Colbert’s reaction is absolutely priceless. So is Martin’s for that matter. Damn, I wish I knew what he said. I want to incorporate such curses into my everyday life and vocabulary.
Here it is, my friends, the last chapter!! I hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I have writing and posting. It's been fantastic and I'm completely blown away with the love and support. Thank you so much. Without further ado....Enjoy!
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The following day’s travels went without a hitch, beginning with waking in each other’s arms and then sharing a companionable breakfast wherein they ran through their plans. Sherlock and John could not be seen traveling together and each found their own way to the ports for a ferry ticket. Once aboard, they took seats within sight of one another for the eight and a half hour trip to Naples. They locked eyes only a handful of times, each reading his own books carried in separate knapsacks. Both had two bottles of water and snacks as well, which John had insisted on. Sherlock rolled his eyes, the git.
They spent the train trip from Naples to Rome in a similar way. It was over an hour and they spent it in separate compartments. John believed Sherlock even selected a different car from the one he settled in. John spent most of the ferry trip reading. In fact, he finished one book and started another. He made no further progress on it during the train trip, however, spending nearly the whole time just staring at it and thinking about Sherlock. It had been much easier to keep his thoughts from straying while on the ferry. On the train, it was impossible. Possibly because the man was not in his line of vision, but more probably because a couple had seated themselves in his compartment. Their quiet conversation, private jokes, and low laughter only served to remind John of himself and Sherlock. The woman was pregnant, obviously due in a month or two, and the man doted, but not overly so.
Before the train left the station, another man entered the compartment. He had a rather extensive mustache that looked in need of a trim, or just a full-on shave. He stood in the doorway for a moment to survey his three companions for the trip and then moved to sit by the window at the far end of John’s long seat. The train had older cars that featured compartments with a padded bench on either side and an open space for everyone’s legs in the center. The only window was on the wall opposite the door.
John largely ignored the other passengers and they did the same. The couple spent the time speaking to one another in hushed tones and the man kept his nose in a newspaper. John stared at his book without reading. His thoughts were filled with Sherlock; his voice that morning as they talked over breakfast and the night before, gasping John’s name. John could still feel his breath on his neck, plush lips on his own, and hands on his skin. God, it had been perfect. Better than any dream or fantasy he had ever had. The only thing missing was summoning the courage to tell Sherlock how he felt about him and their relationship and his time away. The latter was the closest John came to sharing. He had told Sherlock of his sorrow and anger, self-destructive grief and how he emerged on the other side singularly motivated by revenge, but John did not say anything about how much he loved Sherlock. He obviously knew John was attracted to him. There couldn’t be any doubt of that after the rather mind-blowing sex, and they didn’t even take off their clothes.
John hadn’t really broached certain other topics either, but it didn’t seem necessary since his actions had made it clear that he was, in fact, not straight. He was quick to deny being gay throughout their association, but had never bothered correcting anyone that he was bisexual. He must have hidden it well too, because even Sherlock himself had been surprised to learn the true nature of John’s orientation last night. John still felt rather smug about that, but it concerned him as well. Sherlock hadn’t said word one about it before they left the flat. He might have just been distracted by the travel plans and disguises. That was what John told himself anyway.
John wiggled his upper lip without thinking. The false mustache tickled slightly and his finger itched to smooth it out, but he knew he’d take it right off. He glanced at the man by the window and wondered how he could stand having that bushy thing on his face all the time. No, it was definitely not for John. He shook his head as he adjusted the wire-framed glasses on his nose. His clothing was more or less like something he would wear in life; jeans, a button down shirt, and thin jacket. Decidedly not a jumper.
Sherlock’s disguise consisted of khaki shorts, a dark green t-shirt, hiking boots, and sunglasses. He also had a bandana tied over his hair, effectively covering it. Not that it looked like his hair anyway. Sherlock surprised John once again with his ability to change his whole appearance by altering one small thing. In this case, the man slicked his hair back so it was straight and dark before tying the bandana over it. He wore his knapsack as a backpack and looked the picture of a pale American tourist, come to Italy to play frisbee football. John smiled to himself as he thought back on the moment he’d seen Sherlock in his full regalia that morning. He had just walked in the open bathroom door intending to ask Sherlock a question, but just stopped and stared instead.
“What?” Sherlock had asked, catching sight of John in the mirror.
“Is that necessary?” John had replied with a wave of his hand.
“Essential,” Sherlock said decisively. “My curls are too distinctive. It is also why I often use sunglasses. They either hide or soften the cheekbones.”
John had watched a moment more with disapproval before answering and then turning away.
“I prefer the curls,” he mumbled and walked away. Sherlock was still watching him when he turned around with a cheeky grin and added: “and the cheekbones.”
John blinked as the train slowed suddenly and lurched its way into the station. They had arrived in Rome. The woman across from John collected her purse while her partner picked up a bag resting on the floor. The man by the window folded his newspaper, tucked it under his arm, and looked out the window. John snapped his book closed and shoved it into the knapsack on the seat next to him.
When the train stopped moving, the couple rose and passed by John to leave. He gestured to the man by the window to go ahead. The man gave a shallow nod and muttered a grazie as he went for the door. John stood back to wait until the man was safely by and then walked out into the car’s hallway to join the other patrons, ready to depart. They were all off in short order and heading their separate ways.
Both John and Sherlock had come through this station when traveling to Palermo and remembered it well enough to pick a rendezvous point they could find easily. They wanted to meet up again and go to the safe house more or less together, but with a safe distance in between.
John had not seen hide nor hair of Sherlock since disembarking from the ferry. He had no doubt, however, that the man had been on the train and would meet him at the designated spot. John made his way through the busy station, approaching a set of stairs that would take him down a level and away from the platforms. He was about to take the first step down when a viselike grip clamped around his left arm and the end of a gun barrel poked into his back. He stopped dead and turned his head just enough to make out a tall figure as it pressed up close behind.
“Keep walking, Dr. Watson,” a cold voice commanded in his ear. “We don’t want to get in anyone’s way.”
John faced forward again and walked down the stairs stiffly. His eyes darted around as he walked. Any bid for freedom he made couldn’t be in the open with all these people around. His captor was liable to start shooting and John didn’t suspect the man would care much about who else he hit. He was most likely on Costa’s payroll and sought revenge for the night before. He must have busted his ass to catch up with John so quickly. Resourceful, if nothing else. John thought of Sherlock, hoping he was safely on his way to their meeting spot. It just so happened that John and his captor were walking in the opposite direction.
The gunman held fast to John’s arm, hard enough to bruise, as they went. They stayed close to the wall so John had fewer escape routes. Just one level down from the platforms, the number of people about had already decreased significantly. John was watching for an opportunity when the man suddenly shoved him through a door to the left and then slammed him into the wall behind it.
John’s left temple hit the metal door hard when he was rammed through it without warning. He did manage to throw his right hand out in front of his body as he slammed into the concrete wall, but it only slowed his momentum slightly and he crashed into it. His head was screaming as the man behind yanked the knapsack from his hand and threw it aside. He twisted John’s left arm behind his back and pulled up. John knew he either meant to break his elbow or dislocate it, but he couldn’t make his own body cooperate to stop it from happening. His vision was blurry and the stars he saw were only just beginning to fade.
The man wrenched again, sending a searing pain up John’s arm and into his shoulder. He jabbed his gun into the scar at John’s shoulder and kicked at his left leg at the same time, knocking it from beneath. John went down hard on the knee, forcing the other to buckle as well. White hot pain burned at both points on his body and radiated outward. A cry flew from his lips before he could stop it and it echoed through the dark, empty hall. The man pressed his knee into John’s shoulder and dug the barrel of his gun into the back of his neck.
“How’s that feel, eh?” Growled a low voice. “Thought you’d be harder to find. Imagine my surprise when I stumbled right into you as soon as I set foot on the train.”
John winced as the man pressed his knee harder. He had to get out of this. He had to get away, but his attacker knew just where to hit and how fast to do it. It wasn’t going to be easy. Christ, John hoped Sherlock was waiting impatiently where he was supposed to be.
“Where’s Holmes?” The man demanded, forcing the gun tighter against John’s neck.
“Graveyard,” John gasped.
“Bullshit!”
“He’s dead,” John spat.
The man leaned down, his lips very close to John’s ear and rasped in a cruel tone.
“Don’t insult my intelligence, Doctor,” he was amused. “We both know that’s not true.”
He gave John a long moment to reply. When he said nothing, the man abruptly stepped back and kicked the bottom of his boot into the middle of John’s back. His blonde head fell back and a growl of pain filled the hall. John tried to turn and swing his right arm out to hit the man, but it proved too difficult to reach while on his knees and the man was back on him in an instant. He pressed John against the wall again, his gun back on his neck.
“Make no mistake, I’d like nothing more than to kill you right here, right now,” he told John with an angry grimace. “Some of the ones you murdered were mates of mine, but Moran wants you alive.”
John’s eyes flew open wide. He should have known his attacker wasn’t one of Costa’s dime-a-dozen. Moran had sent him, which meant Moran knew John was actively taking down Moriarty’s web and that Sherlock was too. Shit. Shit! John had to find some way to warn Sherlock. His eyes darted around for anything he could use as a weapon or leave as a clue. The gun pressed into his neck harder and the man grabbed John’s left wrist where its arm hung limply. He twisted it forcefully and laughed.
“Get up,” he grunted as John shouted out once more. “We’re going on a trip, you and I. Holmes’ll come running when he sees what we do to you.”
The man pulled at John’s arm to get him to his feet and then released it almost immediately. A sickening clang of metal on bone echoed through the dark hall, and then another. A loud thud sounded on the floor behind John, followed by another metallic thunk. He wanted to turn around and look, but his injured body wouldn’t obey his brain’s commands. Instead, he sagged and slid sideways down the wall. Two large hands cradled his head as it neared the floor, guarding against another hard knock. John blinked slowly and looked up, desperate to see who it was.
“John!” An edgy baritone begged. There was a warm hand on each of his cheeks as he stared into the glistening blue-green eyes of Sherlock Holmes. “John, please, look at me.”
John blinked again and his friend came into focus. A weak smile graced John’s lips as gentle fingertips touched his left temple. Sherlock’s lips pressed together in a tight line and his brows furrowed with worry. John tried to reassure him, but the words wouldn’t come. He wanted to sit up so he could see Sherlock properly and was met with much resistance from his bruised back. He gasped and winced in pain.
“John! John, wait. Alright? Just wait,” Sherlock pulled a handkerchief from his knapsack and pressed it to John’s temple lightly. “Hold still.”
John tried to get his bearings and piece together what had just happened. Where was his attacker? Where the hell had Sherlock come from? He turned his head slowly, but didn’t make it far before a dizzying wave rushed over him and his head rolled back.
“John. John, can you sit up if I help you? John?” The handkerchief was no longer at his temple and Sherlock’s hands were warm on his cheeks again.
“Yeah,” John groaned in a voice that didn’t sound like his own.
Sherlock nodded, holding onto John firmly but gingerly and pulling him up. Once sat, John looked around slowly. Moving even his eyes too quickly would result in dizziness and nausea. He took in the body of a man nearby, bleeding and broken, and a long metal bar not far from him.
“Sherlock, what…” John started to move and stopped short, pressing his eyes shut and his lips together in pain.
“Just wait, John,” Sherlock insisted. He looked John over and then glanced down the hall before focusing on John’s face again. “We have to get out of here. Can you walk at all?”
“Yeah, I need to — shit, the guy from the train!” John exclaimed, getting his first good look at the man lying on the floor. It was unmistakably the man from the train who had sat on John’s bench, reading a newspaper for the entire trip. He must have recognized John as soon as he walked in the door and then sat down not believing his luck. Staring a bit longer at the prone man and the metal bar, John’s mind finally caught up.
