Chapter Text
“You absolute wanker ,” John snarled, darting forward with his arms outstretched, knowing already that he could never be fast enough to catch Sherlock as he fell.
It was some months after Sherlock had returned, in his ridiculous fake-moustached glory, to the land of the living. John couldn’t think back on that night without a full body cringe - of shame at his own behaviour, of embarrassment for his now ex-girlfriend, and of seething resentment with Sherlock himself. Sherlock had breezed back into his life as if he’d been off on some grand adventure, while John had been clinging onto life by the very edges of his fingernails.
Which was what Sherlock appeared to be doing now, body flush against the wall above and fighting gravity.
Around six weeks prior, between “Not-dead”, and “absolute wanker”, Sherlock had appeared at John’s boring little bedsit wearing what looked like a brand new gym outfit: running shorts, long sleeve neon athletic top, socks and trainers, and a headband, and said, “We have a case!”, as if the two-year absence and subsequent fist to the face had never happened. By then his bruised nose was healed, as was apparently Sherlock’s ego, though John’s relationship with his girlfriend had never recovered. Mary’s exit had been almost suspiciously hasty, but with his emotions and equilibrium all over the place, John had also thought it for the best. John had stared at Sherlock jogging, jogging, in place at his door, partly flummoxed at the sight of about ten miles of long leg, partly furious to the point of smacking him again, and partly absolutely over the sodding moon thrilled to be hearing that ridiculous, comic-book phrase again.
“Where?” he had asked, and Sherlock had looked a bit surprised, then blurted out the backstory in typical Sherlockian fashion, dragging John along as if in a slipstream as he walked away from his front door. There had followed some arguments, some investigating, a lot of apologizing to people on Sherlock’s behalf and scolding him for his behavior, some texts, a light smattering of breaking and entering, an extremely cathartic fistfight with a villain on a running track, and then somehow at the end of it all he had found himself waking up in his old room in Baker Street to the sound of the violin. It had been like the whole two years had been some awful nightmare, and somehow, somehow , it was over. He had lain there listening, remembering all the things he hadn’t been able to say in therapy to Ella, remembering all the things he had been able to say to a gravestone, and knowing that soon, as soon as the urge to strangle him had dissipated, he was going to say them out loud to Sherlock himself.
This would also be after he cleaned up whatever was going to be left of Sherlock that was currently sliding in a comical yet alarming way back down the steep roof towards him.
Since the running track case had ended, John had supposed the new athletic outfits of Sherlock’s were going to be relegated to the hidden depths of his closet along with every other costume, but surprisingly, Sherlock had remained attached to them. “They're aerodynamic, John,” had been the slightly wounded reaction when John had brought it up. John was rather alarmed to learn that there were names for the terrifying sport Sherlock had appeared to be making up just to give him a heart attack - freerunning, or possibly parkour - and Sherlock’s new hobby seemed to be running up walls and leaping across alleys in even more spectacularly reckless fashion than he had prior to being dead. John had made it very clear that he would not be joining in, causing a massive strop that coincidentally meant Sherlock did not help him move his boxes back into Baker Street, which was only abated when John said he would at least go and watch.
Much as a parent might nod indulgently at a child on the monkey bars, John grimaced his way through some congratulations while Sherlock showed off, interjecting “Careful!” every now and then, until Sherlock ran up the sloping roof in front of them, appearing to try and reach the ledge of the adjoining next building which was almost twice his height. John had stepped forward as if to catch him, but Sherlock had slid vertically down the wall and then down the sloping roof and ended up as a puddle of detective at his feet before he’d had much chance to do anything else.
“Ow,” Sherlock said, conversationally.
“ Wanker ,” John repeated, crouching down and helping him sit. “For someone so intelligent I wonder where your brain is sometimes! That ledge is far too high - it’s out of reach, even for you.”
“But I have to reach it,” Sherlock said, grimacing and looking up at the offending ledge then down at his palms. They were scratched and bleeding from the brick wall.
