Coda
part fourteenLondon was as much a joy to return to as it was to leave.
John sat at their usual pub's table not more than a couple blocks from 221B, feet resting on the middle rung of his bar seat as he nursed a tall lager in the company of his silver haired companion. Lestrade sat opposite, seat facing the door to best view the female patrons as they entered the pub. It was habit more than function. Though the Detective Inspector glanced now and then when long legs peeking out from under a skirt marched in on black stilettos, conversation was of a business nature and not really suited to romantic engagements.
"So this guy, this guy who may be the Moriarty is now on the loose and god knows where?" he summarized, raking his fingers through his short hair. "Jesus, what does Mycroft think about all this, then?"
John shrugged his shoulders, licking some of the thick head from his upper lip. "Don't know. I didn't tell him though I'm sure it's gotten to him through other channels."
"Christ this can't be good."
No, generally speaking, it wasn't.
John found it hard to care, though. He was desensitized to it after the months of threats since the night that saw the resurrection of Sherlock Holmes. Danger was status quo. While growing old with Sherlock was a pleasant thought, the reality of it all was more acceptable than it was sobering. He'd accepted a lot of things since firing one of three shots. True or not, he'd have to accept being called gay and with it the awkwardness in the stigma. He was likely never going to be anyone's father. Christmas parties would always be somewhat awkward with a male plus one who had as much patience for social outings as bacterium did for penicillin. Never being bored had been one of the handful of reasons he enjoyed the life he started with Sherlock three years before. Being loved and loving were the only reasons he needed to consider it all still a life worth living and surely a death worth dying.
"What are you and Sherlock going to do about it?" Greg asked. His drink remained untouched and perspiring on the cardboard square beneath it.
John shrugged again, finding little better a response. "We do what we always do. We do what makes us both happy. And in the end, if it really is him and he decides enough is enough, then Sherlock and I take him on again. Together, this time, and believe me I will have drilled that point into his skull when the time comes. Until then, there's nothing we can do. Nothing about this anyway. About Moriarty. Luckily Sherlock and I have plenty of other--more important--things to do. He can wait. Moriarty can wait fifty years, honestly, and I'll be a happy man."
Greg stared at him incredulously, fingers finally rewrapping themselves along the sweating glass. "Just like that, huh? No stupid schemes, no trap or extended vacations? You really okay with just not knowing? What about revenge? I mean, if there's any chance he was even remotely behind what happened to you and Sherlock then he's got plenty to answer for."
"Better things to do with my life," John said. He figured that was really all that needed to be said but Greg's continued squint of disbelief urged him to continue. He licked his lips, eyes alternating between being cast to the lacquered table top and Greg's tired face. "Look," he began, "Moriarty ruined Sherlock's reputation and made him play dead. And you know what happened? Sherlock and I stayed best friends even while he was James Sigerson, we got Moran, and now the whole world knows Sherlock Holmes was framed and is every bit the genius I made him out to be. James Moriarty has the power to make things very inconvenient but what he doesn't have is the power to put a stop to Sherlock or myself. He pulled out all the stops and here we are, better than ever. So fuck James Moriarty. I have a job, I have a boyfriend--I have a whole life I need to see to day to day and I can't be bothered wondering how inconvenient he wants to make it for me. Because possibly he will strike again but inevitably Sherlock and I will be okay, even if it's just as two plots in the dirt, side by side."
"You're sort of a hopeless romantic, John," Greg said, lifting his glass slightly in a mock toast. "But I can't argue too much with that. Honestly, I don't know what I'd do if you two wanted to pursue some sort of revenge on the guy. Wouldn't feel right not to help but I wouldn't have the resources or the legal leverage to do anything one way or the other. Still think you're taking this way better than I would if I were in your shoes."
John tipped his glass back, his buzz just kicking in and filling his head with comfortable static. "Five years ago I wouldn't either. And then there was Sherlock."
"And then there was Sherlock," Greg echoed, smile spreading wide across his face with little else needing said between two men who had both been there in their own ways--living lives as ordinary as anyone else's until stumbling upon the genius mind searching for his audience.
