Raw
part threeSherlock made dinner. It wasn't entirely unheard of but John still took it as an opportunity to tease him. As bachelors it had been takeaways and dining out with a few ready meals in the freezer for when the weather was dreadful or the motivation to deal with other human beings was at its lowest point. The kitchen being home to all manner of experiments, there were a few choice occasions John could easily remind him of when even prepackaged meals merely heated in the oven carried a risk of bio-hazard exposure. The most complex things either of them ever really made at home were sandwiches and the occasional breakfast of beans, eggs and toast. The kitchen had never been fit for much else. Now, as a point of contrast, it was.
John wasn't sure he liked it, really. He was quite alright with staying in, had no real fears concerning Sherlock's ability to boil water for pasta and heat tomato sauce in a pan. But Sherlock didn't cook. Sherlock didn't garden either or live outside of London. He wasn't sure if he felt more like he was being lied to or invited to believe the lie Sherlock told himself. The Sherlock in John's head, the one that populated his memories and gave him insight when considering the taller man, had been an unchanging thing since nearly the day they'd met. He'd changed some but they'd changed together. Now Sherlock was playing house out in the country, doing what country people did rather than what John knew Sherlocks did. Sherlocks used spades to dig up evidence and a knowledge of soil and foliage for locational reference. Sherlocks used ovens to temper glassware and kept body parts in the microwave and fridge. Sherlocks were moody and often miserable and most importantly Sherlocks needed Johns. John got the sense that Sherlock really didn't need anyone anymore--least of all him. He'd already lost one best friend. He really didn't need to find he'd become redundant for another.
Standing at the cooker, white sleeves pushed up over his tanned forearms, Sherlock added another shake of garlic to the pre-made tomato sauce, tasting it off the spoon before getting another sample and extending it to John. "Fix it," he said, eyes on the spice rack rather than on John as he spied the options available.
John straightened in mild surprise and walked closer to take the spoon from him. He sipped on it, careful of the heated metal and the still hot liquid as he frowned, lips puckered in thought. "S'a bit sweet, yeah. Pepper, maybe?"
Sherlock put his hand against the back of his neck as he considered, nodding with John's first assessment. "What's oregano? People are always putting oregano in their Italian."
"Just a herb. I don't know." John handed back the spoon, leaning hard over the counter to watch as the man flicked his long fingers over rarely used containers. John'd never put much thought into 'fixing' bottled sauce. One generally got what they paid for. He'd certainly never been put off enough not to still clean his plate with bread. "Probably just fine once you get a bit of parmesan over it. I'm not really that picky."
Sherlock sniffed at the contents of the oregano bottle with an immediate scowl of disgust before dumping in a pinch. "Some of us have a more refined pallet," he remarked, sifting through the spices again for whatever he seemed to deem appropriate.
John scoffed at that. "Says the man who sometimes made a day's meal out of a packet of crisps."
"I said refined, not expensive."
And there, at least, was the Sherlock John knew. Not that everything else was so different as to be someone else entirely but Sherlock meant certain things to John and had meant them for many years. Sherlock wasn't supposed to change. John needed him not to have changed for reasons more selfish than he cared to admit. Still, he laughed at that and left Sherlock to his concoction as he set out plates and cutlery instead against the island counter. So long as they could both pretend to be people they used to be, perhaps things were okay.
In the end Sherlock popped open the bottle of wine and poured a few spoonfuls into the pan before pouring a glass for them each. John took the offered spoon once more and hummed his final verdict, thumbs up as he reached to take his glass and get out of the way once more. Sherlock was certainly never going to appear on Master Chef but as far as sprucing up a generic sauce went, the chemist had a certain flare. His choice in wine wasn't half bad either and he could use a drink or two.
The table on the pebbled back patio was the only one with guest seating. They took their plates, the wine, and a full roll of kitchen paper outside and sat out in the full light of the evening. Sunset wasn't for hours still. John couldn't think of a better seat in the house. It was windy but not too much so with the line of trees shading the edges of Sherlock's property waving with the greater weight of the breeze. John ate slowly, drinking even slower, as he allowed himself to enjoy the simple pleasure of a meal shared. He clinked his glass to the side of his friend's, no real toast to proclaim but one honored in the heart all the same.
