sh (humanerror) wrote in onewaythreads, @ 2017-06-14 21:52:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | !complete, john watson, sherlock holmes |
Two years and six months.
With clammy, trembling hands, Sherlock's finger hovered over the mobile number on the screen, his heart beating frantically. Just do it. Call him you idiot, he thought, but he thumbed the sleep button a moment later and the screen turned black again. He couldn't do it. He wanted to — God, he needed to hear John's voice again, to ensure that he was alive and safe and well, that all he'd fought for and endured had been protected — but when the time came, his anxiety superseded reason. It had been far easier to fantasize about their reunion in his mind palace, because he controlled everything there. Now with John allegedly, actually here, Sherlock didn't know how his friend might react. Poorly, most likely, but how poorly was the real question. If John could even find it in his heart to accept him again.
So he walked to the temporary housing they'd provided John as a new arrival and entered the building on unsteady legs. It felt bizarre to return here six months after his own appearance, though he barely registered the journey to John's assigned room. Sherlock was numb with a storm of emotions, fiddling more and more with his phone until he unlocked it again and stared at the number on the screen, swallowing hard.
He might not be able to call, but he could text.
John's phone pinged.
You have enemies here, Dr. Watson.
John was standing listlessly in the center of his new apartment’s living room, surrounded by boxes and suitcases from 221b Baker Street. He’d arrived last night, been here for twenty-four hours now, but he still hadn’t started unpacking. He hadn’t even checked his new mobile yet, and the network communications which he was told would keep him abreast of everything happening in Preya and in contact with the people here. It felt far too overwhelming, and John began wondering whether or not he’d made the right decision. Then again, the representatives from Preya had come with their invitation at the exact time when he was about to put the barrel of his gun in his mouth, so if it hadn’t been for this move, he might not even be alive.
There was supposed to be a party to welcome new arrivals tonight, but he hadn’t even changed from his dressing gown since this morning, his chin was unshaved. There was still time for him to get ready and take the rail to go. Maybe getting out of the apartment and meeting new people would help? Instead, John scratched his head and shuffled over to the window to look outside at the busy street, below.
The sound of his phone caught his attention, and he stared at it for several moments on the table before picking it up to check what the message was.
He frowned, then texted back.
Who is this? Where did you get this number?
It was such a typical John response that Sherlock grinned immediately, stress momentarily forgotten as his fingers flew over the keyboard. Did your gun come with you? He asked first, because it was one of the most important questions before they proceeded. Moriarty was at large and very active here. John would need to be armed if he planned on joining the fray ... that is, if he chose to. Sherlock's gleeful expression fell as he contemplated the alternative: trapped in a new world with a John Watson who refused his company. It made his stomach turn.
Don't bother going to the police about this Sherlock continued. They've been compromised by an old adversary of yours. I think you know who I’m referring to.
This was exactly the sort of thing that John needed to pull him out of his head and focus on the potential danger. His grip tightened upon the phone, his eyebrows furrowed and he started pacing as he texted.
Yes, and I’m capable of defending myself. That was not entirely true. The authorities of Preya thought it wise to ask for his gun, all things considered, and John handed it over to them in agreement. But he wasn’t going to tell the mystery texter that. He still knew how to defend himself, irregardless of a weapon, and if necessary, he’d buy himself another. Why don’t you stop keeping me in suspense and tell me who you’re referring to? As far as I know, you could be lying. Or even the person from whom I should be defending myself.
I don't really think Moriarty is the type to warn someone before he consumes them, is he? Sherlock sent before he thought better of it, chewing on his bottom lip. He began to pace outside John's door, back and forth, then forced himself to stop lest he make too much noise. How could he possibly reach this man after so much time apart and so many miles between them? Tell him the truth, he thought, and the idea made him simultaneously nauseous and thrilled. You're in more danger than you realize he typed instead, trying to keep his breathing even. Be ever on your guard. There are precious few whom you can trust here, but know that I am one of them.
