Miztli @akutsukiis-blog - Tumblr Blog

May 17

Lost The One Real Thing You've Ever Known

You inhale. It’s the truth. It is, so why does it hurt so much when he says it like that in that voice?

“I became who I wanted to be,” you reply bitterly. “Who I needed to be.” You lift your chin. “And I don’t call that giving up. It’s adapting, it’s surviving, and I had to do it, and you know that.”

Sherlock pauses for a moment before tilting his head mildly. “Yes, well, not everyone adapts by becoming the blueprint of their deceased grandmother.”

So many years later, Sherlock meets the one person who didn’t detest him at university. Why does she also have to be the one person who lives in the cottage nearest to the moors?

Also on ao3. It's about twelve thousand words.

A/N: requested by an anon on here who wanted something set to All Too Well - so here you are! I hope you enjoy it. Comment, comment, comment, pleaseeeee! I worked hard on it and I’m actually incredibly proud of how it turned out…

Also - personally, I don’t like the All Too Well 10 min version. (Gasp horror shock…) But I like the old, 5 minute version. The music’s better, and I prefer her original voice. But you can imagine it’s either, it doesn’t make much of a difference.

The whole uni idea was based off that one sad expression Sherlock has, when Sebastian (in The Blind Baker) says how everyone hated him.

And I know it’s long gone and there was nothing else I could do

And I forget about you long enough to forget why I needed to

Cause there we are again in the middle of the night

We’re dancing around the kitchen in the refrigerator light

And maybe we got lost in translation

Maybe I asked for too much

Running scared, I was there

I remember it all too well

And you call me up again just to break me like a promise

So casually cruel in the name of being honest

It was rare, I was there, I remember it all too well

Wind in my hair, you were there, you remember it all

- All Too Well by Taylor Swift

Now

Every writer wonders, at some point, if their sceptres will come alive. Maybe the characters will step out of the pages, monsters lurking in the shadows, phantoms reaching out from the walls to hold hands as you pass.

And you were no exception. On an evening like this, morbid thoughts should’ve been far from your mind. Blame the Stephen King book that you leave on the edge of the armchair; blame the way the smoky fire is tinged with wood and peat, something ancient in the scent; blame the local happenings in your little village - anyway, when you hear the knock on the door, you instinctively wonder if this is The End for the woman who lives on her own and dreams up monsters.

“Hush,” you say to him, walking out of the little lounge, through the whitewashed hall and past the warped stairs. The door is almost wider than it is tall, and there’s a little square window at the top. The glass is frosted and stained with the imprint of a red lily, but the glass glints yellow, reflecting your porch light. A shadow moves on the other side.

It’s only eight o’clock. And you have no reason to truly be afraid. You smooth down your hair, your soft jumper; straighten your grass-tinged jeans. There. Respectable.

Hand on the big bolt, you twist the key. The door opens with a creak that sounds older than time itself - everything here is so old, steeped in history the way you used to steep tea for your grandfather.

Standing on your Welcome doormat is a man. Long coat, tightly closed against the frosty evening. A pale face. Dark curls. Sharp cheekbones, shifting as the lips underneath curl into a half-smile.

“Hello,” Sherlock Holmes says, a puff of frozen air, escaping in the shape of your name. “Y/N.”

You stare. And stare. At some point you realise you’re gripping onto the door like you’re going to slam it shut.

“H-hey.”

He’s alone. The porch-light is too yellow and decorative to be very useful, but your garden gate is shut and you can’t see any other ghosts in the lane outside.

The smile breaks out slowly, softly. “Sherlock,” you say. Cold air seeps into the warmth of your cottage and freezes your toes. The fluffy socks are no match for a Dartmoor evening. The smell of woody smoke is more intense out here, thanks to your chimney and the chimneys of your neighbours. “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Yes.” He nods once, sharply. “Still my name.”

You laugh. It takes you by surprise. “Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective.”

He ducks his head in acknowledgement. “And…Y/N Y/L/N, the…What, exactly? What do you do now?”

“I’m a Ghostbuster.”

He still laughs like he isn’t used to it. It’s deeper, maybe. Sharper. Because that’s what people do - they change.

Piercing blue eyes look at you, his laugh fading into a smirk as he stands a little straighter, and you smile back. Sometimes people don’t change too much. Sometimes you can still recognise them, ancient history calling out between kindred souls.

You finally stand back, pulling the door wider open, toes curling on the cold wood floor as you gesture. “Step over my threshold, vampire.”

****

Then

She favoured sweatshirts a size too big. Chewed her nails - a habit she was attempting to break by chewing her lips instead. Fiddled with her hair. Prone to nervous tics. Grimaced when someone ordered a sparkling water - averse to it. Despite her apparent messiness, it wasn’t a lack of self-care. No, her hands were too soft, her skin too clean, her teeth too white.

She was just trying to hide.

And since Sherlock had walked all the way across town to this café, knowing that his fellow students were too lazy to be regulars of a place this far out, he could sympathise.

It was his third day here, sitting in the corner seat with five textbooks that were utterly irrelevant to whatever he was meant to be studying. This was more interesting, anyway. The barista had been there every day. The first day, her hair had been in a ponytail; the second day, clipped back. Today it was plaited.

The plait suited her. Though she wasn’t good at doing it evenly. Or securely.

Sherlock looked down at his mug. Empty again. He pondered for a moment whether the caffeine hit was enough. Maybe he needed something stronger.

The barista finished wiping down the counter and sat, reaching for a book. He couldn’t see the cover. Faded, paperback, most likely fiction. On a Monday afternoon, the café was deserted, only several old ladies by the window.

He stood up and crossed over to the till, putting his mug down expectantly.

She glanced up, a look of resignation in her eyes that made him smirk inwardly. Put the book down, came forward.

The Moonstone. He hadn’t read it.

“Another coffee.” He hesitated, then spat the word out. “Please.”

She nodded, taking the mug and reaching to exchange it for a clean one.

“Oh, please, there’s no need for that,” he said scornfully. “I’ll only spread my germs to me.”

She glanced sideways at him. “Whatever you say,” she muttered, going over to the coffee machine.

He studied the back of her plait while she went through the routine of making coffee. Her plait was terribly uneven. It would probably fall free soon.

“Here you go.” Rich coffee steamed up between them as she put the mug down.

“You don’t say much, do you?”

Her eyes flicked up. Sherlock smirked, watched her eyes drop, tracing the movement briefly before she looked back up. “Well, I-”

“My age - more or less - Though potentially a few months younger, I think, though I could be wrong there. Yet not at the university. Why is that, I wonder? Not lack of funds or brains. Lack of motivation? Maybe. Working here and reading library books - is that your aim in life? Oh, wait.” He snapped his fingers. The sharp noise made her jump. “Maaybe you’re a drop-out. English Literature, wasn’t it? Aspiring authoress, obsessed with words, ideas? Very fanciful. So…” He looked her up and down. “What went wrong with your sparkling career, hmm?” Keep talking while you work out the answer. “Lack of ambition? Finding it just too hard? Or was it…”

Oh.

He stopped dead.

Her hands were curled into fists, her too-long sleeves balled into her palms. Lips slightly parted, eyes defiant, she watched him, her shoulders hunched but her chin held high. The counter between them came waist-high, and he couldn’t see her lower body, but he would have bet that her knees were locked straight and trembling.

Slowly, Sherlock lowered his eyes.

“Thank you for the coffee.” He wrapped his hands around the scorching ceramic.

Really, Sherlock, Mycroft said disapprovingly. Sparing people’s feelings, now, are we?

Really, Sherlock, his mother added, for an entirely different reason. You must learn to think before you speak.

“I’m not actually a drop-out.”

Sherlock glanced back up, surprised. She gave a faint flicker of a smile, pushed some unravelling hair out of her eyes. “I’m switching to a college in Germany in September. It’s ironic, isn’t it? Growing up in a town with such a famous university…and then leaving. But…yeah.”

