Fandom The Final Goodbye (Johnlock)

[Satanic Nightjar]

"No offense, brother, but I don't think you know what I want nearly as well as I do. It's my mind palace at work, after all," Sherlock expertly masked his emotions, focusing on projecting an indifferent expression onto his sharp features. Mycroft's discomfort was obvious, although the reason for it was not entirely clear. The whole situation was disturbingly similar to memories of being sent to the principal's office as a child. There was never any clear punishment for it, as each and every time he got in trouble it was for something stunningly unique. Needless to say, his teachers weren't incredibly fond of him, particularly after he began going through their rooms after school and correcting various minor mistakes, reorganizing, and throwing away books he deemed unnecessary.

"Actually, Mycroft, I'd prefer you not," he said in response to the question, refusing to offer up anything that resembled a reasonable answer. Deflecting the accusing stare that followed, he sipped his tea and averted his eyes, studying the wall behind Mycroft's chair.

 

[GV Butterworth]

"You weren't alone in this, Sherlock," Mycroft reminded him in eerily mild tones. "Hundreds of people put forth effort in helping you take down Moriarty's network. Not all of them are still alive. It is not only your life you're endangering by revealing yourself with the job only half done. I'm sure they deserve to know whether you popping back up on every assassin's radar was a calculated move to gain a greater advantage, or a careless mistake perpetrated by an overly sentimental heart. What shall I tell them?"

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock sighed, placing the cup of tea neatly back down on the table. Leaning back in his chair, he turned his eyes to stare into Mycroft's directly. "Tell them whatever you please, brother. In the end it is my decision. I believe that most of the danger for me and John Watson has passed, and there is no benefit for me in continuing the endless search for assassins who have been trained to hide. It could take years, even decades to destroy everything that man left behind, and even then there will still be traces. He caused enough damage to me personally, and I refuse to continue to allow him to affect me."

 

[GV Butterworth]

The three rapid blinks Mycroft gave were the only indication of how deeply Sherlock's words had struck him. He had always wanted Sherlock to be happy, but he had a terrible knack of putting him in the absolute worst situations, and then chastising him when he sought to extract himself from them. He wasn't certain how he had happened into such shit brothering, but it seemed to be a recurring theme with him.

All of the trappings of Mycroft's snitty retribution fell away. He cleared his throat and sat up straighter to make up for it. "A slightly whimsical interpretation of the circumstances, but there may be a bit of truth to it." Even when he was trying to be conciliatory, his words had teeth. "What I mean to say, Sherlock... I mean to say, be careful. While Moriarty's men are few and scattered, I'm sure I don't have to remind you, they are fiercely loyal to him." He rapped his fingers atop the handle of his umbrella. "Well, there are several that were fiercely loyal..." He sucked in a sharp breath. "Sebastian Moran is still unaccounted for, Sherlock," he said, finally getting to the point. "Damnable nuisance. Keeps popping up in the unseemliest of ways. But once he knows you're alive, I cannot imagine much will stop him from trying to get to you. And John."

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock allowed his eyes to close for a half second longer than usual, desperate for a moment of uninterrupted peace. Sebastian Moran. It had been a long time since he'd heard that name spoken, an exceptionally long time. He was a man of the shadows, rarely allowing his location and intentions to become known, and only then for a very specific reason. He was deeply attached to Moriarty, the heart that his enemy lacked. He was Moriarty's John Watson, and he was motivated by only one thing. Revenge. And now the danger was not only to Sherlock, as Mycroft had so easily pointed out, but also to John. Despite his recent interaction with his friend, the last thing he wanted was to be responsible for his death. Perhaps he wasn't as heartless as he'd tried so hard to become, although the thought disgusted him. Emotions were such useless, exhausting things. He didn't see how "normal" people dealt with them on a daily basis.

"Sebastian . . . it's been ages. What was his most recently recorded location?" Sherlock swallowed back the questions that were racing through his uncontrollably active mind. What are the chances of John being harmed? Will we know when he reappears? Are we tracking him as efficiently as possible?

 

[GV Butterworth]

"London," Mycroft answered simply. "His last known position was London, and that was two months ago. You picked a bad time to resurface, as we had since lost the bead on him." He leaned forward to waggle a copy of the day's newspaper in Sherlock's direction. "I was pleased to see the press hasn't caught wind of your return. I imagine it will take Moran at least one day less than them to learn of it. Not a very helpful standard of measure, alas."

Mycroft examined his brother for a spell, reading every inch of him. "Would you like to inform Mr. Watson, or shall I?" He attempted a smile that he hoped was comforting. He only achieved oily. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you that you both would be safer together."

