Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In his Mind Palace, all the places he’d visited to chase Moriarty’s network were neatly catalogued with a time and date stamp. In reality, all of the travels blurred together; the dates becoming insignificant, the missed holidays unimportant. 

On evenings like this, ones that he had to wait through before he could go into the field again, he thought of home. It was not a place. 

Home was a person.

“John,” Sherlock whispered into the empty room he’d been renting in Oaxaca, southern Mexico for the past week. It was sparse, with just his duffel bag against the wall, a bed and a chair by the window he was now sitting on. The cracks in the beige walls were like spiderwebs permanently etched into the stone. The rusty hinges in the windows made them impossible to fully close, and he couldn’t drown the incessant noise of the ongoing celebrations outside.

It had been November 1st the day before, and Sherlock had ventured out just to witness some of the festivities bursting with all colours of the rainbow, and peppered with images of skulls and skeletons. The seasonal markets had been up for days, strewn around the city and nearby villages. He’d wended his way through the Central de Abastos market, resolving that he need not leave his lodgings in the following days, as the crowds and tourists would make it all but impossible to find Moriarty's minions. Despite the overload of noise and people, he’d come out with something he could use; not to further the search but to satisfy his transport. At one of the stands, he’d purchased a quite large pan de muerto bread which he’d eaten half of on his walk back. It had been exceptionally good. John would have liked it, especially if he dunked it in the local hot chocolate…

Walking back to his lodgings, Sherlock had marvelled at the artistry of the sand tapestries depicting skeletons and the intricate altars spread throughout the city, some of which had paths of cempasuchil petals leading up to them. Apparently, people here believed these would help the dead find their way, as one of the American tourists hadn’t failed to announce way too close to Sherlock’s ear. The beliefs seemed silly, and Sherlock had no interest in researching them, but the way they brought families together had reminded him how much he missed the ones he’d left behind. The ones he had been forced to lie to in order to save. 

John.

This day, November 2nd, he’d decided to stay inside, as he was unable to further his search in the crowds. The landlady, an elderly local woman, had tried to convince him to go see the Comparsa late in the evening. It was supposed to be a carnival-like procession of people in costumes, with music and dancing. The description itself made Sherlock want to stay in even more. Apparently, the celebrations lasted for three days every year, and the noise drifting through the window was making his skin crawl already. Drinking was out of the question, so was taking any kind of substances. He was alone and had only himself to rely on; therefore complete lucidity was the key to his survival, even if he was craving a fix  more than he’d ever had in London. Technically, he was on a case, and was never bored, but the days filled with loneliness and talking to John who was millions of miles away were starting to bring him down. 

From a hidden pocket of his linen shirt, he took a battered photograph. Even though he had been taking good care of it, he’d held it far too often in his hand for it not to sustain any damage. 

It was crumpled and torn in one corner. A picture of a man in a military uniform looking straight at the camera, looking at Sherlock. The handsome face had a serious expression on it, chin slightly raised, a short military haircut, and a hint of square shoulders. Sherlock had snatched it from Mycroft’s folder on John and had kept it. 

His bandage-covered thumb, which he’d cut several days before, now caressed the lines of the face on the picture, the set jaw, and the lips pulled in a thin line of military focus. Sherlock sighed, placing the picture back in its hiding place before he looked through the window, feeling forlorn.

The startled gasp that tore out of Sherlock’s throat was so sudden; it made him cough. 

“John?” 

It couldn't be. 

Yet the dark blonde hair and military, determined gait said it definitely was. Moreover, Sherlock just knew - seeing the small movements of the shoulders, the twitch of the head- that it was John, even from far away and without being able to see his face. 

Without a second’s hesitation, Sherlock burst out of the room like a hurricane and took the stone stairs down, jumping from mid-flight to descend quicker. 

The crowd outside swallowed him, engulfing him in as if he were a mere mussel entering an ocean. People moved in waves, bumping into him as he pushed through, never slowing his pace.

