Naked
part oneThe miscarriage had happened early on in the pregnancy. John had only gotten around to telling his immediate family the good news before it became sobering and somber, bleeding out with only an ache in the heart and a memory. Cards of congratulations from his parents and sister were still being delivered, posted before the follow up, but John always saw that they were promptly thrown away for Mary's sake along with the rest of the unwanted mail. It was almost literally the least he could do, coupled with well-thought words and comfort. Much as he felt the term "we're pregnant" was daft and rather untrue, he always made sure it was "we lost the baby" and never "she". He didn't have to be an obstetrician to know biology was no woman's fault.
It was a hard hit for a newlywed couple but John felt they were handling it well. She'd only yelled at him once for their loss, blaming his medical knowledge for the little good it served them. He'd yelled at her once as well: for deciding on her own to stop taking her birth control before they could talk about children. He'd slept on the sofa; she'd gone to his mother's. They spoke the next morning over tears and tea. Things had been getting better since then.
John never told Sherlock.
"I probably shouldn't be telling you this, confidentiality and all that, but I thought you should know..."
The things they didn't tell each other seemed increasingly vast since John's marriage. John read more often in the paper Sherlock's exploits than he heard from the man himself and the occasions on which Mycroft felt it necessary to kidnap John had dwindled to none. It was peaceful and lovely in a way. He could enjoy marital bliss without Sherlock's rolling eyes and scoffs of disapproval or dismissive cruelty. His missed him but not enough to subject himself to his insensitive remarks while his heart was still mending. Weeks cut off from each other for a honeymoon turned into a month of broken communication turned aside for work and husbandry. One month became two, then three, then somehow six with a wife and work and personal drama requiring all of his energies. He had work colleagues he went to drinks with, still kept in touch with army mates over pints of lager and crisps. Sherlock was always at the back of his mind like a forbidden thought begging for his attentions to linger, an itch waiting to be scratched, the addict begging for another hit.
"He hasn't been doing all that well lately. Exhaustion. Fatigue. You know how he gets. Doesn't take care of himself to be honest..."
Sherlock was an obsession his marital life did not need too great an indulgence in. A phone call on the walk home, texts and photos of random things intended to make his friend laugh, those were the extent of things in the cool autumnal and winter months of John's first year of marriage.
"Anyway, I went by his flat..."
Which was why it came as little surprise the day Lestrade called to tell him he was arresting Sherlock for possession.
"John, there's nothing else I can do for him. He won't listen. 'Least not to me..."
Things like "for his own good" were said often, along with words like 'rehab' and 'again'. John waited for Mycroft's commanding summons to commission his service but no such orders came. Only family could visit so yet again the weeks of complete silence stretched on between them, John remaining angry at Sherlock as he tried to reason away every account by which it was stupid for him to be angry at himself.
"I know you two are kind of estranged now and I'm not saying you need to do anything. Just thought you should know is all."
It had been Mary's idea, bless her. She'd come with John to help search for hidden stashes in his old bachelor quarters, preparing it for Sherlock's return with the intention of giving him a good, fresh start with nothing available should the boredom claim him. What started as a vague idea to be laughed at turned into physically packing Sherlock's bag for him and taking it back to their own home, waiting for the cab ride the next morning to pick up its owner. They were hastily made plans but all the better for it.
Leaning against the black cab, John sent one last text to Mary, sending her his love from just outside the rehabilitation center. It was smaller than he pictured and the stonework on the face of it old and cracked like a relic. He could see the diamond pattern of the shatter proof glass behind the bars along the windowsills. It seemed more a prison than a hospital. He didn't care to imagine whatever potential violence went on inside as patients detoxed and road out withdrawals. Cocaine, at least, was kind in that department. Sherlock's stay was more akin to a prison sentence than a medical intervention. That he had stayed and not broken out 'again' made John hopeful.
He waited not more than five minutes past the hour he'd been informed was standard check out before his friend pushed through the entry, overnight bag in hand. With his perfectly tailored suit pressed and dark, curly hair in perfect order, Sherlock looked more like he'd walked out of a gallery than a medical facility. Even from several yards away, though, John could see the dark circles under his eyes and his unnaturally sallow complexion. He wasn't well. The cocaine was just a symptom, really, of whatever else was going wrong inside that funny little head of his. Sherlock had always been amazingly brilliant when it came to working out what other's concealed but exceedingly awful at disguising his own. He wore exhaustion on his face the way Mary wore rouge and depression oozed from his eyes like an infectious crust. A total stranger would be able to tell the man was weary. A friend the likes of John could tell it took all Sherlock had to keep moving.
Like all other things, Sherlock's surprise at seeing John was evident. His thick brows rose high above his pale eyes, the slight tilt of his jaw alluding to his curiosity. He took the short flight of stone stairs between the entrance and sidewalk slowly, seemingly buying time with every controlled step. John cleared his throat as he leaned over and pulled the cab door open, holding it ajar with a casual lean.
"Come on. Meter's running."
Sherlock's eyes flashed slightly at the two sets of luggage visible inside the vehicle, his left brow arching briefly as though punctuating some internal phrase. "And where exactly are we going?" Sherlock asked. He came to a stop just within the open cab door, standing opposite John for the first time in what felt like ages.
"You're coming with me to Mounts Bay," John said. He gestured for him to get in, lips pursed slightly with his teeth bedding into them as he held Sherlock's tired stare.
