Who: John Watson (BBC AU), Sherlock Holmes (BBC AU) What: John’s arrival through the portal - in Alola When: Not long after after this exchange Where: Heahea Beach Warnings: Mentions of death and faked suicides Status: Complete in gdocs
In the two hours John waited for his vaccination to take so he could leave the Medbay, he read up on what people had posted on the network, and even wrote something, himself. He expected it to be some sort of joke, or even a dream, but with each passing minute, John found himself unsettled by the thought that maybe this was real. The shocker came when, among those who responded to his post, was none other than Sherlock Holmes. It had been months since they’d seen one another. Suddenly John’s attitude changed and he hoped this was for real. Once John got his vaccination and was cleared to leave, he wasted no time in getting off the ship. Meet me on the beach near where the ship is docked, he told Sherlock.
The last time John was on a beach like this was about three years ago, when he went to New Zealand to stay with an old college mate for a couple of weeks. Something about being kidnapped by Moriarty and having a bomb strapped to him really aggravated his PTSD, and he needed to get away, clear his head, and maybe even try to forget how emotionally attached he’d become to Sherlock. He ‘d invited Sarah to come along with him… now that turned out to be be an embarrassing decision, one which still made John cringe to remember. At the time, Sarah was sweet and told John it was alright, she’d understood, these things happen, but it was enough for them to break up soon after returning to London. Calling out another person’s name while having sex was bad enough, but when that name happened to be another man’s? Well.
The sun was just sinking low in the horizon, casting the sky shades of red and gold. Shoes and socks off, holding them in his hand, John stood with his toes buried in the warm sand as he looked around. There were still a lot of people on the beach, splashing in the waves, lounging in beach chairs. What John found out of the ordinary were the unusual creatures he spotted: people riding blue dinosaur creatures in the water, as natural as can be, an older couple strolling past with their pet circus seal following behind, something he first assumed was a pink beach ball, but then started running off making all sorts of happy, jibberish noises, and finally a walking tree that made him think he’d lost his mind.
“I’m going to need a drink,” he muttered to himself. Luckily there were several bars along the boardwalk, their lights turning on invitingly as the sun set further.
Where was Sherlock?
This wasn't how their reunion was supposed to go. Sherlock stood in front of his floor-length mirror for an hour, pairing and swapping different variations of what few clothes he had. He wasn't ready. They were meant to meet again after Sherlock had been to more physical therapy. More counseling sessions. More preparation. He couldn't do this now, face John Watson before he was perfect and as close to the person he'd been before his departure. What if John didn't like him with a knee brace? What if there were too many cracks and bruises to be sufficiently thrilling? What if John rejected this new version of him like Mycroft had only a day ago? Mycroft, who he needed now more than ever.
"Stop," he hissed at his reflection, and for a moment, his racing thoughts obediently slowed. Sherlock laid out all the facts inside his head, just as his therapist had encouraged him to when his anxiety spiked and irrationality took hold. When he'd met John, the man had just come from war. His pain was written as clearly on his face as the hand that gripped his cane, and it hadn't bothered Sherlock in the least. If anything, the complicated web of emotions that wove together to form John only caught his interest. He'd been drawn to the ex-army doctor, immediately pulled into his orbit, and the same could he said of John, too. Hadn't he shot a man for him that same night? Weren't they hopelessly devoted to each other?
Sherlock smoothed out the nonexistent wrinkles in his suit and took an unsteady breath. He'd left John to wait long enough. He wanted to see him, yearned to look upon the man himself and not the fantasy he'd clung to, preserved and pristine in his mind palace. With a last, lingering look at the mirror, Sherlock made his way through the boat to the shoreline, heart pounding furiously. It took him a little longer to get there, given the knee brace and cane, but the ache in his leg was a passing annoyance that vanished almost entirely when he spotted John's unmistakable silhouette. He felt almost dizzy with anticipation, a rush of warmth racing through him, and he had to actually stop for a moment to catch his breath.
It was only a moment, though, because Sherlock angled himself to make sure John didn't see his approach. He crept up behind the man, completely silent, a smile already curling his mouth. "Afghanistan or Iraq?"
The low timbre of a familiar voice caused John to close his eyes and his knees to involuntarily become weak. He turned to look over his shoulder, apprehensive that maybe he’d just imagined what he’d heard, but upon seeing Sherlock there, he immediately dropped his shoes so he could fling his arms around his friends’ neck in a hug, much the same way he did when he first found out that Sherlock had faked his death. For several moments, he said nothing, did nothing but hold him close, until he finally muttered, “It’s great to see you.” John then sighed out of relief and stood back to look at his friend, hands remaining firmly on either side of Sherlock’s shoulders, a large smile stretched across his face. “You look good.” He wanted to say more, but his brain foolishly censored his tongue. That was his estimation, but John hadn’t been told about what happened to Sherlock, or that he’d even been captured, and he hadn’t seen his approach so he didn’t even notice the leg brace yet.