“John!” he yelled, even though he knew it was futile. No single voice could be heard over the singing and chanting of the crowd. The myriad of colour, sequins and elaborate, feathery headgear made Sherlock dizzy as he ran, his heart racing, the scented air burning his throat, as he looked for what seemed to be the only other person without a costume.

Finally, he caught up, grabbing John’s wrist.

A wave of dread came over Sherlock when he saw the white streaks in the man’s hair, for a fraction of a second doubting his previous observations.

He let out a sob when the man turned around.

Chapter Text

“John!” Sherlock choked out, his throat constricting with joy and disbelief all at once.

“I was looking for you!” John exclaimed, his face splitting into a smile. He threw his arms around Sherlock to pull him into the tightest of hugs.

Sherlock reciprocated with enthusiasm, gripping John’s jacket in tight fists, holding onto John as tightly as he could. “You should have stayed home. You’re in danger,” he whispered into John’s hair before swiping his palm quickly over his eyes. 

“No, I’m not. No one saw me. I promise,” John placated, his voice muffled as his face was burrowed into the crook of Sherlock’s neck. 

“I can’t believe my eyes.” Sherlock pulled away to look at John’s smiling face, half-hidden by a full beard. He gripped John by the shoulders and squeezed, holding him at arm's-length to look him up and down. John’s battered clothes told the story of how hard it must have been to get here and find him, but he was willing to postpone all of his deductions. He’d rather just look at John’s face after so many months of looking at the old picture and conjuring the image of the John he’d known in his mind.

John cupped Sherlock’s face in his warm, war-worn hands, and Sherlock had to refrain from turning his head to kiss the inside of John’s palm. The elation coursing through his body made him want to do bizarre things.

Looking up at Sherlock’s face, John let out a sigh that was hard to interpret. He then let his hands fall along with his gaze as a tiny bit of pink tainted his cheeks. Sherlock felt a stir in the pit of his abdomen; a heat he’d only felt in the middle of the night when he’d dreamt of being back at Baker Street with John next to him. The adrenaline coursing through him made him want to burst with laughter; jump, run and whoop with joy, but he reined it in to remain the Sherlock that John used to know, even though he’d changed so much since they’d last seen each other.

“Come on,” Sherlock said, not even trying to suppress a grin. “Take my hand, let us waltz with the dead!” 

As if time slowed around them for just a moment, Sherlock watched John’s hand close around Sherlock’s outstretched one. John’s palm fit into his as if it was made to be there, as if it had always belonged entwined together. Time slammed back into place and the warmth of John’s hand registered.

Releasing a chuckle, like a child ready for an adventure, Sherlock turned around and navigated through the sweaty bodies. He took them to a stand full of masks and costumes for late-comers. Tossing a wad of local money at the young girl behind it, he took two random masks, one for himself and one for John. Both depicted skulls, with a myriad colours and decorations on them.

“You look good with flowers in your hair,” John chuckled, appraising Sherlock’s new look with a twinkle of genuine amusement in his eyes. 

Sherlock scoffed, adjusting the mask to see better through the holes in it. 

They held hands, trudging through until they gave up and followed the flow of the chanting procession. 

It was too loud to talk, but Sherlock was content enough just knowing John was next to him again.

Following the wave of the people, they ended up at a cemetery. It was full of tombstones; old and new, large and small. Some of them were plain white stone, while others were adorned with an angel or a cross. The place didn’t bring chills or fear of death in Sherlock, rather the opposite. The cemetery with flowers and candles on nearly every gave out the feel of warmth and peace. Or maybe it was just the presence of John that filled Sherlock with the calm comfort he associated with their home at Baker Street. 

As families broke apart from the procession to visit the members of their families no longer in this world, John and Sherlock found it the best opportunity to veer off into their own path. They sat on a small bench in front of a tomb that had already been visited, as proven by the candles atop it. Sherlock was sure no one would mind, as plenty of tourists were roaming the grounds. The anonymity among so many created an illusion of privacy.

Their hands were still linked between them on the bench, and Sherlock just now realised how intimate it felt. They've never held hands for any other reason than not getting separated in a crowd or to coordinate better when handcuffed. This was different. 

