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You both like slavelock, and Johnlock.
You: ((By all means, if you've got something, go ahead. The only slavelock I've got is one where he's also a vampire, and I'd love to see what other people have done with it.))
Stranger: John was not entirely sure how he got into this mess. The law called it indentured servitude, payment through labor and other, less savory things, to pay a debt. And he did owe a debt, and he’d do it again if it saved his sister’s life. Usually he was put into the hard labor category. He was strong and fit and able and sometimes he rather liked it. Doing yard work for rich widows and plying bricks for the city was honest work. And sometimes, less than most but more than he liked, he’d find himself on his stomach being used by men who didn’t look him in the eye. It paid the same. But this time was strange. Bought and paid for fully by a man who wanted him to, and John remembered this part vividly, “make a man out of my little brother”. He supposed the bloke thought he was doing this little brother a favor but still, it was /odd/ to sit on some young man’s bed, waiting in his shorts, to deflower someone.
You: Sherlock had decided, for once, to do his homework, if only to put off Mummy's nagging and make Mycroft leave him alone. He had been perched carefully in a tree when he felt a sharp jab in his back. He startled and looked down, glaring at Mycroft and the umbrella he was holding.
"What do you want? I'm being productive?"
"Come inside, little brother. Mummy's asked it."
Sherlock sighed and grumbled all the way down the tree, but then found that Mycroft had a tight grip on him as he led him to one of the spare bedrooms. That sent off alarm bells, and he started to struggle against Mycroft, but he was still eventually shoved into the room and locked inside. At first, he didn't even notice the other man, just turning to bang on the door.
"Mycroft! What's your bloody plan this time! I was /working/!" he growled at the door, banging a few more times, and then one last, particularly loud time before giving up. He turned to sit on the bed so he could stew in his anger, but jumped horribly upon seeing the other man there.
".....Hello," Sherlock greeted warily. "....I'd ask what you're doing in my house, but I suppose Mycroft put you up to this. ...Indentured servant?" Sherlock tried to deduce, creeping forward a bit with interest. "Where are you trousers?"
Stranger: "Hi..." John was just as wary. He was so /young/. Seventeen at the oldest. That or he had one of /those/ faces. Would be fourteen or forty and John would believe both. Mycroft. That was the older brother, then. What kind of person names their kid Mycroft? Oh, well. "Yes. I'm an indentured servant." That was the politically correct word for people like him. Brought balance to the economy and all that. John's debt was repaid while chores and other things got done. But John didn't feel like a temporary ward of the state, even if that was his technical title. He felt like a slave, and he hated it. "My trousers are back at the boarding house."
You: Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Wh -" he began, and then his face fell and clouded over into a mask. "Oh," he said coolly, striding to the other side of the room. "....It seems, sir, that we are at an impasse. My brother likely will not let you go until he /knows/ he's gotten what he wanted, and /I/ am not going to do this." Sherlock's fist clenched as he crossed his arms. Why couldn't Mycroft understand? He didn't feel interest in strangers - he had to like a person before he could be attracted to them, and he'd found one or two people, so far in ((secondary school/university whichever age we're aiming for)), and none of them had returned the interest.
Stranger: "I am not going to make you. I don't care if he adds another thousand quid to it, it's not worth it if you don't want it." John ducked his head down and memorized the pattern on the bed's duvet. "Your brother promised to take a huge amount of my debt for the simple task of making you a man. Whatever that means. It's a bit old-fashioned, this idea that...sex..." He almost said making love, the idiot. "That it changes who you are, fundamentally. No offense, but I could be the prettiest boy you've ever seen and we could have a wild night and you'd still come out the other end just the same, I think."
You: Sherlock slowly, warily relaxed. "Thank you for being sane. My mother is the only other sane one in this house. Dad doesn't care, but he leans to Mycroft's side, and Mycroft is absolutely disgusting about this, and has been for the past few years. He seems annoyed that I'm getting into university and being rebellious enough to dabble in drugs but that I'm still a virgin," he sneered at the word. Sherlock approached a little. "...Perhaps we should attempt some small talk. We're going to be in here for a while, until Mummy can override Mycroft's stubbornness," Sherlock confided.