Frustrated, John pursed his lips together tightly to reign in his anger. The name Moriarty stared back at him on the mobile's screen, and it occurred to John that if he was asked to come to this place, why wouldn’t Moriarty be given the same chance? After all, nobody knew what happened to the body. All that was left was a bloodstain on the rooftop that hadn’t belonged to… the blood.. It wasn’t… Sherlock’s.
The thought of Sherlock’s bloodied face, the mark he left behind on the pavement made John temporarily close his eyes, as if that could shut out the vision in this mind. It was a memory that usually crippled him. But now? With these text messages to go by, John decided he couldn’t let that happen. He would not. His determination was clear. If these texts were correct, and Moriarty was in Preya, then he needed to be focused. Not for his sake, John didn’t give a damn about himself… but for Sherlock’s memory.
John suddenly found new resolve, a mission — to vindicate Sherlock and see Moriarty dead. And after months of depression and despondency, it was the best John had felt in a while, invigorated with a purpose.
There was just one thing.
Who the hell are you?! John texted back, then after a thought, Where do I find Moriarty?
Open the door and I'll tell you. Sherlock pressed send without allowing himself to think on it, though his heart was beating faster than ever. This was it, and he needed to remain focused. So he locked his phone and returned it to his pocket, bracing himself for the door to open — or perhaps, even worse, for it to remain closed. Because John had every right not to answer his summons, but it would mean that he'd lost his desire for danger, too. That he'd changed so radically from the man Sherlock had met that day in Bart's, and that the chasm between them was now far too great.
No, he thought fiercely, gripping his hands behind his back so tight his nails left marks in his sink. He'll come to you. He always does.
The reply made John’s blood run cold as he swung his gaze in the direction of the front door. The mystery texter was on the other side the whole time? His nerves were already on edge, contemplating how he was going to kill Moriarty, but now every one of his senses became alert in fight mode. The texter said that they could be trusted, but it might be a trap. It really sounded like something Moriarty might do, and John wished for a second time that he still had his pistol. His gaze quickly scanned the room he was in for another weapon. Among the moving boxes, there was one that had kitchen utensils — he’d opened it earlier in the day to find his kettle and tea things. He marched over to the box and it didn’t take long before he found what he was looking for: a long bladed knife, one made for carving. Sharp.
John weighed the knife in his grip to get a feel for how he could use it in close combat, his mind was set, already going through the defensive and offensive maneuvers he might need to take. If the texter was armed with a gun, it might be a short fight, but damn it, John wasn’t going down without one. He set his mobile down on the table and crossed over to the door, unlocking it slowly, quietly, then placed his hand upon the knob, also slowly turning it until he heard the latch click — then he swung the door open wide, hoping that would give him an element of surprise, gritting his teeth and holding the knife ready.
When he saw the person on the other side of the door, he froze. Jaw slackened, his expression one of bewilderment, his heart speeding up so fast that he thought it might burst. The knife fell from his hand to the floor with a clatter, and for a moment he couldn’t say or do anything else. In his mourning, John had started to imagine spotting Sherlock everywhere he went; was this another hallucination? Did he just hallucinate the whole text exchange? Was this whole Preya business even real? Had he officially lost his mind?
Sherlock realized immediately that he'd made a grave error the second the door swung open nearly off its hinges. It made sense now that John might react poorly to his ... attempt at recruitment, but it hadn't occurred to the detective just how poorly this would go, and his hands were up immediately, a clear sign of surrender. "John —" He began, clearing his throat when it immediately closed on him. Just looking at John after so long, in the flesh, was utterly overwhelming, and he suddenly couldn't put two words together because of it. There was too much information flying at him, and he struggled to make sense of it all without his heart flying out of his chest.
"John," Sherlock tried again, though he didn't move an inch — just kept his hands up. "It's all right. I mean, it's ... not, obviously. But I'm alive, and so is Moriarty. We've been here for a while now. There's a great deal to explain if you'll let me." He held his breath, waiting for John to react. Respond. Anything.
Swaying slightly in place, there was only one thing John needed to know right now. He sucked his lips into his mouth, worrying them with his teeth, before asking out of desperation, “Are you for real?”