He waited, she waited, and then she carried on, studying the whorls of steam from his drink. “It’ll be better than here, though. Better than…”

He knew what it would be better than. He had nearly deduced it to her face, after all.

“Yes,” he said simply.

And she knew it. The acknowledgement passed between them, what it was.

She smiled again, tentatively. He watched in surprise as she extended her right hand, fingers unfurling. Short nails, flecked with old burgundy polish.

“I’ve seen you in here for a few days. I’m guessing you’re a student, right? With all the textbooks…Unless you nicked them from the uni library, but. Anyway, I’m…My name’s Y/N Y/L/N. What’s yours?”

He shook her warm hand. “I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

****

Now…Five hours earlier

“Now,” the landlord says, sucking his teeth meditatively and side-eyeing Sherlock in a way that is entirely too melodramatic, “you know who may’ve seen something?”

“Who?” Sherlock asks impatiently. The counter is hard against his elbow, even through the padding of his coat.

“The lady who lives down the end of the lane, just before the moors start. Tha’ cottage is all isolated, quite lonely. Just tha’ bit out, you know what I mean? If anyone’s seen anything lurking, it’ll be her.”

“Right,” Sherlock says, making a mental note. Worth asking. Anything was worth a try, to solve this mystery. “Old?”

The landlord guffaws. “Younger than you are.”

“Right,” Sherlock says again, mildly dismissing his initial mental picture of a widowed, or spinster, old lady with too many cats. Like Mrs Hudson, but without the interestingness and with more stuffiness. “What’s her name?”

“Y/N.”

Sherlock stares. “I assume she has a last name.” His voice is curt, brusque, but that’s because his mind is suddenly filled with too much, the doors to his mind palace flooding open, memories cascading out like too many avalanches.

The landlord remains placid, unfazed, and still sucking his teeth. “Ay, she does.” He leans off the counter as another man walks in, automatically plucks a glass down and goes to fill it. Throws the words over his shoulder like they aren’t the ones that will send Sherlock hurtling down over a precipice.

“Y/N Y/L/N.”

****

Then

“You can make the stars into what you want,” she was saying, her hands planted back behind her, head tilted up to the dark sky. “It’s more fun than knowing astronomy. Or astrology. See the line, those three evenly-spaced stars there?”

He followed her gaze up. “Yes.”

“That’s Orion’s Belt-”

“You just utterly defeated your previous sentence.”

He saw the movement as she rolled her eyes. “Were you born a curmudgeon? Lighten up, Holmes.”

“I don’t know if you noticed, Y/L/N, but it’s dark.”

She sighed. Her lips were twitching into a smirk. Sherlock allowed himself to smirk too. “You’re exhausting, and I hope you know that.”

“I find other people exhausting,” he said indifferently. “Tediously slow. Spiteful, selfish, egotistical. All labels that have been lobbed at me, but at least I’m a genius. Other people are absorbed in their petty dramas - completely unable to see the bigger picture.”

“One thing you’re definitely not is humble.” She glanced at him, then, her lips pressing together. “Me, too?”

He didn’t disrespect her enough to pretend he didn’t know what she meant. “You’re different,” he replied.

Watching the small, tentative smile, the edge of white teeth glimmering in the starlight, should not have been painful. He shifted, trying to dispel the uncomfortable feeling inside his chest.

“So…” She looked back up at the skies and he followed suit. “You can make up stories about the stars and the shapes they form, because who can ever tell you otherwise? Forget everything you think you know about the universe, Sherlock.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know. Like that the Earth goes around the sun. That’s so boring. We can think of something more interesting.”

“Alright.” He shrugged. “I’ll delete it.”

“So, where does the Earth go? Does the Earth go anywhere at all, or maybe the sun does? Maybe out there there’s a planet with beings who don’t find it bright to look at the sun. Maybe it’s the reverse. They might need sunglasses - or the, you know, reverse equivalent - to look into the darkness…”

Sherlock listened to her voice, soft, quiet, like an internal monologue that only he and her could ever hear. The grass they were sitting on was becoming dewy. For May - admittedly, the first of May - it was quite cold, but not unbearable. She tucked hair behind her ear, lifted her fingers to point out different stars, still weaving stories between the sparkling dots like rich threads into a tapestry.

And he listened. Why, he didn’t know. But then, he wasn’t sure why he had done most of the things he’d done in the past two months. Like taking this girl places and following her to others. Rambling alongside rivers, and through woods, shoving away the ‘urban posh boy attitude’ that she’d once told him he wore.

He told her about wanting to be a pirate. She told him about the worlds she’d created as a child, fairies like monsters and ogres that were misunderstood. During the weekdays, he went into the café and sat with his textbooks - sometimes the relevant ones, sometimes not - while she made coffees and read fantasies during the quiet periods.

During her breaks, she would come over with a hot chocolate and sit at the chair opposite him; he’d push away his books and start to - quietly - deduce the other customers. She’d try not to laugh, getting marshmallow on her lips and occasionally kicking him under the table when he was too rude.

His classmates and dorm-mates didn’t comment on his sudden, lengthening absences. They simply didn’t care, or hadn’t even realised. Not one of them had ever been in the café, so far as he knew - lazy nincompoops. Perhaps, if they did notice that he kept vanishing for extended amounts of time, they thought he was indulging in his hobby of shooting up. Quite a lot of people knew about that. Regrettably.

But they would have been wrong, anyway. Not one of them, with their belligerent sneers and injured pride and crass words designed to hurt him when he deduced their pathetic little lives - not one of them would have dreamt Sherlock Holmes was spending all that time with a girl.

A friend.

Possibly, the first friend he had ever had.

Her voice trailed off. She looked down at the twinkling lights of the town beneath them, pulling her knees up to her chest and leaning forward. Her hair lay tousled over the edge of her furry hood.

“You know,” she mused, “we’re trespassing.”

He snorted. “No one’s going to find out.”

“I’m just…Kind of surprised that we’re the only ones?”

They both glanced around. The field, sprawling over the brow of the hill, was deserted except for them, the fence-posts, and the dampening grass.

“They’re all watching their TV dramas. Soap operas.” Sherlock let the sneer seep into his voice.

“Let me guess.” She deepened her own voice. “Tedious?”

“Terrible impersonation.”

“Says the posh boy who should’ve gone to Eton - Oh!”

She reached out, grabbing his hand, cold fingers twining, squeezing hard, together. “Look!”

He saw it, just, disappearing into the immense blackness - a glimmer of molten gold fire.

“Make a wish,” he murmured. “That’s my mother would say.”

What could you wish for, Sherlock? Mycroft asked him.

She tipped her head back, staring up at the skies, enthralled. He looked down, at their hands, lying together on the flattened grass. His fingers were larger, and bonier. Her nails were still flecked with chipped polish, still slightly chewed at the edges.

Then, looking up at her - at her profile, half-lit by the stars; her body swallowed up by her enormous coat before her neck and head burst free of the quilted puffa; and the way her lips twitched with uncontrollable excitement, her chin jutting defiantly up like she was trying to take on the entire universe-

“Oh,” she breathed. “Look. Look.”

He saw the entirety of it this time, the bright streak of light, a comet flashing across the sky. So unimaginably far away. They were utterly insignificant to it, and yet it had the ability to touch her, judging by her rapt expression.

It faded. After a moment, she let out a soft exhale. Lifted their hands. He looked down, confused, just as she shuffled closer, their hands dropping onto the cold denim of her knee. Their bodies were pressed together now. He barely had time to comprehend that - the rustle and creases of her enormous quilted coat against his woollen one - before her head dropped onto his shoulder, her fingers squeezing lightly.

He swallowed. Inhaled a tinge of perfume. Her hair was cold and soft against his cheek, but her cheek was warm. Her head was surprisingly heavy. She wasn’t holding her weight back.

