Chapter 48 - Part 1 - Nutrisco et extinguo

Chapter XLVIII : Abusus non tollit usum

Giving up, by Ingrid Michaelson

oOo

What if we stop having a ball?

What if the paint chips from the wall?

What if there's always cups in the sink?

What if I'm not what you think I am?

"Let me change the bed sheets for you."

Sherlock looks around the room. What am I doing here?

"It's fine," he says, thinking that answering John might be the right thing to do.

John.

Sherlock watches him glancing around, obviously worried that he forgot something crucial, something that will reveal everything he tried to hide as he "cleaned up a bit". The crib pushed into the corner only stands out more that way; the sheets and blanket in it are uneven and indicate that John probably hid something under. Sherlock's eyes shift to the bed. Sheet slightly rumpled near the pillow; pillowcase creased on the ride side. "John is still sleeping with one of your shirts, you know."

"They need to be changed anyway," John goes on. "Here, help me." "I wonder what he does with it at night... He must really be needy if he has recourse to such methods to get off."

Sherlock represses a snort. Just look at what methods you had recourse to in order to get off, he counters back to Seb, mentally. Well, of course mentally. Sebastian Moran is dead. Addressing him in his mind is bad enough, Sherlock certainly isn't going to say that out loud. What am I thinking? Just what am I doing here? He glances at John and knows.

"Are you all right?" he inquires, putting a hand on his arm. John's body shivers under his hand.

"Are you?"

Their eyes lock while their bodies stand, unmoving. Yes, of course. Such a stupid question. Does John's face mirror his own? Sherlock wonders. Does he too look that wrecked?

"You should rest," he murmurs. His responsibility in this is unquestionable. He remembers the doctor's face as he observed him and his wife and his son from across the street. He looked tired and wounded, but also content and sometimes even happy.

John laughs nervously. And isn't Sherlock responsible for that too? He didn't manage this well. He should never have let John see him. He's only making things worse for him.

Worse? How? How worse could he make it? Well. He could bring down to pieces everything John built in his absence. And then what? Could he make it better? There was no telling that.

John brings his right hand in his back again. His trembling right hand. Sherlock's face darkens.

No. Who is he to make John better, when he's the one who broke him in the first place?

That is not the right question, though, some still functioning part of his brain tells him. Find the right question.

But Sherlock is tired of questions. Problems. Riddles. He's had enough. John is not a mystery. He can still read him like an open book.

"You've still got clothes here," John says, but he could be saying anything, really, anything that would fill the conversation, allow him to remain longer in the room. "Enough for tomorrow, at any rate. And your pyjamas must be somewhere in there..."

Sherlock can see the panic rising in his every gesture, how the nape of his neck stiffens gradually, how feverishly his fingers rummage through the clothes. "Here. The blue one. Do you want me to try to find your blue gown too?" The blue gown? So he kept that as well?

John, John... Always forgot the most important thing. Never saw the obvious.

What's the point of hiding one shirt if you show that you've kept perfectly preserved all the rest of the wardrobe?

"It should be around here."

And even that you've remembered how it was arranged?

"You can stay," Sherlock says before he can think twice about it. The words actually surprise him. Stay? Why is he even staying?

John freezes. Sherlock cannot decide whether he looks ridiculous or pathetic, standing there petrified, hiding his trembling hand under the pyjamas. Sherlock's pyjamas.

An unexpected wave of warmth punches him right in the gut.

He realizes that there is so much to hide in this flat that John can only hide things under other things that he should be hiding too. Seeing somebody's flat is like opening the person up and seeing what is inside; it is a key to reading the individual more thoroughly. And watching said person in his flat? Even better.

The fact that John first took the Royal Medical Corps mug and not the one with the horrible distorted canary.

The way he automatically led Sherlock to what was his old room and "cleaned up" instead of making him sleep in the room upstairs, unused, or on the sofa.

Everything he did, everything he said.

