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Chapter Text

"Oh what now, Freak?" Donovan spits before Sherlock has the chance to start in on what is sure to be a scathing and haughty report of all that has transpired between her and Anderson in the last few days.

“This is really not the day alright? I’ve had enough shite happen to me today and the last thing I need is you cutting me to pieces on top of it.” She snaps at him, clearly fighting back angry, bitter tears.

“Sally Donovan.” Sherlock hisses back at her from behind clenched teeth. “You. Can. Do. Better.” He sneers, each word clear and precise before he throws a repulsed look over to Anderson who is watching the scene unfold with a horribly smug grin.

Sherlock turns back to Sally and looks her straight in her eyes, the disgusted curl of his lip now very clearly meant not for her, but for the pasty, tweedy, revoltingly small piece of a man who is now attempting to slowly remove himself from the situation.

“Than that.” He finishes, jerking his head slightly in Anderson’s direction, and putting plenty of extra emphasis on the last ’t’.

Sally stares dumbfounded for a moment, then gathers her wits about her and gives a small curt nod in response before she turns away to continue with her work.

“Text me.” Sherlock to calls out to Lestrade and is gone with a swish of his great coat, leaving John to catch him up on the pavement as he flags down a cab.

“So what was that about then?” John asks quietly into the ominous silence of the taxi.

“I know how it feels to be second place to a man you put in first. Not even Sally Donovan, with all of her inadequacies, deserves to feel that. Especially not for Philip Anderson.” He says, staring determinedly out of his window.

“Sherlock, you were never second place.” John whispers brokenly. “You were never second place, love.” He repeats emphatically. “I had to go and find second place because you were gone.” He breathes, silently pleading with the detective to look at him.

Sherlock turns slowly in his seat, resentful memories fading away at the pained expression on John’s face.

“Yes well, we’ve both made mistakes, but we got there in the end.” He replies. A small, watery smile tipping the corner of his lips.

John slowly inches his hand across the bench of the taxi and locks his pinky finger with Sherlock’s.

“Yeah, we did, didn’t we?” He replies, returning the smile and sliding his whole hand around Sherlock’s and squeezing gently.

And if at the next crime scene Sally’s “Hello Freak.” is said with just a dash more warmth, and a drop less hostility, well then, Sherlock finds enough tact not to mention it.

Chapter Text

“Sherlock, just four gifts yeah? It won’t be that bad. We can go together, I’ve got to do some shopping too.” John speaks softly at Sherlock who is curled toward the inside of the sofa, doing his level best to ignore the quiet coaxing.

John plays his trump card.

“If you do this, I won’t make a fuss about kitchen experiments for two whole weeks, I promise.”

Sherlock’s head whips around and his eyes narrow at John suspiciously.

“I buy four gifts, and I get 14 complete days without any of your endless nagging over my experiments?”

John smiles and nods excitedly.

“Do I have your word?” Sherlock asks again, disbelief scrawled across his face.

“On my word and honor. Mrs. Hudson, Greg, Molly, and Mycroft. One well thought out gift for each of them and I’ll leave you be for 14 days. Deal?” John holds his hand out at to Sherlock

Sherlock sits up and ruffles his hair, then takes John’s small sturdy hand in his large elegant one.

“Deal.”

15 days later another wrapped box appears under the Christmas tree, but John is just so happy to have the experiments be over he doesn’t even notice. 14 days of sickly sweet, terribly scorched, and overly pungent smells in turns has made him regret his “no nagging” deal more than once. Only the idea of their friends getting thoughtful, proper gifts from Sherlock kept him from intervening. Mostly he just did his best to stay out of the kitchen.

When Christmas morning finally comes John awakes to Sherlock in his doorway, and a wonderful earthy and floral aroma in the air of the flat.

“John, if you would please come down, I have something I’d like to show you.” And with that, he turns and slips quietly back down the stairs.

John climbs out of bed, throws his robe over his pyjamas, and makes his way down after Sherlock, taking a quick detour in the loo to clean his teeth.

He finds Sherlock in the kitchen beside a steaming mug of tea.

“Is that for me then? The tea?” He asks hopefully, Sherlock doesn’t usually make tea, but maybe he’s gotten a bit of Christmas spirit.

“Yes John. Sit. Have your morning tea.”

