Old Wounds

Sherlock peered down into his microscope, fingers adjusting the knob ever-so-carefully so he could focus the image of the dirt. Soil composition was so often overlooked, despite the fact that it was practically the most helpful clue in telling where the criminal has been recently, and therefore, where they are now. 

There was the intrusive sound of a clipboard against the desk, and John said something. Sherlock snapped out of his though process and glanced up at him briefly before stuffing his face back into the microscope. 

"Sorry, what?" He asked. It was January first, 2011. John had been his flatmate for exactly one year now, and Sherlock was losing the battle of not getting too emotionally attached to his flatmate-friend-colleague-crush... thing. On top of this, Moriarty's game was getting more and more demanding. It wouldn't be long until the crimes boiled down to one final confrontation.

Maybe he would just give in to John to spare himself that stress. Try establishing a relationship. 

Could be nice. 

"Sign this," John repeated, and set Sherlock's hand where he assumed the blank was for his signature. 

Sign what? For a package? A case? A contract for Mycroft? 

No, John was kinder than to set him up like that, knowing he was much too preoccupied to bother looking up and reading what he was about to sign. He scribbled a messy signature where his hand rested, and John dismissed himself with a quick "thank you". 

Nothing important, then. 

~

It was June 20th, 2011 and Sherlock was shoving his way to the front of the line in a hospital. They had kicked him out of the ambulance and managed to keep him in the waiting room while they carted John up to wherever they were going for treatment. Lestrade had been kind enough to wait with him, and Mycroft was there presumably because he liked watching Sherlock be upset.

John doesn't need company,  they'd said. 

Let him rest, Sherlock, they'd said. 

Like he was going to go up to his room and try to shake him awake. Three hours later, they had called him up to the front desk, Lestrade and Mycroft in tow. 

"Mister Sherlock Holmes?" the nurse asked. Her name was Yuma. 

"Yes," Sherlock answered shortly, his knuckles curling in agony. Why did everyone always speak like they were trying to teach a deaf person to read lips? Why always so slow? "Are they going to let me in?" He asked, abruptly a little surprised as he realized that he wasn't technically in John's family. They weren't supposed to grant him access until visiting hours tomorrow. 

"Yes, of course," she replied, tilting her head before slipping out from behind the desk. "Follow me, your husband is just down the hall on the second floor."

... Husband? 

That was a new way of referring to John. Sherlock locked his eyes ahead on the nurse and kept good pace, not daring to look over at Lestrade or Mycroft, who would no doubt be giving him some stupid sneer like he was right all along. 

They took the stairs, as the gracious and at least a bit intuitive nurse realized they were in a hurry, and then turned right. Just as she had said, his room, 2004, was just down the hall behind the first few offices. They stood outside as the nurse peeked in, only to smack her hand over her lips and shut it. 

"Mister Holmes," she said, face lighting up, "Your husband is waking up. We should wait a minute or two- we don't want anything to startle him."

"You keep calling them husbands," Lestrade pointed out helpfully, squinting in confusion. 

"Yes," she said, now looking confused herself. "It says on the clipboard they're in a civil partnership." 

Sherlock remained stonefaced as he forced himself to turn around and meet their gazes. 

They all looked equally baffled. 

"You didn't even invite me to the wedding," Mycroft joked, pretending to be offended in the face of misunderstanding. 

"Yeah, what's that about?" Lestrade added, folding his arms like he was going to demand an answer. 

"Don't look so hurt," Sherlock said, slowly turning it over in his mind. "I wasn't invited either. I don't remember marrying John..." 

"He's awake," the nurse murmured, plucking her head back out of the door and squeaking in distress as Sherlock practically shoved past her into the room. He pulled up a chair to sit by the bed, and John rolled his head to look at him. He blinked tiredly and pursed his lips. 

"Did they find my kidney?"

"Mmmmno."

"Damn," John cursed, and smacked his shaking hand down on the sheets. "That's a shame. I was rather attached to it."

Neither of them really picked up on his accidental pun for another few seconds. Sherlock snickered, and John couldn't help but follow. He spotted the two other men behind Sherlock and waved meekly. 

Finally, the question exploded out of Lestrade. 

"Am I the only one confused? When did you two get married?!" 

John turned impossible more pale, and Sherlock grit his teeth for a second before standing up and promptly rushing Mycroft and his puppet towards the door. 

"Alright, I think that's enough visiting time for you," he commented, mercilessly shoving Mycroft until he cooperated with the angry stamp of his cane. 

"Well what about you?" Lestrade demanded. 

"I'm his husband, I'm allowed to be here," Sherlock sneered back, and with the butt of his shoulder, slammed the door. He kept his palms flat against it for a second or two, then turned to face his apparent husband as he lie in bed looking like he was trying really hard not to faint again. 

Sherlock sat back down in his chair, hands folded. 

"So... When did we get married?" he asked, careful not to be too impending. 

John turned away from him and looked shameful. 

"Remember when I asked you, a little while ago, to sign something? You didn't even read it."

"I do that a lot," Sherlock pointed out, and couldn't help but smirk just a little bit behind his hands. He should be insulted, but he was mostly just impressed and proud that John had managed to get that by him. He felt a surge of affection food him, and he grabbed John's hand to kiss the top. John's ears turned red. "Does that mean your name is legally Johnathan Haymish Holmes?" He asked, holding John's hand in his. 

"No," John replied. "That means that in some places, yours is Sherlock William Scott Watson."

"Why can't you have gotten my last name?"

"I didn't want to change my name yet."

"Why not?"

"Because it was a secret, and it felt kind of weird to change my name to officialize it."

"So instead you changed my name without my permission?"

"No. I had your signature."

"But why?"

"So you would have access to me if, for example, I was hospitalized for morphine overdose because someone stole my kidneys-"

"Just one."

"-Because someone stole one of my kidneys."

Sherlock nodded approvingly, and rubbed his thumb over John's palm thoughtfully. Clever John decided to come into work on that particular day of the week.

"If we ever get the chance, that's changing back and you're going to be Johnathan Haymish Holmes."

"I can live with that," John muttered, eyelids fluttering. He was clearly exhausted. Sherlock leaned in and stole a kiss before leaning back on the chair. John's ear tips turned pink and the heart monitor spiked for a second before he finally fell asleep, his hand in Sherlock's. 

Johnathan Haymish Holmes.

He was tempted to kiss him again as he lay in the hospital bed, but settled for another on top of his hand. 

There was no set of sounds in the world more beautiful than "Johnathan Haymish Holmes".