There wasn’t anything to say, any way to question this, without scaring her off. Somehow, he knew that. Wordlessly, they sat there. He resisted the urge to let his neck slump sideways, let his cheek press against the top of her head. Bad posture. Not that he’d ever cared.

“You know what we need?” she muttered.

“A thermos flask of tea?”

She snorted lightly. “No. We need a dog. Snoozing on our feet.”

He paused. We?

Her cheek moved, pressing up into a wistful smile against his shoulder. “One day.”

One day for her, or for them? He didn’t know what she meant. And he wasn’t used to that. There was nothing to deduce here, no reasonable logic. It was all utterly emotions, and he was floundering in the dark. Being wanted, needed, by people was a foreign concept. People usually made fun of him.

And yet - the idea of them having a dog one day somehow didn’t seem as repugnant as it should have. Why not? Why didn’t he feel the disgust he usually did, for this sort of thing?

He was buffering so hard that he almost disregarded the third shooting star. But it would have been impossible to disregard the moment when she extended her other hand and laid it on his.

On theirs.

****

Now

“You’ve got a dog,” Sherlock says.

Truly, it’s his best deduction ever. You edge just behind him, his long coat brushing your side as you push the door shut with a firm click. The bolt slides across. Sherlock stares down the length of your hall, and the Alsation in the lounge doorway stares back, ears pricked, head cocked, blazing brown eyes unwavering.

You smile, watching them eye each other up. There’s a similarity between them, maybe; both slim and strong and breathtaking. Awe-striking.

“Scott,” you say at last, moving back around Sherlock. “His name’s Scott.” He wags his tail in acknowledgement; once, curtly, the way Sherlock used to nod.

The latter scoffs dryly. “Scott. What next? Got a cat called William?”

“No, his name was Felix.” You hesitate, then walk down the hall and into the kitchen. Scott follows you. A moment, and you hear footsteps. Sherlock steps into the little room after you. He’s taken his shoes off. “He died,” you continue, reaching for the kettle, brushing the back of your hand over Scott’s ears. “He was old, and he belonged to the old owner of this place - Who, um, also died. Anyway, I found Felix curled up in Scott’s basket with him, so at least it was peaceful…”

“I see.” Sherlock’s voice is a low rumble under the gush of the ancient tap. “Any chance of foul play?”

You can’t quite hide the flicker of hurt that crosses your face as you flick the kettle on. “No. Scott’s a good dog.”

“And speaking of that…” Sherlock stops, clears his throat. “Are you...making…tea for me?”

“Uh, yeah, actually? Don’t you want any?”

“Oh, yes, I do. Tea is…Well. I’ve been existing mainly on coffee since coming to Dartmoor.” Sherlock’s glacial eyes flit around, over the golden fairylights strung over the deep-set, latticed window; over the magnets on your fridge; the ancient, scratched, spotless counter. Over you, as you take a mug from the little stand by the sink and give it a courtesy rinse.

“The dog,” he says again. Looks down at Scott, who is snuffling idly at his empty bowl. “The hound. I came to ask you…” He hesitates sheepishly.

“Well, obviously it wasn’t a friendly reunion,” you say dryly, saving him the grief of having to be mannerly. “Anyway, it wasn’t him, just so you know. He’s always with me and he’s very well-trained. Aren’t cha, Scotty?” You scratch his ears in emphasis and he wags his tail sedately. It thumps on a cupboard door, a hollow sound emanating through the kitchen.

Sherlock’s lips twitch briefly. “No, I somehow doubted it would be you with the fearsome hound that has been plaguing Henry Knight. So have you seen anything? Heard anything? Anything the least bit suspicious, at all?”

“Anything suspicious asides from living near Baskerville?”

He dips his head in acknowledgement. “Asides from that.”

“No. Not a single thing.” You lean back against the sink’s edge, watching him across the room. He seems so big, so disproportionately there and present, in your cottage. You might have thought about him, wondered what it would be like to have him see the space you made your own, but that was just fantasies. And now here he is, sharp jaw tucked into the folds of his coat - longer than he used to have them; more expensive. Blue eyes studying you as intently as they had, once upon a different lifetime. He’s almost too tall to fit through the doorframes. His feet would probably hang off the end of your centuries-old bed.

You swallow. “I haven’t seen or heard anything. Believe me, everyone’s asked. They can’t believe that I haven’t. ‘You live right out there on the outskirts of the moor! You must’ve heard something!’ - But I haven’t. I used to go for midnight walks, as well…”

Sherlock’s eyes widen. “I strongly advise-”

“No, don’t worry, I stopped. Someone warned me that the guys at Baskerville do nocturnal training sometimes, and there was a risk I - or Scott - might get shot. So I decided to give it up.”

“Hmm. Wise.” You dump a teabag in the mug, reach for the kettle. “Who warned you?”

“A guy - Dr Franklin - a nice old man. He’s got lots of funny stories. He works there.”

“Yes. We’ve met.”

“Have you been to Baskerville?”

“You could say that Mycroft has.”

You frown over your shoulder at him. “That sounds fishy.”

His lips twitch again. “Does it?”

“Did you sneak in there?”

He looks up at the ceiling nonchalantly.

A giggle escapes as you carefully pour water over the teabag, steam rising in whorls, quickly becoming Earl-Grey scented. Even after so long you remember what to do next, moving to get the milk out, unscrewing the lid. You can feel him watching you as you drizzle some milk in, watching the beverage become cloudy.

A few minutes…Is that all it takes for him to become a part of your life again? You’re letting him do this, are you? Chitchat and banter and quiet giggles and soft glances and home - like there was no in-between?

The silence extends as you cross over to Scott’s bowl and put a splash in. The big dog guzzles it up enthusiastically like the two-month puppy he still thinks he is. You screw the milk back up. Go back to the fridge. Then, hand on the open door, the fridge light casting a soft glow on the floor, you turn. Sherlock blinks, glancing away guiltily as though you haven’t just caught him staring.

You spread your arms. “Go on, then.”

“Pardon?”

“Deduce me.”

“Deduce…you?” He says it like you’re speaking a foreign language. But you know he still does it. You challenge him silently, not repeating yourself.

“Hmm…let’s see.” He rolls his eyes around the room. “You need bees here.”

You snort. “Bees? Why?”

“All the honeysuckle. Bees love it.”

“No. That’s not it.” Can he still read you? Will he hold back this time, trying to not hurt you? Can he see the years of history that he wasn’t, couldn’t be bothered, to be present to witness? You raise an eyebrow at him. “Do it properly. I dare you.”

His gaze flickers to the open fridge behind you, and he opens his mouth.

****

Then

Under the gurgling sound of the refilling cistern he heard her voice. He flapped his hands to dry them, stepped out of the downstairs toilet into the drab hallway of the semi-detached house she lived in with her parents.

She was in the kitchen, singing along to the music on the decade-old radio that lay on the counter, between a battered toaster and a holder with a roll of kitchen towel. The radio was her father’s. The music that washed through the room crackled, full of static and guitars and a female singer that Sherlock disregarded.

He stopped in the doorway, looking at her as she measured out milk, poured it into a copper pan. Her grandmother’s. That had been part deduction, and partly remembrance of what she had once told him. Her grandmother’s picture had been in the hallway. They shared resemblances. The older woman had been able to play piano - and sing, for guests. Rather like a Victorian parlour hostess. Her granddaughter had not inherited the gift for piano, but she could sing.

Badly.

Sweetly.

Quietly, not loud enough to drown out the original singer emanating from the radio. Not quite out of tune, not quite at the perfect pitch. Her head was bowed as she flicked the stove on.

“Got to got to take chances…Hear my call, here and everywhere, I’ve been walking the streets in despair - one more fire, turns a shade of grey; one more tear is lost in the ra- Oh…” She turned enough to see him there, a half smile curving her lips shyly. “Sorry. I forgot.”

