Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John Hamish Watson isn’t the kind of man who feels comfortable remaining still. He races through life with the same urgency as a rabbit trying to outrun a fox. He’s always been that way. 

Whilst he studies at King Edward VI grammar school he joins the rugby team. He likes the way the ball whizzes across the playing field so fast it fades into a red blur. He watches it, envious, longing to match its pace.

Later, the rugby pitch is replaced by his medical studies. Whilst some of the other students throw themselves into London’s party culture, John spends a majority of his time holed up in his dorm room bent over ‘Gray’s Anatomy’, absorbing every page of the hefty textbook. John vows that he will memorise every bone in the human body. He’s going to become a doctor and a bloody good one at that.

He trains at St. Bartholomew’s Hospital as an army doctor. He’s attracted to the occupation because it is fast, intense, unfaltering in its pace. Life back at home is…a bit not good. The distraction is welcome.

The tension between his parents and sister is unbearable. When John visits on the weekends for his mum’s Sunday roast dinners, he can feel the presence of the elephant in the room. There’s awkward small talk exchanged at the table, between chews of gravy coated chicken. His sister stares off into the distance like she’s wishing for another life; one where she doesn’t have to hide her truth. He wishes that he could shield her from their parents bigotry forever, but he knows that he soon won’t even live in the same country.

During a lecture on practical aspects of firearms, John’s phone buzzes. He glances at the caller ID : Harry. He excuses himself and leaves the room, his heart hammering inside his chest. Something is wrong. He hastily slides a thumb over the lit screen and accepts the call.

Her breath hitches sharply on the other end of the line. 

“Harry?”  

“They kicked me out.” Her voice is wet from crying, words trembling. 

“They what?” John snaps a little too sharply. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he takes a deep breath to calm himself. “Why?” 

“They found out about Clara.” 

John tries to recall if he’s ever met Clara. He can’t manage to picture her so he gives up and lamely asks, “Clara?”

“She’s…”  Harry pauses, as though she’s trying to work out whether she can continue. 

“Go on,” John encourages softly, not wanting to push her too hard into saying what he already knows.

“We’re dating. I’m…well…gay.” 

“I know.” He affirms gently.

“You’re OK with it? With me?”

“It’s fine,” John assures her. “It’s all fine. Whatever…floats your boat.”

“Mum and dad don’t think so.”

“Ignore them, you’re wonderful Harry. This doesn’t change a thing. And if they can’t see that then they don’t deserve to have a daughter like you.”

That earns him a small, breathless laugh. “Why are you always so nice?”

“I’m your big brother, it comes along with the job description.”  The corners of John’s lips quirk upwards, but he doesn’t break out into a smile, because there’s still the concern of his sister being kicked out. “Do you have somewhere you can go?”

“I’m staying with Clara, just until I get on my feet.”

“Good,” John breathes out in relief, glad that his sister at least has a roof over her head. “I love you, Hare.” The affectionate childhood nickname slips out automatically. 

“I love you too. Thanks…for…you know.” 

They say their goodbyes and the phone call ends. John is left with a heavy sinking feeling. 

Chapter Text

The next time John sees Harry they meet in a pub garden. John orders a lemonade with a slice of lime. Harry orders a double shot of rum and coke.

John lifts the glass and sips as the liquid, taking the opportunity to study his sister with concern.

She looks washed out, paler than usual, as though the world stole her colours. Her blonde hair is limp and unwashed ; it clings lifelessly to her face. She wears some of John’s hand-me-down clothes that are ridiculously big on her ; a grey wool jumper and a khaki Parker coat. He watches as she buries herself as far into the clothes as possible, trying to hide in their comfort.

“Are you OK?” He holds up a hand to stop her immediately answering. “And don’t just say you are.”

“I’m alright, honest.”

“Hare,” He looks at her, disbelieving.

“OK, maybe not, but I’ll get there.”

“I wish there was more I could do.”

“You’re doing more than enough just by being here.” Her smaller hand slips over his.