Afraid John would think he was being too forward, Sherlock started to pull away from the grip. The squeeze of John's hand to prevent their link being broken made Sherlock look at John's face.

“Can we stay like this? If you don't mind,” John asked, scratching his beard.

“No, I don't mind at all,” Sherlock assured him quickly, his chest filling with affection.

In fact, he had no idea that John's touch could bring so much solace and comfort. He wished to hold John's hand like this more often, maybe even without needing an excuse to take it in the first place.

“Tell me about your journey here. What happened along the way? I want to know everything,” John said, breaking Sherlock from his reverie. “I'm here now, you can tell me,” he added, seeing Sherlock hesitate.

John deserved to know all of it, and the squeeze of his hand gave Sherlock strength. He took the deepest of breaths before delving into what he’d hoped would be a recitation of facts only. John needn’t be aware of the misery and solitude the mission had inflicted on him.

Sherlock talked for what seemed like hours, telling John about how he’d found the network, how he’d infiltrated them and succeeded in taking it down for the most part. He’d spent a few weeks wounded in a hospital once but managed to get out before they’d found him. John sat listening, mesmerised, the mask pulled to rest on top of his head so Sherlock could see his face. Sherlock had done the same, baring the emotions that were playing on his features as he was telling the story of fighting, searching, survival, successes and failures. All the while he’d been far from John and missing him severely. He didn’t mention the last part, casually omitting the days he couldn't sleep until he looked at the picture of John’s face, and told him about his day. 

It was as if he was sharing his burden with John and now it didn’t feel so heavy anymore. John took half of it and they were in it together, sharing their lives as they had since the day they’d met until the day Moriarty ruined everything between them. Sherlock talked for what seemed like hours, until long after the cemetery grew quiet. There were several other families there still, quietly celebrating the life of the no longer living, and a few tourists still strolling the grounds. 

The array of feelings he experienced in such close proximity to John unearthed all the thoughts and analysis he’d ventured into during their time apart. Sherlock found himself no longer able to keep all of it to himself. He’d already almost lost John once; he was not going to let him keep thinking Sherlock was a machine. Not ever again. He’d always been so careful not to let his emotions show because he knew that once he gave his heart, he couldn’t take it back. He’d been right.

“I apologise if I'm being too blunt,” Sherlock said, then had to clear his throat before continuing, “but being away from you and having way too much time to analyse the John Watson wing in my Mind Palace -"

“I have a wing in your head?” John asked, chuckling. There was no judgement in his tone, rather astonishment. 

“But of course. It's not my head; it's my Mind Palace. As I was saying,” he took a breath and turned sideways even more to meet John’s gaze. The deepest of blue looked back at him with lingering mirth and fierce affection.

Immediately regretting his decision, Sherlock looked down at their joined hands. John's piercing, yet soft and compassionate gaze was stripping his defences and he wasn't ready to see John's face when the words left his mouth.

“Yes?” John prompted.

“I'm a ridiculous man, John, you know this. And I have been too consumed by my own need to be independent and not weighed by emotions, so much so that I overlooked a crucial aspect of my life. It was only after leaving London that I realised what the giant dark hole forming inside of me was. Or rather, who was missing in my life to make it appear in the first place. The truth is…” he hesitated even though John must know where this was going, “promise not to laugh.”

“I promise,” John replied sincerely, squeezing his hand in reassurance. 

“The truth is absurdly banal: I've missed you, John.”

“Oh, haha,” John released a small laugh. Sherlock’s head snapped up to look at him, incredulous.

“You promised,” he said, betrayed.

“I'm sorry,” John said with sincerity. “I'm not laughing, I’m really not. I'm just happy, ok? I've missed you too, that's why I'm here,” he reached for Sherlock's other hand, the contact causing the initial hurt to dissipate.

“Telling you to go back home now would be pointless, would it?” Sherlock asked, smiling a small smile, wishing for John to stay, but also wanting him to be safe.

“I’m here just for today. I have about an hour left really.” Saying that, John didn’t look at his watch but into the moonlit sky. 

