, which is cluttered with newspapers and other papers.
"You never saw her, did you?" John asks.
Sherlock knows he means Gloria. He shakes his head. "No." There was no funeral, just a small graveside ceremony. He wasn't invited anyway. He watched from his vantage point in the trees.
"Hold on." John moves some papers aside and picks up a blue folder. He brings it over and sits down next to Sherlock.
He opens the file and balances it on his lap. Sherlock can see it contains medical records and official-looking certificates. It also contains photographs, the kind taken with an instant camera. John picks up one of the photographs and hands it to Sherlock.
It is of a newborn infant cradled in someone's arms; John's, Sherlock realises immediately. The picture shows only his chest and arms, but his wedding ring is visible on the hand that's caressing the baby's — Gloria's — cheek. He is wearing a blue hospital smock, the kind they give you to toss on over your street clothes. It was an emergency C-section. They'd gone for a regular non-stress test in the thirty-first week and found Gloria was struggling. Her heart rate was erratic and dropping dangerously low. In the picture, she is wrapped in a yellow blanket with blue and pink stripes around the edges. All of the monitoring equipment has been removed. John's hand obscures half of her face, but Sherlock can still see that her skin tone is too grey, her body too limp.
"They let us hold her after they unhooked her from all the machines. Here's another one, you can see her a bit better." John lifts out a second photograph from the file.
This time Mary's holding her. She's pulled back the blanket and picked up one of Gloria's hands. The tiny, stubby fingers are purple.
"She actually breathed on her own for a while after," John says. His voice is uneven but he keeps going. "Kept starting and stopping. There were a few moments when... I thought, one more miracle, you know. Like you did. She never cried, never made a sound at all. I don't even know exactly when she died. We just realised she hadn't taken a breath for a few minutes and ... yeah. They called it."
John had rung Sherlock what must have been several hours later, delivering the news in a flat, tightly controlled voice. The same voice he'd used at Christmas when he'd told Mary he was coming back.
'It was a girl,' he'd said. 'She lived five and a half hours. She had a transposition of the great arteries, which is uh... her blood was basically circulating backwards. She inhaled meconium and arrested in utero. They worked on her a long time, but she'd been without oxygen too long before they got her out. We let her go.' The last word ended in a squeak, and was followed by silence. Sherlock wasn't sure whether John was waiting for him to respond or trying to regain control over his voice. Sherlock was about to say something — what, he had no idea — when John added one more statement: 'We named her Gloria Scott Watson.' Then he'd ended the call. It was the last time John had initiated contact between them. He'd moved out of his and Mary's flat a week later, once Mary was home from the hospital.
Sherlock studies the two pictures in his hands, memorising every detail. This may be the only time he gets to see it. He tries to descry something of John in her features. She has wide set eyes and a rather broad nose. Her features appear thick and puffy, probably from the interventions they had to perform. "She's beautiful," Sherlock says. She is John's. Of course she is beautiful.
"Yeah. She had-" John clears his throat, but his voice continues to come out raspy. "She had blue eyes. She never opened them on her own, but when they were evaluating her neurological status we could- They were blue."
Sherlock's throat feels tight. "I'm sorry," he says in a low voice.
"Yeah, me too." John takes the picture of Gloria and Mary back and looks down at it. "I should have called you while she was still... There was so much going on. It's just excuses now, I know. But I wish you could have seen her."
"It's all right," Sherlock says, even though it patently isn't, because he doesn't know what else to say.
"No, it's not. But I can't change it now."
Sherlock isn't sure why John is sharing these pictures and this story with him. It's obviously painful for him to do so. The file was underneath several days' worth of newspapers. John clearly doesn't take it out very often. Sherlock imagines he's supposed to say something at this point, but he can't think of anything. He remembers what Mary said, that he and John were never really talkers. Maybe he doesn't need to say anything. If it were him, it would certainly be enough for John just to be there with him. Maybe it's enough for John, too.
So Sherlock waits. Holds the picture of John and his dead baby and waits, and wants. He's never been good at denying himself what he wants. He manages it for John.
John inhales sharply and starts to speak again. His voice is steadier now, more upbeat. "Back when Mary was pregnant, I used to imagine, you know? What it would be like after the baby was born. And the funny thing is — I didn't realise this until later, but — I never thought about me and Mary doing things with her. It was always me taking her to your flat. I'd think about whether it would be better to try and navigate the Tube with the pram or if I was going to have to suffer the indignity of one of those kangaroo packs." He grins, looking down at the picture of Mary and Gloria.
"I'd have paid for you to take a taxi, of course," Sherlock tells him.
"No, you would not have," John says sternly.
"Or I would have come to you."
John darts his tongue out over his bottom lip and appears to consider. "Yeah. I guess I didn't- That wasn't how I pictured it. It was always me, coming to Baker Street with her. I'd sit in that old armchair, you know, the one in front of the fireplace."
"Your chair."