“Is he dead?”
“I don’t care,” Sherlock answered just before yanking John’s limp left arm with his own right hand. His left was pressed against John’s bicep to keep it and his shoulder in place. John’s whole body lurched.
“Fuck!” John shouted and grabbed his left arm with his right, clutching it to his body. “Fucking fuck!”
“Dislocated. That should do it,” Sherlock told him plainly. John glared up at him, breathing hard.
“Fuck me, you mad bastard,” he snarled between gritted teeth. Sherlock’s mouth curled up smugly and John was damned if it wasn’t a glorious sight.
“Perhaps later,” Sherlock chuckled as he wrapped an arm around John’s waist and draped John’s good arm around his shoulders, holding onto his hand once it was in place. “We have to leave. Come on.”
He helped John to his feet and managed to lead him out of the station inconspicuously enough.
*********
Roughly an hour later, they shoved open the door to a flat on the fourth floor of a large apartment building and walked in. Sherlock still had an arm around John’s waist and a significant part of his weight leaned on Holmes. The knee John had gone down on was not broken, but was bruised badly and swollen. Sherlock kicked the door closed behind them and helped John to a chair. Neither man said a word as he turned back to deadbolt the door and then fell to his knees before John. A gentle hand cupped John’s cheek and their lips met. The kiss was sweet and light, an apology for not getting there faster and a thank you for making it at all.
Sherlock’s eyes were soft and caring when he broke away to look at John. He kissed the corner of John’s mouth and smoothed back his hair.
“I want to get you into the bath,” he whispered in John’s ear. His soft lips touched the shell of it and John shivered, his eyes drifting closed. Sherlock pulled back all too quickly and was frowning when John opened his eyes again to see why.
“I have to speak with Mycroft first,” Sherlock said with regret. “I’m already overdue.”
“S’fine,” John smiled tiredly. “I can wait.”
Sherlock didn’t move for a long moment, like he didn’t want to stop touching John or even look away for fear he would vanish. John’s smile only grew and he leaned into the warm touch of Sherlock’s hand on his face.
“I’ll be right here,” John said quietly.
Sherlock continued looking into his eyes and then gave a shallow nod. He kissed John once more and rose, walking to the desk a few feet away and powering up the laptop. His call was accepted as soon as he entered his credentials into the secure platform of choice. Mycroft’s office appeared on the screen within seconds, the man himself front and center at his own desk.
“Sherlock, thank god,” Mycroft said by way of greeting. He looked over-tired and very concerned, though there was some relief in his expression at seeing his younger brother. “We have received a host of disturbing reports and when you didn’t call on schedule…”
“A delay that was unavoidable,” Sherlock interrupted, but not as coldly as John expected. “I’m alright.”
“I am pleased to hear it, brother mine,” Mycroft replied genuinely, with not even a little sarcasm.
John was gobsmacked. Things had certainly changed between the Holmes brothers. They actually seemed to like one another a bit, which made John wonder if he really had been killed back at the train station. Was this hell frozen over or perhaps some version of the afterlife where strife did not exist? Could he be dreaming? John looked around the room, then back at Sherlock and the laptop. No, it was real.
“We had reports of another assassin reaching your location,” Mycroft was saying.
“Yes, I did run into him,” Sherlock supplied, leaning forward and resting his hands on either side of the laptop. “Tell me, Mycroft, how is John?”
“Why?” he asked suspiciously after a long moment.
John sat up a little at the question, realizing for the first time that he was out of Mycroft’s line of vision. The laptop’s camera only allowed him a foot or so on either side of Sherlock and John was well out of that range. Sherlock was baiting his brother to see if he would lie. John sat back in his seat again and sighed contentedly. Oh, yes, this was real.
“It had been some time since you’ve mentioned him,” Sherlock answered innocently, “and I would like an update.”
“It hasn’t been any longer than when you last asked of him,” Mycroft replied evasively.
“True,” Sherlock played along, “but regardless, I’m asking now.”
Mycroft paused to shift his gaze to the left of his own camera. He was considering, debating whether to lie or tell the truth. In the past, he would’ve lied without even flinching. Sherlock still would have known, but not because his brother gave any sign of deception. Mycroft was very good at what he did.
“John Watson,” Mycroft met Sherlock’s eyes again and spoke without hesitation, “has gone missing.”
There was a long pause while Mycroft waited for Sherlock to explode. He straightened his spine and squared his shoulders, ready for the verbal assault. For his part, Sherlock hadn’t moved a muscle and continued to stare at the screen. John leaned forward to better see Sherlock’s face. Though he gave little indication of it, John could tell he was pleased. Real, but things had certainly changed during Sherlock’s absence.
“Missing?” Sherlock repeated.
“Yes, for quite some time,” Mycroft was loath to admit. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. We are trying to locate him and determine his condition.”
“Quite alright, Mycroft, I happen to know exactly where he is,” Sherlock said calmly and just a bit smugly.
Mycroft did not answer, but his face instantly morphed into an expression of pure consternation. It was more emotion than John had ever seen on his countenance before. Apparently, Mycroft Holmes could be taken aback after all. John grinned to himself and relaxed into his chair again with some minor relief. It was short-lived, however, as every one of his new bruises beginning to make itself known.
“He’s right here with me, actually,” Sherlock continued, taking pity on the very startled Mycroft. Sherlock lifted one hand and started to turn the laptop towards John.
“With you?” Mycroft parrotted, his eyes wide as John came into view. John gave a little wave with the fingers of his right hand. Mycroft’s shoulder lowered a bit as the tension drained from his body. “My god, the other assassin.”
“Well done, Mycroft,” Sherlock remarked with a degree of sarcasm, turning the laptop back. “It would seem we’ve been working towards the same goal. He was already in Costa’s office when I arrived.”
The last was said with some pride as Sherlock cast a glance at John. He wore an appraising smile on his face. John gave a nod, his own grin beginning to form. At their best when they’re together.
“You neutralized Costa and escaped together, I take it. We have a very interesting report involving… rooftops, was it?” Mycroft asked in the self-assured tone John was used to.
“And met with some resistance when our train arrived in the station,” Sherlock’s tone was deadly serious and Mycroft detected the change immediately. “An unidentified man forced John to a secluded area. He meant to take him to Moran and use him to draw me out. Moran knows John is dismantling the network and knows I am as well.”
“He knows you’re alive,” Mycroft said with some trepidation. “You’re certain?”
“Without doubt.” Sherlock answered in a clipped tone. He glanced at John with concern in his eyes and then looked back at his brother. “John is injured. We’ll stay here a day or two and then meet you in Munich as planned. Moran is the only target left and must be dealt with swiftly.”
“I will send a small detail for you,” Mycroft agreed. “It will ensure your safety.”
Sherlock paused, considering. John knew he would refuse the offer if he were alone or even if John was able-bodied, but injured as he was, Sherlock felt he couldn’t refuse. Frustration surged through John, but there was nothing for it. He didn’t want to be the liability he was.
“Just don’t send idiots,” Sherlock warned mildly and lifted his hand to end the call.
“Take care, brother mine,” Mycroft’s lips curled slightly into the hint of a smile.
“Laters,” Sherlock snarked and ended the call. He closed the laptop and turned to John. Four long strides later, he stood in front of John’s chair and squatted down to meet his eyes.
“Ok?” Sherlock asked, seeing the discomfort in John’s face and posture.
“It’s not bad,” John answered from behind gritted teeth. Sherlock looked at him knowingly and covered a hand with his own.
“Let’s draw that bath,” he told John in a gentle tone. “Come on. I want to take a look at you whilst the water runs.”
A few minutes later, John watched clear water flow from a copper faucet into a deep clawfoot tub from where he sat on a chair Sherlock had dragged in from another room. The whole bathroom was steamy and inviting. It made John relaxed and sleepy. He shook his head slightly to snap out of it. He would have to be careful not to doze off once in the water. God, he couldn’t wait to sink down into its depths. The boot-shaped bruise on his back ached with more intensity than seemed possible. His left knee and shoulder had not improved in the slightest. He held his left arm with his right, releasing it only when Sherlock carefully removed the jacket from his body, and the button-down after it. John could see his wince at the mark of his back and decided he would wait to look at it himself.
“You’re sure there’s a left-handed sling with the first-aid stuff?” he asked again. Sherlock met his eyes in the wall mirror near the tub.
“Positive,” Sherlock smirked. He walked around John’s chair to stand before him.
John shifted in the seat slightly when Sherlock suddenly dropped to his knees, not taking his eyes off John’s. He removed one of John’s shoes and then the other. The socks followed and, as John wondered if the trousers were next, one of his favorite fantasies began to play out in his head. So much so, John almost groaned in frustration when Sherlock let his trousers be and stood again.
“We need to get your trousers off,” Sherlock told him. “Can you stand?”
‘Damn right, we do, and now’ was what John wanted to say, but he managed a simple affirmation and made to rise. He let Sherlock help him up without complaint. Once steady on his feet, Sherlock opened John’s jeans and pulled them down to his knees. Then he paused and bit his lower lip, trying not to look at John’s body. John couldn’t help but grin.
“The pants have to come off too,” he said cheekily. Sherlock glared.
“I know that,” he barked defensively. Though his demeanor quickly changed when he saw John’s face. “It’s just not something I’ve done… I’ve not seen… you.”
“It’s not that different from anyone else’s, believe me,” John assured him fondly. “It’s fine.”
With a fortifying inhalation, Sherlock cautiously latched his thumbs into the waistband at John’s hips and inched it down slowly. When the garment caught up with his jeans, John sat so both could be pulled off completely. This time when the fantasy started in John’s head, he could tell Sherlock was watching a similar scene in his own mind. Unfortunately, the black and purple bruise covering John’s knee startled the arousal out of both men. It had already crept up his thigh and down his calf. Looking at it, John sincerely hoped the one on the back of his shoulder looked better. He didn’t have much hope for the footprint on his back. At least the cut on his left temple wasn’t bad and he was not concussed. It had bled a fair amount, but most head injuries do.
Sherlock helped John into the bath with the utmost care and even gave him a few minutes to soak before beginning to wash. John sighed tiredly but happily as Sherlock sponged his back with as gentle a touch he could manage.
“We’ll leave in a couple days,” John breathed, bending his neck slightly and bowing his head.
“As soon as Mycroft’s minions arrive, yes,” Sherlock answered from over John’s shoulder. “Will you have recovered well enough by then?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” John turned his head and twisted his back as much as he could tolerate to look at the man. Sherlock gave up the sponge and moved to the faucet side of the tub so John didn’t have to turn at all to meet his eyes. “Thank you. For saving me, I mean.”
“You’re welcome,” Sherlock whispered.
For a long moment, they did nothing but look at one another, searching for answers to unspoken questions and finding them easily. Like a moth to a flame, John leaned forward. Sherlock did the same, cupping the man’s face with his hands. Their lips met softly in the steamy air. The kiss was slow and chaste and hot enough to melt ice. When they parted once again, John rested his forehead against Sherlock’s and let out a long sigh.
“When this is all over, I want us both to move into your room, ” John swallowed hard and pulled away to look at Sherlock, who was more than a little surprised by his declaration. “For good.”
Sherlock studied him for a moment as the shock fell away. The corners of his mouth turned up slowly into a soft smile that warmed John all the way down to his core. A long thumb stroked over his cheek so gently John thought his heart would burst right out of his chest.
“I would love nothing more,” Sherlock breathed into the still air.
Resting their foreheads together again, they both let out a quiet chuckle. Sherlock tilted his head up a bit, lips searching for John’s and finding them softly. Soft turned into eager and insistent, John’s right hand finding the back of Sherlock’s head. His head tilted as fingers buried themselves in his curls, inching up from the base of his skull. The tip of each finger tingled as they passed through the thick, soft strands. John reveled in the feeling of safety, of home.