Sherlock didn't respond with words. Instead, he slowly lowered his hands so that he could offer his wrist to John. He remembered every detail of that horrible day even now, how John had grappled to find a pulse when there was none. How everything had fallen apart so quickly, and there was no other alternative but to pretend as though he'd sacrificed himself. This was all he could offer John, now: irrefutable proof that he was real and alive.
John’s left hand tremored, and he stretched his fingers to give them a shake; the old psychosomatic injury had started happening more often since Sherlock’s suicide, he barely paid attention to it anymore. With his right hand, he tentatively reached out and placed his fingers over the radial artery, remaining very quiet and still as he felt for the pulse. It was there, beating rapidly, Sherlock's heart. John’s eyes closed.
“I kept asking for you not to be dead anymore…” His voice trailed off, faltering. His fingers than closed around Sherlock’s hand to hold it tightly.
"I know you did," Sherlock replied, quietly, far more subdued than he usually was. The full weight of his decision was finally hitting him, the consequences of his actions laid totally bare. "I'm sorry," he blurted out before he could stop it, blinking back tears with a scowl. Why was he always so emotional? So fragile? This was about John, not him. He needed to hold it together. "I'm so sorry. This had been a plan to protect you, but I see now that I only made it worse." Sherlock inhaled a shaky breath, unable to look John in the eyes. Cowardly. So he stared at their hands, the only point of contact between them. "I don't expect you to forgive me, John, but I hope you can find it in your heart to listen. You really are in danger, and Moriarty is well-established here. He has friends."
Even though Sherlock was uncharacteristically contrite, apologetic and warning him of danger, John could only focus on one thing. “Protect me from what!” The words came out angrily, a burst of pent up emotion that he couldn’t hold back, even if he tried. In frustration, he started fumbling as he continued to speak, “What...? So… how….? You couldn’t tell me? Why??” He felt betrayed, confused, yet he never let go of Sherlock’s hand; if anything, his grip tightened.
The shouting startled Sherlock — badly — but he forced himself not to yank his hand away. We're not in Serbia. We're not in Serbia, he kept mentally reassuring himself, and he managed to stay relatively calm despite the spike in his heart rate. "Protect you from Moriarty," he said after a moment, relieved his voice didn't waver. "He hired snipers to kill you, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade if I didn't jump. You needed to believe I was dead or you'd be shot. You all needed to believe that. Those were the terms he set."
“You faked your suicide?” John paused to let that sink in, pursing his lips together tightly, then exploded again, “God DAMN it, Sherlock! I almost blew my fucking brains out yesterday because I thought you were dead!” He violently released Sherlock’s hand so he could turn and walk away, running his fingers through his hair out of annoyance, but he quickly spun back so he could continue to shout, “And you couldn’t give me a message, after? Nothing?! Not even a fucking TEXT?!” He grabbed his phone that he’d been texting with from off the table and chucked it across the room, where it crashed loudly against the wall. “Where were you, huh? What were you doing for the last month? Why bother showing up on my doorstep at all? You could’ve kept leaving me mysterious messages on my mobile!” he pointed in the direction where he’d thrown his phone. “Because evidently, I’m still in danger from Moriarty!” his voice was sarcastic, but also filled with pain.
Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it again. He forced himself to raise his gaze so that he could watch John throughout the entire speech, distantly aware that he felt absolutely nothing. Dissociation briefly crossed his mind. He'd done this as a child, too — a mental barrier he used to protect himself, an unconscious attempt to sever the connection between what was happening and himself. But then, that was all his mind was, wasn't it? Walls behind walls behind walls. Sherlock heard everything John said, however, and neatly categorized it into boxes that he would later unpack and analyze. But the numbness had set in as a means of protecting himself. There was no other way he could stand there and process it. Even the sudden explosion of the mobile phone didn't even make Sherlock flinch this time. "You're right," he said, finally, once John had stopped to take a breath. Because he was. The man was absolutely right. "I have no right to be here. Ask me to go, if that's what you need, and I will."
The fact that Sherlock didn’t react somehow made John even more upset, but telling the other man to leave hadn’t crossed his mind. “Get in here,” he ordered, swinging his arm to motion the direction he wanted Sherlock to go. “And close the door.”