“No, you want to reach it. That’s a different thing. Anyway, that’s it, you’re done, we’re going home.”
“But…”
“I said, you’re done,” John said, pulling Sherlock up by the elbows and steadying him as he wobbled. He gave the taller man a once-over, noting the bruised and bleeding knees and brick dust. “I mean it, Sherlock, do not try that again.”
“I almost made it,” Sherlock argued, as they turned towards the fire escape ladder. “Next time I’ll…”
“What did I say?” John said, exasperated. “If you try that again you could get seriously injured, it’s only dumb luck you’re alright this time. You scared me to death! Can you please try to think about someone else instead of just yourself for once?”
Sherlock went as if to say something else, but John interjected, “I don’t want to hear it!"
Sherlock's eyes went wide at first, then he frowned in apparent frustration, but John did not relent. They went down the ladder and back into the abandoned building in silence.
***
Aside from Sherlock's dangerous new hobby, things at Baker Street were slowly returning to normal. John had unpacked and slowly his things were making their way back into their rightful homes in the flat. His mug was back in the kitchen, his afghan was back on the sofa, and his jackets were hung up by the door. As much as he was still angry with Sherlock, he was so very happy to be back home. He had picked up some shifts at the surgery, and their days had gone back to something of a routine. They had breakfast together (though it was anyone’s guess which days his majesty would deign to eat it), then Sherlock would go off on a run and John would go to work. It was still weird to be leaving the house in one direction and see Sherlock jogging away in brightly colored athletic wear in the other, but he supposed this might be Sherlock’s version of a mid-life crisis. He would always be back when John got home, back in his suits or his loungewear or some combination of both, and they would have dinner while watching TV or working on their laptops or reading. Of course, if there was a case, all of that was out the window, but for now, things were settling.
John was watching a TV news report about the Saudi refugees hiding out in the Iranian embassy. The crisis had been going on for a couple of weeks, and that day the reporters had got a glimpse of the young lady and her child who were at the center of it through one of the windows. A Saudi princess who had run out on her family to protect her child and fled to the UK with her entourage, it seemed she had thought she would be safe there. As Greg had explained to John over a pint, sadly there were a lot of legal complexities around the case, people in power, people with diplomatic immunity, and basically the little group of runaways were trapped in the embassy in Kensington until King Salman either pardoned them or they could somehow escape. The Saudi ‘secret’ police who were sitting in an armored car just a street away seemed completely unruffled by the media attention and protesters around them, and the general outlook of the reporters was that if the princess and her child came out of the embassy, then the Saudi secret police would shoot them in the street, UK street or not. The whole thing was causing Greg and his team a huge headache, and of course, Sherlock seemed to find it all utterly boring.
“You know, even if they get out, and don’t get shot, the next thing is they’ll get deported,” said John, munching on a bacon sandwich.
“Mmm,” said Sherlock from his prone position on the couch. John threw a dishtowel at him.
“Isn’t there a case in all this somewhere?”
Sherlock peeled the offending towel off his face and scowled at it. “No, John. This is not murder or mystery or even a puzzle - it’s politics.” He looked like he’d smelled something bad. “Much more Mycroft’s thing.”
“Did he ask you to help?” John could hear the frustration in his own voice. He couldn’t help it - he felt bad for the little family, trapped, with time ticking down.
“Actually, the opposite - sent me a text, said not to get involved.” Sherlock stood up and stretched, and John pulled his eyes hastily away from the strip of stomach exposed between his T-shirt and pajama pants.
“Once upon a time, that would have ensured you stuck your nose in,” John said, feeling snippy and not sure why. “You might have wanted to help them.”
“Dull,” Sherlock said, dropping the word like a conversational roadblock and wandering away to his room. He came back out after a few minutes, dressed in his athletic wear.