John was not an open book. He was a book thrown in Sherlock's face. He just couldn't avoid noticing.

"What did you say?" John asks shakily.

Sherlock looks at him. He could answer "Nothing. What were you saying?" or "Nothing, never mind the gown, I'll just put that on and get into bed" or even "Nothing, in fact I have no idea why I'm still here, I have to go now".

Instead he says: "You can stay."

Again.

But can he? Can he stay?

John is wrong, this is no longer his room. It smells different. It looks different. There is still his old smell and John's and another that can only be a woman's and then even more disturbing what is probably the smell of the little pink thing. Sherlock has half a mind to suggest they sleep in the other room. They?

"Why are you saying this?" John's voice breaks in, uneasy.

"Because you haven't said what you wanted to say." Of course it's not very fair, because he hasn't either. "If you want something, you should just ask," he adds, to justify himself. Because he doesn't know what he wants. Does he?

"Look who's talking," John mumbles. His embarrassment is obvious. So is his confusion. He is torn between past and present and he doesn't dare look at the future but still he is doing it and it terrifies him. Idiot. As if he could deal with that now. "I'll go get the armchair, then."

This snaps Sherlock out of his thoughts. "The armchair?" Dear God, John's state is even more alarming than he thought. There he is, standing by the door, looking back at Sherlock with mortification. "Yes, the armchair... if you don't mind? I can sleep on the floor, but–"

"John, this is a double bed," Sherlock cuts in. John is trying to hide his trembling hand again and Sherlock tries not to frown. "I know you care a lot about what people say, but–"

"No, no, it's just–"

"–but your flat isn't bugged, and I was the only one watching you from across the street," Sherlock finishes. Then he stops listening and begins to undress because he knows that if the conversation goes on he will snap. Stupid John with his stupid trembling hand and his stupid open face and open heart and he doesn't even know why he's still here, why he's letting John sleep in this room, why he is even sleeping in this room, why he's sleeping at all when he could be on a plane to China...

"That's not what I–"

...or hiding peacefully across the street or in a hotel where he would make sure Mycroft would not bother him, or anywhere, really, because anywhere would be better than here, in this room where John must have slept alone and with his wife and with his wife and son and this is stupid because Sherlock has no right to feel possessive of a room and of this one in particular but he feels distinctly dispossessed and... "I'll get ready for bed, then," John says before fleeing the room.

Fleeing. Yes. That's an idea. Sherlock's eyes fall on the window. The Woman came in that way once. Or left that way at any rate. Both, probably. But he's already undressed and John will be back any second.

He looks away and turns the light off. Something clenches in his chest. John's distress and evident terror that he should disappear again makes him feel ashamed of himself. You want to 'protect John's happiness' or something of the like, don't you? Not for what he did now nearly three years ago, but for his line of reasoning since then. Greg Lestrade, Martha Hudson... You think they've grieved you enough. That now they've moved on and your role is only to ensure that they live their life safely and as happily as possible. It had been faulty. You believe what John wrote on his blog! It had been a way to protect himself and he had known it, but deep down he had truly believed that this was what was best for John. You believe it, don't you? That you're not safe. He had made himself believe it. That if you are with them, you will jeopardize their safety. And because there was some truth to it, it had been all the easier.

Feeling sick, Sherlock gets under the sheets and duvet just in time before John knocks on the door. In his own flat. He knocks on the door to his own bedroom. Sherlock rests his head on the pillow. It smells like John's shampoo. So he still uses the same.

"Come in."

But it's strange because he showers in the morning. Why would his pillow smell like his shampoo? Oh. Of course. Nightmares. Sweat. Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. When John opens the door the light from the corridor comes in sharply – a yellow triangle cutting into the darkness. Then he turns the light off and closes the door behind him. And this sound... Sherlock blinks. John is chuckling.

"What?" he asks.

"I don't think I ever saw you in a bed."

"You put me in a bed when the woman drugged me," he points out.