While that was being done, John strode over to a chair… his chair... brought from their apartment in 221b, because he couldn’t bear leaving it behind, and because it was so damn comfortable. He sat down in a huff, arms on both armrests, scowling for a moment or two before his eyes darted up at Sherlock. “How long have you been here?”
Sherlock didn't even hesitate. He entered the flat and immediately moved to retrieve one of the cheap wooden chairs already provided in the semi-furnished apartment, and positioned it where they always placed the client's chair back in 221B. Only then did he take a seat, the implications clear: John could now ask whatever he liked, and if Sherlock wanted to stay, he would have to answer. That the doctor picked up on this and immediately started the session was ... a bit of a relief, though he still felt numb and exhausted from anxiety. "Six months," Sherlock replied without hesitation. He said nothing more, gazing at John and waiting.
It wasn’t something John had done consciously, but once Sherlock sat in that spot, he automatically fell into the role of questioner, as a habit. Elbow on the armrest, propping his chin up with his hand, he kept his face toward Sherlock. “And you said Moriarty was here. Didn’t you tell the people in charge here that he was dangerous?” A pause. “What have you been doing here?”
"By the time I arrived, Moriarty had already established himself as a fixture within the police force. He's been here for five years. At least, my sources have suggested as much." Sherlock folded his hands neatly (a nervous gesture) and took a breath. "I've been running a consulting business specifically for Preya's citizens." It was easy to fall into this role, a routine they had come up with together and used for many years. The whole exchange felt as natural as breathing.
“Five years?” John was surprised - only a month had only passed since the suicide, yet Sherlock was talking in terms of months and years. When he came over, he too distracted, did he miss something from the welcome orientation? He breathed a discouraged sigh. “So, the police have been compromised, like you wrote in your text.” He then sarcastically added, “Great. Just what we need. And they made it sound like this place was a paradise.”
The adrenaline from John’s previous outburst wore off, and John began feeling sluggish, but he remained sharp and focused. He gave Sherlock an estimating glance, up and down. “I don’t think I could imagine you doing anything else but.” There was a comfort in the statement, a certainty he could hold on to. Though, back to the topic of Moriarty; “Isn’t there anything we can do to stop him? Do you at least have a friend on the force, like Lestrade?”
Without thinking, John had already included himself with Sherlock’s business by using the word we.
Sherlock shot John his own glance, carefully taking note of all the details laid out before him. He continued to sit stiffly, back straight, as if bracing himself for something. Some of that tension eased when John made it unequivocally clear that they were still a team despite everything. "We continue to help those who need us most," Sherlock replied, conviction in his tone where there had been very little of it before — as if John's words breathed life back into him, even brightening his eyes. "There's someone on the council who might be willing to assist us, should the time come." He shifted a little. "Mycroft."
John sputtered in disbelief. “Mycroft? He’s here, too?” It sounded ridiculous for some reason. “Why do you say might? Did you two have a falling out?” He then remembered how Mycroft had placed his brother into grave danger by giving Moriarty details about Sherlock’s life in exchange for information, and he understood. “Mycroft’s also been compromised.” He looked out the window in silent thought. “What is the plan? How do we bring him down? Because I’ll be more than happy to shoot the bastard when I see him.”
Sherlock's brow drew together tightly. "What are you talking about? Mycroft isn't compromised, he's just lazy and self-serving. We'll get information from him, obviously, but he isn't the sort to do legwork. You know that." For all he always seemed eager to speak ill of his brother, Sherlock trusted Mycroft with his life. He depended upon the man far more than he would ever admit, and perhaps that made Sherlock naive. Or perhaps it made him a deeply caring person. Either way, he'd never considered the possibility that Mycroft might have — or would ever — sell him out.
"You can't shoot him, John, though I share the sentiment." He sighed, frustrated. "We can only monitor his movements and gather our own allies. He hasn't slithered out from his den just yet or shed his skin, but we have to be ready for when he does." Drama? Check. Snake symbolism? Check. Gleam in his eyes? Check. For the first time, Sherlock was feeling more like himself than he had in all the time he'd been away.