"Have I said thank you yet?" he asked, opening his mouth wide for the fork and tortellini.
Sherlock shook his head, sipping his wine while his cheese melted into the crevices of the pasta. "I don't believe so and neither should you."
"Not even for cooking me dinner?"
"I heated dinner," Sherlock corrected, a stickler for details even with the chance for praise. He tucked in to his own portion, eyes down and fork set to stab with the slight embarrassment of being called out on being a decent host. That generally meant he was actually trying. It was nice to get the read on Sherlock once in a while. "I was going to make this tonight anyway," he said to divert from his intention.
John chuckled at the defensive tone. Only Sherlock. "You're amazing, you know that?"
"Yes."
"Guess you don't need me to tell you how."
"No," the chemist agreed. "But in general I do like to hear it anyway."
John's smile grew, a bit of the tightness in his chest easing with every hint that things were still as they always had been. "Never change, Sherlock. I want you always to be my pompous git."
"Such high standards," Sherlock joked, looking out towards the horizon where not a hint of twilight threatened. "And I suppose that means you'll also continue to be my argumentative arse?"
John gave a breathy laugh and Sherlock's shoulder a pat before resigning himself to the small smile that only took a moment to fade. His mind seemed set to sabotage every happiness he could grasp. Sherlock was doing very well without John, didn't need John, was better off without John there. Gardeners don't need sidekicks. Beekeepers don't have adventures. All Sherlock could offer him was dinner and wine and all John could repay with was the attempt to sulk quietly. What a waste of time this was. What a lie. John breathed deep, eyes shut, forcing back the thoughts that all sounded very true but spoke only of more things that he did not need to idle in for his extended sanity.
He'd been a lousy husband, he was an abysmal father, why should he have expected his friendship to have been something that lasted in its perfect state of memory? And, God, he was doing it again, wasn't he? He just wanted to enjoy this--being with Sherlock. Did he really need to try and ruin it for himself?
It didn't take any thought at all to assume Sherlock was watching him. Sherlock always stole glances when he felt free to do so. John could actually feel the question being formulated long before he heard it.
"How are you, John?" he asked, the tink of his fork against his plate doing little to add a casual tone to the rather heavy question.
John smirked, drinking deep from his glass. "Do you need to ask?"
"No." Sherlock put his elbows on the table, hands clasped below his chin. "Are you seeing anyone about it?"
"No, god no. I don't even leave my chair let alone my house." John shook his head, scratching at the skin behind his ear as his arms crossed in front of him. "There's honestly nothing they can tell me I haven't already heard. I mean, Jesus, I went to one when you 'died'. All they want to tell me is that it's okay to be angry, it's okay to feel sad, it's perfectly normal to feel betrayed and scared and they sure as hell don't know the cure for when your mind can't decide on what it's going to feel and so it defaults to absolutely nothing." He pursed his lips on the words, the first he'd spoken on the subject to anyone and the flavor of the facts far from pleasing. He drank more wine to re-flavor the bitterness the way Sherlock had improved on the sauce. "I've been through this all before," he said with a wince. "You'd think I'd be better at it. But I'm not. If anything I'm worse. I try thinking about the future and letting go of the past and I just keep thinking of Analise and how fucked she is to have a father like me right now and that maybe it'd be better if someone else had her. Not just for now but.... for good. For her good. And what I hate the most is that most of the time I don't really think I'd even miss her. What the hell kind of father am I, Sherlock?"
Sherlock shrugged, his eyes silver in the sunlight as they stared unflinching into his. "John, you're not even really John right now. Leave the other titles for later."
"I can't. I don't have the luxury of being just myself. I'm her father first. That's the way it works."
"That's the way it works for idiots."
John laughed at that, shaking his head with the sardonic grin. "Look, you don't have kids. I don't expect you to understand."