Stranger: "The fact that you actually call it 'small talk' makes me think you're not exactly used to it." John smiled a bit. Just talk to the bloke? Easy enough way to pass the time. He'd had worse days. God, he still called his mother 'Mummy' and admitted to trying drugs. What an odd young man. Weirdly innocent and experienced at the same time. So different. But not a bad sort of different. At least he didn't leap on John gleefully and shagged him until it hurt. "I'm John. It's nice to meet you, mate."
You: "Sherlock Holmes," the young man introduced himself. "...And no. I don't speak much. ...Sometimes I feel like I do, because I'm thinking all the time and when I /do/ speak I sometimes babble....but I don't speak much. But that's fine, because people don't like to listen," Sherlock admitted, cautiously coming even closer. He was aiming for sitting on the bed, but he wasn't sure he wanted to - he was used to people working to their own motivations, and somewhere in the back of his mind he maintained that if it meant John's freedom that the man would shag him against his will.
Stranger: "I did the same thing when I was in uni. It's a great study habit. Recite the bones and nerves and tendons until it's almost a muscle memory. A lot of people do that, even if you do look sort of insane, chatting about the parts of the brain to yourself while eating lunch." John scooted back so that Sherlock would have more room. "But I actually quite like to listen to people. My mum said I should've became a therapist but I haven't the patience for it." John looked up at him. The man put on a pretty brave front, but he still looked unsure about the whole thing. Well, that was fair. John was still unsure about the whole thing. The indentured had few rights. If Sherlock hurt him, there would be no legal recourse.
You: "Hm," Sherlock commented, surprised that John was older than him. He certainly didn't look it. He smiled a little at what John said. "Mm, yes. I've found the brain is a little off-putting for a cafeteria topic. Bones are slightly more socially acceptable," Sherlock said as though reciting the results of an experiment. He hadn't made it into one, but it was still an observation as tried and true as any made during his experiments. "So....medical degree, not a therapist....a surgeon? Or in training to be one?" Sherlock asked until he was standing right beside the bed.
You: *Sherlock, still moving up until he was standing right beside the bed
Stranger: "I was in pre-med. I was good at it too. But...then life happened." Sherlock would not want to hear his sob-story. After all, everyone had one, and it wasn't like he was the only servant in England. Granted, most had gambled or stolen their way into a debt so John was a little different than most, but at his core he was the same. He was just a terribly unlucky man. "When...when this is over I mean to go back. But yeah, I was studying to be a doctor. How about you? You're about to start uni, right? Pre-med as well?"
You: "Mm, no. I'm dabbling more in science in general. I just take it more seriously than most. The two opinions on /why/ are because I have no friends or because I need to get laid. Obviously, it's not the latter, as Mycroft's just like me, but a little bit different - friendless, yes, but sleeps around. Or he did in uni. But that was a while ago. And it was probably just to cultivate some connections, since he's so politically focused," Sherlock said, making a face. Sherlock paused. "And we've got plenty of time, if you want to tell me that story. I promise you, nothing properly interesting has ever happened to me," Sherlock dismissed.
Stranger: John hesitated. The last person he had told was a judge, and his sentence had be declared by most to be a fair one. Would Sherlock have some pity, or would he call John a sentimental fool? "My...my older sister drinks. A lot. At first I had a job and I paid for her rehab. Then she got sick, badly, and needed a lot of care. Around the clock sort of thing. And I lost my job. She's still sick...and I'm still racking up debt for it. Every day she doesn't stop drinking is another 800 on my sentence. Either she stops drinking or she dies and until either one happens, here I am."
You: Sherlock fell silent, not sure what to say to that. "...I don't think I would ever do that for Mycroft," he finally said, looking up toward the ceiling. "...Have you not found a steady..." Sherlock mulled over what word to use, "assignment because you don't want to, because that doesn't happen, or because you haven't been able to? I would think someone who could steadily pay off that debt would be most /useful/, if nothing else," Sherlock said. He tried to tell himself that he was /not/ letting the man's friendliness make him think about keeping the man around. Sherlock had more money than he could ever use, after all - he might as well use it useful. He shook that idea sharply from his head, though.
Stranger: John shrugged. "I get long-term projects, but nothing lasts forever. Eventually buildings are built, fruit is picked, boxes are lifted. And other types of work don't want to hire servants. They ruddy well know I'd leave the minute my term was up. I'd actually prefer a long-term assignment. Anything is better than sitting in the boarding house, waiting." John didn't know what else to say. He loved his sister dearly, even if it seemed like she didn't love him at all. He told himself it was just the liquor. Deep down, Harriet still loved him. Right?