John sits at a table completely clear of experiments, and take a small sip of the tea, then immediately groans in pleasure.

“That, is the best tea I’ve ever had. Sherlock where did you get this?!” He exclaims, taking another sip of the hot brew.

Sherlock’s face lights up, and he goes over to the tree and comes back with a small wrapped box with John’s name on it.

“You said Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Mycroft, and Lestrade; but you never said anything about yourself.” He starts explaining and John carefully unwraps the package.

“I took all your favorite brands of tea, deconstructed them, then took your favorite flavors and made a completely unique tea, just for you. You’re the only person in the world that will ever have it.”

“Sherlock, you spent your two free weeks of experiments making me a special tea for Christmas?” John asks, more touched that he knows how to say.

“Well, you’re my best friend are you not?” Sherlock asks with a smile, happy to see that his idea has gone over well.

“Of course I am! And since we’re exchanging gifts, come with me!”

John stands, tea in hand, and makes his way down and into 221C.

Sherlock steps in and gasps. He’s standing in a flat sized laboratory.

Everything he could ever need is settled perfectly on gleaming black counters, cabinets full of chemicals, a deep freezer, a refrigerator. Nothing is missing and there has been no expense spared.

“We’ve all been planning this for months. Mrs. Hudson gave us the place, of course. Molly gave us a list of everything you’d need. Mycroft footed the bill and pulled strings to get the right equipment, and Greg sent a rather large box of cold cases over so you’d have something to use your new lab for.”

Sherlock spots the box on the end of the middle island, and he can’t quite believe it.

“Molly says she’ll be more than happy to keep you in fresh body parts as always. So no worries there.” He walks over and stands next to Sherlock.

“Do you like it?”

Without thinking, for maybe the first time in his life, Sherlock turns and kisses John full on the mouth. He’s just about to pull away and make one of the only real apologies of his life when he realizes that John is kissing him back, and he tastes warm and sweet like the tea Sherlock spent weeks perfecting for him.

They finally pull apart and Sherlock wraps his arms around John, pulling him into a fierce hug.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” John quips, and then pulls Sherlock down for another slow kiss.

Chapter Text

“SHERLOCK!”

John sits bolt upright in bed, and for just a moment he expects to hear the melodic strains of Sherlock’s violin floating through the air, lulling him softly back to sleep.

Then he remembers

Sherlock is gone.

He’d leapt from Bart’s, coat gathered around him, fluttering in the wind like useless, broken wings.

Sherlock is gone.

He clutches the blankets around himself and tries to remember how to breathe, but the angry band around his chest is squeezing the air from his lungs, refusing to allow him to draw in precious oxygen.

Sherlock is gone.

Tears stream down his face while some distant part of his mind wonders idly if it’s from the lack of air, or if it’s from the crushing pain he’s been wearing on his skin like widow’s weeds since the day he watched his light fall from the sky.

Sherlock is gone.

He lays a hand to his throat, a serene smile slowly taking over his face.

“Finally.“He thinks, and closes his eyes.

In the cruelest form of irony, his lungs choose that exact moment to remember their purpose. They re-engage and his body forces him to take deep, heaving gulps of oxygen he no longer wants. He opens his eyes and stares blankly at the ceiling of Sherlock’s room, tears still leaking unchecked from the corners of tired eyes. He can’t bring himself to sleep anywhere else, so he tortures himself slowly into madness, surrounding himself with the scent he prays will never fully dissipate. He knows his prayers are futile.

Sherlock is gone.

Three words that have stamped themselves into his brain, seared themselves into the backs of his eyelids, branded themselves over every inch of his skin, and somehow nowhere near as painful as the ones carved into his heart.

Words thought but left unspoken for the foolish assumption that there would be time. Words attached to every memory of Sherlock’s soft smile. Words affixed to every recollection of Sherlock in firelight, gleaming and glowing and achingly beautiful. Words adhered to every reminiscence of Sherlock’s astounding brilliance and almost childlike innocence.

Three words he never said.

Will never say.

Because Sherlock is gone.

The words sit on his lips, but he tamps them down, staunchly refusing to let them pass. He will never utter those words to another human being. He will take them to his grave. He will save them… For Sherlock.

"I love you.”

He breathes deep and thinks the words as hard as he can at the specter of Sherlock that still slips quietly around 221B in bare feet and rippling blue dressing gown.

I love you.