“Get in,” John rasped with a harsh breath as he pulled back to look at Sherlock. He could feel that his eyes were blown wide. Quick huffs of breath from his lips heated the air between them.
“What?” Sherlock blinked, confusion and arousal plain in his voice. “In…”
“The tub,” John finished his question in a firm tone that also hinted at desperation, not that he cared. “Get in.”
“I’m fully clothed,” Sherlock almost laughed.
John was undeterred. His arms snaked under Sherlock’s and he pulled up to hoist the tall man into the tub only to hiss in pain. John let go immediately and sank back against the side, his right hand cradling his left shoulder. His left arm hung limply in the water, its hand resting in his lap. Sherlock rose to his feet and touched John’s shoulder gently.
“John?” He said quietly.
“I’m fine,” John shook his head. “S’fine.”
“You need to soak,” Sherlock’s voice floated through the steamy air, “and relax. Those bruises need time to heal.”
Sherlock crouched down beside the bathtub again, his eyes even with John’s. A glint of disappointment shone in his stormy, blue gaze. Sherlock shook his head slowly and placed a hand over John’s where it clasped his shoulder.
“We have time,” Sherlock began and John took a deep breath, but did not speak. “We’re together now. You don’t have to do this alone anymore. I’ll take care of you and we’ll defeat Moran together. John, trust me, I will never leave your side again.”
Sherlock’s words, his intense ever-changing blue eyes bore into John’s brain and body, right to his soul. John had come a long way in the last few months, but the last twenty-four hours had turned his life upside down. He now sat looking into the eyes of a man he never expected to see again. This man, pledging himself to John in every way he knew how with a sincerity that spoke volumes.
“I know,” John smiled, an excitement building within him. He felt it for the first time in a long time, or perhaps even for the first time since meeting Sherlock, the true belief that he wasn’t just the sidekick who could be left behind. The trust that whatever would come, they would be together. “The two of us against the world.”
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Oh, dear god. It's finished. But it's not finished. Don't increase my pain. Goddammit, Jane, you are so fucking evil!! What do you mean by leaving us this way?!?!?!?
What can I say? I tried to warn you all. I said it more than once. I'm a nasty, nasty bitch. You just didn't know how much. First thing my wonderful beta Al said to was "Is there going to be a sequel?" It quickly changed into squeaquel because Al is the rat king!! Thank you, my lovely. You are utterly amazing. Thank you all for reading and sticking with me, even through some major delays. I can't tell you what it means to me. I love you all and I'll be back with another fic as soon as I can. Much love! Jane
I'm so sorry for the extra long wait, but it's finally here! Thank you for your patience and sticking with me, and thank you to my wonderful beta, Al. Enjoy Everyone!
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Fresh from the shower, Sherlock wiped away steam from the mirror and readied himself for bed. He saved blow-drying his hair for the last of it. It would take the longest, even though he didn’t need to get it completely dry. He intended upon hiding his curls for the following day’s trip and needn’t bother with styling, but drying would make his locks more cooperative under a hat all day. He was loath to do it, part of him fearing any extra time away from John would give the man more time to regret the events of the evening. Sherlock undoubtedly did not want that to happen and his foolishly optimistic side told him it wouldn’t. Realism, however, dictated that it would and trying to delay the inevitable would prove a constant source of frustration and terror. Much to his chagrin, Sherlock had vowed to conduct himself as usual. What would be, would be, and he would be prepared. Or… his heart would shatter on the spot and never be the same.
Looking at his own reflection as he turned off the blow-dryer and placed it next to the sink, Sherlock studied himself again. He still looked more alive than he had in months. He also seemed oddly calm in spite of the turmoil battling within and hoped John felt the same way on the other side of the door. Sherlock had nearly always thought hope a fool’s errand, but had little else to ground himself for the last eighteen months. As a result, it had become a friend of sorts. He didn’t want to become reliant on it, lest he be disappointed with the result, but he found it always close by. Hope was at his side now as he opened the bathroom door and entered the bedroom.
The moment Sherlock saw John, he knew something was wrong. He was not two steps into the room before stopping dead, his feet lead weights not even the strongest man could lift. Sherlock’s sharp eyes were locked on John, who stood still as a statue before the bed. He looked as though he hadn’t moved since Sherlock shut himself in the bathroom. Every muscle in John’s body was tight as ripcord and tension colored his face. His jaw was clenched, teeth grinding, and his hands clasped into fists at his sides. He stared at Sherlock without really seeing him, fury burning in his dark eyes. Sherlock inhaled deeply and released the breath between parted lips. They had made a terrible mistake.
“John?” Sherlock took a step forward, ready for all possible reactions, or so he thought. He repeated his friend’s name before the man snapped from the trance and focused his vehemence on Sherlock. Unsure how to proceed, Sherlock wet his lips to speak. What to say, he had no idea.
“What happened to you?” John demanded loudly.
Sherlock’s mouth opened, but no sounds came out. He was taken aback and racking his brain for John’s meaning. The question was not one of the many he had expected from John’s angry lips. Sherlock closed his own mouth and swallowed hard. A delaying tactic and a pathetic one at that.
“Your back,” John clarified sharply. “The scars. What happened, Sherlock?”
Sherlock felt his jaw go slack and his senses numbed. Surely he had misheard. John couldn’t have said that. He couldn’t know. Sherlock’s back hit the mattress as soon as his shirt came off. He couldn’t account for every minute afterwards, but knew he was lying face-up on the bed the whole time. Yet, there was no mistaking John’s expression and no other reason for him to be so angry. Sherlock’s jaw moved, but no sound came out.
“I didn’t see it when we…” John forced out the words, struggling to keep his voice even and not allow the bubbling fury within him to burst through. “I didn’t feel… touch it.”
The pieces clicked into place and Sherlock’s eyes closed in regret. John had seen his back when he got up and turned it on him on his way to the bathroom. Idiot. He had wanted to share the story of his torture with John months or years from now when their friendship wouldn’t be so fragile. If he was honest, he hadn’t truly wanted to tell John at all, but knew keeping it from him indefinitely was not an option. And what about the new aspect of their relationship? Where did it leave that? Sherlock did not know the answer and that frightened him to his core.
“Ah,” Sherlock croaked inelegantly, taking a step forward and trying not to stumble.
“Yes, bloody ‘ah’,” John bit out. Every nerve tingled through his skin and Sherlock could see it. John’s body radiated wrath. “What happened, Sherlock?”
It was the wrong thing to do, but Sherlock found himself speaking before gaining awareness of his own words. John would never forgive him for this.
“I don’t think…” Sherlock began the brush off, but John swooped in before he got another word in.
“For fuck’s sake, Sherlock, don’t do this,” John snapped in a low voice. His eyes blazed and the fire burned straight through Sherlock to his soul. “Don’t lie to me. Just. Tell me.”
Sherlock stared at John without a word. What could he say? The longer the moment stretched, the more memories flooded back. Sherlock’s brow wrinkled in pain and the muscles around his eyes twitched. The eyeballs themselves felt like they shook, trembled. It was the slightest of movements, but yielded enough power to bring Sherlock to his knees.
“Serbia,” he said simply and John blinked. He had probably decided Sherlock was not going to respond. “I was captured in Serbia. They wanted secrets. They tortured and burn… burned me. Gave me only enough bread and water to stay alive.”
John’s eyes widened and then went dark with fury.
“They knew I was British,” Sherlock continued, valiantly showing only a minimum of emotion. “They thought I was a spy. It would’ve been worse if they’d known who I really was.”
“How long?” John demanded bluntly, but his voice wavered and not with anger alone. He was shaken. Sherlock ached to touch him, to assure him that he was safe and alive and right in front of John.
“Six weeks,” Sherlock replied honestly.
“Six weeks?” John was nothing less than horrified, probably imagining Sherlock’s visage in his mind’s eye. With all John had seen in Afghanistan, Sherlock was sure he had a very good grasp of what the dungeon had looked like. John’s hands were clenched in fists of rage again, the artery in his neck pumping fast.
“Mycroft and Anthea came for me personally when they learned of my location,” Sherlock supplied in a haunted tone. It didn’t even sound like him to his own ears. John obviously thought so too because his fingers dug further into his palms with the force of his anger. “It was not an easy place to find, or penetrate.”
“Is he dead?” John asked so suddenly he nearly cut off Sherlock’s words.
Sherlock looked at him, his brow furrowing. He only just stopped himself from replying with his brother’s name. Of course John didn’t mean was Mycroft dead. He knew the man was perfectly fine. Still, it was not a question Sherlock had anticipated, much to his chagrin John always had a way of keeping him on his toes.
“What…” Sherlock started to say.
“The man who hurt you,” John interrupted unapologetically. His eyes were hard as steel. “Is he dead?”
Sherlock watched his friend carefully. He didn’t know why John was so convinced that only one man had inflicted punishment upon Sherlock during his captivity. He was correct, but there was no way for him to know that, no evidence that Sherlock could see.
There had been only one man in the compound to beat Sherlock. He was their leader and he reserved the privilege of torturing such a fine British spy for himself. He was relentless, but not very imaginative. Sherlock knew what to expect the moment he saw the man, which made withstanding the pain tolerable and uncomplicated. He knew Mycroft and Anthea would find him. What he had not anticipated was the sight of his brother walking through the cell door after hearing a shot bring its guard to the floor. Mycroft had paused only seconds before rushing forward to wrap his arms around Sherlock and lift as gently as possible to remove the weight from his aching arms and shoulders. Anthea had released his thin wrists from their shackles and Mycroft lowered Sherlock to the ground as though he was the most precious thing in the world. Sherlock had tried to speak, to say Mycroft’s name, but he had shushed him immediately with some rubbish about saving his strength. Meanwhile, Anthea radioed a member of their task force to come and help hoist Sherlock to his feet. Mycroft watched Sherlock silently until the other man arrived. The only other words Mycroft whispered to him in that place echoed through Sherlock’s mind now as he tried to chase away the memory. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I should have been here.
Pushing away the past, Sherlock forced his eyes to focus on John once more. Taking in the fierce glare and tight jaw, he quickly deduced this was no time to insist John explain why he thought Sherlock had only one tormentor.
“Yes, he’s dead,” Sherlock said with more than a little satisfaction. “He disappeared the very night the compound was attacked and was not seen again until nearly a week later when his body was found in a neighboring town. It was in a very poor condition, indeed. He had clearly suffered terribly at another’s hands.”
“Good,” John muttered after a moment of silence. Sherlock thought his words might have eased John’s anger, but they almost seemed to have spurred it on.
“I’m alright, John,” Sherlock assured him, raising an arm and taking a step closer. “It’s alright.”
“It’s fucking not!” John nearly shouted.
Startled, Sherlock dropped his hand and shuffled back a few inches. If he had seen John more angry during their friendship, he could not recall it.
“Jesus, Sherlock,” John sounded more exasperated now, but was still furious, “I’d have killed the bastard myself for laying a finger on you.”
“I know, I know,” Sherlock consoled as he went straight for John and placed a hand on either of the man’s biceps. “I’m safe now. I’ve healed and I’m here with you. You don’t need to be angry for me.”
John studied him for a long moment, obviously working to calm himself. His anger was not misplaced, but did no good now. The man was dead. It was all in the past. There was no need to waste energy on it now.
John took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. His dark eyes began to clear and he regarded Sherlock with a hint of wonder. Sherlock tilted his head slightly and raised his brows in silent inquiry. John’s tongue darted across his upper lip and Sherlock tracked the movement.
“Mycroft came for you himself?” John asked in a light tone. Sherlock recognized the deliberate shift toward levity and allowed his lips to curve upward.
“Black polyester and all,” Sherlock replied wryly.
John’s eyes widened and then crinkled at the edges.