You: Sherlock nodded along slowly. Sherlock bit his lip, refraining from offering. Just a minute ago, hadn't he kind of wanted John gone at all costs? Then again....a person being friendly had always been his weakness, sure to suck him in quickly. "Do you get asked to do this type of thing often? I don't mean the sexual part - I'm not oblivious - people take whatever opportunities they can to use indentured servants like that, I know - but....where the intended....other participant doesn't necessarily know what's coming? Or is my brother the only sick bastard to do this, so far?"
Stranger: John smiled. "Only once else. I was a very kind old lady's live-in companion for a month or so. She was just lonely and her granddaughter knew I had some medical training so I was her...sort of birthday present. She died in her sleep, but for a while I just had to keep a tiny widow's cottage tidy and serve tea and wind yarn into balls and watch crap telly. Easiest money I ever earned. But it's you and her for surprise gifts. Most...prefer to pick their own. They have preferences others can't predict."
You: "Hm," Sherlock hummed, nodding and leaning back, sighing. "...He could've at least had the decency to lock us in my room. Then again, I know too many ways out of there," Sherlock sighed. "...He's really determined," Sherlock commented. Of course, upon mentioning his own room, he found he had an irrational urge to hold the stuffed bee that he'd had since infancy. He'd always been attached to it, often treating it like a best friend, since he didn't actually have one of those. Sherlock rolled over, trapping his arms under himself so he'd stop thinking about it. He pressed his face into the mattress and sighed huffily. "...Whenever you get out of this, you will almost certainly need somewhere to stay," Sherlock said eventually, looking up. "And you won't have much money to do it with. As you may have noticed from my brother, the family is filthy rich, so if you call me, I'll put you up wherever I end up staying at the time," Sherlock offered, and then practically bit his tongue.
Stranger: John nearly jumped in surprise. "That's...thank you." John hadn't let his goals get far beyond his freedom and his return to university. The logic of it all was to terrifying to think on. Social justice people spoke of a 'cycle of servitude' where people were freed but didn't have any money to survive so they borrowed/stole and the cycle began again. Which was great for the hard labour industry, not so great for an A student who just loved his ruddy sister. "Thank you so much. It'll be nice to have a friend on the outside. I won't...won't be charity. But I appreciate the /loan/." John still had his pride, such as it was.
You: "I doubt I'll have much for you to do. All I ever do is sit at home experimenting, and it's probably all I'll ever do unless the police start listening to me, which I doubt they ever will," Sherlock sighed softly. /Though I do need a friend..../ he almost said, but /that/ he managed to cut off before saying anything. "But I do understand what you're saying and how you feel. I'll do my best to make sure you can repay me," Sherlock sighed, sprawling out on the bed and closing his eyes.
Stranger: "Well, I'm okay at maths. I cook well enough. Played clarinet in secondary. I'm strong, obviously. Whatever you need me to do, I can do." John didn't even raise an eyebrow at 'experimenting'. This line of work had forced him to see weirder. "Of course, have fun explaining to your brother that you were supposed to shag me and ended up making friends instead. In fact, tell him in front of me. I think I might get some pleasure watching his head explode." John blushed. "Sorry. That was rude. Just...struck me as being a bit of a prat, is all."
You: "Cooking," Sherlock smiled, opening his eyes. "A cook, I could use. I'm terrible at feeding myself, sometimes. ...And I could use a partner for duets," Sherlock smiled softly, closing his eyes again. Sherlock snorted at what John said, opening his eyes to grin at the other man. "Don't worry. I've said worse about him, and I feel the same. And he is a prat. A huge prat. And I guarantee that he still will be whenever you end up needing my lodgings," Sherlock said.
Stranger: "You are a bit on the thin side. Figured you just had an enviable metabolism." John liked Sherlock's smile. It seemed real. Not the fake, gleeful smiles of the men who had used him before. Then, John went silent. "It could be years. It could be...my parents don't visit. My sister doesn't write. The nurse writes to me, to let me know how she is. Even in a ruddy hospital bed she sneaks the booze and I...might be here until I'm an old man and you've gone and got married and forgot all about me."
You: "I won't forget about you," Sherlock shook his head as he made that promise. "I never forget, if I don't want to. And I intend to keep the promise I just made. I've perfected a couple of memory techniques - enough to make my mind into a hard drive," Sherlock declared proudly. "I can keep or delete whatever I want, and I /promise/ I will keep you," Sherlock said. "And who knows? You could get lucky. And Mycroft has associates in high places. He might be able to get your sister into good rehab /and/ pay for it," Sherlock suggested.