"It's not... " John sighs but then purses his lips in a wry smile. "Yeah," he agrees, his voice soft. "My chair. And I'd be holding her — this would be before she could sit up properly. So I'd hold her, propping her head up so she could see you, and you'd be standing in front of the fireplace or the window, pacing back and forth while you played your violin, and we'd just sit and watch you. She would have loved that."
"I would have liked to play for her," Sherlock says. He can picture it too. John smiling at him in that way he used to, fondness mixed with a bit of what might be pride. He should have played for John more often. He didn't think it important back then, those quiet moments. He'd always been out for action, excitement, and stimulation, and John thrived on all of that too, so it was good.
But while he certainly wants John to join him on cases again, it's mostly the other things that Sherlock wishes he could have back. Sunday morning breakfast. Laughing over the classifieds. Two toothbrushes in the cup. Texts for no reason. Waking in the wee hours with a crick in his neck and his entire left side numb because they'd fallen asleep together on the couch. John twitching awake with a gasp, his heart racing from a nightmare. Putting his arms around John and holding him tight, back to chest, until he'd caught his breath. Murmuring against the back of his neck that they were safe at home and everything was all right. Having it be true.
"And then," John continues, "when she was a little older, you'd be sitting at the kitchen table looking at something unspeakable under the microscope — slices of cirrhotic liver or something — and she'd be on your lap, grabbing for the eyepiece and drooling on your Brooks Brothers."
"I don't wear Brooks Brothers, honestly you should know that, John."
John gives him a sidelong smile. "Yeah, probably should. You know the brand of every article of clothing I own, don't you?"
"I used to."
John's smile fades. "Yeah. I think you knew more about me than I did myself."
"I missed most of the important things."
There is silence for a beat or two before John says quietly, "I don't think you did."
Sherlock is fairly certain he doesn't imagine the way John's eyes flicker down to Sherlock's mouth. It's just a fraction of a second, but the moment is there.
John is looking at the picture again now though. He speaks with an almost forced briskness: "Or — just one more — later, when she could talk, you and she sitting on the floor with the skull between you, and she's reciting all the bones as you point to them."
"You'd have practised with her beforehand of course, to impress me."
"No, this would be all your doing. You'd-" John ducks his head and squeezes his eyes shut. He presses his thumb and forefinger against them. "Hell," he says after a moment, then clears his throat. "Sorry. But do you see? I wanted... I wanted her to be yours, Sherlock." He turns his head to look at Sherlock. His blue eyes are pink at the edges.
"She would have been," Sherlock says, and he means it with all his heart. "As much as she could have." He never wanted a child. He still doesn't. But he would have done everything John imagined for Gloria, and much more. And, he thinks, he probably would have loved her. He wants to take John's hand right then, the one that's clamped around the edge of the folder on his lap. Squeeze it and hold it and feel John's skin and warm, solid muscle and let him feel Sherlock's. It's an odd thing, because it's not something he ever would have done before. Holding each other's penises was somehow okay, but not holding each other's hands.
On the other hand, everything is different now. Maybe, now, Sherlock's hand over John's would be acceptable. He lays the picture he's still holding back in the folder on John's lap. Then, as he pulls his hand back, he lets his fingers brush the back of John's hand and pauses there. John doesn't flinch away. Sherlock slowly lowers his hand until it covers John's completely. He hardly dares to breathe.
John looks down at their hands. He inhales sharply and nods after a moment. "Yeah, she would have. But there was something else."
“What?” Sherlock's mind is vexingly distracted by the sensation of John's hand under his. It's a struggle not to let his thumb caress the back of John's wrist.
John takes a deep breath and lets it out again. "She had Down syndrome. We didn't know it then. Mary'd declined to have an amnio done, said she'd want the baby either way, but ..."
Sherlock's eyes snap back to the other picture in John's hands. He tilts his head to line up his view. Everything clicks into place. The flat bridge of her nose, the shape of her eyes, the short fingers...
"We agreed to genetic testing afterwards, to see whether the heart defect was caused by some syndrome that might be inheritable. In case we ever..." John shakes his head. "Not that we would have. There was no question in my mind, anyway, and I think Mary knew it too. Anyway, it turned out she had an extra chromosome. Half of Down's patients have some kind of heart defect. Not generally quite so spectacular, of course. Mostly some kind of small hole that can be fixed relatively easily. They don't usually end up with all the plumbing switched around."
Sherlock bumps his shoulder against John's. "She's definitely a Watson, didn't want to do anything halfway."
John laughs, briefly, but the sound is choked off before it can really start. John presses the fist with the picture against his mouth.
"Oh my God. Sherlock, I let my daughter die. I just sat there and watched her take her last breath and I didn't do a fucking thing about it."
"You were with her. You held her."
John shakes his head, a jerky motion. "I keep thinking I should have made them try harder, keep her on the vent longer. What if the surgeons had given up on you five minutes earlier?"
Sherlock doesn't like the reminder of how much grief he's caused John over the course of their acquaintance. "Her doctors would have argued against it if there had been any reasonable chance of her ever leading a meaningful life,” he tells him, avoiding the other point entirely.
