Fic for frozen_delight: A Winter Walk

[holmesticemods]

Title: A Winter Walk
Recipient: frozen_delight
Author: cathedralcarver
Characters/Pairings: Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Summary: Time is the longest distance between two places.





It’s dark and the snow is up to his ankles by the time the house comes into view. Snow is everywhere, falling fast, wrapping itself around his limbs and face and slipping down the back of his collar and up his cuffs, and though it’s numbing, he doesn’t mind much because it keeps the freshest cuts from bleeding too heavily. Small mercies. The house is a dim beacon on the horizon, fixed and steady, so there’s that to focus on instead of the fact that it is very cold and he’s very tired. At first glance it appears unoccupied, wearing its emptiness like a heavy cloak, a sort of sad weariness, he thinks, and then he laughs at himself for being uncharacteristically melodramatic. It’s a house, after all, a refuge and a much needed one. Then, as he approaches he sees a thin, white twist of smoke rise from the chimney and he stops in his tracks, snow whirling about him. A dilemma to be sure, but there’s nowhere else to go. He can’t turn back now, not safe, plus too far. His lip is swollen and throbbing slightly in the cold. Whoever lives there will be startled by his appearance and he must be prepared for that.

Seventeen steps to the front door where he knocks, and knocks again. And again, bare knuckles scraping against wood. He lost his last good gloves yesterday, of course. He hears a faint shuffling behind the door. And old man’s walk, he thinks, bad leg, uses a cane but hates it, makes him feel even older, so he shuffles instead, and pays for it later.

The door opens, and yes it’s an old man, an old man with a kind, sad face and short silvery hair. He’s slightly bent, frail, but with a sinewy strength underneath. He’s wearing a checked shirt and a cardigan. His eyes are blue and kind and inquisitive and sad, and oh so familiar.

He stares at the man without speaking because he’s not sure what to say. He’d had a speech prepared — unfortunate accident, mugged in town, money gone, just need a place for the night — but the sight of the man standing just inside makes him forget everything, because it can’t be possible, it can’t be John standing there in front of him because he’s old and it’s not possible—

But it is possible, apparently, because it is John, a John aged by some 30 years or so, hands on hips, silver head thrown back and laughing a sort of strangled laugh. He then claps a hand to his mouth, as if to make himself stop laughing. John removes his hand and it’s trembling, and when he finally speaks his voice is trembling, too, not only because he’s old, but because he’s crying now.

“Of course,” John says in his not-quite-John voice. “Of course, of course the great bloody Sherlock Holmes would go and learn how to time travel.”


//


John doesn’t invite him in so much as he moves away from the door and Sherlock slips inside, snow dropping from his clothing to the wooden floor. He stands dumbly in the sudden heat. His brain seems to have stopped functioning along with his voice. He swallows several times and tugs at his muffler. A drop of water gathers at the tip of his nose, dangles, falls. He dimly wonders if he’s melting. He stares at the old man who stares back at him. Sherlock pushes the door shut, lets his bag fall to the ground. He is suddenly staggeringly exhausted. If he doesn’t sit down soon he will fall down, but he still can’t make himself move. John tilts his head, studying him.

“It is you, then, isn’t it? It’s really you.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, because at the moment he really doesn’t. “I don’t—”

Sherlock looks about the small room, at the scattered knickknacks both oddly familiar — a hollow-eyed skull grins at him knowingly from a small side table — and oddly worn — books with tattered covers and dog-eared pages, at the framed photos of a younger John and, well, younger Sherlock together. Then, other photos of this John and similarly aged Sherlock, side by side, grey heads bent towards one another, shoulders touching.

“Of course it’s you,” John says softly, smiling an odd little smile, like it hurts.

Sherlock tries again. “I don’t— I don’t understand.” And since he’s not used to not understanding, this makes him feel even weaker and unsteadier. He’s afraid he might faint and how embarrassing would that be, and how on earth would Old John manage him? “Where are we?”

John makes a sound and shakes his head. His hair in the firelight is more white than silver. Sherlock resists the urge to touch it. He’s not sure of the rules here yet.

“You must be freezing,” John says at last. “You look like you’ve been walking for days.” He studies Sherlock’s face. “And lost a few fights.”

“Won some, too,” Sherlock says, and this makes John smile, just a little.