Stranger: John laughed bitterly. "You overestimate Mycroft's need for me. I'm here because he thought, for whatever reason, that I would tempt you. If I fail he'll probably tack quid on for time wasted and petrol bought. If I succeed he'd pay my keeper and never think of me again. He owes me no favor and I have a feeling he looks down on me. But he has a face that makes me think looking down on people is his hobby."
You: "...My mind had jumped to him being grateful I'd managed a friend. ....But you're right. .....He wouldn't care about that," Sherlock said, sighing deeply. Sherlock looked down at himself. He swallowed harshly. He didn't want to be responsible for any extra time put on John's debt. One hand drift towards the top buttons of his own shirt. ...John was nice. He could do this, if John was gentle with him, and if it meant John could get that much extra taken off his debt. And maybe - just maybe - Mycroft would notice that he was moping around pining for his friend afterward and get John out of all this debt to be with him. Sherlock closed his eyes and brought both hands up to begin undoing the buttons of his shirt more swiftly.
Stranger: "Sherlock..." John watched his long hands pluck at each button. John scrambled to his knees and put his hands over Sherlock's. He was so tan and Sherlock was so pale. Like gold against ivory. It struck him as a beautiful contrast for just a moment. "Sherlock, no. You don't have to do this. You're waiting, for whatever reasons, and I respect that. You don't have to do this." John's hands were trembling. Idiot. Of course this sensitive, brilliant young man would feel guilt if Mycroft added to his debt. "Don't worry about it. It'll just be eighty quid or less because I annoyed him. Barely a drop in the bucket. Don't...don't worry about it, mate."
You: Sherlock stared into John's eyes, feeling John's warm hands over his own. "But it's not fair. ...Not when you're being my friend. ...You'd think he wants me to be alone, if he would punish the only person being nice to me," Sherlock said, venting his feelings for the long time in a long time. "...I'm not sure I've ever had a friend...I'm not sure I'll ever have another one besides you....and I just don't see the point in wanting someone that I'm not already attached to - demisexual, isn't that the word?" Sherlock distantly tried to recall. "I just -" Sherlock said, trying not to cry, not knowing why he even felt like crying in the first place.
Stranger: "I get it. You have to be close to someone to want them?" John didn't let Sherlock's hands go. His only friend? That was awful. Sherlock was generous and kind and so oddly fragile. He squeezed Sherlock's hands gently. "Sherlock, listen to me. Right now, you're my only friend too. And I think it'll be easy enough to admit that you're probably my best friend. I'm not going to hurt you just because you're brother is a prat and I'm technically property."
You: Sherlock turned his hands so that he could intertwine his fingers with John's and he stared at john as John spoke. "But I want you to /stop/ being property....as soon as possible. So you can be my friend. Properly," Sherlock sighed. ".....I would be okay. With...going at it. With you. ...For whatever stupid reason, I trust you after only a few minutes with you. ...But....you're right. I'm not sure I'd be choosing to do this under other circumstances. So...maybe we shouldn't. But...maybe kissing? That might satisfy him some, and I'm definitely okay with that, with you," Sherlock smiled.
Stranger: "You've never been kissed?" John stared down at him. "How does a man as bloody gorgeous get this far in life and never get a kiss?" John smiled down at him gently. Trust. He had Sherlock's trust and John would do everything to keep it. "Even if I am property, I will always be your friend." He leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock's mouth. Chaste, and slow. John wanted Sherlock to enjoy his first kiss, to lock it away in that brilliant mind of his. Something gentle for Sherlock to keep when John had to leave.
You: Sherlock blushed, more at the remark about being gorgeous than at John's disbelief. He smiled softly at John's reassurance, and he wrapped his arms gently around John, happy to stay pressed against him and feel his warmth as they kissed. Sherlock tried to kiss him back, tentatively, all of the data about the kiss locked into a file he would never, ever delete. He stayed wrapped up with John and prayed that Mummy hadn't gotten her authority in yet, because once she did, it would only be a matter of time before she came to separate them and Mycroft would send John back to the boarding house. Sherlock held onto John a little tighter at that thought.