Sherlock followed the path John’s gaze had taken, to see a clear, night sky. Sadness took root in his chest as the chilly wind lifted the remnants of Day of the Dead decorations before swirling them centimetres above the ground.

“Oh,” Sherlock lowered his gaze to their hands still linked over John’s lap. It was for the best. As much as he wanted John to stay with him, it was too dangerous. John was wise to go. Instead of wallowing, he should enjoy the little time they had left. 

Sherlock looked into the expanse of the cemetery, now almost devoid of people bar a few lingering here and there. They were not sad; they were visiting their loved ones and remembering them as best they could.

“Here, the dead were supposed to come back yesterday, on the 1st. Or that’s what the locals believe at least,” Sherlock smirked, recalling the piece of information he’d overheard in Spanish, a language he was not fluent in, but familiar with. He wanted to shower John with some trivia he might enjoy, but frowned, recalling very little as he’d deemed the subject irrelevant before. “Ugh I deleted the rest of the information, it’s such a bunch of useless facts. The point is, you missed your date if you wanted to play spooky on me. Not that it would have worked.” He forced a laugh that just sounded sombre. He forgot how hard it was to hide from John. 

“The children come back on the 1st,” John said, smiling sadly, “the little angels, they call them. Today is the 2nd and the adults come back,” John’s voice trailed off.

“It matters not,” Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, then frowned at the apologetic look on John’s face. From the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw candles on the nearest grave flicker before they went out as if afraid to witness the dread that took over Sherlock. “What are you implying, John?” Sherlock straightened his back and squeezed John’s hands in panic. “Is someone at home hurt? Is Mrs Hudson okay? John! Answer me!”

“She’s fine, healthy. They all are.” John smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. It was a smile of sorrow. 

For the first time since he’d found John several hours prior, he let himself deduce the state of his attire, his beard, his hair. He’d been so happy to finally see him, he failed to notice the obvious.

Oh no. No no no no. No.

Chapter Text

“John?” Sherlock whispered, pulling his hands out of John’s grasp. 

His heart pounding, he jumped to his feet. He took three steps back, tripped on a rock, and fell on his arse, like a spooked child. “No,” he said sternly, voicing his thoughts. 

“Don’t be afraid.”

“I’m not afraid. I just don’t believe you. It can’t be, it mustn’t!” He shook his head emphatically, while deep in his heart he knew the truth.

“Sherlock,” John spoke calmly as he stood to approach him. He looked perfectly fine, perfectly… corporeal. “You have questions.”

“Of course I have bloody questions!” Sherlock yelled, his voice breaking at the last word. He looked around them at the remaining people sparsely strewn around the cemetery grounds.

“They can’t see me,” John divulged. “Only you can.” 

“How can you just say that?!” Sherlock yelled with such despair his throat hurt. Then quietly, he continued: “How did you -” a sob broke his words and he buried his face in his bent knees, wrapping his arms around them. The same position he’d taken when he’d hidden in his room, inside the big cupboard after his dog had died. It had felt like he had lost a friend then; this time it felt as if he’d lost his entire world. 

Unable to look at John, Sherlock let his anguish consume him. It was all his fault. He’d left John, naively assuming that he’d be safe when all he’d really done is left him in London like a sitting duck, ready to be shot at with ease. 

A comforting hand touched his shoulder, then traced circles on his back. It was a warm touch he’d dreamed of so many times, a touch he’d wished for on the darkest of days when pursuing Moriarty’s minions. He revelled in it now, letting it soothe him, painfully aware that it was the last time he was going to feel it. John had said that he had only an hour left, and Sherlock was wasting time wallowing. Stupid.  

Sherlock sniffed one last time, wiped his eyes and looked up at his best and only friend. Within seconds a plan of how to follow John formed in his head and he was able to calm down somewhat.

“Okay?” John asked, concern showing in his voice.

“No,” Sherlock said sternly, wiping his eyes again with a fast swipe. “What happened? Did they come after you when I left?”

John took a deep breath and released it slowly, looking into the cemetery filled with millions of candle lights flickering in the soft wind. He didn’t need to breathe, Sherlock realised, watching the moonlight coupled with candlelight playing on John’s features. 