“Well then—”

“If I could just—” Sherlock begins and tries to move to the closest chair, then finally does fall down, legs folding beneath him, landing hard on his knees, hands splayed uselessly in front of him. John crouches beside him, an arm spread across his back, a hand cupping the side of his face.

“You don’t seem exceedingly surprised to see me,” Sherlock says just before he passes out.

John lets Sherlock’s wet, cold body tumble heavily against him. He says, “You stopped surprising me a long time ago, love.”


//


When he awakes he is warm and dry and lying on the couch closest to the fire. The flames are rather mesmerizing, and he watches the colours change from orange to red to yellow and back for some time and listens to the ice tick against the windowpanes before he speaks.

“Snow.” It’s all he can manage.

John nods. “Record fall for December this year. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“December,” Sherlock says. He feels stupid. But, maybe John won’t notice.

“Yes.”

Sherlock licks dry lips. “You never answered my question.”

John watches him from his chair. “Which one was that?”

“Where am I?” Sherlock says.

“That’s not what you asked,” John says. “You asked where we were.” He sighs. “This is…our home. Yours and mine. Our retirement home. Where we grow old together.” John’s voice fades at the end and he sighs again. Sherlock thinks about this for a while. It’s very quiet in the room and very warm. He feels drowsy but oddly alert, too.

“And where am I?” His tongue feels thick in his mouth and he wonders if the words are coming out right.

“You’re right there, Sherlock.”

“No, no, I mean, where am I?”

John sighs and puts his mug down on the little table beside him. But before he can reply, something much more important jumps into Sherlock’s head. He actually sits up a little and looks around.

“And where are the Christmas decorations? You love Christmas. You always loved Christmas.” It seems suddenly vital that he hears the answer to this question first.

John smiles and Sherlock knows what he’s going to say before he says it. “Wasn’t anything to celebrate this year.”

And that pretty much answers the other question, too, Sherlock thinks. He nods and lies back down. Beyond the window he sees the snow falling, and beyond that all the beehives silenced under mounds of white.


//


When he awakes the second time, John is making him dinner. He can smell meat and veggies and spices and a wave of hunger hits him like a punch. He tries to remember the last time he ate anything and can’t. He’s halfway devoured his plate before he realizes John is just sitting and watching.

“You’re not hungry?”

John shakes his head. “Not much of an appetite these days, I’m afraid.”

“You always used to harass me about eating,” Sherlock says around a mouthful of potato and John smiles a little but says nothing.

When he’s done, John hands him a hot mug of tea and Sherlock sips it. It’s exactly right. Of course. Years of practice, after all.

“Your face,” John says. “Let’s take a look, shall we?”

His hands are trembling and cold against Sherlock’s skin, but Sherlock isn’t sure whether it’s from nerves or age, so he doesn’t ask. He very gently cleans the wounds and dabs them with ointment.

“Don’t need any stitches, at least,” he says. Sherlock stares at him.

“May I…can I. Can I touch you?”

John nods and breathes. “Yes.”

Sherlock touches John’s lined, face gently and John leans into his hand a bit. Sherlock touches the silver hair, coarser than it once was, but still glorious. He covers John’s trembling, lined old-man’s hand with his own. Sherlock can feel the skin beneath his, paper-thin, blue-veined. An old man’s hand. Well, John is an old man now, after all.

“I’m afraid I’ll hurt you.” He says it without thinking.

“Yeah? I’d like to see you try, you berk.” John pulls back a bit, eyes narrowed. “I could still lay you flat with a single punch if I wanted.”

Sherlock smiles. “The last time I saw you—”

John stops. “Yes?”

“You were. You were at my grave.” Sherlock pauses. “I saw you there. I watched you and you didn’t know. And then I left. And I started running and I’ve been running ever since, for a long time now. And. And now I’m here and.”

“Ah. Right. Yes.” John makes a sound like a laugh, but it doesn’t come out quite right. “Where did you come from, then? What’s the last thing you remember?”

“I. It’s all such a jumble at the moment. Such a long time,” Sherlock says. He closes his eyes. “Trying to keep you safe, keep Mrs. Hudson safe, Lestrade. But, mostly you.”

“Ah.” John hesitates, as if he has a thousand more questions, but instead stands and clears the dishes. “Well, you’ve made a bit of a detour, haven’t you?”

“Clearly.”

Dishes clatter in the sink. “But, it worked, as you can seen. I’m safe. You kept me safe.”

Sherlock nods, suddenly close to tears. John stands across the room, wavering slightly.