"Right." As John gets into bed next to him, Sherlock notices that he deliberately avoids touching him in any way. It makes him feel self-conscious. What am I doing here? "But that's different."

"How?" How did this even happen? Admittedly, he had no choice. But...

The way John lies down and puts his head on the pillow carefully, as if it was made of glass, is, without exaggeration, heartbreaking. That is, when you have a heart, naturally. But we both know that's not quite–

"Well, I never saw you actually tired and needing to sleep." His tentativeness is painful to watch.

"I'm not tired." His attempts at doing what must be done when so much should be done for him instead, admirable and foolish. Or brave, to put it nicely.

"Then what are you doing in bed?" he asks. His tone makes Sherlock shiver. It is fond.

"Indulging you."

John's eyes turn into saucers. As if he wasn't obvious enough. "What?"

Sherlock clicks his tongue. They have to sleep. If they keep talking he'll get annoyed. Now that wouldn't do. "You won't sleep if I don't sleep. Now. Close you eyes."

John swallows but, not surprisingly, complies. Sherlock watches him and waits. Let's bet. Seven or eight?

One. (probably seven)

Two. (no, even less)

Three. (five or six)

Four. (yes, six)

Five.

Six.

John opens his eyes. Sherlock simply stares back, trying not to give him a look. Any kind of look. He remembers John never seemed to appreciate. The look.

The way John blushes and closes his eyes back at once like a child is of course not painful. Not endearing. Not making Sherlock want to do something for him without knowing what. No, not at all.

One. (he won't last that long this time)

Two. (probably four or five)

Three. (but he's proud – five)

Four.

Five.

John opens his eyes.

Sherlock sighs.

"I'm sorry, I'll–" John fumbles.

"Here," Sherlock cuts in, putting his hand between them, his palm open, waiting for John's. John, of course, finds nothing better to do than to stare at the hand instead of reaching for it. "Come on, take it."

OK, maybe that was a bit too harsh a tone. Sherlock considers repeating it more gently, but John is already putting his hand on his. It is awkward. Neither of them is good at this. But his hand is warm. Painfully warm against Sherlock's cold skin.

"Oh God," John murmurs, and then Sherlock knows he's finally realized. Not come to terms with it, no, not so soon. But the reality of this has just hit him. He squeezes Sherlock's hand in his fervently, and for a second Sherlock fears he'll do more. But he only curls up against their joined hands and presses his brow against them. His hand is no longer trembling. In a fleeting moment of madness Sherlock muses that if this is what makes the trembling stop, he wouldn't mind keeping John's hand there indefinitely.

"Thank you," John murmurs, a tremor in his voice. Sherlock wonders what he could do in order to stop that trembling. "Thank you."

He does not answer. He doesn't know what to say, what to do. Google isn't an option this time; he wouldn't even know what to type. Words fail him. He is so lost in this place where he never intended to return, touching a man he never thought he would touch again, that he almost switches on to automatic-answer mode. But even then he wouldn't know what to answer. My be because there is nothing to answer to that.

What about John? What do you think a good life would be for him?

John. Seb. Moriarty. Mycroft. Everything is terribly jumbled. It feels like he ended up here through some kind of accident. Like when you're driving and you know where you're going and suddenly a truck hits you and all you can do is hold on to the wheel for dear life.

Sherlock doesn't have any wheel to hold on to. But since John's hand is in his and he doesn't know what to do with it, tentatively, he squeezes back.

It takes John almost an hour to relax. Once in a while, he still opens his eyes and glances at Sherlock, who keeps his half-closed. Waiting. Until the hand in his relaxes. Until John's fingers uncurl and his grip slackens. And then only the warmth remains.

Sherlock shifts in the bed. The smell of the room is different and it bothers him. He can't keep his mind off it. Can't fall asleep. How could he?

The flat is changed. John is changed.

Is he?