“Forgot?” His voice was curt.

She rubbed her hands unnecessarily on her faded jeans. “Yeah, I like to sing when I’ve got the house to myself. When I’m, you know - alone and no one can hear me.” She gave a deprecating laugh. “I’m sure no one wants to hear my awful singing. But I forgot I wasn’t alone.”

He frowned. The right words were there, the words to make this situation better, and he knew them, but-

Of course, Mycroft sighed, rolling his eyes.

“Because I don’t count,” he supplied flatly.

Perhaps your fellow students have a point when they call you those epithets, brother mine.

She froze, halfway through returning the milk to the fridge. Then straightened, looking at him in confusion. He braced himself as she walked over, forgetting to shut the fridge door. The weak yellowy light spilled out from inside, battling against the grey evening skies outside. She stopped in front of him, tentative and determined all at once.

“Because,” she said softly, “you’re safe.”

He exhaled sharply.

Floored, little brother?

The music washed through the room, perversely cheerful. There was no prior experience, nothing he knew to do in this situation except to take a single step back and then proffer his hand. His mother would have sighed in exasperation. Some part of him agreed with her.

“Dance?” he asked curtly.

She pulled a wry face. “But I can’t forget about the milk and let it burn.”

“God forbid,” he said as she took his hand. He put his other hand on her waist, and she furrowed her brow at him.

“What?”

“Are you seriously trying to get us to waltz to Roxette, Sherlock?”

He laughed at that, a genuine laugh, and her face relaxed into a grin. “I took lessons as a child,” he said. “I know most types of classical ballroom dancing. But-”

“But you don’t know how to do this?” As she spoke, she threw her arm casually around him, then jumped back a few steps, pulling him with her. He stumbled; just managed to right them before they crashed into the open fridge door.

“Trip hazard,” he said, almost breathlessly.

“We can defy it.” She was jumping around, pulling him with her, around the demure square table in the centre of the room. “Dance, Sherlock!”

He snorted. “I-”

She waved their hands in time to the beat. “C’mon, you’re good at music, dance to the beat!”

“Oh, is that what we’re attempting?”

She elbowed him. Or tried to. He briskly sidestepped, stepped around her and whirled them as the song carried on with a screech of electric guitar.

There’s a night when you close your eyes

Around a dream that shines like the sun

Everyone knows it’s beautiful

Tell me why you wanna dream it alone

She grinned, cheeks flushed, as he whirled them again, haphazardly. Their fingers squeezed as she pulled him back in, ducked past his arm to do a flourish of imaginary skirts. He gave up, gave in, to the sound of the music and joy; stepped away to arms’ length, shimmied until he could elegantly knee the fridge shut. Caught her eye, and winked devilishly as though he had defeated a great enemy; she threw her head back with a burst of laughter.

Like the river will lead the water to the sea

Take on me, take your chances on me

Don’t walk away from me, don’t walk away from me

He pulled on her hand, she danced back towards him, moving her head and shoulders like an eerie robot to the beat. Still smiling, eyes crinkled at the corners as she looked up at him. Stopping, just inches away from him again.

Sherlock stopped dancing, his hand tightening. His other hand had found her waist again, except this time they were too close to waltz. Slowly her movements stilled; eyes still smiling at him.

He looked back, blankly. Perhaps his expression was icy. Devoid of emotion or caring. Wasn’t that what he did? What everyone had always told him? Caring was a disadvantage. Alone protected him. What did she see, when she looked at him?

She moved closer, stretching up. He let her.

And I say that I love you (and I love you, baby)

And I say that I need you

Baby, I leave you a sign of desire

Got to got you got to take your chances on me…

Too close. Close enough to taste the soft exhale as their faces came together. Less than an inch. A few centimetres. He could calculate it, but that would require accessing his mental knowledge. Of separating himself from this moment, his body, to enter his mind palace. And he couldn’t.

He didn’t remember deciding to tilt his head down. But at some point, he had. His nose brushed hers, and he almost jerked back at the sensation, like being burnt. From far away, her fingers squeezed around his, and then she bumped his nose again with hers, so gently, tendrils of her hair fluttering against his eyebrow.

There had never been a situation like this before. Not for him. A slow, shaky exhale - from him; eyelashes fluttering, from her; and then-

“Milk.”

He half-pushed her back, raised their entwined hands to spin her out, forcefully, one-eighty until she faced the stove.

“W-what?”

He steadied her, a hand across her back, on her waist, as she stumbled. For a moment she stared blankly at the steaming white liquid in front of her. Then there was a cacophony of clinking; mugs and teaspoons and chocolate powder.

He watched dumbly as she made the hot drinks. Some part of him - most of him - was still in that moment, their faces together. If he had let the milk burn, hadn’t barked that word out sharply and pushed away, would she have-

Her cheeks were flushed as she scattered marshmallows into the two mugs. The song stopped, and static echoed from the radio for a few seconds.

“Chances. By Roxette.”

“Sorry?”

“The song.” She lifted a mug, handed it to him. “Here.”

“Cheers,” he said automatically. Her lips twitched.

“What?”

“No. Nothing. You’re just so…” She shrugged helplessly. “Posh? And then sometimes you sound like a gentrified London Cockney. It’s fine, I’m not laughing at you, I promise. It’s…”

“...Yes?”

Another song started, offensively jaunty.

“Kind of…” She sighed, looking down at her hot chocolate.

He smirked, leaned back against the counter alongside her. “Were you thinking to compliment me, Y/L/N?”

“More like, spare your blushes,” she shot back. Addressing the drink. “Oh, God - fine, I was going to say it’s - you’re…Adorable.”

He stared at her.

She stared determinedly at the floor.

“Adorable?” he said at last. His voice was strangled. “Seriously, Y/N? Out of all the descriptive adjectives-”

“I can’t help it! It’s just what I think!”

She lifted the mug - slightly not-rounded, stripy blue and beige, a relic of her mother’s phase of amateur pottery - to her lips. Blew on the melting marshmallows, causing a little ripple. Then sighed. “Too hot to drink.” She put it back down on the edge of the sink; held out her hand for his.

He narrowed his eyes. “Are you confiscating the beverage you made for me? I’ve never been a host, but I’m pretty sure that’s not the approved practi-”

“Shut up.” She’d taken it. “Shut up and dance with me, Sir Holmes.”

He pulled a face. “We just-”

It was impossible to continue when she suddenly turned to him, putting her arms around his neck. He froze, staring back at her, the edge of the counter digging into his back, her socked foot over his.

“Dance?” she asked again, quietly. Sparkling eyes. Suppressed smile. She knows the power she has over you when you are in close proximity and she enjoys it, Mycroft summarised.

Shut up, Mycroft.

“Fine,” he said, doing his best to sound grumpy. He simply sounded like he had indigestion. This dance was more conventional; side-steps and twirls. He watched her smile blossom again, watched her laugh as he allowed her to twist him. How could the simple act of dancing bring such joy to her?

As though you are not equally forblissed, brother mine.

“Do you know this song?” she asked breathlessly as they whirled around the table again.

“No.”

“December 1963 by The Four Seasons. My dad loves it.” She spun under his arm; came back to face him.

And I felt a rush like a rolling bolt of thunder

Spinning my head around

And taking my body under (oh, what a night)

She shook her head. “Home alone with a guy for the first time and…”

“And?”

“And this is what I’m doing. Dancing in the kitchen and telling him the names of old rock songs like a…” She smiled ruefully. “I don’t know, Sherlock. It’s just…”

“You and me?”

She blinked. “That’s….actually a really good answer. And it sounded good in your voice, too. Nice and deep.”

He couldn’t hold back a surprised laugh. “You’re different, Y/N.”