"I was a kid," Sherlock stated forcefully, his brows falling lower with annoyance. He was never one to have his opinions discounted. "In fact I was the child of very stupid parents who thought it was best to stay together for the children. Living with their disdain for each other was hardly conducive of a loving household. It's not selfish to do what's best for yourself. It's selfish to think you can martyr yourself for your own cause to the betterment of others."
John bit the inside of his cheeks at that, schooling his expression from surprise to thoughtful. That was certainly not the general opinion he'd been fed upon. Parents were supposed to sacrifice everything for their children, their own happiness included. 'Think of Analise' were words he'd heard over and over again when confronted with his own depression. He was supposed to get better for her. He was supposed to be better because of her. That was his failing--a lack of any emotion only serving to testify to the many reasons he was not suited to the task.
"That's not what my mother says," John said, her words always ringing through the loudest as one generation passing on survival instinct to the next.
"Your mother also calls me a vulture but you seem to have the ability to make up your own mind on that as well."
John started, his jaw falling momentarily slack as his eyes blinked wide. "Did she really? At the funeral?"
Sherlock nodded, another bite of tortellini sinking behind his teeth. "Apparently I was there to take advantage of your grief and it was beyond unacceptable for me to wipe your daughter's soiled genitalia clean with a baby wipe."
"Oh, Jesus Christ." John felt his face go red, his hand rising to cover his mouth which was left open in an 'o'. He'd expected something had been said but never in a million years had he imagined his mother would all but denounce his best friend as a pedophile. Oh, there were going to be words. Several words. "I am so sorry."
"Don't be. I've worked with enough death to know the basics on over protective mothers and mourners," Sherlock said, having certainly had enough time to consider cause over translation.
Sherlock's forgiveness was not going to get John's mother off the hook as far as he was concerned, though. Mary would have been outraged. "My mother, I swear... She means well, but for fuck's sake. I don't... I wish we were all as good at accepting Mary's death as Mary was. I mean, God, she used to joke about it after it was... you know, after they said that was it. I mean, I thought your humor was black but Christ."
"I do recall a few examples from Christmas."
"Oh, god, that's right. You were there."
Sherlock nodded sagely, his glass against his lips. "The mistletoe," he said.
"The mistletoe." John could not help but smirk, images of the night sure to be ingrained in his memory for many years. "I'm telling you, she had a thing for you."
"She had a thing for me in those jeans," he corrected.
"Well, maybe you shouldn't wear those jeans around my wife," John said on instinct, a moment passing before he heard his mistake and sank back in his chair quietly. He felt surprisingly sober for all the talking he'd done. The half glass of wine still waiting by his plate was willing to attest to that. "You know what I mean," he said at last, clearing his throat of the awkward weight that seemed to close it shut. "Anyway, yeah... she was... she made it look easy. Saying goodbye. I really wish it was that easy."
Sherlock nodded, the smile of memories sinking back to the stoic blank of compassion. "There's no statute of limitations on love or loss. It takes exactly as much time as necessary."
"I guess you'd know," John said, and for all the selfishness that begged Sherlock to still love him, he did not feel the least bit guilty for his remark. Some things needed to stay the same. Some truths needed to never change.
Some regrets needed to be ignored.
"Is it too late to show me the bees?"
Sherlock's silent stupor broke with confusion, his gaze shifting from John to the wooden boxes in his garden. He sat up. "Ah... No, not really. The amount of preparation involved, though, might be best to simply wait till tomorrow."
"Alright. Tomorrow sounds good. I can wait to get stung till tomorrow."
Sherlock nodded slowly and corked the wine.
+++
There were several doors at the top of the stairs and for the life of him John could not remember which one Sherlock had said was his. He tried the door second on the row that faced the stairs, sure he'd heard something to that nature, and flicked on the light as he entered. It certainly wasn't the room he was looking for. There was no bed but instead several boxes still waiting to be unpacked along with a large wardrobe John had never seen before and again must have come from the seller. Under the window, though, was a folded up yellow play pen, its animal mobile still attached to one of the legs and arching stationary over the collapsed and stored furniture.
He'd brought it with him.
John leaned on the door-frame, letting out a ragged sigh. Maybe there was still a place reserved for him in this new life of Sherlock Holmes'.