He knew this was dangerous territory. He had suspicions about his brother's feelings toward plain John Watson, and what this situation might be doing to those unfamiliar longings. He had received the reports that said John had bloodied Sherlock in the graveyard, that John had stormed out of the falafel diner. What had transpired between them was unknown to him, but what was known was that John was engaged to a woman across town, and was attempting to construct a new life. Moran would crash through all new-laid hopes and dreams like a wrecking ball.

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

London. How unfortunate could a person be? In three days, he'd broken John's heart, had his heart broken, and accepted it just in time to have another unavoidable issue crash into his reality like a nuclear bomb. His entire world was crumbling to the ground, and as much as he'd tried to convince his heart that emotions were irrelevant, it was proving to be rather uncooperative. John, it appeared, was the only one who fully understood it, and now he despised Sherlock with every fiber of his being.

"Lovely," He muttered instead of saying any of these things. Tightening his grip on the arms of the chair, he resisted the urge to get up and hail a cab to take him straight to John's new home. It was impulsive, it was reckless, and it was overall just a shit idea. But he needed to know the danger he was in, and he needed to know now. No more secrets - Sherlock couldn't bear to continue to lie to his friend, not after nearly two years of constant falsehoods and agony. But it was more than that - there was a part of him wanted to glimpse that perfect face of his once more, hear his voice again . . . no matter the cost. His own selfishness disgusted him.

"Perhaps you should tell him, Mycroft. I doubt he'll want to hear it from me." It was difficult to maintain an even tone. The words, despite their truth, were difficult to force to leave his tongue. He longed to speak with John again, to be forgiven for all the pain that he'd caused. They'd always been better together, and this time it was no different. But it was time he considered things other than his own personal needs, and John wanted nothing to do with him. Safer together. "What are you proposing, brother? John can certainly take care of himself, far more successfully than I could. And he has Mary. I'd just interfere."

 

[GV Butterworth]

It was such a logistical nightmare, having John and Sherlock apart. It meant two separate teams working independently of each other and communications were sure to become messy. Oh, if the tax paying public had any idea how much money was going into keeping a government official's brother and ex-.... whatever safe, there would be rioting in the streets. There was no human being in the world, in Mycroft's employ or otherwise, that he trusted to keep his brother safe more than John Watson, and if for nothing other than the sake of his own night's sleep, he wanted the pair back together. However, Sherlock's last statements proved the stickiness of the situation, and that enforcing their co-habitation may do more damage than good. Sherlock had yet to master Mycroft's cool indifference, try though he might, and Mycroft pitied his openly broken heart. It pained him that Sherlock clearly had no idea how to deal with it.

Mycroft was uncertain how far he should stretch his power. He had information, of course, of the secrets Mary Morstan withheld from her betrothed, but he knew from past experience that hastily revealing secrets didn't always yield desired results. One thing was clear: if he wanted to end the streak of shit-brothering, it may require he get a handle on his frustration and impatience and that he actually let Sherlock manage his own affairs of the heart. Mycroft had enough confidence that his teams could keep them safe until they sorted that out.

"Very well," Mycroft said. "We will keep him under separate surveillance until you two work out your little spat. But Sherlock... Do work it out." Time lost while Sherlock wallowed about in his apartment would be difficult to make up. He needed his brother fighting fit, and he was never fitter than when in the company of John Watson.

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock had no interest in prolonging this increasingly uncomfortable conversation. He realized that Mycroft had the best of intentions, although he despised his calm, indifferent way of speaking. As if nothing of concern had occurred in recent weeks, as if they were back at home celebrating Christmas in the most awkward way imaginable. And he certainly did not require the pity of his brother, who obviously had very limited understanding of the situation with John. Mycroft focusing his time and energy on a brother who didn't have any inclination to use it was an utter waste of time, and they were both aware of that. Through any logical way of considering things, the best course of action was simply to leave Sherlock to attend to his own personal affairs. Mycroft apparently had come to a similar conclusion.

They stood in unison, Sherlock holding the door open impatiently, urging him to leave. Just as he crossed through the doorway, Sherlock stopped him. "Mycroft . . . take care of him. John. He tends to overestimate his capabilities when defending himself. Just . . . make sure he stays safe."

 

[GV Butterworth]

Mycroft gave a courteous but curt nod and slipped through the door.

 

[GV Butterworth]

John Watson was a master of repression. He had honed his skills by apprenticeship under a renowned grandmaster: Hamish Watson, his father. Although John had known the tools for perfect repression since childhood, he had only at this point in his life sought to employ them in the most effective doses: Namely, alcohol and sleeping pills.