“Polyester? Jesus,” he chuckled quietly and glanced away. When he met Sherlock’s eyes again, they were filled with a mirth that had not been there before. “Remind me to thank him when we see him next. Right before I punch his face in for this rubbish scheme.”
Sherlock broke. A smile spread across his face and he was laughing before either of them could say a word. John soon followed and, in minutes, the air felt lighter, the room around them brighter. Sherlock let go of John’s arms somewhere along the way and they were not touching when the laughter died down. With a smile still on his face, John turned toward the bed. He gave Sherlock a cheeky look and motioned in its direction with his head.
“Come on then,” his good nature warmed Sherlock’s heart. “Let’s go to bed, shall we?”
“My pleasure,” Sherlock grinned.
Once they had both climbed into bed, they settled themselves with eyes looking up at the painted ceiling. Sherlock tried to keep his face neutral, but found sorrow overtaking his features and mood with every silent minute that passed. Much as he tried to ward it away, doubt crept into his mind. Would John grow to regret their intimacy? Did he regret it already? It seemed likely. How on earth did John “Not Gay” Watson get himself into a situation like this in the first place and with his best friend, no less? His best friend. How long would that last?
Sherlock closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, grounding himself for whatever John might say next. That was assuming he said anything before falling asleep. He may just turn his back and slumber the night away. Sherlock, however, was sure not to for the whole night. Letting out a long breath, he opened his eyes and reached for the lamp on his bedside table, but John rolled toward him at just that moment and wrapped his left arm around Sherlock’s torso. His cheek came to rest low on Sherlock’s chest and he nestled comfortably against the soft t-shirt covering the pale skin beneath.
Sherlock was frozen to the spot, his arm still extended. Of all the scenarios he imagined before moving to turn off the lamp, this wasn’t even on the list. He slowly moved his hand back toward his own body and let it hesitate in mind-air when he found no good place to put it. Finally, he rested it on John back gingerly. John let out a little sound as he sighed and relaxed against Sherlock’s body.
The moment hovered. Sherlock’s wide eyes stared at the ceiling unseeing. He did not dare look down at John, lest the spell be broken. He could scarcely believe any of the evening’s events had actually taken place and feared it would all vanish the moment he allowed himself to believe. He swallowed audibly and cautiously let the fingers of his other hand graze John’s side. John chuckled quietly and then raised his head just enough to look at him.
“Are you okay?” John asked with a smile on his lips and just the barest intonation of concern.
“Fine,” Sherlock answered quickly, glancing down. Once he met John’s eyes, he could not look away. They were a fathomless blue, soft and affectionate. The hours Sherlock had spent wishing John would turn such a gaze as this in his direction were embarrassingly numerous. Now that his wait was over, Sherlock had no idea what to do or say and shut his mouth abruptly. Fortunately, John did not seem to notice. The corner of his mouth quirked up in amusement and he rested his head on Sherlock once more.
“I can’t believe I get to do this now,” John remarked wistfully after a moment of peaceful silence.
“You could always do this,” Sherlock said easily. “You hadn’t realized.”
“Bollocks,” John said indelicately. “Not from the beginning.”
“Nearly so,” Sherlock countered and John snickered derisively.
“You would’ve told me off if I’d asked you out that first night in Angelo’s,” John propped up on one elbow and lifted his head fully for a better look at Sherlock. “ ‘Not my area’, you said. ‘Married to my work’, you said.”
“I’d only just met you, John,” Sherlock told him. “We’d spent no more than a few hours together.”
“You knew my life story at a glance,” John argued.
“I know everyone’s life story when I look at them. It doesn’t mean I’d date them,” Sherlock protested in a dull tone.
“We were flatmates,” John declared incredulously.
“Stamford vouched for you,” Sherlock shrugged. “Honestly, John, do you really think I would accept the advances of a man I’d just met? What about me tells you I’d ‘warm up’ to someone that quickly?”
“Mm, yeah. You’ve got a point there,” John conceded. “You’ve known Greg for years and still pretend to forget his name.”
Sherlock smirked in response and didn’t even bother to deny the veracity of the man’s claim. Feigning ignorance when it came to Lestrade’s first name was one of Sherlock’s greatest pleasures at a crime scene. It started as a means of getting a rise out of the DI, but grew into a kind of game between the two of them. Greg Lestrade was firmly rooted on Sherlock’s secret list of friends and had been since nearly the beginning of their association.
“Still,” John continued thoughtfully, “I’m not everyone.”
Sherlock met his eyes and found an entire conversation in their depths. There had always been something between the two of them. A crackle in the air, an undeniable snap in the electricity the moment Sherlock’s thumb touched John’s fingers as he said, “Here, have mine,” and offered his mobile. Sherlock definitely would have shut John down if he had gone so far as to ask him out that night, and in exactly the same way he did. “ ‘Married to my work’, you said,” but Sherlock knew full well it would not have lasted. He had wanted to be in John’s orbit in a way he had never felt with anyone else. He was the exception to every rule Sherlock had. Sherlock had never acted on any impulse because keeping John in his life as a friend was worth not having the alternative, but…
John lowered his head again, reclaiming his place on Sherlock’s chest. Both men were quiet again, the conversation seemingly at an end.
There was something Sherlock had always wondered. Something he had always wanted to ask…
As the moment threatened to pass, Sherlock bit his lower lip nervously. He could let it go, let the opportunity slide as he had so many times before, and say goodnight to John. Done, just like that. But would he ever have this chance again? Regret turned his stomach at the thought of the loss. He could not dismiss it this time or push it aside like it didn’t matter to him. This, John, whatever was between them was the most important part of Sherlock’s life and he had spent every moment since he leapt off Bart’s finding out just how much.
He had to ask.
“John?” Sherlock said quietly. He knew John wasn’t asleep, though the man could easily pretend to be if he wanted.
“Hm?” John hummed, much to Sherlock’s relief.
“Why didn’t you try again?” Sherlock could hear the hesitance in his own voice. John’s body tensed against his and he already began to think this was a mistake, but couldn’t make himself stop. His whole body ached with the need to know. Sherlock had to know how John felt about him. They’d had sex, for god sake. Sherlock had to know that it meant something to John, that it wasn’t just another release of sexual tension like with all of his pointless girlfriends. Sherlock had to know if he meant something to John. Something more.
“Did you never think I might change my mind?” Sherlock ventured. John sighed and shrugged.
“You seldom change your mind once you’ve set it,” John answered in resignation.
“We had only just met,” Sherlock repeated, his voice wavering, “but as we became friends, best friends… You never thought I might change?”
John raised his head and pushed up his torso so no part of his body rested on Sherlock’s anymore. They were still touching, their bodies side by side. Sherlock held his breath, fearing that John might pull away completely. His heart sank as John pulled his arm from around Sherlock, but then he stopped to rest his palm on Sherlock’s chest. A thrill bubbled tentatively through Sherlock’s body that despite pulling away, John did not want to break contact fully.
“I…” John cleared his throat and fixed his eyes on Sherlock’s, “was afraid to hope.”
The door to a room filled with golden light burst open in Sherlock’s mind and his restraint flowed out with it in a rush. He sat up immediately and dragged John up with him, pressing their lips together with fervor. His hand cupped John’s cheek, the other clasped his waist. John’s arms were wrapped around Sherlock and holding him close, scarcely an inch between them. Their lips moved together like they had years of practice. It was passionate and honest, filled with desire and emotion. It differed from the other kisses they had shared that evening and was also exactly the same. Sherlock could see now that nothing they had done was motivated by lust alone. It was sentiment, love. God, he loved John with all of his being. It flowed from his fingertips, his toes. Every part of his body was alight with it and John felt the same way. He could tell. Sherlock thought he might die on the spot with this revelation.
When he pulled back from the kiss, Sherlock gasped for breath and smiled to find John in the same boat. John returned the grin as he panted and leaned forward to touch his forehead to Sherlock’s. Their noses bumped lightly. Sherlock stroked John’s cheekbone with his thumb and sighed before sucking in another breath.
“I… John, I…” Sherlock stopped himself and swallowed down the words he knew would be in English this time. It was still too soon to say out loud. Even if they both knew it, even if they had spent their friendship dancing around it, it was too soon to tell John he loved him. His heart ached to say it, burned with it, but Sherlock resisted.
“We should sleep,” he breathed instead.
It was clearly not what John had expected, but he nodded anyway.
“Yeah,” he agreed breathlessly. “We have to be on that ferry soon.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, already regretting the loss of John’s lips on his own. He tried to free himself from John’s grasp, but was held tighter. He looked into John’s eyes and saw warring uncertainty.
“Sherlock, can I…” John paused, words failing him. He gave a gentle squeeze and quirked a tentative, lopsided smile. “Will you sleep with me?”
John said the words slowly, making his meaning clear. He did not want to sleep side by side as they had done on numerous cases before, Baskerville being the most memorable. John wanted to be together.
A smile curved Sherlock’s lips and he gave a shallow nod, lying back and bringing John with him. They cradled one another and cuddled close. There was really no other word for it and Sherlock found he couldn’t care less. He felt John relax next to him and let his body do the same, reaching to brush a thumb across John’s cheek once more. John smiled almost shyly and pressed a light kiss to Sherlock’s lips.
“G’night, Sherlock,” he all but whispered.
“Good night, John,” Sherlock replied and both men finally closed their eyes for the night.
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See, I can be nice sometimes. Or can I? Will their travels put them in danger again or will they make it to the safehouse in Rome without incident? Hey... it's me. 😈😈
I’m sorry, y’all. I know it’s been a while. Chapter 7 is coming, I promise. Painting and moving are taking a much larger amount of time and energy than I expected. Please be patient with me.
Hello, Friends! First, I want to apologize for the extra long wait. I have so many balls in the air right now and more are being added. It's a long chapter, at least. I'll try as hard as I can to post the next one according to schedule, but packing has begun with painting and moving next week. Thanks for your patience and support. 💜
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Anthea? Anthea.
Sherlock rolled the name around in his mind, but the confusion did not abate. He was protecting John, saving him, and she put him right back in danger. He wouldn’t put it past Mycroft to carelessly toss John in harm’s way, but not Anthea. Sherlock knew her better than that after the last eighteen months. His brow furrowed before he even finished saying the denial in his head. Anthea was a complicated and very thoughtful woman, and she could be ruthless. Ruthlessly honest was actually how Sherlock thought about it. She was brutally honest with everyone, including herself. If she was really responsible for this, it was for very good reason, and one she believed he would agree with. Sherlock racked his brain for such a motive and could think of nothing. Irked though he was, Sherlock was flummoxed. He needed more data.
“It was all to protect you,” Sherlock said aloud, though more to himself than to John. “Why would she put you in danger? It defeats the whole purpose.”
“Sherlock?” John’s voice was quiet and grave. It caught his attention immediately and he fixed his ever-changing eyes on John with intense focus. “How much do you know about that first year you were gone?”
Sherlock drew up to his full sitting height and considered the specifics of the information he had been given. Mycroft had always said John was “coping”, his word for expressing nearly any sentiment. Sherlock had disregarded it out of course. Anthea had informed on John from almost the beginning. As soon as Sherlock asked after his friend, she made a point of telling him about John each time they spoke. However, she did so in very general terms, which had never struck Sherlock as odd. He knew John had struggled, very much so. He knew he had grossly underestimated the effect his death would have on John, but had never pressed Anthea for details. Perhaps he was afraid of what she would say. He felt like a coward now.
“I knew you were deeply hurt,” Sherlock began uncomfortably, resting his hands on the table and averting his eyes. His shame was evident no matter how hard he tried to hide it and he didn’t want to see what John thought of him. His cheeks burned with the beginnings of anger though, anger at himself. He knew he had to face the judgment. He deserved it. Sherlock had hidden for almost two years and he would do it no more, especially from John. He owed John that much for his cowardice.