They weren't a very demonstrative pair on a good day, but Sherlock could admit he'd quietly hoped for this small bit of contact. Of months without John, to have him in his arms now was pure bliss. He'd fantasized about it so many times, their first-ever embrace, and yet the real thing was so much more than he could have ever dreamed. He just ... hadn't accounted for the pain that immediately flared up his leg, and he bit his lip to stifle any noise that might have escaped. No. It wouldn't ruin this moment. He wouldn't allow it. Not when he'd fought so hard to get here, to finally wrap his arms around John, burying his nose against the top of that golden head of hair. Sherlock breathed in raggedly, the distinct scent of Baker Street tinged with saltwater filling his senses. This was home. A walking, breathing manifestation of everything he held so dear in his heart. That John was still clinging to him was deeply satisfying, and Sherlock filed it away in his mind, too overwhelmed to finally have the man here to really think critically about it.
But then John was talking, and he struggled back to the present, the ache in his leg a sharp reminder to stay vigilant. Sherlock braced himself when his friend drew back — physically and emotionally — and leaned a little harder on the cane. "You too," he replied, his voice strangled. Tears pricked at the edge of his vision, but he blinked hard and swallowed past the lump in his throat. Sherlock focused instead on the man in front of him, noting every single detail that he'd missed in the time he'd been away. And although John couldn't deduce like he could, the detective knew well enough that his friend would notice he was a bit thinner. The downside to living with a doctor.
He smirked a bit, less tentative when his gaze finally returned to John's eyes. "I see the legwork suited you." It was a subtle compliment. John had built up a fair bit of muscle. So sue him for noticing the obvious.
The smile faded immediately after he realized something was wrong, and then he understood, Sherlock was in pain. His brow wrinkled with concern, and then, “Jesus, what… your leg.” It didn’t take the World’s Only Consulting Detective to notice the cane and the way Sherlock was favoring one leg over the other, leaning to one side. John kept his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, but this time it was to give him something to lean on as he looked around.
Not too far from where they stood, beneath a pair of palms trees, there was a park bench. “You need to sit down.” John knew how stubborn Sherlock was, and how he didn’t like it when he thought you were patronizing him, but John spoke in a commanding voice, not only as Sherlock’s friend, but a doctor, and an army doctor at that. In a way, this was what John needed - focusing his thoughts on Sherlock’s welfare helped distract him from the uneasiness and disorientation of suddenly being swept away under highly unusual circumstances.
“What happened?” John touched Sherlock’s leg, feeling the brace beneath his trousers.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but he wasn't annoyed. Not truly. It helped that John took command of the situation, seemingly motivated by the sight of his friend's injury. Sherlock could work with that. So he did as he was told (a little shiver ran through him at the tone in John's voice) and sat, gingerly, watching as the doctor identified the knee brace. "Mission gone wrong in Moscow," Sherlock replied, offering a dismissive little shrug of his shoulders. "I thought I was dealing with a fringe group, not Moriarty's agents. They ... recognized me. It was a stupid mistake." He didn't often admit to his professional failings, but it would be impossible to avoid it now. And he owed John the truth. Perhaps not the whole of it — Sherlock couldn't imagine detailing what he'd lived through, how humiliating those three weeks had been — but some.
"I'm fine," he added, knowing John's medical expertise would tell him otherwise. He watched his friend closely, intensely aware of his reaction to this. And maybe there was the fact that Sherlock was desperate for everything that was John Watson: his face, his hands, his voice, his demeanor. He was drinking him in like a man starved, gaze intense. "Mycroft personally saw to my release."
Moriarty’s agents. John knew what that meant. “You’re lucky to be alive.” He paused momentarily to let his own words sink in. What would be his reaction if Sherlock had died? Actually, John did know how he’d react - for little over an hour, he was convinced Sherlock had committed suicide, he’d seen his seemingly lifeless body bleeding out on the pavement. The overwhelming grief and loss was almost too much to bear. Ever since their paths crossed, Sherlock integrated himself into John’s life so deeply, and on such an emotional level that, while never really acknowledged, John couldn’t picture himself any other way. It was difficult enough to be apart for a year while Sherlock was on this damn mission, but at least there were letters, communication. They’d actually risked the whole operation just to stay in touch. To consider that Sherlock might’ve died again only strengthened John’s determination to never let his friend out of his sight, and to help protect him at all costs.