“We’ll talk more tomorrow, yes? I’m too tired now, Sherlock. I need to sleep. And you do, too, I’m sure.”

“But—”

“Tomorrow,” John says gently. “If you’re still here, that is.”

Sherlock frowns. “Where else would I be?”

But, John doesn’t answer, and Sherlock hears him shuffle down the hallway, hears the bedroom door close firmly behind him.


//


It turns out the walls are quite thin and even though Sherlock sleeps soundly, the sound of John’s muffled crying in the dead of night wakes him, keeps him awake for a long time.


//


“Do you feel strong enough for a walk?”

The snow has stopped and the morning sun is bright, painfully so, glinting off a smooth sheen of white for miles of countryside around the small house.

Sherlock nods and pulls on his coat and boots, wraps his muffler around his neck. John hesitates, then hands him a pair of thick leather gloves. They fit him perfectly.

“These are—”

“Yours. Yes.” John smiles. “Christmas present last year. Come on, then.”

They walk in silence through the snow, breath billowing around their faces. John’s cheeks and nose go red quickly, and the tips of his ears. He’s not wearing a hat and Sherlock wants to chide him, but resists. He doesn’t know this John well enough yet.

They walk without speaking and when they stop Sherlock sees they are standing by a small cemetery, a scattering of headstones, most old and faded. But, there’s one fresh mound, and scattered flowers poking through a powder of snow. John bends down and wipes some away. His head is bowed. Sherlock swallows hard. It’s all so very strange, to be standing here like this. He doesn’t know what to say or how to feel about any of it. He’s sorry he missed the funeral, though. Now that would have been interesting.

“There’s no marker.” His voice feels big and heavy in the morning air.

“No.” John’s voice catches and he turns it into a cough. “Not yet.”

“Ah. This was—”

“Recent. Yes.”

There doesn’t seem to be much to say after that. “I’m sorry,” Sherlock says because it seems appropriate and John smiles.

“Me, too.”

“How did I—”

John looks at him.

“You know. How do I.” He stops himself, shakes his head. “No wait. I don’t want to know. Do I? No. No I don’t want to know.” Firm. John is nodding.

“Good idea.”

“Why?”

John shudders slightly. “Just…good idea.”

“Oh my god. I blow myself up, don’t I? I knew it. I knew—”

John is laughing. It’s the first genuine laugh Sherlock has heard and he’s laughing about Sherlock’s death.

“You don’t blow yourself up, Sherlock. I promise. It’s…fine. It’s all fine. Don’t worry. It’s fine.” He pauses. “Well, except for the dying part. It’s…noble and fine.”

Sherlock snorts. “Noble.” He smiles. “I highly doubt anything about my death was noble.”

John takes a shuddering breath and when he speaks, he looks right into Sherlock’s face.

“You died loved, Sherlock. You were very much loved and you weren’t alone and that’s all you need to know, right? Isn’t that enough?”


//


The clock ticks loudly in the silence. Sherlock holds a mug of tea gone cold and stares into the fire. He feels John’s eyes on him but doesn’t look up and doesn’t know what to say to break the silence. It’s so quiet in this house. It must drive John mad.

“It’s funny, but I’d almost forgotten,” John says.

“What?”

“How bloody beautiful you were.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I look ghastly right now. I know it.”

“No,” John says. “Never.”

Sherlock rises then and moves to John, stands over him, wondering. He leans down, bracing himself with a hand on each arm of the chair. He leans down further and presses his mouth to John’s hesitantly at first, then with more pressure when John doesn’t pull away. They stay that way for a moment, their lips soft against each other’s, breathing quietly together, before John pulls away, eyes closed. Sherlock kneels in front of him.

“So, you forgive me, then? It…all turns out all right?”

John looks at him.

“I mean, it must turn out all right. We’re here, yes? Or, at least I was here.” John remains silent, maddeningly so. “I just…I want to know how it ends.”

“This.” John lifts his hands and gestures about the room. “This is how it ends, Sherlock. This, right here. You and I, right until the end.

Sherlock takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’ve been so afraid, you see. So very…afraid, this whole time.”

“You?” John laughs. Looks at him with that John mixture of frustration and amusement and utter enchantment. “You were afraid, after you left? You. You have no idea how I…” He licks his lips and shrugs a little.

Sherlock plunges on. “I’ve been so afraid that you. You couldn’t forgive me. For. What I did. For leaving like I did.”