“I know that we don’t exactly come from a family that likes to talk, but I’m here for you, whatever you need.”

“For a moment, when I came out, I thought I was going to lose you.”

“That’s not going to happen. I’m not going anywhere any time soon.”

“Chin, chin, my dear.” She grins madly at him, holding out her half empty glass. For a moment it feels like the old Harry is resurfacing. He can pretend that everything is going to work out.

“Chin, chin.” He clinks his glass against the one his sister is holding, his smile an exact replica of hers.

Somewhere along the way, Harry slides from the casual pub goer to an alcohol dependent, drinking to shut out her pain. John hates that he didn’t see it coming. He should have seen it.

He stands on the step outside of the block of flats Harry lives in. Her hands clutch his cashmere jumper desperately, like that’s going to make time stand still for them.John notes the redness around her eyes ; a combination of alcohol and crying. She begs John to remain in England.

His arms wrap around her so tight he can feel how thin she’s become. It’s as though she has disappeared whilst he hasn’t paid attention. The hot puff of whisky scented breath against his cheek reminds him where his sister disappeared to. He tries hard to suppress the mental images of what is happening to his sister internally, but his medical instincts are too strong and the images bombard his brain anyway.

“Don’t go.”

“I can’t do this,” John steps away from his sister, his voice catching in his throat. “Not anymore.”

“I don’t think I know how to cope,” his sister counters,“Not without my big brother.”

“Don’t,” his fists fall to his side, clenched with frustration. Frustrated because he feels like the bad guy, when the truth is he just can’t stand to watch as he loses his sister to addiction. “Just don’t.”

“Have you any idea of how selfish you’re being? You promised me, John. You said you weren’t going anywhere!”

“We’re not kids anymore, Harry.” He steps closer to her, his hand grasping her sleeve gently. “You were always going to have to learn to live without me eventually.”

“Oh, shove it. You clearly couldn’t give a rats arse about me.” Harry tugs her arm away, as though John’s touch burns her. “I never want to see you again.”

He watches helpless as his sister stomps up the stairs of her flat. A bitter anger coils inside him, settling around his furiously beating heart. “And you clearly don’t give a rats arse about my career!”

The only response he receives is the rattling slam of his sisters flat door closing. He wants to chase after her and apologise, but he doesn’t have the energy. Instead, he turns and leaves, guilt weighing heavily on his mind.

Chapter Text

After he is stationed in Afghanistan he fills his days with stitching people together, compressing wounds, stemming blood-flow, bandaging injuries, never stopping, not once slowing down. It helps him forget everything that he’s running from. 

The bullet puts an end to that. 

John Watson, army doctor, Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, ceases to exist the moment the bullet makes contact, the pain and shock rendering him useless on the dusty Afghan ground.

John the civilian, the invalid, is the man that returns to London. He’s spent so much time focussing on being a doctor and a soldier that he doesn’t know who he’s supposed to be now. The daunting thought is all he is left with as he steps off the plane into Heathrow airport. A rucksack slung over his shoulder carries the few belongings he has.

The stillness that greets him upon returning is unsettling. The silence and empty stretch of nothingness in his life stretches around him, like a second skin, suffocating him. London was once his home, but the smog filled city feels alien to him now.

His therapist advises him to reconnect with his routes and reach out to people whilst he adjusts to his new life. He can hear her now. It’s important for you to build a support network, John. You don’t have to do this alone. 

It isn’t until John tries to write a list of names of people he can connect with that he realises how few ties he still has. He doesn’t have any close friends. There is no one that he can turn to, no one that would care, not one single soul to welcome him back to England with open arms. He’s spent so much time focussing on being a good doctor that he hasn’t formed any long lasting or meaningful friendships. 

He scrunches up the blank piece of paper and chucks it into a wastepaper bin. That night is the first night he allows himself to cry since he’s been shot. Even though there is no one there to hear him, he presses the palm of his hand against his lips, stifling the throaty sounds.

