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When Sherlock showed up on the doorstep of 221B, John had literally wilted in his arms like a heroine in some cheap Victorian romance. When he came around, he was met with the most perfectly irritating combination of worry, repentance, and amusement he had ever seen expressed on a human face, and the subsequent left hook to Sherlock’s cheek was at least partially motivated by embarrassment. Despite feeling that Sherlock, that fucking wanker, had deserved a good punch and then some, John—ever the dutiful doctor—dabbed at the broken skin with an antiseptic-soaked wad of cotton, perhaps a little more fastidiously than strictly necessary, disregarding Sherlock’s whinging protests with relish. They sat, so close that their knees touched, together again in the flat that had scarcely changed since the day he “died,” and Sherlock began speaking, explaining, justifying the unjustifiable. John sat in silence, arms crossed, brows knit, and lips pressed together.
The years hadn’t been easy on either one of them, and John could at least recognize that much in the hard lines of Sherlock’s pallid face. He marveled at how Sherlock, the unbelievable bastard, somehow managed to look so simultaneously composed and haggard in a way that still compelled some small part of him to take care of him. Look after him. Protect him. It was absolutely ridiculous. If anything, John was the liability here, given the way Sherlock was talking. Thoughts like these filled his mind, even as Sherlock pressed on. Out of the corner of his eye, John could see the sun peeking through the curtains and at some point, he must have fallen asleep. For untold minutes, he was probably slumped against Sherlock, jaw slack and face unguarded in the most unflattering way possible. In retrospect, he had only hoped he hadn’t drooled on his shoulder. It was a distinct, mortifying possibility. Hours later, he blinked blearily at the Union Jack pillow propped under his head and the knit throw draped over him like an apology. He could barely make out Sherlock’s form sitting at the table and reading the morning paper as if he hadn’t been dead to the world for the past three years, and in this liminal stage between sleep and wakefulness, John felt like he was having some sort of fever dream.
“Sherlock!?” in his sleep-slurred state, the name came out as one syllable instead of two.
Sherlock refolded the paper and regarded John. “Oh, good. I thought you were going to sleep all day.”
His eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, but from where he was sitting, John could still make out the headline about the triumphant return of the decidedly not-fraudulent consulting detective. He was torn between a myriad of responses, probably none of them appropriate, so he settled on enquiring about the article. “Went to press already, then?”
“Mm, yes. The usual tripe. Called me a hero, even. How moronic,” he sniffed, looking as imperious as ever. “Got Lestrade his job back, too. Impressive, no?”
It was, admittedly, impressive, but John said nothing. His eyelid twitched with annoyance and he bit his lip lest the praise start falling out of his mouth. He certainly didn’t want to tell him that in his own fucked-up, utterly exasperating way, he really was a hero. Before he even got the chance to sigh pointedly in his direction, Sherlock hopped up. “Meeting Lestrade in an hour at Scotland Yard. Coming?”
John blinked a few times, opening and then closing his mouth, clearly at a loss for words. “Sherlock. No. Wait. Is this what we’re doing then?” Apparently “this” was pretending nothing happened, carrying on like the person whose grave he had stood in front of and wept for wasn’t currently staring at him like he was the world’s biggest idiot. Well. He had asked for this, hadn’t he? Begged. Pleaded, even.
“It sounded like a good way to spend the day.” Sherlock shrugged.
“That’s not what I… “ John pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know what? Fine. Just give me a minute.” He tore past Sherlock, trying his level best to radiate irritation. Sherlock couldn’t suppress his almost child-like grin in response. More like a spoiled child who had gotten his way, John thought darkly, muttering and slamming things the entire time he showered and dressed. John was uncontrollably ecstatic and pissed off in equal measure and had no idea how to reconcile his feelings. It was clear he would get no help from Sherlock on this front, though why he had ever expected any different was anybody’s guess. Rose-colored memories of the deceased, maybe?
The subject of Sherlock’s apparent suicide, funeral, and disappearance had not been broached since the night he came back. Perhaps he felt like he’d covered everything to his satisfaction. He did, after all, hate repeating himself. But what about John’s satisfaction? Apart from a few cursory deductions—he didn’t even have the grace to ask after him like anyone else would—Sherlock did not seem overly concerned with John or his feelings at all. They had settled into their old routine, and on the surface things were returning to the Sherlock-and-John version of “normal.” But there was a tangible sense of awkwardness in their exchanges. John couldn’t help but feel resentment towards this celestial being of a man who had pulled him right back into his orbit once again, regardless of whether he wanted to be there or not (he did, unquestionably, and that pissed him off even more). And he could almost sense the contrition and regret emanating from the other man, lingering in the softer glances and forlorn faces he wasn’t always perfect at concealing. At times, he looked like he was going to utter something—something soft and kind and just for John, but the words always seemed to die prematurely on his lips. John just wished Sherlock would just fucking say something, anything, and stop moping around like John himself had victimized him somehow. The whole thing was making him peevish and snappier than usual.