John doesn’t speak for awhile. “You’ve been running such a very long time,” he says. His fingers brush Sherlock’s curls back. “Maybe it’s time to go home now.”

“You’re going to be so angry with me.”

John laughs, gleefully. “You have no fucking idea.”

“You must hate me.”

John stops laughing. He looks at Sherlock, suddenly serious. “No, Sherlock. I never hated you. I wanted to. Oh god, I wanted to kill you with my own two hands. I wanted to hurt you the way you hurt me.” He sighs. “But I never hated you, right? I couldn’t. Even when—”

“What?”

“Well. There’s Mary to contend with, too.”

“Who?”

John only smiles a little.

Mary, Sherlock thinks and a little knife twists in his heart.

“Never mind.” John smiles. “You’ll find out. But, you need to go home.”

“How do I get there?”

“I’m sure you’ll figure it out. You always do.”

“I don’t want to leave you.”

“I don’t want you to leave. But, this is my life now. My life is without you now.”

“I don’t want to—”

“Listen to me, you great stubborn prat, you bloody well can’t stay here!”

“Why not?”

“Because I need you.” John says simply.


//


In the end there’s one final meal and glasses of Brandy and a list of instructions.

“Listen,” John says leaning forward in his chair. His glass is half empty and his words are falling from his lips much too easily. He looks devastatingly handsome. “Listen very carefully. You’re going to have a lot to make up for when you return, and because I’m feeling generous at the moment, I’ll help you out.”

Sherlock looks at him.

“I like my feet rubbed.”

Sherlock nods. He can do that.

“I don’t take sugar in my coffee. Well, not until later, anyway. But you can just ask, right? It doesn’t hurt to ask.”

Fine.

“You could be kinder. More…attentive, once in awhile. Get out of your own head and pay attention to me.”

Sherlock nods.

“Patience, Sherlock. You’re going to need…patience. Because it takes time. It takes a long time. Well.” John swallows thickly, takes another sip of Brandy. “Patience.”

Sherlock waits. He can be patient, he thinks. He starts practicing now.

“Make meals. Shop. Tidy up for god’s sake.”

“Well—”

“Tell me you love me.”

“I love you.” Sherlock says it fast, because it’s been sitting in his mouth since he first laid eyes on John and it just kind of falls out when he replies.

John smiles. “When you get back. Tell me. Because I don’t know. I don’t know for sure for a long time.”

“But I do—”

John clears his throat. “Fine. But just say it. Say the actual words. Once in awhile. I’m not asking for bloody bended knee and roses and candlelight, though that would be fine, too.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. On the night of the 23rd, you must not, above all else, bring home the cat.”

“The what?”

“Here. I’ll write it down for you. Please. No cat.”

“But why—”

“Just don’t.”


//


Sherlock, dressed for the cold with his bag on his back, wakes John in the night, kisses him gently on the mouth.

“Was I good to you?” Sherlock asks very quietly. John looks at him a long time, eyes wide in the moonlight.

“You were the very best.”


//


It’s dark and cold but clear when the row of buildings comes into view. There’s no snow and the moon is out, so he can see well enough. The flat — so achingly familiar!— is a dim beacon on the horizon, fixed and steady, so there’s that to focus on, instead of the heavy thud of his heart against his ribs. At first glance it appears unoccupied, empty and sad, perhaps coated in a layer of dust after all this time. But, of course it’s not, and he knew it wouldn’t be. He knows who lives there now, too, and it hurts, but there’s nowhere else to go. He can’t turn back now, not safe, and he’s come so far. His face feels fine because someone took good care of him and everything is healing nicely. But still, whoever lives there will be startled by his appearance and he must be prepared for that.

Seventeen steps to the door where he knocks, and knocks again. And again, knuckles against wood. He wears a pair of beautiful new gloves, thick leather the colour of fine Brandy, a gift from a dear friend and his hands are very warm in them. He hears a faint shuffling behind the door. And young man’s walk, he thinks, but a bad leg, uses a cane but hates it, makes him feel old, so he shuffles instead, and pays for it later.

He hears a woman’s voice, then, faint, kind, and remembers, Patience, Patience. And then a man’s voice, replying, a young man’s voice. Sherlock smiles.

“Yes, yes, I’m coming. Hold on, for—” He hears the dear, familiar mutter and closes his eyes and holds his breath.

The door opens.