"A meaningful life?" John exclaims, incredulous. "Who am I to judge? Is that what I have? Is this a meaningful life, right here?" He sweeps his hand around the shabby space.
Sherlock doesn't even need to think about that. The world without John Watson would not be right. Unthinkable. John Watson, Sherlock thinks, may quite literally keep the world on its axis. Sherlock's world, at any rate. He doesn't know how to say all that, but he hopes it comes through in his answer: "Yes."
Sherlock must not have said it right, though, because John turns to face Sherlock, his face distorted by anger and self-loathing. "I have failed at everything I have ever wanted to do." He pulls his hand away from Sherlock's so he can hold up his fingers and enumerate: "I failed as a surgeon. I failed as a soldier. I failed as a son and as a brother. I failed as a husband. I failed as a- a friend to you. And, my crowning achievement, I have now failed, utterly and completely, as a father. I mean, I know I didn't have much of a shot at it, but I couldn't even give my daughter a bloody normal set of chromosomes! I don't think there's really anything left," he concludes bitterly.
Sherlock's eyes flash his own displeasure at John's imbecilic, self-indulgent rant. "You are not a failure," he says, every word bearing witness to its truth. "You have never failed me, John. You did not fail Gloria. You must know that. You gave her a lifetime's worth of love in those five hours. And I'm certain Mary would say you didn't fail her either. You have never failed to give anything but your best."
"I didn't with you," John says in a small, flat voice.
"What do you mean?"
"I didn't..." He shakes his head and mutters, "God, I don't know what I was thinking. You were — " He deliberately puts his hand over Sherlock's this time, lacing their fingers firmly together. "You are the best thing to ever happen to me, and I took it all for granted."
"I was the one who left," Sherlock says. His throat has suddenly gone dry.
John frowns minutely. He rubs his thumb back and forth against Sherlock's. "Before that, I didn't... I think I was afraid. That you'd laugh at me or say something about it all being beneath you, so I pretended it was all just a bit of fun. I was afraid of being utterly destroyed. But I have nothing left to lose now. I have lost, literally, everything that ever meant anything to me."
"You haven't lost me. You will never lose me." Sherlock's voice comes out as barely more than a whisper. He squeezes John's hand.
John nods. His eyes are fixed on their joined hands, resting there on Sherlock's leg. "That's ... okay, that's good. Because you." John presses his lips together and swallows. He looks grim. Or possibly petrified. "Are. The great love of my life."
It seems surreal that the most momentous statement ever made in the history of the world should be uttered as they are sitting in this frankly squalid little hovel, witnessed only by John's dirty vests, a week-old pizza box (Sherlock can smell it under the bed), and likely a colony of bed bugs (although the red marks on John's wrists and neck might also be due to the cheap washing powder he's been using).
John's chest is heaving as if there isn't enough oxygen in the room. Sherlock thinks perhaps there may not be. John continues to stare steadfastly at their hands. His grip has become almost painful. Sherlock wouldn't want him to loosen it for the world.
"I have a confession to make too," Sherlock says, once he's certain his vocal cords aren't going to betray him.
"What is it?"
"I have an unhealthy obsession with you." It's as close as he can get at the moment. He hopes John understands what he means.
John looks up. He understands. Of course he does. His eyes are bright and full of everything he's been holding back for the past six weeks. And the past three years. He laughs. He puts one hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and pulls their foreheads together. The folder on his lap slides onto the floor, all the papers fluttering out. Neither of them moves to pick it up.
John's breath puffs out against Sherlock's face as he laughs. His breath smells sour and yeasty. Sherlock breathes it in and out and in a little more. Particles that have been inside John's lungs are now inside Sherlock's. He wills them to cling to his alveoli. He will never let them go. John is apparently aware of this, yet he is still here. Sherlock is apparently the great love of his life. Sherlock isn't quite sure what that means, but it is probably good. Love is one of those things that eludes Sherlock, yet is important to John. Perhaps what he means is that he will always be here. Sherlock is fine with that. And he thinks, against all odds, perhaps that is what will make John fine again too.
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Thank you! Excellent fic! :)
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I'm so pleased the characterizations rang true to you. Emotional!Sherlock is a tough thing to portray, because he does have very deep emotions. He's just so verklemmt. These two idiots, eh?
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Oh what a beautiful idea – filling empty spaces in his mind with images of John . . .
”"You haven't lost me. You will never lose me." Sherlock's voice comes out as barely more than a whisper. He squeezes John's hand.”
That was a lovely little moment of vulnerability.
”Sherlock is fine with that. And he thinks, against all odds, perhaps that is what will make John fine again too.”
Yes, they’re truly coming to understand each other, and what each means to the other.
It was a very sad tale in a way, but having both reasoned their way through things, they’ve come out stronger on the other side.
I have, indeed, enjoyed the ending to this piece; it makes sense to try for happiness out of the ashes of sadness.
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Thank you so much for your thoughtful comments, I appreciate you taking the time to share them.