Three Times Missed and Once Not

Lately there seemed to be a tension in Sherlock that wasn’t his normal self. John had learned quickly the different moods the man he was flatmates with had. It wasn’t all that bad, really. He enjoyed learning about the man, enjoying sharing a flat and sharing their lives. They’d become best friends and John wouldn’t have changed that for the world.

But something had changed in Sherlock and John couldn’t figure out what. The cases they were involved in interested him, rated high on the ridiculous scale Sherlock had come up with. Lestrade was offering Sherlock cases that had stumped all of the inspectors at Scotland Yard and Sherlock wasn’t shy in making that point often. And Mycroft had all but disappeared for a while. Sherlock had smugly said his brother was off traveling, snickering when he explained that Mycroft hates travel and never does it if he can help it.

It had been about three months since their near deaths at the pool with Moriarty. Sherlock was pacing their flat, trying to solve a murder. The solution was eluding even his vast intellect and it was starting to drive him mad. John had made a cup of tea for himself and Sherlock then headed upstairs to his room. Sherlock had gotten in this mood once before and John knew the best way to deal with it was to let Sherlock rant and pace. He’d figure it out eventually. His magnificent brain never let him down.

Not long after he’d finished his tea, John heard music coming from downstairs. Now, this wasn’t all that strange of an occurrence. Sherlock played his violin often and there were nights John could remember waking up from a nightmare to the soothing strains of some piece or other. This, however, wasn’t a violin. Nor was it the usual classical music that Sherlock sometimes listened to. This was lilting and melodic, a feminine voice carrying words that John couldn’t quite make out. So he decided to head downstairs and see if Sherlock had figured out the case yet. Besides, he wanted another cup of tea. As he headed down, the words became clear.

Are you mine? Are you mine?
'Cause I stay here all the time,
Watching telly, Drinking wine,
Who'd have known? Who'd have known?
When you flash up on my phone,
I no longer feel alone,
No longer feel alone.

The words struck John, especially no longer feeling alone. It was how he felt with Sherlock all the time now, as if there was someone in the world who understood him completely and accepted it. Even his own family didn’t know everything about him. Sherlock did, or seemed to, and it was starting to feel more and more like home.

The man in question was standing at the window, staring out at the busy street below. A horn honked and Sherlock snorted in reply to it. John held back a laugh, just watching the other man. A curious swooping in his chest had him narrowing his eyes. Wait, was he... was he falling in love with Sherlock? A small huff from Sherlock distracted him for a moment and then the swooping feeling returned, stronger than before. Before John could react to it, or the momentous realization he’d come to, Sherlock turned.

“I figured it out,” Sherlock declared, bounding over to the mess of papers scattered across their coffee table. He tapped one section of the police report excitedly. “It was the maid, she was in love with Mrs. Green. Unrequited but there you go. So she decided that if she couldn’t have Mrs. Green, no one could.”

John managed a nod, still reeling from his emotions. Sherlock narrowed his eyes as John remained silent, sweeping them over the other man. But John had had some practice in keeping a few things hidden from Sherlock and tried his hardest to hide his new feelings. Tension sparked in the room as Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth. John turned away quickly, not wanting a repeat of their awkward interaction in the diner.

“I’ll just get some more tea then, shall I?” he called over his shoulder as he headed into the kitchen. And he heaved a quiet sigh of relief when Sherlock let the matter drop.

---------------------------------------------

“Sherlock wait!” John yelled after the sprinting detective. “He might have a weapon!”

“No time, John!” Sherlock called back, glancing over his shoulder, eyes bright with adrenaline and the joy of the chase. “We have to catch him before he gets away!”

John shook his head but hurried after Sherlock. It had been about three weeks since he’d realized he was in love with Sherlock and the feeling hadn’t abated. Instead, it had only grown stronger over their time together. Little quirks that might have annoyed others seemed endearing and adorable to John. He had to work hard not to be physically affectionate, reminding himself that Sherlock wasn’t his to touch.

Sherlock rounded a corner ahead of him into an alley, out of sight for just a couple moments, and then a shot rang out. John’s heart dropped out of his chest and he put on a burst of speed to make it around the corner. His hand was already reaching for his gun, prepared to shoot the guy they were chasing if he had harmed Sherlock in any way.

He skidded to a stop just as he turned the corner. Instead of a bleeding Sherlock, as he’d half-feared half-expected, he saw Sherlock pressing the man into the brick wall and holding his arms behind his back. The gun was on the ground a few feet away, the smell of cordite fading quickly into the night air.

“Sherlock, you okay?” John gasped out, barely able to find his voice. “The shot....?”

“Went into the wall,” Sherlock replied, glancing over at John and grinning fiercely. “He missed. And Lestrade will have his arrest once he manages to get here.”