~*~*~
One day, in the middle of a lunch date that, if John was honest with himself, he would admit was not much of a distraction anyway, Sherlock sidled up to John, seemingly from out of nowhere. “Dr. Watson! Just the man I was looking for!” He took John’s hand and shook it heartily before he could even think to react or respond. Sherlock was putting on his extra-annoying yuppie voice and looked utterly ridiculous. His hair was parted on the side and slicked down to his head with what looked like a metric ton of product. He was wearing hideous stone-washed jeans and honest-to-god trainers. Cheap, ugly trainers, even. John’s disbelieving eyes trailed up to the horrifying turtleneck-jumper combo. Wait a second. That was his jumper. The jumper he just took off yesterday and flung in the hamper. Sherlock grinned at him like someone who had never actually seen a smile before, only read about it once and tried to recreate it from memory, and the effect was sort of terrifying—nothing like his real smile, John thought traitorously amidst his rage.
“I’m sorry, Jenny, I’ll be right back,” John offered weakly, trying to excuse himself, but not before Sherlock piped up helpfully, “I thought this one was Janice?” Sherlock was right and John wasn’t sure whether to curse himself or Sherlock. Janice, as it turned out, cursed them both and excused herself before John could deliberate any longer.
By this point, John was fuming. “What the hell are you doing!?” He paused, nostrils flaring, “And why, for the love of God, are you wearing my favorite jumper!?”
“It’s for a case, John! I just—”
“IT’S ALWAYS FOR A CASE!” John practically roared, cutting Sherlock off.
“There’s no reason to be so stroppy about it. I just borrowed it so that I could convincingly play the part of a University Challenge champion. Suspected game-fixing ring.” Sherlock replied airily as though that explained everything.
“You. You nicked my jumper so that you might look more like some insufferable public school toff?” John rubbed his forehead.
“Well, I certainly wasn’t about to borrow Mycroft’s clothing from his days at uni.” He wrinkled his nose in disgust at the very suggestion. “They would be approximately 16 centimeters too large in the waist, anyway.”
John laughed despite himself, trying hard to hold on to his anger.
“You can’t just take my things without asking. And that was in the dirty clothes hamper!” He gestured at the oatmeal-colored cable-knit jumper.
Sherlock held the sleeve to his face and sniffed demonstratively, “You have only worn this particular jumper three times since last laundering it, apart from miniscule flecks of toothpaste concentrated around the collar generated from your habit of brushing your teeth with an electric toothbrush after getting fully dressed, there is nothing to suggest that this garment is in any way soiled. It smells only of soap and aftershave.”
*My* soap and aftershave, John thought a little wildly. “Well, you look absolutely ridiculous,” he said instead.
“Good. Excellent. I should be able to find out what I need to know after interviewing the program coordinator attending the luncheon here,” he rubbed his hands together hungrily. “You know, it was only a coincidence that I spotted you,” he admitted.
“And yet you felt compelled to ruin my date.”
“I wasn’t ‘ruining’ it. I was helping you. You looked bored out of your mind.”
John didn’t have a response, because Sherlock, once again, was right. The smug look on his face told John that Sherlock knew it, too.
“Shut up, you wanker. I’m going back to work.” His voice was tinged with something like affection for the first time in a long time.
About an hour later, John received a text:
Entire incident a misunderstanding, somewhat amusing, mostly idiotic. Case closed. Sleeping now. Out of milk. – SH.
John sighed and rolled his eyes. At least it would be quiet when he got home.
~*~*~
From the other side of the door, John could hear the low buzz of the television. He could tell by the cheers and jeers that it was probably some horrible daytime chat show. Balancing his armful of grocery bags carefully, he let himself in, only to nearly twist his ankle on the discarded trainers lying in the middle of the entryway. He muffled his curse and put the milk in the fridge. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch, limbs splayed like a ragdoll. The knuckles of one hand brushed the ground, while a leg hung carelessly over the back of a cushion. Remnants of his ridiculous costume surrounded him. The jeans lay in the floor, turned inside out with their hasty removal. The turtleneck dangled from a lamp. But where was his jumper? Upon closer inspection, John finally spotted it. It, too, was on the couch, and Sherlock’s face was squished unceremoniously against it. He inched closer, partially in an attempt to retrieve it, and more irrationally, to reassure himself that he was still breathing. What a stupid, fleeting anxiety he found himself plagued with now and then. Taking only the briefest moment to ascertain Sherlock’s warm breath against his fingers, he clutched the jumper and tried to ease it out from under his head. Sherlock snuffled, sounding disgruntled, and pushed his face more insistently against the fabric, trapping John’s fingers against his cheek. John snatched his hand away as if he’d been burned. Blinking down at Sherlock, and then at his hand, he resolved to retrieve the jumper later.