Sherlock raised his gaze to meet his friend’s eyes and found an overwhelming tenderness that stole the breath from his lungs. John leaned forward a touch.
“Mycroft told you this?” he asked.
“Anthea,” Sherlock corrected.
John said nothing, but a small smile colored his features and he huffed a nearly imperceptible laugh. His blue eyes shifted to the side as he considered this information. Watching silently, Sherlock felt like he should elaborate, but didn’t know what to say. He had no concrete examples, no test results, no real evidence to speak of, and he hadn’t even asked Anthea for any. He had ignored his own nature and manner of conduct because he wanted to hide the truth from his own mind. Sherlock closed his eyes slowly at the weight of it, regret running hot through his veins.
“She didn’t lie,” John’s voice echoed hollowly in the darkness. “It tore me apart and I didn’t know how to put myself back together. I couldn’t.”
Sherlock heard his words, but wasn’t really listening. The growing anger in his heart had suddenly tipped its blade from himself to point directly at Anthea. She cast aside his efforts so easily, never giving him any reason to doubt her. Meanwhile, she pretended to look for the mystery assassin’s identity when she knew all along. Sherlock’s mind, furious and swift, forced memories of their conversations to the forefront. Her accounts of John went from moderately descriptive and saddening to extremely vague and somewhat positive. By the time John was acting as the assassin, she must’ve thanked her lucky stars that Sherlock didn’t ask for more details.
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, sharp and piercing. His chin raised defiantly and he glared across the table at John.
“I gave up everything, risked everything, and she knew it was you,” Sherlock snarled, clenching his fists on the table. “She threw you in the fire and played like you were doing better, that you were safe.”
“I was better,” John replied emphatically.
Sherlock stared at him, fury unrelenting, and breathed heavily. John slid to the edge of his seat and leaned over the table until the tips of his fingers were mere millimeters from Sherlock’s fists.
“Tearing apart Moriarty made me feel alive again,” John continued in a measured tone. “It gave me purpose and direction. Everything was so meaningless until then and I felt…good. Ah god, which is not something I want to examine too closely either.”
“You’re not a murderer, John,” Sherlock assured him solemnly.
“Neither are you,” John said with certainty.
They were quiet for a long time, each man lost in his own thoughts. Before Sherlock knew what happened, John’s words had faded away and the fury was back. It darkened his eyes and clouded his mind, bubbling through his body and blood. He had just opened his mouth to curse Anthea’s name when three points of warmth touched the knuckles of his right hand. So angry and used to being alone, he had forgotten someone was in the room with him and froze at the sudden shock of the touch. Eyes wide, Sherlock shifted his gaze down slowly to see the tips of John’s fingers pressed lightly against his own. He swallowed thickly and blinked back up to look at John.
“She did the only thing she could do, Sherlock,” John told him gently. “You’d have had nothing but a grave to come back to if she hadn’t stepped in.”
Sherlock stared into John’s face as the words sank in and the anger faded away. Simultaneously, every conversation with Anthea came back to him as he threw open the door in his mind palace and drank in all the details he had purposefully ignored. The set of her mouth, tone of voice, the look in her eyes and what she hid behind them; every last one spoke to John’s state of mind and her concern for him. Sherlock had been afraid. He hadn’t wanted to see what was right before his eyes.
His hand turned of its own accord and folded over John’s. It felt warm and welcome under Sherlock’s palm. He never wanted to let go and shuddered at the thought that he may have never felt it had Anthea not taken action. Idiot. He was such an idiot.
“John, I’m sorry,” Sherlock croaked, his voice broken. “If I hadn’t left…If I… She saved you.”
“You both saved me,” John corrected emphatically, turning his hand in Sherlock’s and grasping tightly. He squeezed back just as firmly, but still chastised himself.
“I created the problem,” Sherlock shook his head, eyes glistening.
“You had little choice,” John insisted. “He forced your hand. He is the asshole and you are not to blame.”
His final words were slow and decisive, brooking no argument. Sherlock knew John spoke the truth and vowed to work toward believing it for himself one day. He also noticed John had not said things between them were fine. While that hung heavily on his heart and mind, Sherlock understood. They would revisit the subject in the future, no doubt, but John seemed content to leave it for the time being and Sherlock did not want to press too hard.
John gave Sherlock’s hand one final squeeze before pulling away. He reluctantly let it slip from his fingers and watched John scoot back in his chair.
“We ought to finish before it gets cold,” John said lightly, clearing his throat and nodding down at their plates.
“Right,” Sherlock answered quietly. “Of course.”
The rest of the meal passed in comfortable silence, each man contemplating his own thoughts. Sherlock tried to think about something productive, like how the two of them would get to the next safehouse, but he couldn’t stop thinking about his own long-buried feelings for the man before him. He had never acted upon them, or even let on that he had them. John had always insisted that he was not gay. Didn’t seem much point in trying, but now, with his supposed death behind him and his motivation laid bare, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to come clean.
Sherlock had not realized just how deep in thought he was until John pushed his chair back to rise. Wondering how much time had actually passed, Sherlock cast a look at his plate and found it empty. He cocked a brow. At least he had eaten while his mind was occupied.
“What I can’t figure is, why now?” John said conversationally.
“What?” Sherlock frowned, putting his own thoughts aside. He felt oddly wrong-footed and wondered briefly if he had ignored some previous part of the conversation.
“Why Anthea arranged for us to meet now,” John clarified. “She knew both our assignments. Hell, she probably orchestrated all of our near misses. You can’t tell me it wasn’t all planned down to the letter. The question is why. Why didn’t she just tell me you weren’t dead?”
“Would you have honestly been ready to hear that?” Sherlock asked, already knowing the answer.
“No,” John admitted.
“I wouldn’t have accepted your being in constant danger like this,” Sherlock stated plainly.
“Oh, so you’re okay with it now, are you?” John inquired with a grin playing at his lips. “Because I was ready to refuse any drinks to keep from being drugged, never to wake until my arrival at 221B.”
“That does sound like me,” Sherlock couldn’t resist a grin of his own, though it didn’t last long before he sobered, “but knowing what you experienced, how you felt…”
“I needed to heal first,” John said quietly.
“We both did,” Sherlock added. They were silent for a moment before he continued: “Anthea is a very clever woman. I’m sure there is a method to all of this.”
“Can’t disagree with that,” John stood, picking up his plate. “Come on, let’s clean this up.”
Sherlock rose, picking up his dishes as well. They walked to the kitchen island together and wordlessly divided the labor. John transferred leftovers to storage containers and placed them in the refrigerator while Sherlock loaded the dishwasher. Sherlock considered his friend as they worked. There must surely be endless thoughts and emotions hidden under the surface. Much as Sherlock had always railed against sentiment, he was full to bursting with it. He tried to push it aside since Costa’s office, but could not seem to escape the need to express his feelings or the desire to know John’s. Mycroft’s insistence that Sherlock tamp down and ignore his emotions had come to naught, just as Sherlock knew it would. In spite of his best efforts, even since he was a boy, he was simply too human to succeed.
Sherlock stood near the dinner table and watched John walk towards the door to the bedroom. A thousand questions consumed him, the dam threatening to break. He knew John had questions too. He could see it in his posture, hear it in his voice; the barely contained desire to know everything. And yet, here they were, dancing around one another after a night spent jumping from roof to roof.
“John,” Sherlock began, stopping as the man turned to face him. He wore the lopsided half smile Sherlock had oft dreamt of, the one that stole his breath away.
“Yeah?” John replied, the smile fading a bit when Sherlock simply stared back contemplatively. John’s brow furrowed with concern after another moment. “What is it?”
“You have questions,” Sherlock answered without hesitation. If John was surprised, he didn’t show it. He watched Sherlock thoughtfully, as if sizing him up, and pulled his shoulders back minutely. Into battle then.
“True,” John nodded sharply. His voice was tight, but good-natured.
“And you’re angry,” Sherlock continued.
“Also true,” John agreed.
They stood facing one another, neither of them saying a word. Sherlock didn’t know where to begin. He had hoped John would ask him something, anything to get the ball rolling. It appeared he had no intention of making any part of this easy.
“John, I…” Sherlock started, but John swiftly thwarted him.
“We need to get some sleep,” he interrupted, his body tense. “I assume we have a big day ahead. You need to be somewhere else to contact Mycroft, yeah?’
“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed weakly.
“Right then,” John gestured back to the door behind his back. “You want the shower first?”
“Go ahead,” Sherlock said and then walked toward the man. “I’ll get you a change of clothes.”
He entered the bedroom and approached a chest of drawers. Opening the third drawer, he pulled out a white tee and a pair of light blue pajama pants.
“The trousers will be too long, but they’ll do,” Sherlock remarked, handing the clothes to John. He gestured to the two smaller drawers that were side by side at the top of the chest. “Pants and socks are here.”
John moved forward and opened a drawer when Sherlock side-stepped out of the way. He shuffled around before selecting a pair of pants and sliding the drawer closed. Sherlock tried pointedly not to look at the garment.
“You should find all you need in the bathroom,” Sherlock told him. “Feel free to search any cupboards and drawers.”
“Thanks,” John said, heading for the ensuite. “I won’t be a minute.”
“Take as long as you need,” Sherlock answered with a wave of his hand. “No rush.”
“Ta,” John gave a half smile before closing the door and leaving Sherlock to stand alone in the bedroom.
Feeling a little awkward, Sherlock left the room and walked to the desk in the flat’s other room. His eyes roved over its spartan contents; a small lamp, desk calendar, and two ballpoint pens positioned neatly to the right of the closed laptop in the center. Fixing his gaze on the laptop, Sherlock bent forward and placed a palm on either side of its smooth surface. Leaning over the desk, his elbows straight and supporting his weight, he blew out a long sigh. He was still torn between berating Anthea and thanking her, though he knew the final decision would be the latter. He owed her so much. To have John back in his life, alive and well, meant everything. Her actions had saved John and brought Sherlock back from the brink. He hadn’t even realized how close he had been to losing himself until he saw John’s eyes glaring at him in Costa’s office. He truly did owe Anthea both their lives.
As his thoughts turned away from Anthea and moved toward John again, Sherlock became aware of a pressing problem he must soon deal with. There was only one bed in the flat. He turned his head slightly and slid his eyes to the rather comfortable-looking couch tucked in the corner with a flat screen. He knew how absurd the thought was, even as he considered sleeping on it alone instead of in the bed with John. It was ridiculous, which John would definitely point out. They had slept in the same bed many times before. Always for a case and usually in a king size bed, however. The queen size he recalled seeing in the next room would make it more difficult to keep from bumping into one another in the night. Not that incidental contact had ever been a problem in the past, but everything felt different. Perhaps because Sherlock rather unintentionally allowed his mind to admit that he loved John, he thought with a derisive snort. He had already known his own feelings long ago, but had stored it away in his mind palace where it wouldn’t cause trouble. It resurfaced now and again, but throwing himself into dismantling Moriarty’s network had occupied his mind for the most part. Sherlock had also never formally thought it out loud and, now that he had, it wouldn’t go away. This new state of mind, of being, was going to make a lot of things more difficult for him. He was just worrying his lower lip over his tendency to flail long limbs across the bed when a voice from behind startled him.
“Sherlock,” came a soothing voice that spun him on his heel. Wide, blue-green eyes fixed on a somewhat rumpled John Watson standing only a few feet away. He had not even heard the man enter the room and scolded himself for being so distracted. The corner of John’s mouth was curled up in amusement and his eyes twinkled as he studied Sherlock’s look of surprise.
“Bathroom’s yours,” John said, quiet laughter in his tone. “You, uh, okay then? You seem a little out of sorts.”
“M’fine,” Sherlock said quickly.