His breathing becomes regular. His chest rises rhythmically, in accordance with the beats in his chest. It is so loud. Filling the room. Sherlock can't hear anything else. It bothers him. As if John's heart was hammering in his ears. It is a haunting beat. It reaches their joined hands; resonates in Sherlock's head. It feels so heavy. Almost unbearable.

Almost.

Sherlock, let's go home. Let's go back to 221B.

And he followed. Why?

That hadn't been part of the plan. Never. Or had it? What plan? Whose?

The Woman had been here, Sherlock could tell from the note Mrs. Watson left. She'd chased the wife away. And just for that, Sherlock wouldn't go and meet her at the airport. He wouldn't leave with her. He's had enough of people meddling with his life.

How do yo intend to live from now on, Sherlock?

He shifts in the bed uncomfortably, trying not to wake up John. He must have been exhausted. Still. Being able to sleep in such circumstances. A small smile graces Sherlock's lips. John. Ever the soldier.

From what I grasped, you didn't intend to come back. You didn't intend to tell me you weren't... dead. So what was it you wanted to do? What was your answer to the final problem?

If the Woman came here, then it means the wife knows. Will his being alive change something?

Do you want me out of the flat?

From what he observed from the window across the street, Mrs. Watson isn't a woman in search of a partner – even a more satisfying one than John.

Why did you run?

As if that was possible. Does she even realize how different John is with her, if you think about all the ex-girlfriends?

Do you want me out of the picture, Sherlock?

He actually cares. He cares about her.

What's your answer to the final problem?

Sherlock blinks. His eyelids are heavy. Soon he sees nothing. Nothing but a white page. A blank letter. He drowns into it.

What if I fall further than you?

What if you dream of somebody new?

What if I never let you win, chase you with a rolling pin?

Well what if I do?

"Leave a note when?"

The flat is dark. There is a note on the table.

"This is your flat. Mycroft said you bought it from Mrs. Hudson, left it to me on your will or something... I'm not paying any rent."

Mycroft is. Well. John doesn't need to know that.

"Don't weep, my dear, see where it leads. Oops! I forgot! You're not the one left weeping, you are DEAD! "

A smiley face. Spinning.

"Hello, my dear. Have you missed me?"

A grin in the darkness.

"Tut tut, that won't do at all! Have you forgotten already? I'M DEAD TOO!"

A torture room.

"He's not dead, you see. So we can have some fun."

John.

"NO!"

The skull. Weeping. Crying blood. Mouth open and screaming. Death throes. Skin glowing in the moonlight.

"So I'm basically filling in for your skull?"

Yellow flowers. Nothing to do with it.

"He's smitten with you, y'know. He'll want more than just your regal presence in the room."

"I cannot get Nix Nought Nothing to speak to me for all that I can do!"

A graveyard in the Czech Republic.

"Thought it'd be fun to play the 'Who's who?' game. That's not very hard, is it? The king who sold his own son to the giant, and the giant playing games with the little prince... The daughter is a harder one. Here's a hint: who cried and cried and cried saying 'Waken, waken, and speak to me!'? Uhm? Perhaps someone who could now say 'Nothing happened to me'.

Now tell me, Sherlock... will nothing come in the end?"

An opera in Barcelona.

"People want to know you're human."

A monument at dawn in Washington DC.

"Who are you?"

I don't know. No idea.

"How hard do you find it, having to say 'I don't know'?"

A swimming-pool. A newspaper clip from the 1980s.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call."

So there was a whole lot of sillies bigger than them three sillies at home. So the gentleman turned back home again and married the farmer's daughter, and if they didn't live happy for ever after, that's nothing to do with you or me.

"It really hasn't, has it, Sexy? Since it won't happen. It's not for us. But don't worry: you'll find enough sillies out there to occupy yourself, and there'll probably be a nice little sillies' wedding at 'home', don't you think? Only without you. Cheers. "

A text. I'm delighted. By the way, have you heard of John's wedding?

"Is that a British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket, or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Both."