“My parents are gone until tomorrow night. I have my…You…here to keep me company. And you - I told you.” His hands were on her shoulders for a moment as they shuffled to the beat. Her face was solemn, a jarring contrast to the jazzy tune echoing between the pastel green walls. “You’re safe, Sherlock. To dance with and sing in front of and…and…be me around.”

He swallowed. Looked down. They had stopped dancing again.

Why’d it take so long to see the light?

Seemed so wrong, but now it seems so right…

“And I know,” she added quietly. “This is not…I don’t know. I don’t do this sort of thing, and you…”

“I don’t.” His voice was curt, hurried.

“But we’re here. And this is something we’re doing. And…” She took a deep breath, he felt her shoulders rising under his palms. “I’m home alone with you, Sherlock, and the only thing I really want to do is…”

His pulse was elevated, probably due to the exercise, but now he felt his heart, beating painfully. “Yes?”

“This.”

Voice as soft as her movements, she stepped forward, their bodies flush together. Leant against him, her head dropping to his shoulder. He felt her exhale against his neck, felt the goosebumps rise. She smelt of faded perfume and linen washing powder and old coffee from the café and something like lemons. Her arms were around him, her heartbeat thudding through her oversized sweatshirt and through his loose hoodie and into his chest.

Slowly, slowly, he raised his own arms, extracted them from her shoulders and hugged her back, turned his head into her hair and let her muscles loosen, let them lean perfectly against each other, a fine tipping point of a balance that was as precarious as it was perfect.

Sherlock stared over her head, strands of hair passing directly in front of his eyes, blurring his vision, at the two hot chocolates side-by-side on the sink’s edge, in the kitchen belonging to two people he had never met who had created the girl in his arms, and wondered how he’d got here.

****

Now

“Let’s see,” he says, his voice dry, cold. It’s a tone of smooth easiness, like he’s practised this, what his fellows used to call a ‘party trick’, too many times. You wonder how many times he’s cut people, cut into their old scars. You know he can do it, could do it; maybe he still does.

“You’ve given up on life, haven’t you?” he says, his icy eyes flickering over you. You hug yourself instinctively. “No romance, hardly any friendships, no connection to family…”

You inhale. It’s the truth. It is, so why does it hurt so much when he says it like that in that voice?

Sherlock pauses for a moment before tilting his head mildly. “Yes, well, not everyone adapts by becoming the blueprint of their deceased grandmother.”

You suck in a sharp breath at that. It hurts because it’s true, it hurts because apparently Sherlock doesn’t care now whether he hurts you or not. Maybe there’s something in his eyes, possibly regret, but he carries on anyway, and that is how he has changed, from the awkward rude boy who ordered a coffee from you all those years ago and nearly deduced your worst moments right to your face before he stopped himself.

Sherlock carries on, merciless. You asked for this, but now you’re wondering. His voice is low and rapid and you hate that you have to strain your ears to catch every word.

“You sequestered yourself here, in this cottage in the middle of nowhere, living a life intended for a person much older than you. Became a lonely spinster before the age of thirty. Is that how you intend to spend the rest of your life?”

Looking at him, you wonder. Is it? You wait in the silence, watching each other. You know that he’s a bachelor, or so the London tabloids have declared. You might live in the middle of nowhere but it’s not under a rock - he’s a single bachelor, people think he’s gay and in love with his blogger-flatmate-partner, and maybe that’s true but he’s not just gay. But nobody would think that you, little quiet you, would be the only person alive to know that apart from Sherlock himself.

You look at his face, at the chiselled features that are more filled out, formed, than they used to be. Bachelor might mean eligible. Available. But it means alone, too. For all his prowess - creating his own career, a profession that no one else can fill, that only he can do - he’s still alone. An uncanny similarity, then.

And you remember your face, a fingernail’s distance away from his. You remember the murmur of music and the scent of boiling milk as you stood in the kitchen of your parents’ old house. You remember, with all the force of hurting, that peculiar joyful anguish that comes with remembering him and that time together. The scents and the feeling and the movement push through the moment, dancing sceptres from a past time between your current bodies as those sharp sharp eyes watch you and wait for a reply.

Became a lonely spinster before the age of thirty. Is that how you intend to spend the rest of your life?

You nod with acknowledgement, dipping your chin to your soft jumper before you look back up. Quietly.

“Is it how you plan to spend the rest of your life?”

He stares at you. Says nothing.

Stalemate.

****

Then

The ceremony was dreary. Boring. Utterly and completely tedious. The sun poured full down on them, the black fabric of their gowns burning up. They sat there in rows, bubbling over with wasted pride and ego and completely impractical dreams.

Sherlock tried hard to suppress his sneers. The gown he wore was ridiculous. He had refused to wear the hat, twisting it idly between his hands as he watched his peers walk across the stretch of yellowed grass to the podium, shaking hands and retrieving their scrolls and smiling at the people in the crowd that they knew. Up went Sebastian. He had ordered his gown several months earlier - gained weight since then. It was a tight fit. He would look ridiculous in a suit, working in a bank.

Good.

The girl on his right was shy, frightened of the eyes on her like a rabbit in a lorry’s headlights. She scampered up, scurried back to her seat. Then Sherlock stood before they had finished saying his name; walked over. The man’s hand was unpleasantly damp. Thankfully there wasn’t sweaty fingerprints on his scroll. Not that Sherlock cared, but Mummy might.

He went back to his plain plastic chair, waited for the fuss to all be over. When the watching crowds applauded and the students - ex-students - cheered with unbridled joy and threw their hats up, he slipped through the masses. His parents and Mycroft were standing now, talking to one of the professors. Someone his mother knew.

He changed direction subtly, making sure they didn’t notice. People kept getting in his way. But at last, two elderly uncles shifted aside and left her standing there, in front of him, smiling tentatively as she tilted her head back.

Hair, brushed and glossy in the sunshine; the merest touches of make-up to her eyes and lips. Freshly-painted nails. She had made more than an effort for his graduation day than he had.

“Congratulations, Graduate Chemist.” The way she said it clearly capitalised the initial letters. She glanced down at his gown. “You look dashing.”

“Pfft.” He fumbled with them for a moment before the garment underneath, tied around his waist, came free. He shoved it into her arms. “Here.”

“Sorry?” She took the balled-up, ancient grey hoodie automatically. “Why…”

He gestured to her. “It’s for you.” She was wearing a collared shirt - deep purple, fitted, with long sleeves, buttoned neatly up to her neck. In his opinion, she looked perfectly nice. But judging by her arms - previously crossed over herself, now hugging the hoodie protectively to her - she was uncomfortable.

“I anticipated you would be uncomfortable in the form-fitting clothes you would feel obliged to wear today, as it conforms to your idea of ‘smart’,” he said curtly. “And for some reason you would feel the need to dress smartly. Hence, I brought this.”

She hesitated for a second, mouth opening and closing, before lifting her arms and pulling the hoodie on. Her head poked free, loose hair mussed up. The garment was big even on him; she practically drowned in it, the grubby bottom hems covering mid-thigh of her ironed dark jeans, her hands lost in the too-long sleeves, just the hint of a purple collar at the neckline. Immediately her body-language softened, becoming more at ease.

“So-” Sherlock began, then froze, alarmed, as she looked up. Her eyes were welling. With tears. Why were they doing that? “What are you-”

“S-sorry,” she let out a weak laugh. “It’s just.” She reached a finger out to poke herself in the chest, the grey fabric creasing. “You’re just so nice. I’m…”

“Oh, you’re touched,” he said, sounding scornful in his relief. “Not angry. That’s a relief, but really, Y/N, don’t be disproportionately tedious, I’ve had to suffer through enough of it today. And my parents and Mycroft will only be worse.”

She shook her head, shifting slightly to stand beside him and peer through the crowds. “Okay fine, I’ll try not to start weeping maudlinly on your shoulder. Congratulations, by the way. Really.”

He nodded.

“Where’s your family? Should I…go?”