“No stunts,” John said immediately upon seeing him. Sherlock merely grimaced, trotting past and out the front door. John sighed, looking back at the news report. No doubt Mycroft was already involved in this mess along with Greg. The whole thing was depressing and making him feel useless, so he turned it off and flopped onto the vacated couch. He opened up Twitter and saw he had some notifications - actually a lot, from the #IBelieveInSherlockHolmes hashtag he was still following. It had been trending when Sherlock had first come back, but now had settled down to just the occasional tweet. He clicked on the notification, then sat up as a video immediately started playing.
It was an amateur video obviously taken on a phone camera, and the lighting was all wrong, the sun shining directly into the lens, but it showed a view across a river with a tied-off boat in the foreground. The caption read, “Still crazy! #IBelieveInSherlockHolmes”, and the background noise was a group of people shouting and whistling appreciatively. The object of their adoration was running, jumping, and arching through the air between the dock and the boat, pulling off startling twists and feats of acrobatics, neon yellow shirt, and black shorts, curly hair pushed back in a black headband. Sherlock looked to be having the time of his life, grinning, swooping and running, and jumping and laughing, then he landed almost right in front of the group who were filming and bowed. After the theatrics, he literally ran off down the dock and out of the frame.
John snapped his mouth shut and looked at the time stamp - he hadn’t checked Twitter for a few days, this was from one of the mornings when Sherlock had gone ‘for a run’. John watched the video several times, then remembered himself and clicked on the next one. This was a group of teens doing a viral dance routine, when suddenly Sherlock, in a neon pink shirt this time, leaped past at lightning speed behind them. There was then a freeze frame, the teens looking to the left in surprise, all smiles, and Sherlock, mid-air, already behind them, back arched gracefully as he appeared to be mid-backflip. The caption read, “OK boomer” which might have been an insult if it were not for the accompanying #IBelieveInSherlockHolmes hashtag and laughing emojis. There were more - videos of Sherlock sliding over cars, photos of Sherlock swinging around lamp posts, compilations of antics that people were putting together of him bouncing all over London, with a soundtrack of cheers and laughter.
With a pang, John realized that the thing that was bothering him about this was that it was hard to reconcile this glimpse of a carefree grinning Sherlock with the person he was back living with. He thought hard, but all he could seem to picture was Sherlock pouting, frowning, clicking his teeth together, or turning away.
You might have a little something to do with that , his inner voice said nastily. Not exactly been cheering him on at home, have you?
Well… he was entitled to be angry! Sherlock had made him believe he was dead for two years and then turned up again with no apology and no explanation at all.
You didn’t ask though, did you?
Hmm. Well…
Shit yeah, that was true.
He also hadn’t been very nice to Sherlock since he had moved back in. With a sigh, he realized that he had effectively been scolding Sherlock for something every day since then. Before Sherlock had ‘died’ John had always been there to offer a corrective comment when Sherlock seemed to need it, or when he looked to John for reassurance, but even John could see that what he was doing now wasn’t the same. No wonder Sherlock had started going out to find some positivity from strangers when all he got at home was critique.
And you still haven’t told him.
And he still hadn’t told him. He still hadn’t told him, that despite all his grumbling, the residue of his anger and hurt, the critical comments that had been spilling out of his mouth - he still hadn’t told Sherlock that the night he came back and upturned John’s life once again had been the very best night of John’s life so far. Sherlock had created a miracle just for him, with a moustache drawn on instead of a bow, and John could not have loved him anymore had the world been ending at that moment.
It was going to be a bit of a stretch going from grumpy flatmate to ‘I love you’, though. He’d better start with just not being so negative. Sprinkle in some compliments, like he used to, the ones that made Sherlock’s cheeks lightly flush in that pretty way, as if he’d just been for a walk on a beach in spring. And then, once Sherlock was smiling and laughing at home the way he was smiling and laughing in public, then, John would tell him. John would leap off the building this time.
He just hoped that Sherlock would be there to catch him.