Stranger: When Sherlock squeezed him tighter John felt like he could take on the world. He knew exactly what a demisexual was, and getting kissed back meant that Sherlock felt the same odd connection that John did. He couldn't explain it, and he didn't want to. Parsing it out and labeling it would be wrong. He just fit, right in Sherlock's arms, and that's all he needed to know. John kissed him slowly and thoroughly. John's heart was beating hard against his ribcage. Sherlock was too good.
You: Sherlock just closed his eyes and let himself get lost in the moment, in the feeling. He froze when he heard footsteps outside. "I don't want to let you go," he whispered against John's lips, closing his eyes and holding John tight. That particular click was something /everyone/ could associate with high heels, and only one person in the house regularly wore high heels casually - Mummy. Sherlock took in a sharp, slightly shuddering breath.
Stranger: "I don't want to be let go." He ducked his head down to Sherlock's neck and inhaled. Soap and rosin...violin? Maybe. John whispered his ID number in Sherlock's ear. If...if he needed John again he'd find him faster by number than name. John /was/ just a number, after all, even if Sherlock's kisses made him feel like a human again. "It's okay. It's gonna be okay. I'm sorry. Would've been easier if you hated me..."
You: Sherlock felt tears welling up within him as Mummy opened the door. Sherlock gave John another squeeze of a hug before slowly letting his arms unwind from around John. His hands lingered where they could, and at that moment, Sherlock resolved that for the rest of his life, John and that number would be his everything. Boyfriend, best friend....everything. Sherlock swallowed and squeezed his hand before releasing his hand. Mycroft was there, sneering in disappointment, and Sherlock fixed his eyes on the back wall, just trying to hold back tears.
Stranger: John had his pride. He looked Mycroft and then Mrs. Holmes in the eye. He didn't apologize. He didn't back down. "I'm ready to go, if that is what you want." He glanced over at Sherlock. He squeezed his hand back. Sherlock Holmes. He'd never forget that name, but he wouldn't be offended if Sherlock forgot him. Servants were people that were meant to be forgotten. Still, he /was/ Sherlock's first kiss. That meant something.
You: Mummy led John out, not speaking to him, but her manner wasn't cool, either. She wasn't angry. She knew as well as any other Holmes that nothing had happened that Sherlock hadn't desired. Sherlock took a moment to gather himself enough that he wouldn't break down in front of Mycroft, and then he got up and strode past the other man. He paused, and then glared back at Mycroft. "If you try that again, I will murder you /and/ the person you send to deflower me," he said, and he hoped that he sounded serious enough to terrify Mycroft. Then Sherlock went to his own room and sobbed.
((Do we want to timeskip to a Study in Pink remeeting, or what?))
Stranger: ((Maybe a little sooner because frankly I don't feel like doing the whole SIP case?))
You: ((Yeah, that works for me, I suppose What should the scenario be? I'm thinking Sherlock ODing and John being the doctor that takes care of him? Though that might not work cause Sherlock did promise him lodgings, and John probs would've been able to keep him from ODing...))
Stranger: ((I think maybe somebody has to tell him Harriet died...? Why can't Sherlock be that person?))
You: ((It might make sense, if Sherlock finds out connected to a case, and someone says John's ID number and he refuses to let any of the officers tell them and insists he do it himself?))
Stranger: ((Or if he just takes it upon himself to keep track of Harry?))
You: ((Mm true.))
Sherlock had been loitering with Lestrade in a hospital for a case when a very familiar nurse approached him slowly. Sherlock saw them, and his brow furrowed. He was a little shocked to be told Harriet died, but an unfair joy welled up in him. He made his excuses to Lestrade and then practically ran all the way to John's boarding house, praying John would be there and not on a job.
Stranger: When they didn't have work, they cleaned. It was unpaid work, but having a clean, livable workspace was it's own reward. Ten years. Ten of the longest years of his life. His body was one of the toughest and strongest in his block. Med school was a distant dream, but he clung to it. He wouldn't be the only old person in uni and he wouldn't let Harriet take everything from him. She bounced from functional to comatose, depending on her ability to get to a liquor store, and John couldn't get out of his debt. He took every job he could, but when the jobs lead him to strange beds only one person could chase the thoughts away. He saw Sherlock every single time. And even though it had been a decade, he still thought of the shy young man, even now, as he scrubbed at the men's loo.