Sherlock paused, considering, then slipped down into the car, scooting over to the far side as John came 'round and slid in beside him, closing the door as he did. The driver started off without prompting, directions already given as to their next destination.
Sherlock pulled his luggage to him, unzipping the top enough to peek down into its contents. "What's in Mounts Bay? A case?"
John shook his head. "A beach house. Rest. Relaxation."
"Stagnation," Sherlock complained, slumping in his seat with a roll of his eyes.
"Me."
Sherlock paused in his theatrics, arms held crossed over his chest like an obstinate child.
Some things never changed.
John took a deep breath. Absence made the heart grow fonder, they said, and really all that meant was that bullshit was much easier to forget than the fond memories in between. It was hard to forget that Sherlock was the most difficult man on the planet. Still, sitting beside him, as his doctor and as his friend, John found it hard not to want to punch him in the arm till he sat up and acted his age. "You don't have to come if it puts you off that much," he said. "I can call Mary, ask her to call her girl's retreat off and come join me out there on the cliffs with the nice sea air. I can do that if you'd rather. Personally, I can't see the point in you going back to the flat by yourself when your bag's already packed and I've got your train ticket in my wallet."
Sherlock remained slouched but turned his face up, his posture resting his head bellow even John's against the seat's upholstery. "Going on holiday without your wife?" His eyes were calculating in their pin-point stare.
John scowled. "Don't read into it. There's nothing wrong with our marriage. We both have other relationships besides with each other you know. She has her old college pals. I have you. We just felt that it would be nice to reconnect. Come back with a few new stories to tell."
"Which happens to coincide with my release." It would have been far too much to hope for for Sherlock not to have made some kind of connection between his recent fine and court ordered rehabilitation and the sudden trip being offered. Sherlock's lips pursed thin with disappointment. "I take it you've cleared everything with my probation officer?"
"Don't be sore at Lestrade just because he brought you to charges. It's your own fault for using."
"In my own home. In private."
"So if I kill someone in my own home, in private, that would be okay, would it?"
"John, don't be an idiot."
John gave a short, unamused laugh. "I'm not the one who got arrested," he said. He watched Sherlock's sulk grow deeper and shook his head, leaning his elbow on the cab door as he watched the sights go by.
It was frightening in a way. Sitting there, not more than foot between them, and still it seemed they were miles apart. John didn't feel like he was any different. Sherlock certainly was par for the course. But they still weren't them. The fact that the realization made his gut feel cold at least proved he still wanted to be. It was hard to tell with Sherlock. One could lead a horse to water much the same as they could pack Sherlock off for holiday. What they did after that was up to them. Surely Sherlock could feel it too.
John cleared his throat, looking down at his lap rather than across the mile long foot. "Look, I'm proud of you for sticking it out. What's wrong with a holiday to celebrate? You and I, we haven't... I mean, ya know... Feels like it's been a really long time since... well, since we really did anything together."
Sherlock said nothing, looking ahead at the back of the driver's seat.
"I'm not going to make you come. I was hoping you'd want to. If you really don't want to go to Mounts Bay with me for the week, tell the driver and he can take you on home. But you used to be my best friend, Sherlock."
"Used to be?" He glanced up at that, looking mildly surprised before a scowl took to his features instead. "Oh, right. You're married to her."
"That's not-" John pursed his lips tight, steeling himself for one final try. "Sherlock, do you want to spend the week with me in Cornwall?"
"Yes."
"Good."
"Fine."
"Yes. Right, then." John took one last deep breath, letting it out in exasperation. "Next time try not to be such a tit about it."
Sherlock chuckled, the warm tone welcome in the early spring though it was still winter in his complexion. "And yet somehow you've missed me. Does Mary know about these masochistic tendencies of yours?"
"I forgot you were a comedian," John said with a smile. His companion's lips rose the same, his eyes falling closed with his chin to his chest. John let his hand press against his dark hair to check for fever, combing through curls as he let his bangs fall back in place. "It'll be fun, Sherlock. Better still, it'll do you some good."
"Nn," Sherlock hummed, a few short breaths away from sleep.
John let the conversation die there, watching the manic man drift off soundly to the rumble of pavement. It wouldn't be a long trip to Paddington station but if Sherlock Holmes was dozing then he certainly needed the reprieve.
It didn't feel like six months. Looking at him there it seemed like just last week Sherlock had been complaining about wearing a tie, nearly as hungover as John was from the stag do the night before. It seemed like yesterday he'd packed his things from his room upstairs, having the odd row over what was missing. It could have easily been just a few hours ago that they'd sat down to a deluxe game of Guess Who? with the skull jokingly there to moderate. It also could have been years, though. Decades. Centuries. He'd gravitated towards Sherlock almost as quickly as he'd pulled away, boomeranged in his presence like a planet around the sun. Very loyal, very quickly and now just as absent.
Quietly as he could, John took the phone from his coat pocket, thumbing through the options till he was back to his text message threads. Mary's was at the top--most recent--with Sherlock's requiring several scrolls down. "Bored," they read. "Bored. Bored. Fifth page, second story: Dr. Moore Agar. Bored. [picture of corpse]. E string broke. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. ~ Sorry to hear that, Sherlock. It's your turn in Words w/ Friends. Good job, Sherlock. That's... nice. I'm sure you can buy another. I'm busy. I'm working. You'll figure something out, Sherlock."
John scrolled back up to the top, clicking Mary's name before thumbing in one last quick goodbye. "Thank you," he typed, breath caught in his chest, and sent it off with a brief kiss to the display.