He read the unspoken question too late. “I’m not introducing you to them.” There - a glimpse of Mycroft’s head. “Believe me, it would be like torture for you. And me. Hardly the sort of thing we need to waste our time with.”

“...Okay,” she said quietly.

“Mycroft will curl his lip and sneer. My parents will come to all sorts of conclusions and ask you too many questions. Especially my mother. She has…” Sherlock shuddered. “Ideas about us. So. They haven’t spotted me yet, so you can stay for a few minutes. And…”

“And?”

“They reserved a place for lunch. But…” Sherlock hesitated. The crowds around them pushed and swelled, buzzing with chatter and laughter, swallowing up their momentary silence. “Dinner?”

He watched the sunlight catch and glitter in her eyes as she smiled. “Yeah.”

“Takeaway. Chips.”

She nodded again. “I’ll bring biscuits.”

He felt himself half-smiling back. “Gingernuts.”

“And chocolate digestives.”

“Deal.”

He watched her bring the baggy sleeves up to her nose and sniff them.

“What are you doing?”

“It smells of you.”

He furrowed his brow. “Yes, well, I didn’t have time to wash it, so-”

“No, it’s a…A good thing.” There was a faint blush on her cheeks. “You’re safe, remember? This is…” She gestured to herself. “Safe.”

Sherlock dipped his chin, unable to think of words. Which was strange. The entire day so far he had thought of nothing but words, rude and scathing and heartless and occasionally, begrudgingly benevolent. “Right. Well. I.” He cleared his throat; between the sharp corners of a student’s hat, he saw his father, craning his head around. “I’ll see you later.”

She nodded. Smiled, lips pressing together, her head tilted at such an angle that he wanted to reach out and hold her jaw. “Later.”

He didn’t look back.

****

Now

This time when you open the door, he’s alive. Every muscle and bone and nerve in his body is sparked with the glow of adrenaline and the flush of pride and success and, probably, ego.

You smile faintly. “The village superhero.”

He scoffs, a smirk in the corners of his mouth. “You heard.”

“I mean, it’s the only thing anyone’s been talking about all day. I can’t believe it was…Him.” You’re loathe to even say the name. “Dr Franklin. He was the one who warned me off the moors at night!”

“Yes, well, good thing he did, wasn’t it,” Sherlock says briskly. You watch him take off his black leather gloves, stuff them into the pockets of his dark blue Belstaff. Behind you, Scott snuffles at the back of your knees.

“Want to come in?” Maybe he’ll stay long enough to drink two cups of tea, this time. Instead of slurping down the one, standing awkwardly in your kitchen, before muttering something about someone’s sugar and leaving. Making it clear, oh so clear, that he came only to see if you had information about the ‘hound’. The fact that you used to know each other was just…collateral damage. A misfortune, maybe. But he’s back this time. And you hate yourself for the way your heart is still a little bit too fast as he stands there, cast in the golden glow of your porch-light.

“Actually, no.” He glances back down the garden path. He’s left the gate ajar. “Care for a drive?”

You frown. “Sorry?”

“A drive,” he elaborates. “I have a car. Hired it. We’re leaving tomorrow - should have left today, but John and Lestrade kicked up a fuss. Wanted to be tourists, or something.”

You look at him for a moment, then make up your mind. “Okay. Sure. Come in.”

His brow furrows. “That’s-”

“While I get my boots,” you add.

He steps inside, shuts the door behind him and offers a hand to Scott while you walk back into your kitchen, making sure the oven is switched off - it is, but after you nearly burnt the centuries’ old cottage down once, you always double-check. You come back into the hallway, and both pairs of eyes, blue and gold, look up at you.

Your sturdy boots are tucked into the fusty cupboard under the stairs. You bang them together out of habit; sit on the last step to unlace and pull them on. Scott wags his tail, suddenly excited. Sherlock watches you smile fondly at your dog.

“He can come.”

You glance up. “Are you sure? We went for a hike earlier, it’s fine, he doesn’t need to-”

“It’s alright.”

“I’m surprised you don’t have a phobia of dogs or something now,” you add, lacing up your right boot.

“No. I like dogs.” Sherlock rubs Scott’s head in emphasis. “Always have. You went for a hike? The police had cordoned off the-”

“No, we walked the other way. We didn’t want to find any pieces of Dr Franklin. Or step on a landmine.”

He smirks in acknowledgement. You stand, reaching for your coat. You’re still dressed, even though it’s nearly ten PM - faded jeans and a thick rollneck. Your coat is waterproof and warm, and you zip it up and then pull Scott’s lead down from the hook. You don’t need to clip it on, simply wrapping it around your neck like a scarf. Scott’s tail wags even faster and he runs out first as you reopen the door.

Sherlock steps out after you, watches you lock the door and slide the old key into your pocket. You hold the gate for him, your frozen breaths forming on the cold air. His car is a black Range Rover, parked up on the curb outside your neighbour’s house, gleaming under the full moon right above you.

“Already turned around?” you joke. “Are you shit at three-point-turns? Trying to avoid embarrassing yourself?”

“I’m not trying to impress you,” he replies levelly.

You hesitate. It feels a bit like you inhaled several ice-cubes, sliding down into your gut. “Okay.”

“No need to,” he continues, unlocking the car. “You’re already well aware of what a cock I am.”

You pull open the back door. Scott jumps in, and you climb into the passenger seat and yank the seatbelt over your shoulder. It smells of a cologne that isn’t Sherlock’s. John Watson’s, maybe.

“Is that the closest I get to an apology?” you ask, the mirth draining from your voice halfway through, leaving your words tired, defeated.

Sherlock starts the car; moves off smoothly, rolling down the lane past the empty parked cars. He doesn’t reply, driving past the pub, out through the tiny village you call your home. He takes the first right, onto the road that opens onto the empty moors. In the back, Scott turns around a few times and then settles down to sleep.

The speed-limit is higher here, the road is wide and deserted, but he keeps the steady cruising pace, his hand curled over the top of the wheel. You glance sideways at him. The moonlight streams into the car, lighting up his features and making him resemble a cold marble statue. A beautiful, aesthetic, unreachable statue. Perfection because of its flaws.

“No,” he says at last, his voice controlled, quiet. “You deserve more than that.”

You nod, staring at the road instead as it becomes a silvery blur. “Yeah.”

“You deserve everything.”

There is something else, another meaning, and even after nine years you can still speak Sherlock so fluently. You blink a few times, too fast.

“It isn’t about what I deserve,” you whisper. He changes gears, the car still rumbling on at the same pace.

“It’s about what I want.”

****

Then

It was entirely too busy. The air-conditioning was not adequate for the hundreds of people around them, in every part of this building, pulling suitcases and checking their watches and making final phone calls.

Farewells.

He was against them.

And standing beside him, her hand tight through his, fingers clenched enough to break his, was her. Departing. That was the point of Departures, after all. They had gotten rid of her suitcase already; taken it to put it on the plane. All that was left was her. Just her.

He was glad her parents - or anyone else - weren’t here. She’d bid them goodbye that morning before she got in the car he’d borrowed from Uncle Rudy. Her parents thought a friend was giving her a lift. Sherlock didn’t know if that was entirely accurate or not.

No amount of air-conditioning could battle the sweltering late August heat. That was the only reason that he felt entirely so jittery - like being high but without any of the pleasantness. It was why his heart kept beating too fast while a doomsday pressure wrapped around his head, his stomach, constricted his sternum just for good measure.

Words had failed them both, so far. Because now it was the actual time to say goodbye. And judging by the tinny female voice echoing from the speakers, announcing her flight, it would have to be now.

Sherlock swallowed, but she beat him to it, shifting until she was in front of him, her new Converse trainers between his shoes.

“So…” Her smile was lopsided. “I know it’s faraway.”

“It’s Germany.”