John couldn’t help but grin back and leaned against the wall to catch his breath. The adrenaline was still racing around his system along with the fear that he might have lost Sherlock. The song he’d heard before, when he’d finally realized he was in love, echoed through his mind. No longer alone. It had been a close thing tonight. He could have just as easily rounded that corner to find Sherlock bleeding out and the shooter nowhere to be found. Everything he was holding back would have been unsaid. Maybe it was time to say it.

As John opened his mouth, his breath finally back to normal, Greg Lestrade came bustling around the corner with what looked like an army of police. It was only three or four but felt like an army in the cramped space of the alley.

“Here you go, Lestrade,” Sherlock said, stepping back as one of the officers came forward and fastened handcuffs around the shooter’s wrists. “Your criminal.”

“Good work, Sherlock, thank you,” Lestrade said, clapping Sherlock on the shoulder. “We’ll be some time processing him and the gun so you and John head on home. I’ll come by later to get your statements.”

And just like that, the moment passed. The words remained unsaid and John went home feeling vaguely unsatisfied. Yet, he was thrilled Sherlock was alive and unhurt. It was enough, for now.

----------------------------------------------

The third time that song ran through John’s head, and he tried to get the words out, they were stuck in a throat choked closed with tears. Sherlock’s voice was in his ear as John stared up at him on the roof of St. Bart’s. Tears burned his eyes, tears he kept blinking back in order to keep Sherlock in sight. If only he could find the words, say the right thing to get Sherlock off that roof.

“This is my note,” Sherlock said, the tears obvious in his voice. “Goodbye, John.”

“Sherlock!” John screamed, dropping his phone as he watched Sherlock step off the roof and fall. His coat flapped behind him like broken wings. All the words trapped in his throat changed into Sherlock’s name, the only thing that could make it past his lips. It wasn’t enough.

He was running before he realized it, running for where Sherlock had fallen. The sight of blood registered but didn’t slow him down. He’d flipped into crisis mode, the calm and detached version of himself that had served him well as a doctor and soldier both. His hand was steady as he reached for Sherlock’s wrist, hoping beyond hope that there would be a pulse there. There wasn’t; of course there wasn’t. The blood and staring eyes should have told him that.

“Oh god,” John mumbled, falling back from Sherlock’s body as his strength gave out. “No.”

He felt hands cradling him and easing his fall, heard sympathetic voices talking to him. But nothing made sense, nothing made it through. Staring at the body of his friend, John felt his heart breaking into a million pieces. Sherlock was gone and he was alone. He didn’t fight as someone led him away, brought him inside Bart’s and pressed a styrofoam cup of tea into his hand. John stared down at the liquid, not seeing it. Not seeing anything but Sherlock’s blank eyes.

“John,” Molly’s voice cut through his despondence some time later. The cup of tea had gone stone cold. “John, if you want... you can see him.”

“What?” John asked, confused for a moment. Then what she meant made sense. “Oh, oh yes. Yes, I’d like to see him.”

John followed Molly with unsteady steps to her domain, the morgue. He’d lost count of the times he’d been down here before, almost always with Sherlock once he’d gotten back to London. In his student days, he’d been down here too. The pathologist had been different then, a grumpy old man who nevertheless had had patience for the students entering his domain. There was a covered body on one of the tables, the only one occupied in the room. Molly stifled a sob as she came to stop at the head of the table.

“Are you ready?” she asked, her voice quiet. John nodded, unable to bring himself to speak.

Molly folded the white sheet down and smoothed it gently over Sherlock’s chest. It was Sherlock under the blanket, so quiet and still. His eyes were closed and all the blood had been wiped away. John could see a few of the stitches Molly had used to close the Y incision on his chest. The tears that he’d been holding back filled his eyes again, blurring the pale face before him. Molly stepped away after giving him a sympathetic glance and brought him a chair. John sank down into it, never taking his eyes from Sherlock’s face.

Are you mine? Are you mine?
'Cause I stay here all the time,
Watching telly, Drinking wine,
Who'd have known? Who'd have known?
When you flash up on my phone,
I no longer feel alone,
No longer feel alone.

So this was what it all came to? Him crying over the body of his best friend, the man he’d loved? The most brilliant man he’d ever met dying for some madman’s games? It was all so stupid, the little games Moriarty had played that had led to this moment. John felt the anger and grief wash over him, not bothering to fight either. Moriarty was dead anyways, Lestrade had told him that sometime while he’d been waiting with his cup of tea. John could spend his anger against a dead man.

He brushed an errant curl away from Sherlock’s face, letting himself touch in death as he hadn’t in life. The skin beneath his fingers was cold and waxy and John pulled his hand back quickly. The few times he’d touched Sherlock, the man had always been warm, vibrantly alive. But he didn’t want to let go just yet and reached under the blanket to grip Sherlock’s hand. It was cold and still, but John didn’t care. If this was the last time he had the chance, he would hold Sherlock’s hand and get the words out.

“You... you were my best friend,” he whispered to the body, words awkward. He really had no idea what to say and had too much to say all at once. “What we had, was brilliant. The chase, the cases, running through London. Mycroft called it the battleground and it was. It was amazing. I loved it and I... loved you. There, said it. I love you, Sherlock, even though I waited too long to say anything.”