And so his protective instinct flared, so much so that he didn’t notice the longing way Sherlock was staring at him. “You’re not fine. I can tell pain when I see it.” Asking Sherlock to listen to doctor’s advice was akin to herding cats, so John grimaced. “Just… take it easy, okay? Where was it broken? How long ago did this happen?”
"They had no intention of killing me," Sherlock pointed out, matter of fact. He could have died at the hands of an agent with a vendetta, surely, or perhaps even a torture session gone wrong, purely accidental. But Sherlock highly doubted it. The reward for his capture — and keep him alive was made very clear — had been steep. They wouldn't have been careless or trigger-happy. Not when so much money was on the line, nor even a rare opportunity to see the man responsible for dismantling their way of life brought so low. No, the detective had gotten off easy. His face was still in tact. He still had his wits about him. Sure, adjusting to life with a knee brace and a cane would be difficult. Probably hell, occasionally. But John was sitting next to him, alive and well, and that was all the reward Sherlock needed. All he did, his single priority ever since Mike introduced them in a small, cluttered lab, was John. The man sitting beside him, endlessly caring and attentive, steel cutting through that gaze.
Sherlock made a show of heaving a sigh. "I can't take painkillers, John. Of course I'm in pain." And he would be for the rest of his life. That had been the prognosis, though for a few days, he'd wondered whether he would walk again at all. Having to avoid drugs because of his former addiction was a small allowance in the grand scheme of things. Besides, Sherlock's pain tolerance was absurdly high. Amusement glinted in his eyes when John grimaced. He really was adorable like that. "Three months ago. The break was, thankfully, clean." Sherlock didn't mention the fact that they'd done it to prevent him from escaping. Or from avoiding their advances, the pain too great to focus on much else.
He glanced away, gazing out at the ocean rolling gently onto the shore. "I was going to tell you," he started, then stopped. A silence stretched for a moment or two before he found his voice again, though it was rougher than before. "After I'd recovered." I didn't want you to see me like this.
Sherlock didn’t need to go into details for John to understand that Moriarty’s people wanted him alive as a hostage for a bargaining tool., or the reason why he couldn’t take painkillers on account of him being a recovering addict. But what John couldn’t understand was, “Why would you do that, idiot?” He was angry over what he thought was a stupid decision. “You’re lucky this portal thing brought us together now, because it saves you from me being even more pissed off at you for not telling me. Don’t hide anything from me, Sherlock. I thought we agreed on that.” It was one of the things that John was adamant about, after Sherlock revealed himself as alive in the morgue.
Sherlock blinked, surprise actually registering on his face. He glanced sideways at John and held the man's gaze, trying to suss out just what made him so unique, so constantly puzzling. The detective didn't think he'd ever manage to properly work it out, and that was fine. Thrilling, even. "I …" Sherlock swallowed a little, grateful for the fact that it was too dark for John to see his face flush. "I wanted to be how you remembered." Interesting. Perfect. John’s.
Despite the clear show of emotion Sherlock was expressing (obvious enough for even John to notice), John wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily. John scrunched his face in a ridiculously frustrated fashion to express just how stupid he thought that excuse was, and then firmly said, “Sherlock. That’s not important to me, and you shouldn’t think that way. I’m just glad to have you around, no matter what state you’re in.”
Sherlock didn't understand. He'd always been too much — too loud, too reckless, too callous, too smart, too sentimental. His life consisted of contorting and reshaping himself until he squeezed into premade molds. Even when Sherlock finally gave up trying to be something he wasn't, he never thought — not once in his entire life — that he would be enough for someone, let alone the thing that someone actually wanted. He stared at John for a long, long moment, searching his face for any hint that he was just being kind, or worse, that he pitied Sherlock's current state. Nothing like that was there. Not a single flicker of doubt in John's steady, impossibly blue gaze. I love you more every day, he thought, amazed and so deeply, profoundly fond of the man who surprised him all the time.
"Then you're not angry," he said. It wasn't quite a question, but Sherlock honestly couldn't tell. John had countless facial expressions, and some of them still mystified him. This one included. It was partly exasperated, of which he was often on the receiving end, but tinged with something else. Something that made his heart beat just a little faster, hope fluttering in his chest. Not good. Really not good.
Why would I be angry? John wondered. It was another ridiculous statement, and Sherlock wasn’t usually prone to those. Something had changed since they’d been apart, and John could guess what: the stress of being held captive and tortured at the hands of his enemies must’ve shaken Sherlock’s otherwise resilient psyche. It happened to the best of them - John had witnessed it in the Army, experienced it first hand. His heart went out to Sherlock, in empathy. If anything made him angry, it was the thought of somebody hurting Sherlock, and if they were in their own universe, John would’ve wanted to immediately go after those people to make them pay. There was a deep sense of covetousness, and John’s natural and automatic response at this point was to protect Sherlock at all costs.