The other side of John’s mouth turned up and a knowing look spread across his face. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. Against his better judgment, he let his eyes run the length of John’s body. His blonde hair was combed, but still wet and ever so slightly tousled. Was that something he had started doing since Sherlock had left London? The t-shirt he wore was just a bit small, stretching across his broad shoulders and clinging in all the best places. Conversely, his pajama bottoms were loose and much too long, pooling around his ankles and leaving only his toes visible beneath. Sexy and adorable. As dichotomous as the man himself and Sherlock absolutely loved it. He loved John. Now that it was out of the closet he had shoved it in, the thought obviously planned on popping up at any moment it saw fit, no matter how inconvenient it was for Sherlock.
“Sherlock?” John tested curiously.
“Yes, good,” Sherlock blurted. “Thank you.”
He wove his way around his friend and walked swiftly to the bedroom. He kept glancing at the doorway as he gathered pajamas and pants, expecting John to walk in before he made it to the ensuite. Whether John was giving him some privacy or fetching himself a glass of water, Sherlock did not know. Thankfully, John did not enter until he was safely in the next room.
Sherlock cleaned his teeth first and then stripped down. Reaching past the curtain and flicking on the taps, he glanced in the mirror above the sink and what he saw gave him pause. He looked the same way he had that morning and yet, completely different at the same time. His eyes were brighter and his face less drawn. Everything about his countenance appeared fresher somehow, like someone had given his old black and white a dose of technicolor. John’s influence. It was obvious. His conductor of light. Sherlock had certainly missed him, but had not fully comprehended how much until that moment and he was struck by the enormity of the realization.
Shaking it off, Sherlock stepped into the shower and under its warm spray. The water sluicing down his body felt heavenly, already taking with it the sweat and stress of the day. Sighing deeply, he leaned forward and bent his head directly into its path. He rested both palms on the wall before him, somewhere between the nozzle and taps. With his elbows straight, his body slanted forward, he let the spray pelt his scalp and melt away his thoughts. Warm water ran down the sides of his face and neck. Droplets wound their way down his back and sides, his buttocks and thighs. Their meandering paths almost tickled as they trickled over knees and down his calves.
Sighing, Sherlock turned under the spray and nearly moaned aloud when the force of the water danced along his stiff neck and shoulders. The streams massaged away the tension like skilled fingertips applying delicious pressure to just the right spots. Sherlock tilted his head slightly and allowed his mind to think of John’s clever hands doing the massaging until his cock gave a twitch of interest.
His eyes flew open with a start and Sherlock straightened his spine. He wouldn’t deny that he had touched himself while thinking of John before. He didn’t even feel guilty about it, but he wasn’t about to masturbate to thoughts of John while the man was in the next room.
That firmly decided, Sherlock smoothed back his dark hair and grabbed the shampoo to his left. He lathered and rinsed his hair quickly before applying a thin layer of conditioner to the strands. He ran his fingers over and through it to rinse out the viscous liquid, leaving his wet curls silky and smooth. He picked up a flannel hanging from the rod on the opposite wall of the shower. Obviously built to house a towel while one showered, though he never understood that particular practice. The principle made sense, providing easy access to the towel, but it always got wet when he tried it. Perhaps he was simply too reckless with the water. Wouldn’t be the only situation in which he did not exercise enough caution.
Once the flannel was properly lathered with the sandalwood scented soap, Sherlock washed his body thoroughly and rinsed off the suds. He considered luxuriating under the spray, which was still surprisingly warm after two showers. John’s had been quite fast though, an after-effect of military life. Sherlock himself had no such tendencies. His marathon showers were one of the things John used to tease him about most, in fact, and the memory made Sherlock smile to himself. Despite the temptation to linger, Sherlock turned off the water and pushed the shower curtain aside. If he stayed in much longer with John on his mind, he would risk breaking his earlier resolution not to indulge.
Sherlock reached for a towel as he stepped from the shower and dried himself off quickly. He was dressed in a white t-shirt and blue, striped pajama bottoms in minutes. His did not bunch around his ankles with six inches of extra fabric the way John’s had. A smile unexpectedly spread across his face at the thought of John objecting indignantly to six inches in the legs alone. He laughed quietly to himself and placed his hand on the doorknob, but stopped before turning the cool metal. John was out there in nothing but pajamas, probably in the bed. Sherlock pressed his lips together into a thin line and stared at his hand on the spherical knob. His fingers were wet with condensation from the steam in the air. His eyes widened in anticipation of opening the door and seeing the scene beyond. Maybe he would be lucky and John would be asleep already. It was rather late and they both had a stressful day, especially at its close. Either way, Sherlock couldn’t delay any longer. A wakeful John would seek him out and that would be much worse.
Swallowing first, Sherlock turned the handle and pushed the door open. The room was dim. John had switched off the overhead lights in favor of the two small lamps on either side of the bed. Speaking of which, he was sat on the left side, his legs hidden under the covers. His back and pillow leaned against the headboard, and he looked up from the book in his lap as Sherlock entered.
“Hey,” John greeted softly. “I hope there was enough hot water for you. Forgot you take such long showers.”
“No problem there,” Sherlock shook his head once.
He intended upon moving his feet and approaching the bed, but his legs did not seem willing to lift them. John did not move either, nor did he shift his eyes from Sherlock’s. They simply stared while the air slowly electrified around them. God, Sherlock wanted to touch him. He wanted to press his lips against John’s and sweep his tongue inside when they opened on a moan of his name. John had said his name so many times and in so many ways. How would it sound in a gasp filled with want and need and pleasure?
Sherlock’s crystalline eyes widened and he nearly panicked when his nether regions began to express an interest in his line of thought. He lurched toward the bed suddenly at the first stir and jumped under the duvet, pulling it up to his waist quickly. John almost jumped out of the bed and let out a short laugh at the acrobatic performance. Sherlock stared straight ahead, ignoring him at first, but eventually turned his head to look at the man next to him.
“What?” Sherlock tried to sound irritable in hopes that John would let it go.
“Anxious to get in bed, are we?” John stifled a chuckle without hiding his smile.
Sherlock did not answer. He gave an impatient sigh and rolled his eyes, scooching himself down to lie on his back. He tucked the duvet up under his arms and then bent them to rest his hands on his own chest. He wove his fingers together and cast his eyes to the ceiling. John hadn’t moved and was still looking at him. After a moment, Sherlock turned his head to meet the man’s eyes with an air of annoyance.
“Won’t bother you if I read for a bit, will it?” John lifted the book minutely. He was only a few pages in and must have selected it from the shelves in the next room. “Helps me sleep if I can relax first.”
“Please do,” Sherlock told him. “I go to my mind palace in the same vein.”
“I’ll leave you to it then,” John gave a nod and went back to his book.
Sherlock straightened his neck and looked up at the stark, white ceiling once again. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes as he released it. Entering his planning room, he began to revise the following day’s travel to Rome to adjust for John’s presence. Given the ferry and train system in Sicily and Italy, it wouldn’t be difficult. The two of them being seen together could be risky, however, and created the need for another disguise. Sherlock had only just begun to sort through this when John’s voice echoed through the palace. While he would normally berate his friend for this, John’s precise choice of words eradicated such a notion.
“Don’t ever leave me again.”
Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, his head turning sharply to look at John. His friend still sat beside him, book in his lap, but his knuckles were white where he held it tightly and his blue eyes were closed. As if feeling Sherlock’s eyes, John opened his own and returned the gaze. His face was full of tension and pain, his jaw clenched and working. His eyes were hard as steel and yet, pleading.
“EVER,” John said loudly, angrily. “Especially like that. I can’t… do that again.”
His voice broke in the middle and Sherlock honestly couldn’t tell if it was from anger or desperation. John was torn between the two and his resolve to hide it was cracking. The tether he had so carefully kept on his emotions was fraying and ready to snap.
“Why did you do it?” John’s voice was suddenly deadly quiet and it felt strange in the room after the volume of his previous words. His eyes were closed again and he had turned away as though he would never truly want to look at Sherlock again. “Why did you make me watch?”
Sherlock didn’t know whether John had intended to say fall or not, but he hadn’t needed to. Sherlock heard it anyway and the word echoed through his mind. The pain in John’s voice was unbearable. It broke and shook as he spoke, and he still could not look at the man in the bed next to him. Sherlock felt completely gutted. All the air taken from his lungs and no words to speak. His heart ached for John, his chest clenching painfully around it. He opened his mouth, but his voice died on his lips. How does one explain to the love of his life that he knowingly hurt him deeply without realizing just how deeply the pain would run?
“I… had to,” Sherlock forced the words from his throat. “I’m sorry. I never intended to hurt you so deeply.”
“Had to?” John barked, ignoring the rest. “You had to make me watch you jump off a building?”
John bit out the words, his teeth clicking in fury. His hands closed the book in his lap and placed it on the bedside table, seemingly of their own volition. His eyes had snapped open with his words and he glared at Sherlock coldly.
“You couldn’t just let Greg or some other cop tell me. I had to see it,” John was louder now. The emphasis he put on ‘had to’ spoke of his hatred in the moment. “You fucking called me to say goodbye. Make it worse. Leave a note. God, do you know how long I heard your voice in my dreams? No, not even just then, when I was awake too. I heard it wherever I went. ‘This is what people do’, you said. You listened to me beg.”
“John!” Sherlock pleaded suddenly, grasping the man’s hands. He knew he deserved this. He should have every word hurled right at his head, never to be deleted, but he couldn’t bear even one more. “John, I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t touch me!” John jerked his hand away, icy blue eyes boring into Sherlock’s. “I don’t give a fuck if you’re sorry. I want to know why. What twisted reasoning in your mind could possibly justify that?!”
Sherlock stared at him with wide, beseeching eyes. He had recoiled when John tore his hands away and kept his distance, but wanted desperately to take John in his arms and explain. It was all to save their lives; John, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock could not live knowing his actions had killed them.
“Don’t,” John ordered suddenly.
Sherlock felt his body lurch back, away from the man, but he forced himself back. He could not hide behind cowardice and must face John’s ire head-on.
“I know about the threats,” John muttered angrily. “Anthea told me you had to jump to save the three of us. I get that, I do.”
“It had to be you,” Sherlock interrupted. He had to fix this. John needed to understand, he had to. “You wouldn’t have believed otherwise. If you hadn’t seen me fall, hadn’t checked for a pulse and found none… If you hadn’t heard me say the words, you never would’ve believed and you wouldn’t have let it go.”
John glared, never taking his off Sherlock, but he remained silent. Sherlock took it as permission to continue.
“You would have harassed Mycroft, searched for me as best you could, even told the press you didn’t believe I was dead,” Sherlock told him and John finally tore his eyes away. “Moriarty’s men would have killed you. All three of you. You know it’s true.”
John raised a far different gaze to meet Sherlock’s, one that was soft and wet. Sherlock’s heart squeezed in his chest. John understood. He knew Sherlock’s words were true and, much as he may hate what the man did, he understood his decision to do it. Unable to look at John another minute, Sherlock bowed his head and looked down at the duvet. A tear slipped from each eye as he closed them, running down his face to land dark on the light blue blanket.
“I knew it would hurt you,” Sherlock’s normally polished baritone was rough and broke over the last word. He lifted his head to look at John, “but I had no idea it would be so much.”
John’s eyes widened with incredulity and he let out a disbelieving huff that dislodged pooling tears. Wiping them away quickly, John inhaled sharply and held it a moment. He let the air out slowly, trying to calm himself. Sherlock pushed on, not wanting to lose his nerve.
“We were, are friends,” Sherlock continued.
“Best friends,” John corrected with a mutter.
“Yes,” Sherlock agreed with solemn trepidation, “but I had no idea that meant you would… I’ve never had that, John. I thought you’d feel it with the same intensity as Greg or Molly or maybe even Hudders. I thought you’d be sad and then move on.”