But the master remembered on his journey that he had not locked his book, and therefore returned, and at the moment when the water was bubbling about the pupil's chin, rushed into the room and spoke the words which cast Beelzebub back into his fiery home.

The kitchen in 221B.

"I should really go."

"Where?"

Where, indeed?

A hotel room.

"China? What in the world would you want to do in China? And I don't speak Chinese, by the way."

"Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point."

"We don't know a thing about each other."

"–John is still sleeping with one of your shirts."

"Shut up, just shut up, Seb."

"I haven't been to war, John."

"Yes you have. Sit down. Please."

All the birds of the air came to the magpie and asked her to teach them how to build nests. For the magpie is the cleverest bird of all at building nests.

"Let's go home, Sherlock."

Meanwhile Madge Magpie went on working and working without looking up till the only bird that remained was the turtle-dove, and that hadn't paid any attention all along, but only kept on saying its silly cry "Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o."

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world."

"Haven't pulled rank in ages."

"Enjoy it?"

"Oh yeah."

At last the magpie heard this just as she was putting a twig across. So she said: "One's enough."

But the turtle-dove kept on saying: "Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o."

"I'm a specialist, you see. Like you."

"What's the point in being clever if you can't prove it?"

"You want me to tell you what you already know?"

Then the magpie got angry and said: "One's enough I tell you."

"No; I want you to prove that you know it."

"I know you're for real."

One's enough, I tell you!

"You didn't take anything because you don't need to."

"You'll never need to take anything ever again." Because you're going to die.

"Because nothing ... nothing in the Bank of England, the Tower of London or Pentonville Prison could possibly match the value of the key that could get you into all three."

The key. What did you think it was? People, Sherlock. People.

"Consulting criminal."

"The police don't consult amateurs."

You made them hate you, when I made them love me.

"Brilliant, isn't it?"

"Fantastic!"

"Do you know you do that out loud?"

Nothing can protect you from them now.

"Sorry, I'll shut up."

Not even your soldier.

"No one ever gets to me. And no one ever will."

"I did."

A satisfied smirk.

"You've come the closest. Now you're in my way."

The thrill.

"Thank you."

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"That was... amazing."

Eyes shedding light.

"Yes, you did."

"Yeah, OK, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock!"

"I'm not his date."

"They all want me. Suddenly, I'm Mr. Sex."

"Not his date."

Semtex.

"You ripping my clothes off in a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

"Daddy's had enough now. I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even 30 million quid, just to get you to come out and play."

The game.

"You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good."

"So take this as a friendly warning... my dear. Back off."

Excitement.

"Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."

Fear.

"Although I have loved this, this little game of ours."

"She said you get off on this. You enjoy it."

A knowing smile.

"And I said 'dangerous' and here you are."

"Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?"

"Are you wearing any pants?"

"No."

"OK. At Buckingham Palace, fine."

Laughter.

"People have died."

Pink.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead."

"That's what people DO!"

The catch-me-if-you-can type.

"I will stop you."

"No, you won't."

Challenge.

"Aren't ordinary people adorable? Well, you know: you've got John. I should get myself a live-in one."

The other type of fan.

"Why are you doing all of this? What is it all for?"

"I want to solve the problem – our problem; the final problem. It's gonna start very soon, Sherlock: the fall. But don't be scared."

Because I know you are. You're weak, now. You've got something to lose.

"Falling's just like flying, except there's a more permanent destination."

I'll bring you hell on a platter.

"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to."

Silence in a club on Pall Mall.

"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you – prepared to do anything; prepared to burn; prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you."

"I've disappointed you."

"That's good, that's a good deduction, yeah."

Shame. Anger.

"Are you all right?"

"You can talk, Johnny boy."

Resentment.

"Never liked riddles."

"Learn to."

A a curved apple.

"Because I owe you a fall, Sherlock. I ... owe ... you."

Take two, Taffy, take two-o-o-o.