“Let’s sit,” John offered a hand and Sherlock took it, letting himself be pulled to his feet. 

They sat on the bench again, Sherlock’s hand still in John’s, no longer hesitant about their touching. That time had passed, there was nothing left to lose. Sherlock’s gaze travelled from their hands to John’s face, trying to commit every feature to memory, while his mind was still trying to grasp the idea of the impossible becoming his reality. Maybe he’d lost his mind. That was very probable, given his loneliness and what he’d gone through in the last several months.

If that were the case, he was happy to stay insane for as long as John could stay with him. John reached for Sherlock’s other hand, and for a moment they just stayed like that - timeless in limbo, holding hands, sitting on a cemetery bench in a city far away from London. 

John’s expression was apologetic, almost shameful before he looked down, turning their linked hands his palms up.

A strangled cry left Sherlock’s throat when he saw a vertical slash at John’s wrist. He let go of John’s hand to slide the sleeve of John’s jacket up. The dry, bloodless, yet still open wound continued almost to the crook of John’s elbow.

John pulled out of Sherlock’s grip long enough to roll up his sleeves, then place his hands back into Sherlock’s. His other forearm looked similar, the unclosed flesh laughing at Sherlock like twin, red mirthless smiles of despair. Without the blood, surely long ago drained, the wounds looked fake. Except Sherlock knew better.

“Why did you do it?'' Sherlock's voice was barely above a whisper as he met John’s gaze, rolling John’s sleeves down, unable to look at what he'd done to himself. He’d seen enough. As if the will to live left Sherlock, he was just able to sit as if beaten into a stupor.

“I realised something,” John said, squaring his shoulders, preparing for what he was about to say.

“What was it?” Sherlock leaned forward, placing their faces mere inches apart. 

John swallowed, then licked his lips, looking deep into Sherlock’s eyes.

“That I love you.” John’s gaze didn’t waver, waiting for Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock’s lips trembled as he fell silent. He opened his mouth to say that of course, John cared, he was a doctor; he had all those feelings and emotions. “You -” he hesitated, swallowed, and tried again. “You were always so caring, so it’s -”

“No,” John said softly, placing a palm on Sherlock’s cheek. “I realized that I’m in love with you. That I’ve been in love with you for a while and I was just too stupid to see it. You’ve always said I was stupid so... there’s your proof.”

“No,” Sherlock protested, new tears stinging his eyes as his throat constricted. “If you had, you wouldn’t have done this to yourself.” He shook their joined hands for emphasis, his voice choked. “Why would you…?!”

“I thought you were dead,” John whispered, hanging his head. Then he snapped it back up. His eyes became darker, a familiar anger brewing in them just below the surface. “You made me think you were dead. You let me grieve. Why would you do that, hm?” John threw Sherlock’s question back at him as his hands balled into fists still atop Sherlock’s open palms.

Sherlock let him talk, closing his hands over John’s, letting him voice his justified anger. “The last two years have been a torture that I was ultimately unable to bear. The nightmares, Sherlock… God! The nightmares! They weren’t of the war this time, well not all of them. They were about me failing to save you from death. From jumping off Bart’s rooftop. From being shot on a case. From drowning. From overdose!” John’s characteristic angry sniff translated his emotions. “I was convinced you were alive for a long time, and I waited for proof. I waited for you to let me know you were still out there. I was so sure you would. Like the idiot that I am, I waited for a note, a cryptic letter, a- a message from a restricted number, anything!” John shouted the last part, then took a breath to calm down and whisper in a resigned tone: “So when you didn’t…” He shook his head, disappointment clouding his features. “They all thought I was insane to wait. They were right. I just didn’t want to wait anymore, and I couldn’t live in a world without you.”

“I’m so sor-” Sherlock was interrupted by John’s finger over his lips.