John visibly bristled at this and lifted his chin defiantly.
“I am a genius, John, but when it comes to emotions, I am severely lacking,” Sherlock admitted mournfully, ashamed at his ignorance. “I severely underestimated our friendship and what it means to you. I was an idiot. I am an idiot.”
John huffed again as tears trickled down his cheeks. These, he did not stop and his mouth curved slowly into a small smile. He reached for Sherlock with his left hand and placed it on his friend’s larger one. His palm was warm and comforting on the back of Sherlock’s.
“You’re my idiot,” was all John said.
The flat was quiet. They watched one another, studying, taking note of every detail. John’s thumb absently stroked Sherlock’s hand with a feather touch. It felt peaceful and affectionate. Sherlock wasn’t even certain that John realized he was doing it. In spite of the calm in the air around them, it also felt heavy and Sherlock could feel the specter of words unsaid. He swallowed and steeled himself for what was to come. If they were going to do this, they had to do it all.
“You have more questions,” Sherlock said quietly, but without hesitation.
John gasped nearly inaudibly, his eyes widening. He watched Sherlock for what seemed like a long time before giving a single, shallow nod. Sherlock placed his free hand over John’s and waited. He knew what John wanted to ask. It was written all over his face, especially since the previous question was washed away and would give rise to more. How did Sherlock come to follow this plan? Why did he do it the way he did? He had one simple answer.
“It was the only way,” Sherlock said and if he thought he had to explain his words to John, he was sadly mistaken.
John’s eyes lit with anger and his features hardened right before Sherlock’s eyes. He did not move his hand from where it was sandwiched between his friend’s, but it stiffened and felt cold now instead of the warm weight it had been.
“Was it?” John queried sarcastically, his temper biting. “And whose brilliant idea was it, this amazing answer to all our problems? Whose choice was it to leave me in the dark again, hm?
“Surely, not Mycroft,” John answered his own questions without pausing. He pulled his hand away and rose from the bed abruptly, tossing the duvet toward Sherlock. He gestured with his hands as paced next to the bed, acting out mock consideration. “You never listen to Mycroft. Unless…”
John spun on his heel to face Sherlock with an accusatory finger. Sherlock narrowed his eyes minutely, already anticipating John’s words and hating them. The man really was becoming far too clever for his own good. And how many times had John said that about him? He’s learning from the master, Sherlock, Mycroft’s voice chided in his mind before he silently told him to fuck off.
“You were so overwhelmed that you listened to him,” John accused with unmistakable disgust that immediately raised Sherlock’s hackles.
“I wasn’t overwhelmed, John,” he said defiantly in a loud tone before snapping his mouth shut. Swallowing audibly, he continued: “I was fucking terrified.”
John froze. He could probably count the number of times he had heard Sherlock curse on one hand. Admittedly, the naked honesty of his own words surprised Sherlock as well. It was not what he had planned to say, but it was the truth. Now that he’d said it, there was no turning back.
“I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t lose you, not after you swept into my life and changed it in every way,” Sherlock explained unapologetically. “You were everything. I couldn’t think, couldn’t reason. My thoughts were so focused on you and my own fear that I agreed with whatever Mycroft proposed. I couldn’t get my brain to think of another way.”
“No?” John snapped, unaffected by Sherlock’s growing desperation. “Because I can think of a few right now. You couldn’t have let me in on it maybe? Given me a say in my own damn life?”
“You’re a terrible actor and have a dreadfully honest face,” Sherlock said before he could stop himself. “They wouldn’t have believed your reaction was genuine if you had known.”
John stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
“Right. You’re right. ‘Nevermind poor John. He’s too stupid to join the ranks of genius.’, John replied sardonically. “You know, I thought everything we’d done together, all the cases, meant something. I thought you trusted me, but obviously not.”
“No!” Sherlock denied, but John spoke over him.
“Fine. You know what? I couldn’t know. We’ll go with that. Sure,” he fumed. “What about after, hm? You could have told me after the fact. Sent me a message or a clue. I know how you love those.”
“They would have intercepted it,” Sherlock interjected.
“Just one bloody word, Sherlock, is all I would have needed. Anthea could have said something,” John didn’t stop for breath, “or bloody Mycroft could’ve told me, for Christ sake. He came around often enough.”
“If they had any reason to doubt my death, even the slightest, they would have killed you to draw me out, or they would have tortured the information out of you,” Sherlock shot back, jumping to his feet. John glared at him from across the bed. “Both are unacceptable.”
“But lying to me is fair game, yeah?” John countered. “Damn it, Sherlock, I could’ve left London. I could’ve helped you all this time. We’re at our best when we’re together. We protect each other, help each other. Side by side, the two of us against everything else.”
Sherlock didn’t say a word when John finally ended the diatribe. Both men were breathing heavily, their chests heaving, blood full of adrenaline. John was clearly gearing up for another round, but Sherlock had no desire to join him. The voice of reason shone through John’s shouted words and filled Sherlock’s mind palace with a whole new understanding. It had been right there from the beginning, but his fear had hidden it and no amount of his own searching could dislodge it. John had found it. John had helped him find it. He should have told John everything the minute he suspected Moriarty’s plan.
“You’re right,” Sherlock admitted calmly.
“We’d be in the same place we are right now, taking down Moriarty’s netwo…”John trailed off, his face veiled in confusion. “What?”
“I should have told you,” Sherlock clarified. He dropped his hands to his sides and looked down at John thoughtfully. “If I had brought you into the fold, told you my suspicions, we would have finished this months ago.”
John straightened his spine and rested his hands on his own hips. His rapid breaths slowed as he watched his friend, seemingly unsure of what to say.
“I hurt you so badly and put you in more danger by keeping the secret,” Sherlock continued remorsefully.
“You didn’t know,” John said after a moment, “and don’t give me that ‘I should’ve known’ rubbish. That big brain of yours can’t know everything, even if it seems like it does.”
Sherlock closed his mouth slowly instead of voicing that exact protestation. Contemplating the man before him, he wondered if he had ever given John the credit he deserved. He was brave, intelligent, and strong. Sherlock had always acknowledged some of those characteristics. He supposed two out of three wasn’t bad, but it was not enough.
“We are at our best when we are together,” Sherlock repeated.
“Yeah,” John replied, the corner of his mouth quirking.
Silence filled the room and the two men stood on either side of the bed, watching one another. After a long moment, Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that John’s pajama pants rode particularly low on his hips after all the pacing and flailing. Grand arm gesturing had drawn his t-shirt in quite the opposite direction and Sherlock could just see a black waistband peeking from beneath the overly long pajamas. Trying desperately to keep his thoughts in check, Sherlock forced his eyes away and concentrated hard on John’s face.
“I am…” Sherlock began, but shut his mouth with a click when John pulled the hem of his shirt down, a sheepish look on his face. He must have seen Sherlock looking and been offended. Sherlock suppressed a frustrated sigh and cursed himself. Goddammit, he would have to lose himself and make a mistake just when he and John were on good terms, fragile though they may be. He briefly wondered if their friendship would ever again be the way it had been. Sherlock sincerely hoped he had not caused irreparable damage, but before getting far in that line of thought, his mind jumped to another topic.
When they could finally go home, would John return to 221B or find a flat of his own? Would he want to live with Sherlock again or was their friendship ruined? The thought was soul-crushing. Sherlock could not even imagine the flat without John, even though they had only lived together a few short years. He would rather not go back at all than live alone.
“Hey,” John’s voice said from the void.
Sherlock blinked a few times until he came back into focus. He had not meant to slip into his mind palace and the quick descent must have been truly startling, if John’s worried expression was anything to go by.
“What?” Sherlock spluttered inelegantly.
“Are you okay?” John asked with concern. His blue eyes were soft as they studied Sherlock’s face. “You’re white as a sheet.”
John was standing right in front of him. When had he gotten so close? Sherlock quickly took stock of the situation and did not like what he found. Something was wrong. He felt unsettled and nervous. His skin was tacky with a light sheen of sweat and his pulse was accelerated. He nearly flinched away when John’s hand touched his shoulder gently.
“Hey,” John said again, his brow furrowing. “Why don’t we sit down? Just right here on the bed.”
Head feeling lighter than normal, Sherlock nodded slowly and allowed John to guide him down onto the edge of the mattress. He inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled from his mouth, just as John instructed. John’s arm wound around his back and one hand rested on each of his biceps. Sherlock would normally shrug off such coddling, but found John’s touch a grounding comfort. So much so, that he felt rather bereft when John let go after a few long minutes. He felt some measure of satisfaction, however, when John rested his right hand on Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Feeling better?” John asked, already sounding relieved. “Got a bit of your color back.”
“Tired,” Sherlock’s mind provided unhelpfully. For god sake, was this what he had been reduced to? One word responses? He rolled his eyes. “I’m fine, just tired.”
“Yeah,” John pressed his lips together into a pensive line and exhaled through his nose, “it has been a long day and will be again tomorrow. You said we need to get to Rome by evening, yeah?”
“Yes, we have plenty of time,” Sherlock answered in an even tone, feeling like himself again. “The ferries and trains take time, but are easy enough to use.”
“That’s an understatement,” John laughed and Sherlock’s heart warmed at hearing it. John’s eyes shifted to the bookcase. “Think Anthea will mind if I grab a couple books for the trip?”
“Not at all,” Sherlock answered with a small smile.
John’s hand was still on Sherlock’s shoulder and he seemed to have no desire to move it. Sherlock didn’t mind, not in the slightest. John could keep it there for the rest of their days. Sherlock would never complain about being permanently attached to a John. They would live side by side, inseparable and content, happy. It sounded perfect to him. It wouldn’t be, of course. They would bicker and argue and disagree. He would still do experiments and John would scold him. The microwave would blow up, but they would be happy. They would love every moment. And each other too? Sherlock wanted that. God, he wanted. He looked into John’s eyes, delighted in the smile on his face, and suddenly it became imperative that John knew everything in Sherlock’s heart.
“I will never leave your side again, John,” was the best Sherlock could do. What he wanted to say was ‘I love you’, but still unsure if it would drive the man away, he settled for this. It expressed the same emotion, just in more abstract terms.
John’s eyes, his entire face, softened and filled with fondness. He looked at Sherlock for a long moment and then lifted his hand. He moved the other one from Sherlock’s shoulder in tandem until they both rested on either side of the man’s face, cupping his cheeks. Sherlock gave an involuntary gasp, his eyes widening. John just gazed at him, tilting his own head thoughtfully. His palms were deliciously warm on Sherlock’s cool skin and he could feel a flush spreading over his face.
John blinked slowly and gave Sherlock the barest of smiles. Sherlock was mesmerized. How had he stood to be away from this man for even two minutes, much less eighteen months? Lost in the moment completely, Sherlock would not have noticed that his own lips had parted ever so slightly, except that John’s eyes lowered to track the movement. Sherlock’s heart shuddered to a halt and he could do nothing but stare. They had shared many intense stares in the past, especially on cases. None had ever felt like this one. Any romantic intent was never there, at least not that Sherlock noticed. Looking into John’s face now was a different story. His eyes were black as night, the color nearly overtaken by pupils. He looked wistful, almost dazed, like he was present in the moment and also thinking of something else entirely.
John’s thumbs were slowly stroking along Sherlock’s cheekbones now and he melted into the touch. His angular brows arched, climbing to his curls as he watched his friend curiously. His hands ached to reach for John and pull him close, but he held back. Hugging was not something they did, even at the worst of times. It was for the better though. Sherlock wasn’t sure he could keep his own emotions separate from affectionate touch and that would not be good for either of them.