He sat there in silence then, the song running through his mind interlaced with snippets of conversations with Sherlock. He didn’t know how much time passed; to be quite honest, the concept of time didn’t seem important anymore. Molly came back and put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. That told him it was time, time to let go and let Molly take care of Sherlock. There was nothing more he could do.

“John, I’m so sorry,” Molly said.

“Yeah, me too,” John replied and walked out of the morgue.

----------------------------------------

For two years, John lived. He went through the motions, going to work and coming home, doing the shopping, making tea and watching crap telly. He didn’t thrive but he existed. It wasn’t enough but nothing would be without Sherlock. Walking into the little flat he’d rented, unable to stay in the place he’d shared with Sherlock, John dropped his keys on his coffee table and let out a sigh. He had a date later tonight, a blind date Lestrade had set him up on. It wasn’t something he was looking forward to but he’d let Lestrade convince him to go anyways. Getting out of the quiet flat might be good for once.

John showered and changed, barely paying attention to what he picked out. He wondered vaguely who Lestrade had set him up with. Maybe someone from Scotland Yard, maybe a family friend. He hadn’t asked for any details and Lestrade hadn’t offered any. Checking the time, John headed out to the restaurant the date was set at.

Once there, he was seated by the host. A waiter came by and offered a selection of wines, which John turned down. All he wanted was water, which the waiter obligingly supplied. Then, it was a waiting game. John watched as people walked into the restaurant, wondering if each was his blind date. The couples were obviously out but a few women walked in that he did find attractive. Finally, a woman was shown over to his table by the host and seated. She was pretty in a quiet way, light brown hair pulled back from her face and curled. She had brown eyes, a pert nose, and a full mouth. She smiled at him revealing white, even teeth.

“I’m Anna,” she said, holding out her hand for John to shake. “I have to admit, I was nervous when Greg set up this date.”

“John,” John replied, shaking the hand and letting it go. “Me too. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a date.”

They made small talk until the waiter showed up. Anna ordered a glass of red wine and they both looked over the menus. More small talk ensued until they ordered. It was all very polite and sociable but John found himself wanting nothing more than to go home. Anna was a lovely woman but she wasn’t Sherlock. They talked more over their meals when they arrived. Nothing too deep or personal, at least on John’s side. After, John declined dessert and Anna claimed an early morning needed her to end the night.

“It was nice meeting you,” she said to John as they both stood up. She held out a hand again for him to shake.

“You too,” John said, shaking it with as much brevity as before. “Have a good night, Anna.”

She nodded and left, John leaving after paying the check. He walked home, breathing in London at night. This used to be where he belonged, where he and Sherlock would run and chase and find. Now, it was just part of what used to be.

At his flat, John automatically pulled his keys out to unlock the door. But music inside stopped him. It was familiar and haunting, a melody that would always remind him of Sherlock. And it meant that someone was in his flat. He’d left no music playing before he left. Moving as quietly as he could, John unlocked the door and opened it slowly. The lyrics poured out of the open door.

Let's just stay, Let's just stay,
I wanna lie in bed all day,
We'll be laughing all the way,
You told your friends,
They all know,
That we exist but we're taking it slow,
Let's just see how we go,
Now let's see how we go.

“I wondered how long it might take you to get home,” Sherlock’s baritone voice called out as John was silhouetted in his doorway. “No clues I could find as to where you were so I waited.”

“Sherlock?” John asked, voice strangled as he closed the door behind him. “What’s going on?”

“Well, first things first,” Sherlock said, rising from the chair next to John’s couch. “Not dead, obviously. I’ve only just been able to come back.”

“You... you’re alive,” John stammered, eyes wide as he stared at the man he’d thought he’d lost. “What happened? Where were you? And why are you playing this song?”

“It’s a long and complicated story,” Sherlock said, smiling at John as he stepped forward. “How about I answer your third question first. This song was playing when you came to a realization. Something about me, though I couldn’t quite puzzle out what it was. Care to share?”

“I...,” John started to say, still shaken. But determination was sweeping his confusion away, a determination not to be too late this time. So he took a deep breath and settled everything he wanted to say into one sentence. “This song was playing when I first realized I was in love with you.”

“Ah,” Sherlock said, a wealth of emotion in that single exhalation. He stepped forward again, stopping just in front of John and looking down at him with a pleased expression on his face. “After all this time, I’d hoped it might be something like that. What do you want to do about it?”

Instead of replying, John surged up on his toes, captured Sherlock’s face in his hands, and pressed their lips together. Tears glimmered in his eyes and ran down his cheeks but they weren’t sad ones. No, these tears were full of overwhelming happiness and love. Sherlock had come back and things were right now. He could live again. A laugh rumbled in Sherlock’s throat and then his arms wrapped around John’s waist like he’d never let go. And that was all right with John.