"You can't go, John," Mary said, an edge of panic finally creeping into her voice.
John wheeled around. Braced his hand atop the finial crowning the last post of the balustrade. "Or what, Mary?"
Mary met his gaze sadly, her mouth a small, pinched line. "Or everything I did was for nothing."
Fingers clenching around the finial, John simply shook his head, drew a long, steadying breath through his nostrils. Then he turned he turned his back toward his wife and trudged up the stairs to the nursery.
**
In those first few tense, transitional weeks at Baker Street — so long ago it almost seemed another lifetime — Sherlock had crept into John's bedroom one night and hovered over his bed out of idle curiosity. He'd learned that John slept like a soldier: flat on his back, stock-still, silent save the occasional low, night terror-induced groan.
Now, with John lying beside him on his own bed, Sherlock marvelled at the profound depth of his ignorance. Dawn was blue-white light edging the side of John's face, time the slow, shallow rise and fall of John's chest.
Seized by a sudden impulse, Sherlock reached over, skated a knuckle along the stubble-rough line of John's jaw. John's eyelids fluttered open. Turning his head, he looked at Sherlock, his lips quirking into a muzzy smile.
"Mary texted me," Sherlock revealed softly. "About an hour ago."
John's smile instantly dissolved, and he bolted upright, his eyes zeroing in on the mobile on Sherlock's bedside table.
Sherlock's fingers closed around John's forearm and squeezed gently. "Everything is fine."
"No, it isn't," John hissed.
"She told me to take care of you. Both of you. Nothing more."
"I don't care what she bloody well told you. I don't ever want to see or hear from her again. I made that very clear to her."
"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said. "Mary would never do anything to harm you or Willa. It isn't in her nature."
"It's not us I'm worried about, Sherlock," replied John. "She shot you once. She could do it again."
"Mycroft texted earlier to inform me that she's been taken into custody."
"What's your brother got to do with this?"
"Do you think he doesn't know who shot me? He makes it his business to know everything. I persuaded him not to have her arrested for your sake, but I suppose now that your marriage has run aground, he considers her fair game."
"Fair game?" John echoed, the note of alarm in his voice not escaping Sherlock's notice.
"I believe he intends to offer her protection in exchange for working for MI6."
John opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Willa unleashed a shrieking wail from the living room. Sighing heavily, he rolled out of the bed and bent to pick his boxers off the floor, tugging them on quickly. By the time Sherlock finally peeled himself off the bed and staggered over to the dresser to retrieve a clean pair of pants, John had already thrown on the rest of his clothes and was clattering about the kitchen, preparing a bottle.
Belatedly, Sherlock remembered his experiment with the alcoholic tramp's brain, and called out, "Don't open the microwa—!"
"Jesus Christ!"
Too late.
Sherlock hurriedly pulled on his dressing gown. Rushing out into the kitchen, he found John holding a large, silver pot under the running tap and Willa quiet in the baby carrier that was serving as a makeshift cot.
"I hope you haven't used this to boil the flesh off a skull," John remarked, setting the pot on the cooker.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock blurted, sounding uncharacteristically sheepish. "I should've warned you." Motioning toward the equipment-strewn table in the middle of the room, he added, "I'll talk to Mrs. Hudson about moving all this into 221C. And I promise we'll get a proper cot. We can put it in your old bedroom. Assuming you're moving in again, that is."
John turned around. His gaze, as it lifted to meet Sherlock's, was oddly soft. "Of course I am. This is my home."
Fill: Where the Heart Is (4/4)
John wheeled around. Braced his hand atop the finial crowning the last post of the balustrade. "Or what, Mary?"
Mary met his gaze sadly, her mouth a small, pinched line. "Or everything I did was for nothing."
Fingers clenching around the finial, John simply shook his head, drew a long, steadying breath through his nostrils. Then he turned he turned his back toward his wife and trudged up the stairs to the nursery.
In those first few tense, transitional weeks at Baker Street — so long ago it almost seemed another lifetime — Sherlock had crept into John's bedroom one night and hovered over his bed out of idle curiosity. He'd learned that John slept like a soldier: flat on his back, stock-still, silent save the occasional low, night terror-induced groan.
Now, with John lying beside him on his own bed, Sherlock marvelled at the profound depth of his ignorance. Dawn was blue-white light edging the side of John's face, time the slow, shallow rise and fall of John's chest.
Seized by a sudden impulse, Sherlock reached over, skated a knuckle along the stubble-rough line of John's jaw. John's eyelids fluttered open. Turning his head, he looked at Sherlock, his lips quirking into a muzzy smile.
"Mary texted me," Sherlock revealed softly. "About an hour ago."
John's smile instantly dissolved, and he bolted upright, his eyes zeroing in on the mobile on Sherlock's bedside table.
Sherlock's fingers closed around John's forearm and squeezed gently. "Everything is fine."
"No, it isn't," John hissed.
"She told me to take care of you. Both of you. Nothing more."
"I don't care what she bloody well told you. I don't ever want to see or hear from her again. I made that very clear to her."
"Don't be ridiculous, John," Sherlock said. "Mary would never do anything to harm you or Willa. It isn't in her nature."
"It's not us I'm worried about, Sherlock," replied John. "She shot you once. She could do it again."
"Mycroft texted earlier to inform me that she's been taken into custody."
"What's your brother got to do with this?"
"Do you think he doesn't know who shot me? He makes it his business to know everything. I persuaded him not to have her arrested for your sake, but I suppose now that your marriage has run aground, he considers her fair game."
"Fair game?" John echoed, the note of alarm in his voice not escaping Sherlock's notice.
"I believe he intends to offer her protection in exchange for working for MI6."
John opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Willa unleashed a shrieking wail from the living room. Sighing heavily, he rolled out of the bed and bent to pick his boxers off the floor, tugging them on quickly. By the time Sherlock finally peeled himself off the bed and staggered over to the dresser to retrieve a clean pair of pants, John had already thrown on the rest of his clothes and was clattering about the kitchen, preparing a bottle.
Belatedly, Sherlock remembered his experiment with the alcoholic tramp's brain, and called out, "Don't open the microwa—!"
"Jesus Christ!"
Too late.
Sherlock hurriedly pulled on his dressing gown. Rushing out into the kitchen, he found John holding a large, silver pot under the running tap and Willa quiet in the baby carrier that was serving as a makeshift cot.
"I hope you haven't used this to boil the flesh off a skull," John remarked, setting the pot on the cooker.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock blurted, sounding uncharacteristically sheepish. "I should've warned you." Motioning toward the equipment-strewn table in the middle of the room, he added, "I'll talk to Mrs. Hudson about moving all this into 221C. And I promise we'll get a proper cot. We can put it in your old bedroom. Assuming you're moving in again, that is."
John turned around. His gaze, as it lifted to meet Sherlock's, was oddly soft. "Of course I am. This is my home."