Comments

[frozen_delight]

Dear mystery author, thank you so much, this is gorgeous! I love how you set up the wintery atmosphere in the first paragraph and then pick that up again, with a couple of subtle changes, at the end of the story. Really beautiful ending, leaving things delightfully open while at the same time giving us the comforting feeling that all will be well.

I thought it was a highly original reunion story - the idea of having Sherlock discuss coming back with an older John who's already forgiven him is wonderful. The new trailer for Season 3 caused me to rant quite a bit because I didn't want Sherlock to talk about his return to John with Mycroft, of all people - much preferable to have him talk to someone who really understands and values the precious thing that is their relationship. And who could do that better than an older John? So, by a happy coincidence, your lovely story has managed to hit my current mood to perfection.

I liked how John actually advised Sherlock on what to do to win back his younger self. And the scene at the grave yard had an odd, sweet sort of humour to it - the idea that Sherlock's standing in front of his own grave is no foreign one in his fandom, but you've turned it into something quite new and different.

One of my favourite bits was this one:
John doesn’t speak for awhile. “You’ve been running such a very long time,” he says. His fingers brush Sherlock’s curls back. “Maybe it’s time to go home now.”
“You’re going to be so angry with me.”
John laughs, gleefully. “You have no fucking idea.”
This is such a wonderful piece of dialogue. What a shame we'll never actually hear those exact lines in the series. Brilliant.

And another favourite:
“Of course it’s you,” John says softly, smiling an odd little smile, like it hurts.
I love your John - I can see Martin Freeman standing right in front of me. You have his voice, his expressions, his little gestures down to a pat. So even though he's old, he's still very much our John.

Thank again for this truly lovely gift!

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

YAY YAY YAY YAY!!! I was SO nervous because you specifically stated you did NOT want a Reunion Fic, and I started out writing something completely different -- a Missing Scene from Belgravia -- but it just wasn't working, and this just started spewing out instead. I was hoping it was a different enough reunion fic that you wouldn't mind...too much ;) Your review made me all kinds of happy, and the fact that you picked out favourite pieces of dialogue caused internal flailing. I'm actually pretty fond of this story, which is unusual for me haha, so the fact that you enjoyed is just awesome. Thank you for your really kind feedback <3

[swissmarg]

That was stunningly good. Wow. I like that you left things open, like Mary and how old!Sherlock actually died (noble sounds intriguing). And the cat. (Now I have questions!) But most of all I like John's advice, and the echo of the first scene in the last scene with the seventeen steps, because both times he's coming home to John.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Thank you so much! As for the cat, there may be a story there...someday haha. We'll see if I am inspired at some point ;)

[laurose8.livejournal.com]

Excellent all through. That opening scene is just right. Thoughtful and satisfying, including that Holmes doesn't (perhaps can't) meet his older self.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Time travel intrigues me, as does the inevitable aging process. Wouldn't we all like to meet our younger/older selves? Well...maybe not haha.

[saki101.livejournal.com]

This is so poignant and beautiful, the descriptions poetic, the sentiments distilled down to their essence. It's almost "A Christmas Carol" and there are actions that can still be taken to alter the outcome of Christmas Future. My headcanon for your story is that it was the cat Sherlock brought home on the 23rd that he tripped over and landed in his grave and now John has set in motion the correction of that mistake and Sherlock will not forget his instructions.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

"A Christmas Carol" with Alistair Sim is one of my all-time favourite movies ;) So it's quite possible I borrowed from that lovely tale. I absolutely love your cat story...I may have to write it at some point haha. Thank you for this lovely review -- very much appreciated.

[wiggleofjudas.livejournal.com]

oh. this is soft and cutting and gorgeous and utterly, utterly devastating. thank you so much.

<3

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Thank you so very much for the lovely review! The story was fun to write...most of the time haha :)

[keerawa.livejournal.com]

That was absolutely lovely. It made me ache, in the best of ways.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Thank you! It kind of made me ache, too.

[red-chapel.livejournal.com]

Make a girl get all teary-eyed, why don't you?

A perfect circle outside of a circle that never closes. Which sounds ridiculous, but that's how I see it. And it's beautiful. The tone, the rhythym, the echoes--all beautiful.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

A perfect circle outside of a circle that never closes. Not ridiculous at all! Kind of absolutely perfect, actually :) What a lovely thing to say. Thank you so much.