After Mary had found him screaming in the shower, she had soothed him to peace with repeated applications of Jameson. The Ambien, John prescribed for himself the next day.

It had taken only two nights of John drinking a half bottle of whiskey chased by an Ambien, for the sleepwalking to start again. The first night had seen John running into the streets of London to save Sherlock from unknown attackers in unknown places, as he had done before Sherlock's return. But the second night involved a knife. Mary had wisely hidden John's gun when the sleepwalking first started after Sherlock's suicide, and it had very thankfully remained that way, or there might have been a terrible tragedy. Although no shots were fired, Mary had roused the neighbors to help subdue a sleeping John, who dreamed himself to be Sherlock's last standing protector. It was an incident of great embarrassment.

It was no surprise that after such drama, John came home to find all the alcohol flushed, and his Ambien fodder for the fire. He couldn't blame Mary for this, not after having her life threatened by the man she was supposed to marry, but all the same, he was filled with resentment as he lay on his back for the fourth consecutive sleepless hour while Mary snored next to him. He was staring at the ceiling, the weight of Mary's arm across his middle getting heavier and heavier as she fell into a deeper and deeper sleep. John envied her. While his mind would occasionally go fuzzy, he would snap to wakefulness by unexamined anxieties.

However, around 2:48 am, John's restless, but sober, mind slowed just enough to allow space for an unbidden, repressed memory to slip through the cracks. It was a small collection of words: "I love you, too," "so fucking sorry," and "I love you so much, John."

His eyes snapped open and he let out the softest choke. His heart began pounding uncontrollably and his skin flushed with painfully hot blood. Allowing no time for second thoughts, he slipped from the bed, careful not to wake his overtaxed fiance, jammed his feet into his fuzzy slippers, threw on a dressing gown, and called a cab.

Cab drivers at three o'clock in the morning don't ask any questions, thankfully, and at this hour, the drive to Baker Street disappeared in a swift blur. His key fit perfectly in the lock and he nearly groaned aloud when the familiar musty, smoky smell of the building hit his nostrils. He locked the door behind him, as responsible as if this were still his home, and mounted the stairs.

When he let himself into the flat, he didn't know what to expect. Perhaps he dreaded the place had been terraformed into an environment unrecognizable to him. This was not the case: the apartment looked every bit as he had left it. He could imagine he'd only gone out for a midnight milk run, and just come back.

The living room was empty, and only then did John realize he was cold. It was the most natural thing in the world for him to shuffle over to the fireplace, situate a few ripe looking logs in the hearth, and start a crackling warm fire.

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock was sleeping, honestly sleeping for the first time in days. Restlessness had given way to a form of extreme exhaustion that urged him to bed as his world faded into unconscious oblivion. Still, despite his tiredness his mind was still on alert, searching for any disturbances that would be an excuse to yank him back to awareness. It had found nothing for the past four hours - it seemed that in the chaos of the day it had forgotten how it loved to torture him. Four hours of peace was far more than the world had ever granted him in the past, he he was rather grateful.

At first, he thought it was a dream. The familiar steps of someone who'd never quite perfected a normal walk climbing the staircase. An illusion conjured by an exhausted and overworked mind. But after his eyelids fluttered open, after he'd sat straight upright in bed, ignoring his body's protests, even after he was certain he was awake, the sound persisted. It was followed by the ever so soft opening and closing of his door, the echoing sound of someone limping over to the fireplace. Heat invaded his room, and now he could hear the fireplace crackling from underneath his door.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he allowed his feet to contact the freezing floor. Sherlock crept across the room with the same stealth as he had in childhood when he and Mycroft would terrorize their parents by attempting to escape their rooms to set up various genius tricks and traps. The memory was faint, something he'd successfully blocked out for years on end, but it was still somehow present. He pulled on an old navy blue T-shirt which looked absolutely absurd with the pants he hadn't bothered to take off yesterday, but he was far from caring.

Placing his pale fingers on the doorknob, he silently counted to three before hurling it open, hand on a gun expertly hidden on the desk in his room. What he saw was far more surprising than one of Sebastian's followers invading his flat. It was someone he'd never expected to see in this house again. "John?" He asked in a voice barely more than a faint whisper.

 

[GV Butterworth]

John was not the kind of man it was wise to hold a gun on. Between the PTSD and the fire poker in John's hand, Sherlock was very lucky to escape the incident with both eyes intact. "Jesus Christ, where did you get a gun?" John wheezed, lowering the poker from it's face-stabbing position. "Put that bloody thing away!" The makeshift weapon clattered down against the bricks as John limped his way into the kitchen, grumbling like a dotty old man about how cross he'd be if after all this, he'd ended up accidentally murdering Sherlock with a fire poker.