John took his mobile from his pocket, checking with cursory interest whether or not Sherlock had decided to text him on his night out. There wasn't anything there past that afternoon's 'Tell him to shut up for me.' during another spirited away meeting in Vauxhall Cross. John had told Church that Sherlock said 'hello' instead. The man's rolling eyes had said he knew better anyway. The MI6 security clearance granted to John by the powers vested in Mycroft said both men were very knowledgeable indeed on the workings of their trinity. John had always wanted to be a secret agent when he was a boy. Now the only pleasure he derived from it was the knowledge that no amount of hush-hush bureaucracy could keep him off a case alongside the notorious Sherlock Holmes. Doctor by day, suave man of mystery by night? Nothing quite as glamorous in reality but getting to have everything he wanted was a gift more precious than diamonds.
Greg cleared his throat, ears red with the flush of alcohol as he pulled fresh glasses from a waitress's tray and set one each in front of them. "That's enough talk of the future, I guess. From what I hear we should be raising a real toast."
John's hairline rose slightly as he looked back up, mobile returned to his pocket without need of reply. "Toast to what? Case solved?"
"Nah, nothing so ordinary. No, to John's first gay shag," Greg spoke, glass raised with an impish glint in his brown eyes.
Had his feet not been curled along the stool's rung, John might have fallen off in ignominy. His lips fell to a thin line as his face colored scarlet. "Jesus, Greg. Wha-" His mind hadn't far to wander before settling on the only plausible answer. "Billie."
"Bingo." Greg's smirk of superiority showed no signs of tiring. "To be fair, though, it did take a bit of convincing to get her to say anything."
"Yeah, that doesn't actually make me feel any better."
Greg chuckled into his brew, letting it fall back to the cardboard coaster with a refreshed smile. "So. Best night of your life or thank Christ for celibacy?"
"Neither."
"But it was... ya know... good?"
"Yes, I had a gay ol' time gaying it up with my gay boyfriend." John leaned heavy on his elbows, arms propped up on the table behind his second glass, trying not to be too conscious of the people around them least he boil in embarrassment. "This isn't actually something we need to know about each other."
"No but I know it's not exactly your thing. Or his, really. Not trying to be too nosy or nothing but.. ya know. Just wanna make sure two are going to be okay. Wasn't a mistake or nothing."
John let a deep breath cool him though his face still felt warm. He licked his lips, somewhat torn between telling his friend to piss off and assuring him that they'd both come away from the experience with better expectations than when they first went into it. But it was private. Intimate. Something that people in their lives like Greg didn't need to know about but certainly seemed to still have a somewhat vested interest in. John supposed he couldn't blame him too much for concern above curiosity. Were he in Greg's shoes, if for some insurmountably disastrous reason Greg ended up in love with the likes of a Holmes, would John want to know they were fine and happy? In a way, it was the same as saying 'I don't judge you; you can tell me anything and it'd be okay'. John'd always rather liked that about Greg. He was a man's man, same as John always believed himself to be and still did, but he wasn't so caught up in the macho games of masculinity to tune out the nonconforming world. He was a police officer. Greg'd probably heard and seen everything and in his position there was no greater failing than being too proud or confidant than to admit when one needed help. H e had seen the worst of what humanity could do to itself on the home front where John had seen what nations could to do men on the front lines. Different wars, different men, but the same lessons learned in the power of fear and hubris. On a professional level, John would trust Greg absolutely with damn near anything. He supposed it was almost insulting not to trust him on a personal level with a certain degree of veracity.