[tiltedsyllogism.livejournal.com]

I teared up a bit, reading this story this morning, and decided I'd come back later and revisit it so I could write a more coherent review. but now I'm just CRYING MORE but I'm going to try to articulate my enthusiasm anyhow. Like earlier commenters, I loved the structural circularity in his two approaches to the two different homes that Sherlock and John shared. I adored the cadences of the dialogue, and the limits of what John was willing to say, and Sherlock (eventually) wanted to hear: both of their reactions to this utterly strange situation felt very in character to me, and your older John seemed like a very plausible development of the character we know from canon. The strange potency of their visit to the grave site kind of knocked me over - as frozen_delight said, you managed to take that familiar image and make it fall fresh on my eyes, heart and mind. And oh, the terrible sweet sadness of that thread of tenderness between older John and younger Sherlock, who (it seemed to me - maybe you can weigh in after the reveal?) already knew he loved John but had never been sexually or romantically intimate with him: together in a way that each of them wished for so dearly, yet knowing that their time together was out of joint and ephemeral. The fact that they are (if my reading of Sherlock and John's pre-Reichenbach history hold) at opposite ends of, but yet both outside, that window of years when they get to be properly together, makes it even more heart-rending, somehow.

I find it especially impressive that you've managed to take a superrealist premise (whether it's magic or futuristic science that gets Sherlock into the future) - and do so in the imaginative frame of a relentlessly scientistic show! - and tell a story about the ultimate limits of human achievement: that Sherlock could pull off a stunt, trick the world, but that when he does eventually die, there is nothing for it but acceptance. There's a grace and a humility that you've put your finger on here, which - if we're very, very lucky - turn out to be the ultimate difference between Sherlock being a great man and being a good one. beautifully done.

[keerawa.livejournal.com]

The fact that they are (if my reading of Sherlock and John's pre-Reichenbach history hold) at opposite ends of, but yet both outside, that window of years when they get to be properly together, makes it even more heart-rending, somehow.
God, yes, THIS.

[ancientreader]

I've typed and retyped and backspaced about half a dozen times, trying to express how much this story moved me and what a perfect conceit it is that lost Sherlock should find the John who has lately lost him for the second time, and that this John should send him home again.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

This is beautiful and very much appreciated. Thank you.

[cccahill18.livejournal.com]

This fic had me sitting in front of my computer in tears. I may start crying again as I write this review. This was so beautiful and heartbreaking and hopeful and just wonderful. I can't even imagine how painful it would be for the elderly John to send Sherlock away, after he's already had to deal with Sherlock dying on him twice. However, the scene that had me the most emotional was in the graveyard, where John was telling Sherlock about how he was loved and not alone when he died-- because Sherlock succeeded in keeping John safe.

Many kudos to you!

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

I didn't mean to make anyone cry, but I completely understand how it could. When I went back later and re-read it was like, yeah. I get it. In the moment, for me, it was quite hopeful, but it was also full of loss and the inevitability of old age and what we all lose along the way. I loved the graveyard scene, so I'm thrilled you liked it, too. Thank you so much.

[obscuriglobus.livejournal.com]

Wonderful fic :)

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Thank you!

[what-alchemy.livejournal.com]

God yes. I love time travel, and we so rarely get to see it go into the future rather than the past. Sherlock needs to see this. I love that John only helps him - no disbelief, no anger, no recriminations, just help, and longing. I'm so glad Sherlock got to see his own happy ending.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

OH YOU AND YOUR OH YEAH. WRITE TIME TRAVEL. Well, I did, and here it is. <3

[rox712.livejournal.com]

God, this beautiful! Thank you so much.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Thank YOU for a lovely review.

[opaljade.livejournal.com]

This is stunning. I love the idea of John and Sherlock being together until they are old men but what makes this story special for me are the wise and touching glimpses into the human condition.

So well done mystery author! (though from your gorgeous prose and accurate description of snow, I think I can guess who you are.)

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

HahahahahaHAHAHAHAAHAHA. Me and the snow. Oh, the snow snow snow SNOW. I NEED TO STOP WRITING STORIES ABOUT SNOW. Or not. It's snowing here RIGHT NOW and it's freeeezing. I feel...a...story coming...on....gasp gasp....

Thank you <3

[billiethepoet.livejournal.com]

Good gracious! This is exactly the sort of bitter sweet sadness that pulls at my heartstrings. Thinking of old!John being left alone, and sending Sherlock back so that he can have him again, is too much. Tears in my eyes for sure.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

I can't seem to stay away from the sad. Sigh. But I hope there's some hope there, too. A little bit. Thank you :)

[achray.livejournal.com]

This was wonderful, beautifully written and understated, but deeply moving. Thank you!