“Yeah, exactly. But…” She exhaled. He just watched her. “You know I don’t…I don’t want anyone else, right? Just because it’s faraway doesn’t mean…I just…You know that, right?”

He smiled faintly. “Yes.”

Very verbose of you, Sherlock.

She lifted her other hand, touched the collar of the white shirt he was wearing. It was quite smart. Most of his clothes were, these days. Except for the summer days they’d spent hiking across fields and forests; he wore t-shirts and joggers then. Once, even, shorts.

She’d dared him to.

And she had spent most of the summer in shorts and t-shirts too, unabashed and comfortable, pulling off her hiking boots to cool her feet in streams and scrambling up trees, poking her tongue out over her shoulder at him. Because he had been safe.

Past tense already, Sherlock?

She waited. He looked at her, really looked at her, at the person he had spent most of this year with, who was now leaving to spend several years in Germany. He had known that, right from their very first conversation. Known it all along. His reaction now was utterly ridiculous.

And the air-conditioning was truly insufferable.

A long-distance relationship. That was what she had called it, tentatively. He’d agreed.

Her fingers were still wrapped around his, and his shirt collar. “Promise?” she asked, barely above a whisper, as the travellers bustled all around them and another flight was announced overhead. “Promise you’ll keep in touch?”

He bent his head forward, letting himself savour the moment, mouth brushing the corner of her chapped lips before he pressed a kiss to her cheek, inhaling that scent, honey and dewy grass and ancient perfume, one last time.

****

Now

The handbrake crunches sharply as he pulls it up. The cuff of his coat scrapes your knuckles where your hand is curled into the edge of the expensive seat. He’s parked the Range Rover on a stony layby that’s almost too small. Around and in front and behind you the moors stretch out in an expanse of silver and shadows, lit up so bright by the full moon.

On your left is a trail that leads off onto those moors. You’ve seen people taking picnics down the little path before. There’s a stream, if you remember correctly.

Sherlock switches off the headlights, then the engine. Hot air stops gushing from the vents onto your left hand. The car makes a few mechanical clicks, and in the back, Scott yawns loudly and you twist in your seat, glancing over your shoulder as he sits up.

“Fancy a walk?” Sherlock asks, not quite looking at you. “This is far enough away from any landmines. Or any pieces of Dr Franklin.”

You shrug, smiling at the morbid humour. “Sure.”

You slip out into the night, the air so cold against your face and hands, contrasting with the warmth of the car. Scott leaps out with excitement, immediately sniffing the nearest big rock. Sherlock walks around the car, watching as your dog stays well clear of the road, looking up at you for instructions.

“Well-trained.”

“Yeah, he is.” You click your tongue and Scott runs down the path in front of you, sniffing madly at a gorse bush now. “He kind of has to be.”

“Attack dog?”

You hesitate. “…Hmm. Kind of. He will attack on command, if I tell him to.”

Sherlock’s reply takes you by surprise. “Good.”

You stop, crossing your arms over your coat. “Good?” you demand. “You’d better not be dragging me into anything, Sherlock - trying to defeat another archenemy or something - Because he’s not - I’m not going to use-”

Sherlock holds up his hand, still ungloved, glowing pale. “No,” he says quickly. “No, it’s over now. No more confrontations. I’m just.”

You cock your head. “Just what?”

“Glad that he can protect you.”

You press your lips together, suppressing a simultaneous sigh and smile. “I’m not really the same person I used to be, Sherlock.”

You both start walking again. The path widens just enough to walk side-by-side, your coat-sleeves brushing together every few steps.

“I know,” he says quietly. “You’re not too different, however.”

“Neither are you, actually.”

The moors are truly beautiful at night. Especially on a clear, frosty, starry night. You can’t see too many of the stars overhead, thanks to the moon, but you can see all the constellations glittering on the horizons. Your breaths crystallize on the air as you tip your head back, watching the elusive glitter of the Pleiades.

“You can’t look directly at it.”

Sherlock’s voice is like a baritone London broadcaster of your mental consciousness. You glance at him, and he carries on. “Looking directly at it reduces its visibility. Looking just to the side means that you can see more stars in your peripheral vision. You-”

“I taught you that,” you interrupt, suddenly overwhelmed.

“Yes.” He extends his right hand, tracing a line with his forefinger. “And that is Orion’s Belt.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is.” Why do you sound half-choked? You swallow twice, blinking back tears. “I’m surprised it stuck around in your mind palace.”

“The fact that the Earth revolves around the Sun was deleted for eight years,” he says. “John reminded me of it when he became my flatmate. Couldn’t believe I didn’t remember it, actually.”

You start to laugh. It sounds suspiciously like sobs. Scott, a few metres up ahead, stops and looks back at you. Sherlock also looks concerned, from what you can see of his face.

“Y/N-”

“No, just. Sherlock, stop.” You take a deep icy breath; contrarily, the two of you are still walking, dipping down into a little valley now, leaving the car and the road behind. The gravel and rocks crunch underfoot. “It’s just so. After everything, I can’t believe…I didn’t really think I’d see you again.”

“Hmm.”

“And I didn’t think that you’d…That we’d…” You gesture to the moors. “My point is, that I never thought I’d do this again with you. Going for a walk and saying nothing or saying…Everything. All the things I never tell people.”

“Like?” His voice is soft.

“Like the book I was reading when you knocked on my door, the other day. It’s got a plot-twist. Or so somebody told me, but I haven’t got to it yet.”

Sherlock nods, his hands now stuffed deep in his pockets. You get to the stream. There’s a few rocks placed strategically across it. Scott jumps down into the bubbling water, laps at it before scrambling up onto the other side and shaking out dramatically.

“You idiot,” you laugh affectionately, descending down the little bank, Sherlock behind. “You only got your ankles wet.”

Scott throws you a cheeky glance. You grin back at him. It takes Sherlock clearing his throat for you to suddenly remember that he’s there.

This happened before, years ago. You had forgotten he was there and he had taken it to mean he didn’t count. But the truth was that he counted in the way only he ever had. You felt comfortable enough around him to simply be yourself, to not be hyper-vigilant of yourself in his company. It seems that even after nine years, and less than an accumulative hour spent with him since, you still feel at home around him.

“Need a torch?”

“Nah, it’s okay.” One foot to the middle stone; it rocks slightly under your weight and then you leap up the other side, looking back to see Sherlock copying you. He sees you watching, and winks as he strides past, silver moonlight catching in his blue eyes.

You swallow, hurrying to fall back into stride with him. His style of coat is longer than it used to be and it billows so impressively behind him. The flair is nonchalant. You wonder how many times he walked up and down a room with a floor-length mirror, practising.

The conversation beings naturally, and then it doesn’t stop. You tell him about the various flowers and trees and shrubs; he tells you about a murder case where a body had been beaten by a branch of gorse bush. You tell him about moving back from Germany, about choosing to come here, about Scott as a puppy. He tells you about London and Scotland Yard and the police officers who mostly think he’s an oddity, and about St Barts’ and John Watson and Baker Street.

You both ask questions. Mrs Hudson’s husband ran a drug cartel? Yes, and she did exotic dancing too. Your poem from the point of view of a watering-can is really in a street-art mosaic in Germany? Yeah, I’ll email you the pictures. If I can have your email. Why not? I don’t know, maybe it’s exclusive.

He snorts at that.

And you keep walking, straying from the path and sinking calf-deep into heather, crossing another stream - one without a proper series of stepping rocks and so you hold each other’s hands for balance. The air stops being so icy and you barely notice the crystallized puffs of your words because they’re so frequent. By the time an hour has passed - certainly by the ninety-minute mark - you’re entirely caught up on each other’s lives and a lot else besides.

You’re walking uphill now, out of the shadows cast by a few meagre trees. Sherlock has the torch in his right hand, though he switches it off whenever it isn’t necessary. Somehow he always seems to sense the exact moment when your step falters and you need a little bit more light.