He opened the cabinet to the left of the microwave, and sure enough, the Macallan single malt that had been given to them by a grateful client was still there. They had been saving it for a special occasion, but John felt there was no moment more fitting than this. He pulled two water glasses from the cabinet and filled both of them beyond what an evening sniff should be. To obscure his burgeoning alcoholism, John dropped a few ice cubes in his.

The whiskey he poured for Sherlock was left on the kitchen island, since John needed his other hand for his cane. He nodded to it for Sherlock to get it as he carefully shuffled over to his chair. It was the first time he'd sat in it in over two years and he sighed with pleasure at the familiar back support and cushion that had molded itself specifically for his rump. The Macallan was everything it should be and more than John deserved. He purred like a happy lion, feeling his body relax and release beyond what it had for many hundred days.

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock wasn't particularly surprised when the fire poker was shoved in his face. Rather expected it, considering who it was in his flat, so he dodged easily. Placing the gun neatly back on the desk, he inspected his friend. John appeared older than he'd had seen him before, like he'd aged twice as much as he should have in the past two years. His hair was a mess, but certainly no worse than Sherlock's was. He simply watched as the man limped into the kitchen, grumbling to himself like a cross old man, and began to dig through the cabinets.

Revealing two glasses and a Macallan single malt, he poured them both a bit too full before relaxing into his old chair and settling in as if nothing had happened. Sherlock carefully picked up his glass and shuffled across the stained carpet, sitting across from him. Taking a sip, he stared into the fire, contemplating his next words. He wasn't entirely prepared for this - he'd always considered himself ready for any situation but this . . . this was far more complicated than any of the cases he'd ever investigated in the past. This was John Watson.

"John. I didn't expect to see you back here any time soon," He stated in a slightly questioning tone, raising an eyebrow.

 

[GV Butterworth]

"No," John agreed.

He didn't want to rush this. He felt good, and that, after a long spell of suspecting he would never feel good again in his life. He propped his chin on his hand, slumped comfortably in his chair and stared at the fire. The ice was slowly melting in his drink, sweating into John's skin. He didn't trouble himself with thoughts. He could feel them in the back of his skull, braying for attention, but he beat them back with whiskey and with the thrumming sensation of contentment in his chest. If the word 'yes' had a frequency, his heart was resonating with it in this moment.

He relaxed even more deeply, his whiskey half finished and his eyes half opened. He may have even been smiling a little. To make himself happier, he slowly reached out a slippered foot until it hit Sherlock's ankle. He flexed his toes against the jagged bone that was Sherlock's medial malleolus and held him like that through worn fleece.

With a heavy sigh, he sipped at the last of his whiskey, letting it coat the entire surface area of his mouth, before enjoying a bitter sweet swallow. He smacked his lips and mournfully eyed his empty glass before slurring, "So, you're in love with me."

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock balanced his legs on the coffee table that took up the space between them, studying his friend. He didn't seem to be particularly inclined to have any sort of conversation as he finished his drink, looking as normal in that chair as ever. He looked as happy and relaxed in that moment as he ever did before Sherlock's suicide. A faint smile that perfectly matched John's came to his lips as his soft slippers touched his ankle as if it was the most natural thing he'd ever done. Taking another couple of drinks, he found himself incapable of tearing his eyes from John. Everything about him, his messy blond hair, his worn shirt that he'd apparently been sleeping in since the beginning of time, the way he wrinkled his nose ever so slightly when he smiled, he wanted to remember it. All of it. Forever.

When he began to speak again, Sherlock barely heard his words. When he replayed them through his mind, he raised an eyebrow. "That was rather straightforward."

 

[GV Butterworth]

"So were you, if I recall," John mumbled into the fist that was keeping his head upright. "I didn't hear you-- Well, obviously I heard you. I just didn't know that I heard you..." He closed his eyes as his thoughts tumbled down an irrelevant path. When he opened them again, he'd found his straightforwardness. "You said you loved me. You said, I love you so much, John. I know I didn't make that up. I heard you say it."

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

"Yes . . . yes I suppose I did," He muttered to himself, taking the final sip of his drink. Leaning back into the chair, he sighed loudly. This wasn't something he was used to dealing with. Certainly not something he knew how to respond to. Hell, he was a sociopath, he didn't know these things, he wasn't prepared for this situation. Nothing in his gigantic brain could have ever prepared him for this. "Yes, I did, John. And it was true."