“No regrets. Not now, not anymore. I’m here just to be with you for a while.” John wiped away the tears streaking down Sherlock’s face with his thumbs, then swiped at his own cheeks. “I’ve never told you this, but you should know that you gave me two more years anyway. Nothing was happening in my life after I came back from Afghanistan and I had nothing to look forward to. I spent most days in the bedsit, looking at the gun I kept in my drawer.” John paused at the anguished sound that left Sherlock’s throat. He’d suspected John might have been suicidal in the past but had hoped it was a passing thought or a slight miscalculation on his part. He’d read his proclivity towards danger correctly, but this… this was new information. If he’d known, then… then what? He was unable to speak, his mind processing the data, rearranging it in the Mind Palace within just seconds before John continued. 

“I decided to start my last day with a stroll in the park. As luck had it, I bumped into Stamford there and met you, heh. So, thank you. No regrets, Sherlock.” He offered a smile that was quickly wetted with the tears gently rolling down his face. Sherlock’s chest seemed to cave in. It hurt, his entire being hurt. He’d done this to John. It was all his fault. Now, he had no way to take it all back. He’d let John get close, get attached to him and then had left. His mind supplied vivid images of John cradling a gun in his hand, then John’s open forearms, bleeding onto the sitting room carpet of 221B.

“You have questions.” It was a statement rather than a question. Sherlock had about a hundred of them.

“I thought you’d use a gun,” Sherlock said, squeezing John’s left hand that had now relaxed in his grip.

“Me too.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I planned it for several weeks. I feigned pain in my shoulder.” He rolled his left shoulder where Sherlock knew a star-shaped scar marked the place John had been hit by a bullet. “The doctor I went to prescribed me pills for the pain and I was saving them for the special occasion. That evening I put the pills on the kitchen table next to a bottle of whisky. The one we got from a solved case. From that guy with a broken leg...”

“Frank Marten,” Sherlock supplied, listening intently. Morbid curiosity mixed with paralysing pain at the story, rendering him otherwise motionless.

“Yeah, that one. I wanted to take a handful of pills and down it with the liquor, but I counted them first and calculated how much would be enough. Then I remembered how one guy did that when we were in Afghanistan -”

“You don’t have to tell me,” Sherlock whispered, his lips trembling.

“I do. I really do. When we found that guy… it was ugly, messy. I didn’t want anyone to be forced to do that kind of cleanup after me. I took a lesser dose of the pills, took a healthy sip of the whisky, and got into the tub with a knife. I thought using the one from the mantlepiece would be poetic enough for even you to appreciate.” John chuckled dryly, as the vivid picture he was painting carved a bigger hole in Sherlock’s heart. “I didn’t want to use the gun, because I wanted it to last longer, to die slowly but without too much pain. You’re gonna laugh but… you know how they always say you see your whole life before you die? Just in case there was nothing for me on the other side, I hoped I would get to see you even if just for a moment.”

Sherlock took one of John’s hands and placed it on his cheek, remembering how he’d hoped to see John’s face when he’d thought they would kill him just a few weeks ago when he’d been captured.

“Did you?”

“No,” John scoffed. “But I got to come to see you now. Funny how your mission took you here of all places.”

“Your beliefs are different than this,” Sherlock nodded at the cemetery around them, trying to process the situation rationally and failing. 

“What are yours?” John asked and Sherlock lifted his shoulder in a shrug in reply.

“Then it doesn’t matter. It was luck or fate or whatever you want to call it. But I’ll take it. I’ll take whatever it was that brought me here to you. Before you ask, no, I don’t remember what’s out there. I can just feel my time running out. So, Sherlock…” John’s blue eyes clouded by tears bore into Sherlock’s. “This is my note to you.”

John climbed over Sherlock’s lap, straddling him, pulling Sherlock close. 

“Hold me,” John whispered, burying his face in Sherlock’s neck. 

“I feel -” Sherlock choked out. “I love you, too.” 

Sherlock held his best friend tight and let his tears soak John’s jacket, unable to control the sobs that shook his body. He remained in that position, the tiny, choked sounds of anguish leaving him with every breath until his arms were just holding the cool, night air. 

“Goodbye, John. Wait for me. I’ll come to you a lot quicker this time, I promise.”

The whispering wind rustled the tree leaves, as they sang a sorrowful song of those who were no longer amongst the living.