You hate that you still slot with him like two pieces of a lonely jigsaw puzzle that no one could ever solve.

Scott got caught up investigating the bracken. He runs past you, lithe muscles rippling under his glossy tricolour fur, then stops squarely at the top of the little hill, his ears pricking.

You hurry up, clicking your tongue to make sure Scott stays put, and Sherlock follows lead, by your side in two long strides. But whatever you’re expecting - it isn’t what this. Even though you should have.

Scattered out across you, mostly unbothered by your presence, are wild ponies.

“Shh,” you say softly, brushing your hand across Scott’s head. He wags his tail briefly against your leg, stock still and watchful.

“Horses,” Sherlock murmurs. The three of you look at the grazing herd, shaggy-tailed and wild-maned and bristly and untamed. There’s a rustic beauty to them, their muddy brown backs gleaming a silver sheen.

“Let’s go this way,” you suggest, pointing to your left, where there’s less of them. Some ponies raise their heads as you pass, but they aren’t too spooked. You glance back a few times until they’re out of sight, hidden by a rocky outcrop.

Sherlock keeps glancing at you. You can see it, the tiny movements of his chin and eyes in your direction. You keep your eyes front, watching Scott’s progress, watching the stars, listening to the crunch and thud of footsteps; the screech of an owl. Maybe there’ll be a shooting star and you can make a wish.

That part of your brain - the part that serves you well as an authoress and shames you as a person - wonders. Bees, two coats, midnight drives. Someone who would come back after months and call it coming home. Faraway, but you.

You’d never felt the need to be in each other’s pockets. Yet somehow, you always had been.

Nine years is a long time, but it isn’t a decade.

It startles you when he breaks the silence.

“I have never done romantic entanglements.” He hesitates. “Since.”

You smile involuntarily. “No, me neither.” Then - you have to ask it. “What does that make us?”

“To the rest of the world? Batty and insane to not be dabbling with the myriad tediousness of dating. After all, society could never fathom that two conventionally attractive people-”

You blink, staring at him. “Wait, wait. You think I’m attractive?”

He stares back at you. “Obviously.”

You smile a bit wider, heat in your cheeks that isn’t just from the cold or from the exercise. Then, slowly, it fades. You stop, turning to him. He stops too.

“You hurt me,” you say softly. “What you did, Sherlock, how you did it, it was so cruel. It hurt me.”

Sherlock studies his feet. “I know,” he says, so quietly that only the white puff of air is proof that you didn’t imagine it. Then he looks up. “I don’t do romantic entanglements, Y/N. I never have. I just…” He swallows. “I just had the one.”

You stare at each other. Scott comes back to see what the fuss is about, brushing against your knees. Sherlock’s blue eyes are unfairly piercing, preternaturally stunning, under the moonlit skies, and you make up your mind somewhere around that point, though what you’ve decided is still a mystery.

“Had?”

Sherlock swallows. Throws the adjusted word out there slowly, like a peace-treaty. “Have.”

You nod, tucking your fingers under your crossed arms. “Before,” you say. “Nine years ago, what we had, what we were…”

“Yes?”

“We were just two people who needed each other.” You take a deep breath.

“Except, I never stopped needing you.”

He looks down again. “I know.”

“And maybe…I think, at some point, needing just became wanting. I needed you back then, Sherlock, even if neither of us realised it, because you were safe and funny and so inexplicably kind and you treated me like I mattered, and that year was one of the toughest of my life. But you made it so much better. You were what I needed. When I went to Germany, I did get tougher, I grew a backbone…Especially after what you did,” you add, somewhat bitterly.

“So I don’t need you now. I’ve got to a place where I’m just…Happy. Sequestered, like you said. And I’m perfectly content with that. But Sherlock…I’ve never stopped wanting you.” You hesitate, but this is a full confession, and here under the silver-black skies, in the middle of the moors, no one will ever know what you say apart from him. “I’d imagine what you’d think of my cottage, my books, my dog, my life. Of me. I’d wonder what you were doing. Every time I came across a mention of you in the London tabloids I’d remember what you were like as a uni-student and what I was like, and what we were like, and I’d…I’d want. So badly. You, Sherlock, literally just you, for you to come back. And now you’re back, and you’re…” You gesture at him. “Grown-up and even more unfairly handsome and sort of…Matured. Developed.”

He scoffs a little bit at that, glancing up at you every few seconds.

“So the wanting never stopped. I deserve more than you, probably. I deserved better than what you did to me.”

“I know.”

“But I still want you. I still need you. And I just…Honestly? I think I always will.”

“I know.”

You feel strangely light, giddy, like the words have lifted a physical pressure off you. That’s why you giggle a bit. “Is that all you say now?”

His eyes flash up with amusement. You share a quiet laugh, and then he inhales shakily. His voice is rough.

“I know,” he says again. “Everything you have said is…True. For me, also. And…You do deserve more. But for what it’s worth, I’m…sorry.”

Your heart is racing. Somewhere, an owl screeches, and the echoes of a horse’s whinny play around the rocks and bushes.

You take a single, crunching step closer.

****

Then

The birthday present arrived midway through his first - forced - stay in rehab. The card was a joke in German, something he struggled to remember, forcing his way through his mind palace until he could recall the quip she had once made. She had signed it Much love. Even despite the fact it had been seven weeks since he had last replied to an email; nine weeks since they had spoken on the phone. The gaps were getting longer.

If they’d spoken, she would have guessed he was using. He had disappointed enough people. His mother. His father. Even Mycroft, who had arranged this. Having her, all the way over in Germany, still believe in him was something. Believing in a false version of him, but how would she know?

She didn’t, or she wouldn’t have signed this card.

He traced his finger over the blue ink. Much love. What did it even mean? Was he capable of understanding it?

The present itself - a book - got destroyed less than a year later; how, he couldn’t remember. A small explosion, an experiment gone awry.

The card, he kept. The blue ink, the shape of those words, under his name and above hers, were sacred, even years after he had stopped responding.

Soft-cornered, old, faded; he kept it. He carried it up the stairs into 221b in the case of his violin.

****

Now

You give him a copy of your first book. The bees - the wild ones - are humming around the blossomed flowers in your front garden, and the morning sunlight is already warm and balmy. He stands there on your doorstop, coated and gloved and utterly impossible, and flicks to the very first page.

You’d printed his name out neatly, in block capitals, in the top left corner. At the bottom right corner, just above the margin, in your best - almost indecipherable - calligraphy, you’ve signed it with your name.

Much love, you had added, just above, after a few moments’ hesitation.

Much love, much love, much love; it was true.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. His gloved thumb swipes across the declaration of affection, then curls under your name. The page corners are sharp. He’s lucky he has a defence or he’d get a papercut.

The moments are stretching out, infinite as they are, very certainly, numbered. A neighbour’s hedgecutter starts up. John Watson and Lestrade are back at the pub, with the car Sherlock hired, waiting. These few seconds are, for all you know, all you have left of this man.

“You’re in it,” you say suddenly.

Sherlock glances up. “What?”

The absolute surprise in his voice makes you laugh. “You’re the ghost.” The humour fades slightly. “You’re the ghost who is always…there. You’re a bit of an arsehole, all things considered, but you do the right thing. And…” You breathe out. “You come back.”

“To life? Or do I simply get a divine purpose in my afterlife or some such…” Sherlock trails off, slightly guiltily. “Trite,” he finishes, anyway, because he’s Sherlock Holmes.

You smile faintly. “Read it and find out.”

He nods. Looks down again at the annotated front page. Then up at you. You give him a smile, wry and sad and filled with the moonlight of last night, a thousand moments there, the wind in your hair and the rare touch of his lips and so many memories.

“I guess we’ll see if you’re better at keeping in touch this time.”

He nods again, swallows.

“I’ll try to be.”

akutsukiis-blog

This is so beautiful holy please write a book about anything I'll buy it 😭