John maintained Sherlock’s gaze for several moments before he sighed and said, “I’m irritated at you for not telling me what happened to you, sooner.” He wasn’t going to lie about that. “But I’m not angry,” he added resolutely, hoping the confidence in his tone of voice would settle any worries Sherlock might have. “I thought… I hope that next time something like this happens, you can trust me enough to tell me.” Hadn’t they been through enough together already to form a bond? All that time they were corresponding to one another while Sherlock was on his mission had made John feel closer than ever, and raised his hopes that maybe… just maybe ...Sherlock felt the same way. John had assumed they did, but it looked like they were wrong.
While he’d been speaking, John unconsciously, and protectively, placed his hand firmly upon Sherlock’s knee and leaned forward. When he realized he was too close, he quickly moved back Sherlock got the wrong impression.
Relief flooded through Sherlock. It was so intense that he had to exhale just to expel that energy. "There won't be a next time," he said immediately, that easy confidence returning to his voice. This he knew. "We won't be apart. Either we're taken together or not at all." There was no way of ensuring that, of course. It was certainly possible that they might be separated. But it would be less likely if they faced every obstacle together, united, as partners. And he'd always intended to return home for that, to immediately pick up where they'd left off in that perfect little haven they'd created for themselves.
There was also the fact that John had reached out to touch him, which was ... new. They didn't do that sort of thing, and Sherlock had never questioned it. John was hardly a demonstrative man. He'd never even seen his friend express that much casual affection with his girlfriends. Why would he touch Sherlock now? He's trying to comfort you, his brain supplied in a voice too like Mycroft's, but then John was leaning forward, and he blinked, suddenly overwhelmed by the absurd realization that there were little flecks of gold in John's eyes. He hadn't known that before. Sherlock only had seconds to glance down at his friend's mouth, briefly, before the man was drawing away again, and he exhaled a shaky breath. It seemed as though the charged tension between them, which had reached its peak in the days leading up to Moriarty's trial, was still there between them. Warm. Sparking with promise. Still, he'd spend the foreseeable future analyzing what John had intended with that move.
"I meant what I said on the network," Sherlock continued, gazing at John steadily. "I missed you."
Much to his astonishment, John realized when he’d seen Sherlock look at him like this, before. He hadn’t recognized it since he’d never seen it so candidly. It was always something John would catch out of the corner of his eye, or maybe in the reflection of a mirror, but always when Sherlock didn’t think he noticed. A significant and meaningful look, the kind that bared one’s soul. On a couple of rare occasions, they made eye contact, but it didn’t last for long. So, when met face-to-face with this look, John automatically developed a lump in his throat that was difficult to swallow, because he realized he’d begun looking at Sherlock the exact same way.
The honesty was so intense that John had to glance away at the sunset, and nervously moisten his lips with his tongue. When he turned back and saw Sherlock still had the same expression, he knew he hadn’t been imagining it, and this took his breath away. Cast in the reflection of the setting sun, Sherlock still looked as amazing as ever.
“I missed you too.” An understatement that inadequately conveyed how John felt, and sounded stupid to his ears, but it was the only thing he could think to say. John was not ready to acknowledge his feelings to Sherlock, or even himself, and he needed some sort of diversion. “How about a drink?” he suddenly asked. “You said there was tea here?” That’s what Sherlock wrote to him, before, so he hoped that would be enough of a distraction.
Sherlock watched the struggle playing out across John's face. He'd always been a terrible liar — it was a big reason why Mycroft insisted they keep John in the dark about his fake suicide. And yet, he couldn't. He hadn't. Sherlock risked their mission because of the hope now blossoming in his chest, and now they were finally reunited, and all the old feelings were being dredged up again, resurrected so strongly he had to force himself to breathe just to keep it together. Was that love in John's eyes? Could he possibly feel the same? Sherlock wondered. He'd laid awake so many sleepless nights analyzing moments like this where their gazes caught, or they briefly touched, or especially when John began to wander out of his bedroom before he'd even gotten properly dressed, clearly comfortable enough around Sherlock to let his guard down. Was this what all best friends did, or was there more?
He exhaled a short breath. "There is. Just up the boardwalk." With a hand on John's shoulder (a subtle sign that he was now ready to accept his friend's help), Sherlock led them away from the bench and toward the direction of the late-night café. And for a brief, sweet moment, the twinkling lights hanging outside the brick building reminded him of their first dinner together at Angelo's. It was appropriate.