John had little reason to worry—Sherlock put it in the hamper himself as soon as he woke up. He had been willing to write off the sight of Sherlock snuggling into his jumper as an unconscious act were it not for an incident a few weeks later. Once again, that jumper should have been in the hamper. But as he crept downstairs for a cup of water, throat parched from the open-mouthed panting of rare but intense night terrors, the image before him arrested him where he stood. Sherlock had thrown John’s jumper on over his own pajamas. He sat in John’s chair with a book propped up on his knees, toes curled around the edge of the seat–distantly John thought he should chastise him for reading in the near-dark, but before he could even form the words, he watched, wide-eyed and slack-jawed, as Sherlock drew the soft, knitted material up to his face and breathed deeply, eyelashes fluttering in some imaginary interaction. Now his mouth really was dry. As if his legs were moving of their own volition, he descended the stairs. A floorboard creaked underfoot, harsh and cacophonous in the otherwise silent moment. Sherlock’s head shot up, wild-eyed and alarmed. They regarded each other, neither daring to speak. After a few seconds that felt to John like eons, Sherlock’s gaze narrowed and hardened and he got up wordlessly, trying to slip past him. John’s reaction felt detached and delayed, but his hand shot out, groping clumsily for Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock tried to wrench his arm away. John tightened his grip.
His voice quavered, but Sherlock gave his best impression of detached condescension. “John, I really think you should—“
“Shut up, Sherlock.” John put the hand not currently wrapped around Sherlock’s too-thin wrist up, shushing him. He closed his eyes and took a breath, slowly exhaling through his nose in an attempt to calm himself. “Let’s not do this.” His expression softened slightly, “… please?”
“Do what? I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific,” he sniffed, nose in the air. Even in the dark, John could see how Sherlock avoided his gaze, could feel his pulse thudding fitfully in his too-tight grasp. And it was Sherlock’s hand trembling, vibrating between them, not John’s. Apparently, dealing with Sherlock right now was close enough to being in a warzone, but he still flexed the fingers of his free hand, opening and closing his fist repeatedly as if calming that “intermittent tremor.” More than anything, it lessened his overwhelming urge to throttle the other man.
“Are you really just going to pretend you weren’t just… just” sniffing my clothes like some kind of lunatic? Again. John squeezed his eyes shut and started over. “Sherlock, this isn’t fair. You can’t just come waltzing back into my life after three years like nothing fucking happened. Things aren’t the same. I thought… I thought you were dead. And you’re always… but you never say…” This wasn’t working. His grasp on Sherlock’s wrist was firm, but his command of the situation was slipping. His voice cracked and he swallowed hard, trying to push past the massive lump in his throat. “And… and maybe I just want you to say something but I can’t take this anymore. Do you even realize—“ How much you hurt me? How much I love you? How much of an enormous pain in the ass that is?
“Yes.” Sherlock interjected. He twisted his hand in John’s grip, grabbing his forearm and jerking him forward. Their bodies collided awkwardly. Wide-eyed, John released his wrist, but Sherlock wound his arms around his waist and pulled him closer. “Yes, of course I realize.” His words were warm against John’s ear.
“You didn’t even let me finish. You never let me finish,” he protested weakly, the fight leaving him. His arms slipped around Sherlock, returning the embrace as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
“Your thoughts are, as ever, Dr. Watson, completely transparent to me.” Sherlock deflected, aiming for flippancy, but John could swear he heard vulnerability in his voice.
“You insufferable arsehole, can’t you just let me be angry at you for a minute?” John mumbled against the skin of Sherlock’s throat.
“You’ve been angry at me for much longer than that.” he countered quietly, nocking his head in the juncture between John’s neck and shoulder and sighing. “I’m sorry.”
John nodded minutely, hands buried in the material of his own jumper hanging from Sherlock’s thin frame. He’d have to tease Sherlock about that later. Now, though, now he just wanted to sleep. He was so, so tired. “Come to bed.” Sherlock’s raised eyebrow must have been audible, because he clarified, “not like that, just. Let’s. … I’m knackered.” The rest of his words died on his lips, but he was met with no resistance as he dragged Sherlock by the wrist up the stairs to his bed.
“Okay.” Sherlock finally replied as he settled against John. And they were.