"I hope you'll be very happy together."

One's enough, I tell you!

"Naah. You talk big. Naah. You're ordinary. You're ordinary – you're on the side of the angels."

"Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them."

Rooftop. About to fly. Hand reaching.

"Goodbye, John."

Flying.

"SHERLOCK!"

"No, you're not. I see. You're not ordinary. No. You're me. You're me! Thank you!"

Joined hands.

"Oh God. Thank you. Thank you."

A brow pressed against them.

"If you don't stop prying, I'll burn you. I'll burn the heart out of you."

ONCE on a time and twice on a time, and all times together as ever I heard tell of, there was a tiny lassie who would weep all day to have the stars in the sky to play with; she wouldn't have this, and she wouldn't have that, but it was always the stars she would have. So one fine day off she went to find them.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one."

So she clomb and she clomb and she clomb, but ne'er a step higher did she get: the light was before her and around her, and the water behind her, and the more she struggled the more she was forced down into the dark and the cold, and the more she clomb the deeper she fell.

But she clomb and she clomb, till she got dizzy in the light and shivered with the cold, and dazed with the fear; but still she clomb, till at last, quite amazed and silly-like, she let clean go, and sank down - down - down.

"Sorry, what?"

"There are LIVES at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives! Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?"

"Nope."

And bang she came on to the hard boards, and found herself sitting, weeping and wailing, by the bedside at home all alone.

"But don't you worry, my dear, you're not home. Or are you? "

"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."

"But we both know that's not quite true."

"Bet you never saw this coming."

"Keep your eyes fixed on me."

"Please would you do this for me?"

"Do what?"

"This phone call it's, uh... It's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

"No. Don't..."

"SHERLOCK!"

A fall.

Blackness.

Breathlessness.

A voice.

"What were we doing there?"

"Oh, just passing the time. And proving a point."

"What point?"

"You."

Sherlock's eyes snap open. He sees the ceiling of a room. Somebody is panting. Him.

"Sherlock?"

John's voice. Why can he hear John's voice? He's awake. He's quite sure he's awake.

"Are you all right?"

All right? Sherlock blinks. Just passing passing the time. And proving a point.

"Did you scream my name?" he asks. What point?

Silence.

You.

Sherlock feels John's hand in his and remembers. He is awake. This isn't a dream.

"I... might have."

"What?"

John shifts uneasily. "Screamed your name."

"Oh."

Silence.

Sherlock wonders if what he's about to say will break the awkwardness or make it worse.

"Well. I could have dreamed it too."

He hears John's breath catch in his throat. Then he feels John's thumb rubbing the back of his hand and it's his turn to miss a beat. He shivers.

"John, I–"

"Shh. Fall back to sleep. Yeah?"

No, Sherlock thinks. This is far more... relaxing, somehow. He doesn't rest while sleeping. Quite the contrary. This... feels comfortable, yes... And yet...

Sleep takes its toll on him before he can finish that thought.

I am giving up on making passes and

I am giving up on half empty glasses and

I am giving up on greener grasses

I am giving up

Sherlock awakes to morning light and the sleeping form of John beside him.

Breathing peacefully. Regularly.

John probably hasn't slept so well in months, he muses. In years. Maybe Sherlock was wrong. This had nothing to do with John being a soldier. Such serenity on his features did not betray nerves of steel, but something more. Something...

John opens his eyes. Blinks. Sherlock blinks back, and feels stupid about it. What am I doing here?

Sherlock knows the exact moment he comes into focus for John because the doctor's face freezes. His eyes widen. He looks at their joined hands, then at Sherlock, at their joined hands, then at Sherlock again. And then, he stares.

For a moment Sherlock lies petrified by the intensity of this gaze on him. Then he fears whatever this might lead to – note to self, check on Google how to deal with a crying friend – and sits up abruptly, letting go of John's hand.

"You didn't clean up the broken mug on the kitchen floor last night," he says quickly.