"Right," John surveyed the area around them, leaning heavier on the table as he leaned in so speak. "Oktoberfest. Germany. I was... Jesus, 23? Med school student on holiday with some mates. Met a Taiwanese tourist who took me back to her hotel room after a few pints in the streets. Most mind blowing sexual encounter of my life. I would have to draw you pictures to describe some of the things that woman could do. Hands down most amazing fuck I have ever had. Came so hard I actually checked to make sure I hadn't somehow shot my testicles back inside. I'm talking the sort of experience you hear guys brag about and know for sure it's all bollocks but God's honest truth, that was damn near attempted murder. I had lost two pounds by morning. Nothing since then has ever topped that. It's just.. one for the history books." John gave a sideways smirk at the memory, sipping quickly from his glass in the space of a breath. "All that said, I would rather forget everything about that one night than forget... anything...about him. I mean pointless normal stuff like the order in which he flosses his teeth. I would rather have an entire mind bungalow of Sherlock's hand scar patterns and moles than even the last remaining highlights of Miss Penis Pole Dancer 1998."
Greg eyed him with further doubt before shrugging his shoulders and taking another hearty swig of his dark ale. "Well... if you don't want them, I'll take them."
"Rhetoric's lost on the working man."
"Yeah, but we can still tell bullshit when we smell it."
"I mean it," John rebutted.
Greg half-snorted. "Yeah, well you and Billie might want to get your stories straight then, mate."
"Why, what's Billie saying?"
"She said she'd bring Mrs. Hudson 'round some earplugs 'case the walls are as thin on Baker Street as they are in the country."
John felt his stomach drop and his face burn bright crimson.
Greg chuckled, smacking him hard in the arm from across the table. "Don't worry, I'll drop it; I am dropping it," he promised. "Just, ya know, cheers, yeah? Sounds like you and Sherlock got it all figured out. You're like a real couple now."
"If by that you mean a severed head from the morgue isn't the only thing likely to have put a bit of pep in Sherlock's step then yeah, sure; cheers." John rubbed at the back of his neck, feeling incredibly warm in his cardigan.
"To Sherlock's pep," Greg said, with his half empty glass tipped close to John's.
John hid a smile in his downward gaze, tipping his own till the glasses clinked. He'd toasted to weirder things before.
John tipped the cabby generously before half stumbling back into 221B well sauced and somewhat silly. He didn't trip along the steps but took them carefully, slowly, listening above to the tell tale signs of life. Though there was silence there was light.
At the landing he could see Sherlock in the kitchen, marigolds on his hands and goggles concealing his eyes as he held a beaker in one hand and a test tube in the other. Hard at work as always. John leaned in the doorway, watching him silently as the detective very carefully added one clear substance to another, turning the whole a churning teal that ripened into blue. Sherlock did not look up as he peered at the concoction.
"Had a good time, then," he asked.
"Yeah." John breathed deep, sighing on the exhale. "Yeah, Greg was buying so had a few more than necessary. Hard to turn away another man's generosity. What with the week we've had."
Sherlock smiled slightly, putting the test tube down to grab a long tool to pipe the liquid onto a slide. His long fingers worked precisely and elegantly. "Granted. Try not to be too poorly in the morning. Rather hoping to go down to Barts and see about getting a few fresh specimens."
"Toes? Eyeballs? Tongues?"
"Stomachs," Sherlock offered, moving from the open part of the kitchen table to his microscope, goggles shifting to the crown of his head as he pulled his gloves off and laid them with a plop beside him. "First stop for any ingested toxins. Will probably require some of your medical knowledge for a few of the more technical bits so your level of functionality will need to be relatively high."
John grimaced, feeling his own stomach churn slightly at the idea of starting the morning in the morgue. "Right. Well, I'll do my best to be in top form. Billie joining us?"
"Told her to bring the coffee. Eight sharp."
"Eight? Oh, grand. We ought to be off to bed, then, don't you think?" John offered, pushing off the wall to steady himself again on his own two feet.
Sherlock remained sat at his table, flexing the dials at the sides of his microscope to better few his materials.
John smiled just slightly as he took the long way around towards the bedroom, stopping on the other side of the table to press a kiss to Sherlock's head and give his shoulder a squeeze. "In your own time. But not all night, okay?"
"Mm," was his reply and John patted his shoulder once more before letting go and walking the tired path towards the room they both now shared and the bed that sometimes held two.
John would wait. John would always wait. Because Sherlock couldn't come to him if he didn't.
One of them would always be left waiting it seemed. But it wasn't lonely.
It was rather optimistic, really.