“Who says I can’t shoot him?” John stubbornly insisted, but with a frown, conceded to Sherlock’s assessment of the situation, trusting him enough to know Preya’s particular dynamics, including that of his older brother. “They took away my gun when I got here, anyway,” he said with a shrug. “I’ll need to get a new one.” He then looked over his shoulder in the direction where he flung his phone. “And probably a new mobile, considering how it left a dent in the plaster.” He paused to scratch his ear, awkwardly. “If I had known you were here, I would’ve brought your chair, too. I… uh… brought some of the other stuff from our flat, though.” he motioned to the boxes, behind him. “Where… where are you staying?”
Sherlock smirked a bit at John's continued insistence that he wanted to shoot Moriarty, his gaze softening a little. Trust the great detective to be charmed by the very real threat of cold-blooded murder. The mention of the gun sobered his brief good mood, however, and he finally glanced away from John to take in the familiar bits of furniture from 221B. It made his heart ache. He'd arrived in Preya with nothing but his broken, battered body. "I've accumulated a few things during my stay here. It's fine." His eyes were drawn to John again though when he asked another question, and he fought the urge to chew on his lip out of nervousness. You're not a child anymore his mind supplied in a voice that sounded too like Mycroft for comfort.
"A two-bedroom near Centurion Square, at the heart of the city," he said, watching John's face carefully for any important signs. His heart rate had picked up speed again. "Being the brother of a council member has its benefits, though I ... haven't found a flatmate to share it with yet. My neighbors barely tolerate the violin at three a.m."
“Oh. Huh.” With his elbow on the armrest of his chair, he covered his mouth with his hand and just looked at Sherlock, wondering whether or not he ought to be so presumptuous. “Well. I mean… I’m not keen about this place that they’ve given me. The pipes rattle and I’m pretty sure I saw a cockroach. If you haven’t found a flatmate, then maybe…? Do you think there’s enough space for all this? Most of my things haven’t even been unpacked yet, as you can see. We could just have it carted over?” He smiled a wishy-washy sort of smile. “Your violin playing never really disturbed me.”
After shouting at Sherlock, John wasn’t sure if he’d want him as a flatmate, but there was hope.
Sherlock gazed back at the man because it was impossible not to. John drew everyone and everything into his orbit, and he had always been powerless against it — even when he pretended otherwise. "Sometimes I don't talk for days on end, though," he said, repeating some of the first words he'd ever spoken to John, heart in his throat. "I'm narcissistic as well. And immature. Dramatic. Prone to fits of boredom. Emotionally stunted. And I ... I hurt my best friend in ways I can't possibly comprehend, let alone atone for." Sherlock didn't dare look away, but he wanted to. God, he was terrified of what he'd see on John's face right now, but he looked because he knew he needed to face this fully and completely.
And then, in a smaller voice: "Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."
The significance of what Sherlock was saying - nearly repeating what he’d told him on the first day they met - was not lost on John. Back then, Sherlock had told John the worst about himself, but John never revealed his bad qualities. Now was the time for John to remedy that.
Shifting in his seat so that he was leaning forward toward Sherlock, John said, “I have an explosive temper, I tend to yell. I also suffer from PTSD, depression and I have trust issues. But I’ve been and still plan on going to therapy.” A pause, and then in a sober, and painfully honest tone of voice, “I missed you Sherlock. Your death broke me. Believe it or not, I’m ridiculously happy that you’re alive.”
Sherlock looked surprised when John began listing his own negative qualities. He wanted to interject — to argue some of them, because many of those traits were absolutely justified — but he recognized this moment as significant, so he remained silent and listened. It was that last assertion that seemed to wiggle its way past Sherlock's emotional walls, and he blinked back a sudden well of tears. "I've missed you too," he said, choked, reaching for John's hand before he could think too hard about it. He squeezed. "All that time, I was fighting to get back to you. It was the only thing that made everything worth it. I'm sorry, John. I'm so sorry." Perhaps it was too much, too soon, but Sherlock shifted off the chair and kneeled at John's feet, holding that hand with both of his now, tightly, as if the man might disappear at any moment. Though Sherlock didn't seem to realize he was trembling now, too caught up in this moment.