John considers reconnecting with Harry. Not a word has been spoken between them since their argument. It is a regret that up until now he has managed to push to the back of his mind. His time as an army doctor demanded him to live in the present and not dwell on the past. These days he did nothing but.

It comes as a shock when he receives a brown package containing a mobile phone and a note from his sister urging him to call her. John is a coward. He doesn’t know what the voice on the other end of the line will say, or what words will fix the damage that lay treacle thick between them. John occasionally slips the phone out of the brown packet, thumbing the device thoughtfully, but the number remains undialled. 

John’s mental health spirals, a dark cloud of despair taking hold of him. He barely sleeps. When he eventually passes out from exhaustion, his dreams are filled with images of the war, so vivid they make him bolt up in bed. A frail whimper trembles on his lips in the aftermath. The darkness of his bunker envelops him the moment he opens his eyes. Then a dull ache settles into his chest. It isn’t until John spends his first night in 221B with Sherlock Holmes that he realises that aching, empty sensation is loneliness. 

Chapter Text

After leaving the crime scene in a fit of giggles, they eat Chinese. It is the first night John’s appetite returns. He eats with relish, whilst Sherlock makes rude observations about the other diners that send John into hysterics, laughing whilst trying not to spray beef and broccoli pieces from his mouth. The atmosphere between them crackles with a thrilling, electric energy. For the first time in months John feels alive.

It isn’t until he finishes his plate of food that he realises Sherlock has barely nibbled at his spring roles. Now that he has the opportunity to study the younger man he’s able to observe how malnourished he is. The ridiculous, thick coat that Sherlock wears is currently hanging on the back of his chair. The man is all angles. The sharpness of his cheekbones make him appear unapproachable.

He thinks back to the revelation of Sherlock’s past drug use and he feels the muscles in his stomach pulling tight with guilt. He reminds John so much of Harry in that moment that it’s startling. Frowning, he pushes the plate of spring roles insistently towards Sherlock.

Sherlock glances between John and the plate of food, a quizzical eyebrow twitching.

“Digestion slows my brain down.” Sherlock remarks, his words echoing what he said earlier in Angelo’s.“It’s bad for the work.”

“Please,” John inches the plate a little closer, imploring Sherlock to eat. “It would put my mind at ease.”

“It would?” Sherlock sweeps one lingering look over John and appears to come to a conclusion. “Fascinating.”

He reaches forward and plucks a spring role between two slender fingers, which John thinks seem well suited for a musician. John watches in relief as Sherlock begins to eat. It feels good to care for another human. No, he corrects, it feels exceptional to take care of Sherlock Holmes.

“Thank you.” John feels the muscles in his abdomen relax.

Nothing more needs to me said between them. Those two words carry enough weight on their own.

That night they sit opposite one another in 221B. A roaring fire crackles, as though the flat itself is welcoming an old friend. The chair he sits in feels right. The man he sits opposite even more so. It’s an inexplicable feeling that he can’t make sense of. It’s a feeling that starts from the soles of his feet and curls up into a strange but welcome heat in his chest. He hasn’t felt it before. It’s something new. He doesn’t know what to make of it.

His feet are inches away from Sherlock’s own, perhaps closer than they had any right to be. It’s been a long night and John is so tired he can’t bring himself to care.

“Are you going to call her?”

John blinks. “Her?”

“Come now, John. Don’t be dense. Harry, are you going to call her?” Sherlock clasps his hands beneath his chin and stares at John with his intense eyes.

“Maybe, eventually.” John shrugs in an attempt to appear calm, but the question has taken him off guard.

Sherlock appears to take note of this information, a deep rumble of acknowledgement forming in his throat. John expects the conversation to continue. He waits for more probing questions from his new flatmate, but they don’t come. He doesn’t know why but the lack of questioning makes him squirm.

“Why?” He eventually asks when it’s clear that Sherlock isn’t going to speak any time soon. John’s bad at this, discussing his feelings, but something is compelling him to open up to a man he’s barely known for a day.