 

[GV Butterworth]

Sherlock's discomfort was palpable, a perfect antithesis to John's unexpected calm. In fact, John had never seen Sherlock this wrong-footed, even when a naked woman was slithering her way into his lap.

The questions idly meandered across the landscape of John's mind, but they all felt vastly uninteresting compared to the feeling of Sherlock's ankle between his toes. But one of those musings broke loose, "What does that mean? To you? From you? What does it mean when Sherlock Holmes says I love you so much?"

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

What does it mean? It was a question that he wasn't certain how to answer. Sherlock Holmes was a man who never fell in love, and he'd never truly considered the meaning. He knew it hurt. He knew it was unpredictable, and he knew it was amazing and beautiful and utterly indescribable. He knew it couldn't be explained with words, not fully. But he also knew he'd have to try.

"John . . . you know me. I'm not exactly the type to fall in love, you know I view it as a disadvantage, a weakness. But from the moment I met you . . . it's like you're my heart. It was like suddenly I wasn't just an emotionless shell. You were the part of me that I'd always been missing and suddenly I felt whole. You complete me. I need you. I want you. I can't lose you."

 

[GV Butterworth]

Until that moment, John hadn't been entirely certain if love was only a platonic thing to Sherlock, at best. But to hear him describe it, John recognized his own interpretation of love; at least, the love he wanted from Sherlock.

The poor thing looked utterly lost sitting there, an empty once-was whiskey glass in his hand, having been awoken in the small hours to have a conversation he'd never had before. He looked like he had when John had first met him: Young and desperately trying to hide his vulnerability. It made him chuckle warmly. "Come here." He hooked his foot around Sherlock's calf and muttered, "Come here, come here, come here...."

As soon as Sherlock started to move, John reached for him, albeit clumsily and dragged him to settle on the knotted rug between his legs. He clutched him to his chest and buried his nose into those thick black curls he'd dreamed of since first laying eyes on them. "You funny thing," he laughed breathlessly, nuzzling into his hair. "You have no idea what you're talking about." It wasn't a chastisement or correction as much as an acknowledgement that Sherlock had never said these things before, and they came out of his mouth full of freshness and innocence. John loved him so much, he thought it might kill him. "My stupid, bloody genius."

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock clumsily climbed to his feet and allowed himself to be surrounded by John's warm, secure embrace. He enjoyed the feeling of his arms wrapped warmly around his thin shoulders, a smile coming to his lips. He reached up a shaking, cautious hand to cover John's. He was utterly confused, completely lost, and yet he was certain that this was exactly what he needed in this moment. Perhaps it was the whiskey, or the lack of sleep, or the stress he'd been through in recent days, but he couldn't help but think that this was perfect.

"You're right," he murmured. "I've absolutely no idea." The last word dissolved into soft laughter as he spoke.

 

[GV Butterworth]

John smiled. He sunk his fingers into Sherlock's wild mop and gently massaged his scalp. He inhaled deeply and smelled the shampoo that he associated with Sherlock, and the mustiness of his bedhead. He kissed his curls over and over, enchanted by the warmth on his lips. He rocked him and rubbed his shoulder through the worn, unwashed dressing gown Sherlock wore. "I love you," he slurred, kissing down out of his curls and tilting Sherlock's face so he could kiss his forehead. "I love you so much." He kissed over his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose. "You're my favorite... thing... ever."

 

[Satanic Nightjar]

Sherlock returned his warm smile the best he could, his lips unaccustomed to the movement. He gently reached up to touch John's face, happiness overwhelming him. He never thought this moment would come, never in the years they'd known each other did he believe that this dream would become a reality. "I love you too, John," he murmured, locking eyes with him. Everything about John was perfect, he thought. Every single bloody thing. He adjusted his body so that they were facing each other, and leaned his forehead against John's. "I love you." The three words he never thought he'd have the courage to say escaped his lips, and joy flooded through his body the instant they left his tongue. John Watson, his heart, his entire world, he loved him back, something no one had ever done or felt for him.

 

[GV Butterworth]

John could have spent the rest of his life like that, his face pressed to Sherlock's, his beloved's soft breath falling against his cheek, the weight of his hands on his thighs -- except for one thing: the overwhelming desire to kiss him. John dragged his fingers through those perfect curls once, twice, before withdrawing far enough to meet Sherlock's eyes. They still looked lost, but unafraid; perhaps even full of wonder. He stroked his thumbs over Sherlock's eyebrows, those remarkable cheekbones, and then those incredible lips that had been a lasting object of obsession. "Sweetheart," he cooed, before cradling the perfect goblet of Sherlock's skull and drawing him close for the deepest, hungriest kiss he'd ever given.