OK. This probably sounded harsher than he meant it. Or a bit pathetic. How had he meant it? Had he meant anything?

John smiles and stretches before rubbing his eyes. So people really do that. Rub their eyes upon waking. Sherlock blinks, then looks away.

"Hum. I'll. Yes. I should take a shower."

John seems to consider this for a moment, then apparently remembers that there are no windows in the bathroom. He nods, still with some hesitation. Sherlock notices that something has changed on his face. He can't put his finger on it.

"I'll take care of the mug, then," he says.

"Have some breakfast," Sherlock replies, standing up and walking to the door. Then he stops. "Hum, John?"

"Yes?"

"I need a towel. And... clothes." He tries not to look at the crib as he says it.

The hot water pouring on his body makes him aware of how cold he was. Except his hand. His hand is still warm. What is it with John's face? Maybe he just looked relaxed in the morning. After a good rest. Or perhaps it was the light in the room. That's it, the light. John's face was luminous, something like elation woven in his features.

When he comes out of the shower, Sherlock finds, unsurprisingly, that John has prepared breakfast for two.

"You are eating," he declares before Sherlock can say anything.

"I'm not hun–"

Then he meets John's gaze and sits down with a groan.

"Fine. But I don't want the mug with the horrible canary."

"It's a chick."

"It's a cartoon."

"Yeah, but it's a cartoon chick."

"How can you tell it's a chick? Look at it!"

Their eyes lock inadvertently, and John breaks into laughter. Sherlock feels warmth rush to his cheeks and casts his gaze down. It feels so strange. Being here. It does not feel like reality.

A shiver runs down his spine.

"Sherlock?"

Worry. There's worry in his voice. Sherlock stands up nervously.

"I'll just make some coffee. Will you drink some?"

"I already made coffee. Hey. Calm down." John puts his hand on Sherlock's. Sherlock starts.

"I'm calm."

"Yes. Of course you are. Just sit down?"

Here it is again. The rubbing. Thumb against back of the hand. What is it with this silly gesture?

"Just sit back down. I'll serve you."

The taste of John's coffee brings so many memories back, no, an entire world, time past, like in that French book where the guy eats a piece of cake and just remembers his whole childhood, that Sherlock almost chokes on the first sip. John gives him an anxious look.

"Is it too hot?"

Sherlock shakes his head. His throat is tight.

They drink in silence for a while.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Let's switch side next time."

John tilts his head to the side. "What?"

"In the bed. Let's switch side."

Again, John's eyes widen. Aren't they big enough as they are? No. that's because he looks tired. Because of the bags under his eyes. Shining.

...shining?

"No no no, don't do that!" Sherlock exclaims, starting to panic. John blinks and looks away, getting up to make more toast.

"Do what?"

"I haven't googled it yet."

John, still showing only his back to Sherlock, chuckles. He rests his hands on the counter. Sherlock stares at him anxiously, giving him some time, hoping he's not going to cry or do something sentimental. But this is John. He's not really sentimental, is he?

"We should tell Mrs. Hudson," John finally says, his voice even, with even a smile in it.

Sherlock lets out a relieved sigh.

"Mycroft probably called her already."

John frowns.

"You have to go down and see her, Sherlock. Say hello. Explain."

"I can't explain everything all over again!"

"You don't need to explain everything."

John turns and looks him in the eye. Sherlock swallows.

"John, I–"

The words die in his throat. He swallows again. His heart rate is accelerating.

John comes back to the table and sits across from him again. Looking at him. Waiting.

"What if I can never give you what you want?" Sherlock croaks. What is he saying? This isn't what he wanted to say. This has nothing to do with what he wanted to say. He glances around helplessly, feeling trapped.

"Are you sure you really know what I want, Sherlock?" John asks gently.

How can he be gentle about this?

"I killed people."

"Me too." Then, as an afterthought: "More than you."

"I tortured the cabbie to get Moriarty's name."