“It’s your mouth.” Sherlock states succinctly, as though that’s meant to mean anything. He has a face that says ‘we both know the thing’ but John doesn’t, he really doesn’t.

“My mouth?” The question comes out an octave higher than his usual voice. He barely catches himself as his tongue slips between his lips and wets his mouth.

The way Sherlock spoke was clinical, as though he were a scientist explaining a theory, but the deep baritone is evocative. John is aware of his pulse accelerating, the heavy beating his chest obvious. He wonders if Sherlock can tell the shift in his body language. Probably. John has never been so hyper aware of the pulsing artery in his neck.

“The corners twitch occasionally. Some less observant people may misconstrue that as pouting.”

“But not you.”

“No, not me.” There’s a kindness in Sherlock’s words that John has only observed when they are alone. It makes him feel special. “Do you want me to stop? Some people dislike my ability to read micro-expressions.”

“No, don’t stop. I meant what I said earlier, Sherlock. You’re brilliant.”

The comment makes Sherlock’s ears turn a faint pink. John’s glad that he isn’t the only flustered one.

“Your mouth turns down as a sign you’re sad. It’s not to do with missing the war. Your leg ached and you hand trembled because you craved the adrenaline, but the twitch of your lips…it always worsens when you speak of her. I can tell when you’re thinking of her just by looking at the corners of your mouth.”

“That is…remarkable.”

“You really think that, don’t you?” In that moment Sherlock looks young, his eyes searching John for approval.

The beating in John’s chest slows momentarily, as he feels a sharp stab of sympathy for the man sat in front of him. He clearly isn’t used to someone praising him. John makes a mental note to try and change that.

“Yeah, course, of course I do.”

“Thank you.” The two words are genuine, ushered in a low voice, as though Sherlock is talking to the flat rather than John.

“You’re very welcome, Sherlock."

There’s a beat of silence then -

“Addicts are notorious liars, I should know. What she said, she didn’t mean it.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” John finds himself automatically inspecting Sherlock, medical instincts running on auto-pilot. He checks for any obvious recent drug use, but the distinctive marks that line the crook of Sherlock’s arms are old and faded.

“She’ll come back to you, when she’s ready. Sobriety…it makes you view the world through an entirely different lens.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“You’ll quickly realise that I’m always right.”

“Apart from thinking Harry was my brother.”

“Shut up.” The words are said in jest, followed by smirk that Sherlock barely manages to contain.

“Make me.” The commanding tone in his voice comes naturally, as does the straightening of his posture and slight tension in his muscles. It’s been too long since he pulled rank.

The detective extends a slender arm and reaches for his violin. The action at first appears lazy, but as he delicately plucks the musical instrument up, John notices the acceptation of his challenge in Sherlock's hard-set expression.

“Any requests?”

“Do you compose?”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow, answering him without having to utter a word. He carefully positions the violin, the bow hovering over the strings.

John’s socked toes curl in anticipation as he sinks back into the comfort of his chair. That’s what it is now, isn’t it? This is his chair and 221B is his home. It’s hard to imagine a time before this. John Watson, a man always itching to move, at last feels comfortable remaining rooted to the spot opposite Sherlock. It doesn’t feel like he’s spending the first night in a strange flat with its strange occupant. Instead it feels like this is a path he’s always been heading for. He’d always wondered what he was running to, but now, as peace settles around him, he knows he’d been searching for this. He doesn’t dwell on what this is, instead he accepts it without question.

The composition Sherlock plays is happy, upbeat and exciting.As John closes his eyes, exhaustion at last overtaking him now the adrenaline had dwindled, he dreams of chasing criminals through the streets of London and giggling till he is breathless at crime scenes. In his dreams Harry returns to him, they embrace, apologies are ushered between them, and he feels whole once more.

He’s vaguely aware of the music drifting further and further away, as his breathing deepens and his REM cycle begins. Large, masculine hands lift his neck into a better sleeping position. The weight of a blanket presses down on him. He feels warm, he feels safe, and it’s the first time John realises that the bullet didn’t end his life, it just led him to a better one.