At that moment, John was given an insight into Sherlock’s own ordeal. It wasn’t as though the detective wasn’t doing or hadn’t felt anything while he was in hiding, which was what John first assumed out of bitterness. Something must’ve happened to draw out this sort of reaction, and while John didn’t know what, it was impossible for him to stay angry with the man while he was kneeling on the floor in front of him, clutching his hand, obviously crumbling from the strain. Sherlock’s intense emotions was infectious, and combined with the mental stress he’d personally been through for the past two weeks, John felt the last remnants of his anger melt away as he nearly broke down himself.
Fighting back the tears, John grazed his bottom lip with his teeth, and gripped Sherlock’s hand tighter, placing his free hand upon the space between Sherlock’s shoulders to pull him close against his chest. He took a deep, steadying breath and released it in a long, calm exhale while tilted his head down to rest his cheek upon the top of Sherlock’s head. “Everything’s okay,” he murmured. “I forgive you. It’ll be alright now. We’re both here.” As he spoke, his hand crept up from Sherlock’s shoulders and curled around his neck, coming into contact with the bare skin that made him feel even closer, comforting Sherlock as much as himself.
Sherlock was stunned when John drew him into his arms, but all other thoughts soon fled his mind when he realized he was finally close enough to identify every single thing the doctor smelled like. Oil. Black tea. Earth after a storm. Warm wool. A crisp flash of aftershave. It was the very distinct scent of Baker Street, too, and he breathed it in, greedy for the taste of it again. Sherlock had certainly felt grateful for the chance to start a new life here, but this — John's sudden, unexpected appearance — was what finally made Preya feel like home. So he hesitated only a second or two before sliding his arms securely around John's waist, scarcely able to believe the fact that he was allowed this right now. The memory of it would never be forgotten.
And yet.
"No," Sherlock said, drawing back only a little bit so that he could see John's face. "You don't have to forgive me now. Or — ever." It pained him to say it, and he scowled a little bit, but pressed on, determined to make this right. Really right, not just empty platitudes that would boil over into another argument later. "I want you to take your time. Neither of us are ... fine. But we will be. Is that fair?"
John didn’t expect Sherlock to return the embrace, but the moment it was done, it felt natural, like it was meant to be. Grounding. Comforting. Exactly what he needed. So when Sherlock told him no, and said he didn’t have to forgive him, John’s immediate response was to tell Sherlock, Shut up.. However, John held his tongue long enough for Sherlock to clarify his reasoning, and despite his initial reaction, he had to admit, it made sense. Both of them obviously had issues they needed to work through, ones that couldn’t be so easily swept under the rug with just one conversation. However, it was also obvious that they were committed to one another enough to make it work, despite the costs.
Reluctantly, John nodded his head, twisting his mouth in acknowledgement of Sherlock’s proposal. “That’s fair,” he muttered, then added, “I’ve agreed to go to therapy while here. I’ve also been given a job at a clinic, downtown.”
If Sherlock had shown an impressive leap in maturity before, he immediately regressed at the mention of another clinic — and groaned. "Oh, for God's sake! I want you to work with me. Obviously. It's pointless for you to take any jobs elsewhere, because you'll only be calling out. I really don't know why you still insist on it." With Mycroft here to fall back on in case of emergencies, Sherlock was enjoying a relatively comfortable living situation much like the one he'd had back in London. He was rather privileged in this way, and heaved a heavy sigh as if to illustrate just how absurd John was clearly being. But he understood needing space, however, and wouldn't push the issue if the doctor stood firm. Sherlock wanted John to stay. He'd ... have to make some compromises.
He didn't move an inch from the embrace, though. As if he felt perfectly comfortable holding his best friend and gazing into his eyes like this.