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Thank you so very much :)

[neifile7.livejournal.com]

Very much seconding the foregoing comments, but allow me to focus a moment on one detail:

The gloves. Almost as iconic a part of Sherlock's dress armor as the coat, and a beautiful synecdoche for the Sherlock/John connection as we've seen it in canon and as you've imagining it unfolding. John has taken it upon himself to see that Sherlock's hands stay warm, and when Sherlock returns to present-day John, he wears that second supple skin like a promise. The gloves stand in for all the ways that they hold each other (without actually touching as yet), protect each other, the ways that John makes it easier for Sherlock to be Sherlock, warms him into humanity, keeps him from freezing both literally and metaphorically. It's an utterly gorgeous and deeply resonant touch that sums up, for me, everything that is quietly powerful in this story.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Aauuughhhhh you made me weepy with this comment...in a good way. What a beautiful description and so very very Sherlock and John. Whether it was intentional or not, and I'm not even quite sure -- it could have been subconscious haha -- it's completely accurate and gorgeous. Thank YOU for that. Very much appreciated <3

[lbmisscharlie.livejournal.com]

Dear god, this is beautiful. Bittersweet and yet somehow cheerful at once. And wonderfully perfect for wintertime!

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Thank you so very much.

[quirkies.livejournal.com]

glorious! i was transported.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Thank you!!

[persiflager.livejournal.com]

Oh my heart. This is absolutely gorgeous, anon. The layers of loss and love and Sherlock's desperate yearning - I ached for him, I really did.

I love that John is still himself, and that Sherlock loves him at this age as much as he did before.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Loss and love and yearning -- exactly all of those. I ached for them, too. Thank you so very much :)

[innie_darling]

This is so beautiful.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Thank you :)

[bowl-of-glow.livejournal.com]

Reminded me of the book The time traveller's wife - I loved the premise of that story, and there were some utterly heartbreaking scenes. But it felt at times like a brilliant idea poorly executed (I still think it could have been so much better). This was perfect.

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

I haven't read that, but I know the premise, I think ;) I'm really glad you enjoyed this story of mine. I had fun writing it. Thank you.

[30percent.livejournal.com]

This is just beautiful. The writing is delicate and precise and so carefully-crafted.

But what really burrowed into my heart and wouldn't leave is the interplay between old John and young Sherlock: the way they can be there for each other when their contemporaries can't is lovely and bittersweet and heart-wrenching. As much as it sounds like old John lived a wonderful life with his Sherlock, the end of that life is no less tragic, and the fact that it's the universal tragedy of being human makes it all the more affecting.

His grief was so very well-drawn: bittersweet and understated but so tangible and so very John. And I loved that now, 30 years later, he's finally able to to sympathize with young Sherlock in a way his younger self (rightly) never could, and hopefully achieve some closure or satisfaction in helping Sherlock on his way.

This broke my heart, but I can't wait for the author reveal so I can put this in my favorites forever. Thanks so much for sharing this!

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Ah Old versus Young. I've wanted to write a scene for a long time, either between Old and Young Sherlock or some variation of that. Originally I was going to have Sherlock stumble across Old John AND Old Sherlock in the cottage...but, of course...wasn't heartbreaking enough hahahaha. I'm really happy this story touched you in some way, and I really appreciate the thoughtful feedback. I had fun writing it. Thank you so very much <3

[holyfant.livejournal.com]

Wow, this is stunning. There's so much soft yearning and hard anticipation, and pain accessed from different points in time. An amazing read - thank you!

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

Thank you! Soft yearning and hard anticipation -- what a lovely phrase and so evocative. Thank you :)

[destntoast.livejournal.com]

Lovely, and painful. I cried for old John. For his too-recent loss, and the bittersweetness of an encounter with his lost love. For John, crying alone in the night, tending to Sherlock's wounds and heart, then sending him away, to his younger self. I adore their discussions, and John's patience with young Sherlock, and all the evidence of their love, through the years. And I'm crying again. Thank you. (I mean that sincerely!)

[cathedralcarver.livejournal.com]

I cried for him, too. A sad ending, but a happy one, too, I think. Bittersweet I guess. I'm really happy you enjoyed and I really appreciate your feedback. Thank you.