To this John doesn't answer immediately. "What are you trying to say?" he finally asks.

"I... Why... Why do you... Me..."

Damn this. Stupid words and stupid voice and stupid throat. Sherlock looks away in shame and frustration.

"Why do I what?" John presses on.

Sherlock shakes his head. He drinks some tea, until he finds his voice again. Gets a grip.

"I need to get back to the flat – I mean, the other one, the one across the street. Get my suitcase."

John takes a deep breath. "OK, we've got to talk about this. You've got to tell me, Sherlock."

"Tell you what?"

"Where do you want to go?"

Sherlock looks down at the mug in his hand.

"You kept the mug I used."

"Sherlock..." There is reproach in his voice. A plea, too. Sherlock sighs.

"What do you want me to tell you, John? I–"

"Do you want to live in London?"

"Where else would I live?"

"I don't know, anywhere you want."

Sherlock swallows.

"Do you want me out of London?"

"What? No! Don't be stupid. I..." Now it is John who looks like he's been caught in a trap. He clenches his teeth, casts his gaze down, clenches his fist. There is so much tension in his attitude that his body seems to radiate it. Tension. Determination. But also, fear. "I'm staying with you. I'm sorry. Kicking me out isn't an option."

Sherlock frowns. "You said it was, yesterday." He instantly regrets his words, seeing how ashamed they seem to make John. "Listen, John, I... You don't have to go anywhere."

They look at each other for a while, wordless. Then John sighs.

"Fine. Well. That's a start. We'll go get your stuff then. But before that I want you to go down and talk to Mrs. Hudson."

"You're not coming down with me?" Sherlock asks, and his tone must not have been the right one, for John looks wounded. Sherlock clicks his tongue with as much despair as annoyance. Then he notices that the trembling is back in John's hand and the annoyance vanishes. Guilt hits him so hard he acts without thinking and grabs John's hand instantly. "I didn't mean it like that."

John seems stupefied by the gesture, and just stands there gaping for a second before fumbling: "I know. It's fine."

He still walks Sherlock to the door.

When Mrs. Hudson opens it, her face is pale. Red, puffed eyes. Stupid Mycroft. Couldn't he have waited for the morning before telling her, instead of causing her a sleepless night? A small part of Sherlock's mind knows Mycroft couldn't have known whether they'd meet the landlady upon coming back, and that would have been a terrible shock for her. But still.

"Oh, Sherlock..."

The next moment she is hugging him, sobbing on his shoulder, and he is so lost he even forgets to stiffen.

"Mycroft called me. Said you might need some time to re-adapt. Didn't want to disturb you. Oh, thank goodness, you're alive..."

And more sobs. Sherlock hears the steps creak behind him and knows John has gone back up. To let them have some privacy. Or to have some himself.

"Won't you come in for a minute, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson asks, wiping her eyes with the back of her hands. Sherlock glances up the stairs nervously.

"I really shouldn't be too long, John–"

"It's about him."

Sherlock follows her in without further protest.

"Mycroft had something delivered for you," she says, still wiping the tears off her face with a handkerchief. Sherlock frowns as she hands a bag to him. DVDs?

"There's a TV in the room. And headphones. He said you should watch them alone. In private."

"I really don't have time for this," he replies curtly, putting the bag down and turning to leave. She puts a hand on his arm.

"Take it."

Her voice, more than her gesture, stops Sherlock dead in his tracks, and compel, him to comply. He swallows.

"But John..."

"I'll go up and have a little chat with him."

"He'll think I'll leave."

"Then I'll bring him back down and have a chat with him here. And leave the door to the bedroom half-open."

Sherlock cannot repress a small smile.

"You haven't changed, Mrs. Hudson."

"You neither."

Sherlock's eyes widen slightly, but she's already turned away to go get John. "Just put on the headphones and don't close the door!"

What if our baby comes home after nine?

What it your eyes close before mine?

What if you lose yourself sometimes?