John’s eyebrows rose high at Sherlock’s childish outburst, and initially he wasn’t sure how to respond. “Well, yes, I want to work with you, but do you get enough cases?” He remembered when he decided he needed to get a job. “I won’t have my army pension here, and if you turn down cases because they’re not interesting enough, we won’t have enough to cover our expenses.” It never seemed to bother Sherlock, but it was a source of anxiety for John. He didn’t consider that Sherlock had been living in Ravenmoore for the past six months alone, and he seemed to be doing alright. “Maybe I’ll work part-time?” but John grimaced because Sherlock was right, their cases sometimes demanded he take time off work to help, which the London clinic where he worked didn’t appreciate.
Like Sherlock, he made no indication that he wanted to part from being so close and touching one another.
Part-time when Moriarty is here? Sherlock thought, but he closed his mouth immediately. How badly did he want John at his side again, going toe to toe with the worst criminal imaginable? The one who had made every effort to kill the doctor, and very nearly succeeded? Sherlock liked the idea less and less the more he considered the risks. "You're right," he agreed, but added in another sigh for dramatic effect. He couldn't seem too eager all of a sudden. "But don't publicize it on the network. In fact, don't tell anyone the specifics of where you work. Let people assume you're just helping me with private clients. Nothing high profile, and certainly nothing related to Moriarty."
It didn't dawn on him that embracing one another for this long wasn't something close friends did. He'd never had a best friend, after all, and Sherlock always took John's lead in social situations. Since the man didn't seem uncomfortable at all, he relaxed — and even sat on the floor, suit be damned, just pleased for the chance to be this close to him. That he started leaning on John's knees was just par for the course. Give Sherlock an inch and he'd take a mile.
To hear it repeated how dangerous it was in Preya with Moriarty walking free made John pause This certainly wasn’t what John had signed up for when he agreed to come. Or was it? John was promised a new life, which he initially imagined to be a place where he could try to pick up the shattered pieces of his heart and move on without Sherlock. But this was so much better: Sherlock alive and they were together again, and even though Moriarty was around as an ever-constant threat, if John was honest with himself, this was the sort of danger that the man thrived upon. But he was so stuck in his ways that it was difficult to break out of the old routine he had before, not fully realizing that he could do whatever he wanted, that a new life literally meant that… a new beginning to do and be whatever he wanted.
However, the only thing John wanted at this exact moment was to be with Sherlock.
John nodded his head to let his friend know that he understood. “I won’t, but you have to promise, if something happens, you’ll keep me in the loop. No coming up with crazy plans behind my back. Please.”
Sherlock watched John carefully, recognizing this as yet another significant moment. He could lie, of course — promise to do whatever the man wanted, promise to be good — or he could be honest, which was far more difficult, and unlikely to reassure John at all. It was in his nature to strategize and remain several steps ahead of people, but this behavior had nearly cost the lives of his friends. Was it worth risking again? Sherlock realized, grudgingly, that he needed to do better if he wanted John to stay with him. Even if it would take time to get there.
"I promise I'll try," he said at length, though the words pained him. "Sometimes you might have to ... ask. I don't always realize I'm keeping you in the dark, but when I do, I'll tell you." It made him deeply uncomfortable and even a little terrified to make this promise. Sherlock's family was full of secrets. He'd learned that deception protected the people you love, but also, that it protected yourself from heartbreak. That he was about to challenge all of that felt like going against everything he'd grown up to believe, but for John ... for John, it was worth it.
Try wasn’t what John wanted to hear, but for now, he’d accept it. He didn’t want to keep rehashing the subject, so he decided to change it. “So,” he began, moistening his lips with his tongue. “Tell me what sort of cases you’ve solved since you’ve arrived?” The topic of Sherlock’s work was always an enlivening one for both John and Sherlock, and was sure to elevate the mood.
Sherlock practically leapt to his feet at the mere mention of cases, extending his hand to John with a wide grin. "Come on. I'll show you." He had it all planned already: a excursion through the city he'd grown rather fond of, passing all the old haunts and interesting shops and bizarre people. It would be just like before when he'd toured John through the parts of London so few people actually got to see, but this time, it would be even better. Sherlock was incandescent with excitement, and he would continue to be for a long while after.