They remained frozen in time and quite wordless. John was still gazing at Sherlock warmly, head tilted in thought. Sherlock, on the other hand, held his breath. He had no idea what to do or what would happen next, and he dared not move for fear the spell would break. With a fond smile, John cradled Sherlock’s face gently and shifted the man’s head slightly as he swooped in to press their lips together softly. Sherlock gasped when their lips met, completely undone. Everything was in slow motion. John moved his lips minutely, carefully testing the waters. Sherlock still didn’t know what to do, but found his lips responding of their own volition. It was a sweet, soft kiss, perfect for a first.
“Oh,” Sherlock breathed when they parted. His mind was utterly blank. All of the languages he spoke failed him, except one. “Je t’aime.”
He whispered the words against John’s lips before he could think better of it. John said nothing as he pulled back only enough to look into Sherlock’s cerulean eyes. Both men remained silent, just looking at one another, searching and asking, finding answers. John leaned in again and Sherlock welcomed him, responding immediately as their lips met. His hands floated up John’s back, stopping somewhere in the middle and pulling him closer. His whole body was alight with sensation and trepidation. He had dreamt of this for so long and it felt absolutely transcendent, and also tentative. Part of him feared that, at any moment, John would push him away and demand to know what he was on about. That moment never came, much to his relief and delight. Instead, John tilted his head more to deepen the kiss. Sherlock parted his lips slightly to sigh into John’s opening mouth. The kiss was still chaste, even as they panted and breathed each other’s air. John’s left hand slid down to Sherlock’s neck and he couldn’t help but angle it further to increase access, shivering when John’s tongue licked wantonly across his jawline.
Abandoning all of his carefully curated control, Sherlock dove in. He pushed his tongue into John’s mouth and twisted it to reach every possible surface. John responded in kind, licking into Sherlock’s mouth and teasing mercilessly. Sherlock’s right hand came to rest on the back of his neck as they pressed into each other, chests touching as much as their seated positions allowed. Long minutes passed and every one of them was incredible. Their kisses were urgent, but not frantic, growing in intensity with each touch.
John was the one to break off when he pulled away to kiss Sherlock’s left cheekbone and then circle to his earlobe where he nibbled and sucked. Sherlock gasped in surprise and then moaned, deep and throaty. His hands roamed up and down John’s back, fingertips and palms alternating like a dance. He wanted John. Right now and with all his being. He needed him. He needed to feel him.
John mouthed down Sherlock’s neck. His touch was amazing, both firm and gentle. Even in Sherlock’s most erotic fantasy, he would not have imagined such pleasure as this. He let out a disgruntled growl when John stopped where neck met shoulder and lifted his lips off the warm skin. Before Sherlock could voice his objection, however, John licked the spot so obscenely that Sherlock’s toes curled. His whole body shuddered and John smiled against his skin right before he bit it gently.
“Oh!” Sherlock cried out, his body tense and his mind whiting out.
“You okay?” John panted, a touch of concern to his voice. One hand came back to cradle Sherlock’s cheek with a caress so soft it eradicated any doubts he may have harbored. With that reassurance, Sherlock let go.
“John,” Sherlock breathed, gripping his hips and squeezing. “I need you. I need to feel you.”
He grabbed a handful of John’s t-shirt hem and pulled up, revealing tanned skin and a navel. Sherlock nearly died on the spot under the force of his desire. He wanted to press his lips against every inch, licking and nipping as he went. John, clever John, understood immediately and lifted his arms so Sherlock could pull the shirt up and off. He threw it to the floor and kissed John again, wrapping his arms around bare flesh. A moment later, he felt a tug at the bottom of his own shirt and eagerly threw up his arms for John. The fabric whisked over his head and landed near the foot of the bed. Sherlock’s hands were everywhere while John slid his up Sherlock’s chest, skimming over flat plains and skirting around nipples. Their lips kissed and mouthed at earlobes and necks, anywhere they could reach until John pulled back just enough to look Sherlock in the eye. They both stared from under heavy lids and then John kissed him again, leaning forward as he did, easing Sherlock backwards slowly. Soon he was lying flat on the mattress with John’s body against his from top to bottom.
John pressed his hips hard into Sherlock’s and they both moaned loudly. Sherlock thrust back and John tipped his head back with a gasp on his lips as their cocks touched. That was all it took for their desires to take over. They rutted agaist each other a few more times, quickly finding a rhythm together. The friction was incredible. They were skin to skin from shoulder to waist. Sherlock could feel every muscle, every bead of sweat on John’s body as they moved.
“Oh god, John,” he gasped, almost unable to believe it was really happening. He had always wanted this and had been certain he would never realize the fantasy, but here they were and nothing could stop them. Heat pooled in his belly and it was so good, just this side of overwhelming and he wanted more. More.
Suddenly, without warning, John stopped. He was still for a moment as though he needed to think. Shit. Shit. John pulled his weight from atop Sherlock, gazing down at him with dark eyes. Sherlock looked at him with lust and worry, holding tightly to his sides, not forcing him to stay, but making it known that he did not want the man to go.
“Wha’s wrong?” The words came out in a rush. Sherlock had to know what was going on. What had stopped John? How could he fix it?
“I jus’ want to…” John didn’t finish, his words cut off by a wanton moan when he aligned their cocks and dropped his hips so they rested on Sherlock’s once more. “Christ.”
“Oh, god,” Sherlock groaned at the same time. “John, you are a goddamn genius.”
His large hands slid to John’s ass, fingers gripping his cheeks firmly. He held fast and thrust up into the man, taking both their breaths away.
“John. John, I need you. Now.”
He was panting and thrusting slowly, torturously. God, it was perfect. Sherlock could already feel his release coiling in his belly, teasing his loins with the most intense pleasure. He would come harder than ever before, he knew, and it was going to happen embarrassingly quickly, but he really didn’t care. He needed this with John, loved him with every fiber. Somewhere in his mind, even in this state, he thanked the fates that John couldn’t speak French because he could not guarantee that he wouldn’t mutter something in the language again.
“John,” he almost pleaded and John nodded his understanding.
“Yes,” the man rasped. “Oh, god.”
Both men thrust at once and paused for just a moment to bask in the spine-tingling pleasure of their groins pressed together. Even the clothing they wore couldn’t dampen the sensation. In an instant, frenzied movement overtook them. John’s hips snapped mercilessly and Sherlock met him thrust for thrust. Their motions soon became erratic, their bodies twitching and lurching as they chased release. Finally, Sherlock could hold back no longer and he jerked up at John, his whole body rigid as wave after wave ripped through him. John’s climax followed as soon as Sherlock’s began, and quite by surprise, if his expression was anything to go by. They both thrust against one another again, but more gently, muttering the other’s name as the ultimate pleasure washed over them. Sherlock’s whole body tingled and his mind went white, floating through every thought and emotion. He cataloged them all.
When the orgasms began to abate, John slowly opened his eyes to look down at Sherlock. He was breathing hard. He wasn’t the only one. John gave the man a smile and collapsed onto his damp chest.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” John exclaimed, his breaths coming fast on Sherlock’s left pectoral. “That wa… was incredible, Sherlock.”
He lifted his head, a radiant smile on his lips. Sherlock swallowed with difficulty around his own panting and grinned back. He had absolutely no idea what to say, so he kissed John instead, softly and sweetly. It felt like magic. What happened when their lips parted was unreservedly out of his control. The words tumbled out unbidden.
“Ma vie t’appartient. Je suis et demeurerai à jamais ton époux,” Sherlock blinked his eyes wide in panic as soon as his mind caught up to his mouth. What the hell was he thinking?
“What?” John asked with a laugh. “That sounds beautiful, especially from you. God, your voice is criminal. I’ve no idea what it means though.”
“Flannel,” Sherlock rushed to say, already cursing himself. “We need a flannel.”
“We need much more than that,” John couldn’t stop laughing now. “We need all new pajamas.”
He pushed himself up onto his elbows and Sherlock’s bare chest felt bereft in the cool air. He kept his hands on the small of John’s back, having no intention of letting him go. Words in English seemed beyond him after this colossal cock-up. Fortunately, his silence didn’t seem to bother John.
“You want a quick shower first?” he asked brightly.
“Go ahead,” Sherlock managed with a nod towards the bathroom.
“Yeah?” John answered and winked. “Won’t be a minute.”
He rolled off Sherlock and headed for the door. A rather large, wet circle that he made no attempt to hide stained the front of his pajama pants. Sherlock looked down at his own once John was ensconced in the ensuite and saw much the same. Unfazed, he relaxed back into the soft mattress, raising his arms to tuck his hands behind his head. He was so very glad John did not speak French. It was the only thing that saved him this time. He really must investigate his propensity to declare his love to John in French before it got him in trouble, but not now. He had more important matters to attend to at the moment. He closed his eyes and entered his mind palace fervently. He wanted to catalog this experience so he would always have it no matter what happened next.
What would happen next? Surely, John would not want a relationship, much as it pained Sherlock to admit. John was not, as he so often pointed out, gay. The question of orientation, however, was unclear. Before disappearing into the bathroom, John did not exhibit any signs of existential crisis of sexual identity. He seemed completely at ease with the situation. Unless, of course, it was happening now behind closed doors. Sherlock huffed in disapproval when he involuntarily hoped that was not the case. Sentiment had begun to weasel its way into his psyche during his absence from John. It was part of him now. He could easily switch it off while on assignment, but was unable to do so reliably when off the clock. He was certain Mycroft knew, though he never said a word. Thank god for small miracles.
What Sherlock found strangest was that sentiment was not the weakness he had been led to believe. In fact, he felt more complete than he had since he was a child. Even when he and John had lived together in 221B, solving crimes and bickering over experiments, Sherlock had not felt at peace with himself. Had something positive actually come out of the fall? Had his brother been wrong all along? The longer he thought, the more he saw no other logical conclusion. Sherlock smirked smugly. He couldn’t wait to share that particular piece of information with Mycroft at their next meeting.
“Hey,” a voice tore Sherlock from his thoughts. His eyes flew open to see John standing next to the bed with his hands up in a placating gesture. “Sorry, sorry! I couldn’t remember the best approach. It’s been a while.”
“The best approach?” Sherlock questioned, raising a brow.
“Yeah. When you’re in your mind palace,” John supplied. “I always used to touch you first, I think. I don’t think you really noticed, but it kept you from getting so startled. I forgot. I’m sorry.”
Sherlock didn’t move a muscle, save cocking his brow a fraction more at John’s words. After a few minutes, John shifted and brought his left hand to the back of his own neck.
“Well, uh,” he cleared his throat, abashed, “shower’s yours.”
Sherlock blinked.
“Yes,” he agreed, sitting up. “Yes, of course.”
He stood and walked straight to the chest of drawers for new clothes. Once he had them, he crossed to the bathroom.
“Laters,” Sherlock turned to say with false bravado and then closed the door firmly behind him. He leaned his back against it and sighed, wondering what would happen now. Would John choose to ignore what just happened, and if not, how long would it be before he insisted they talk about it? Sherlock tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. He would have known the answers to all his questions with minimal effort before the fall and their time apart, but both he and John were so different now. His past self never would have let this happen no matter how much he wanted it.
Sherlock didn’t know what to think anymore. He could not discern whether or not his interpretations of John and the situation were leading to the correct deduction or if it was all wrong. Some part of John had honestly, secretly always confounded him and now that part was even larger and harder to deduce. Sherlock certainly knew what he wanted to do in light of this new development, but did John want the same? Would John ever want that? Sherlock just didn’t know.
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I know what you're thinking: "Well..... we have but one thing to say to that. SMUT, JANE, BLESSED MFING SMUT!! Thank you so much." But will it happen again? Will they talk about it? Will John come out of the bathroom and insist it was all a big mistake? Who's to say??? The Shadow knows, and by The Shadow, I mean me. Mwahahahaha! Love, Jane
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