You: Sherlock asked around until he found the person in charge of the debts for those in this boarding house. Sherlock told them that Harriet had died, made the necessary phone calls and got the necessary paperwork to prove it, and then asked for John's outstanding debt. He was a bit impressed with what 800 a day could do, and the chunk it was going to take out of his bank account, but he was fairly confident he'd be able to make most of it back through cases. Still, he got John's debt paid and waited in the office for John to be summoned to them.
Stranger: "Number 826513?" John looked up at the guard. A retired police man who was too old to be chasing criminals. Nice enough, John reckoned. Indentured servants rarely caused trouble, especially in John's block. "Yes, sir?" "You've been summoned to the office." Oh, thank God. Another job /and/ someone else got to scrub the loo. This was almost Christmas for John. He washed his hands and followed the guard down to the office. He knew the drill by heart. John let the guard open the door. John kept his hands and face down. "Number 826513, reporting, sir."
You: "Not anymore, if I can help it," Sherlock said pleasantly, hoping his voice hadn't changed too much to make John unable to recognize it immediately upon hearing it. "And I do have a promise to keep, after all, John. An old one, yes, but I /choose/ what I forget about. Granted, it's made for much taunting when The Walking Encyclopedia can't tell you what 'heliocentric' means," Sherlock said casually, "but can recognize an army man by skin tone and speech patterns."
Stranger: John raised his head. No...miracles don't happen like this. He recognized this man anywhere. Oh, he had grown, yes. His voice was deeper and his body was stronger, broader in the shoulders. But his eyes still shined like a galaxy of mischief and he still chattered on about nothing and everything. "Sherlock...?" Please, God, do not let me be hallucinating vividly.
You: Sherlock grinned widely. "Come home with me, John," Sherlock smiled softly, holding his arms out, inviting John to hug him. He'd waited for this for /so long/, and he'd been trying so hard not to feel happy at Harry's rather dramatic decline, but he hadn't been able to help it. Now, he just hoped to have his friend (hopefully a lover?) and to help him grieve his sister. The poor man had done it all for her and hadn't even really gotten to see her.
Stranger: This was his job? Oh, yes. He'd take it. Being a companion was usually the job of a female servant but Sherlock still wanted him, after so long and so many years. John ran and hugged him tight. He didn't care of the guard or the block captain thought it was strange to see. He just hugged Sherlock so tight. He still smelled like soap and rosin, even if there was a spritz of expensive cologne mixed in. "Yes, sir. I'll come home with you for as long as you want me."
You: Sherlock held him close for a while, relishing the feeling. Still, it sank in that John thought it was only a job quickly enough, and Sherlock sat slowly, bringing John with him and pulling him into his lap. "I'll probably want you forever, but that doesn't matter, because /you/ don't have to go anywhere you don't want to anymore," Sherlock said quietly. "....John....she didn't stop. She never stopped. Seeing her addiction kept my....more intense dabbling with cocaine from going too far. She...I asked them to hold her body in the morgue until we could get there," Sherlock said softly. "..Do you have any things here? You should go get them..." Sherlock said.
Stranger: Oh. Harriet was...gone. Like a child, he leaned on Sherlock's chest. "And my debt is...you paid it, didn't you?" John pressed his hand against Sherlock's cheek. "My dearest friend....I...." He choked on his tears. It was too much. There were too many conflicting emotions. He was elated to see Sherlock again. He was devastated that Harriet was dead, but he was also thrilled that she was...wasn't adding to his debt any further. And he was bone-deep relieved to be free. "I don't....my personal belongings were auctioned off to pay my debt. I have...nothing." He sobbed into Sherlock's chest.
You: Sherlock shushed him and rubbed a hand in circles over his back. "It's alright, it's alright. We can fix that quickly enough. That's it, John. That's it. Let it out a bit, but save some for the morgue or for home," he said. "Are you going to be huffy if I carry you around, or would you like me to do that?" Sherlock asked, stroking his back soothingly and kissing the top of his head. "There, there, love," murmured Sherlock, shifting so he could stand with John in his arms if John said that was alright.
Stranger: John sniffled. "If you can lift me I'll be surprised." He wiped his eyes on his wrist and forced himself to stop crying. Sherlock was right. He couldn't do this here. Even if he had no pride left to speak of, Sherlock didn't need to see him blubbering. It had been ten years. He didn't want the first sight of John for his friend (love...?) to see was him all red-faced and throwing a proper wobbly. "Thank you. For everything. I...don't know what to say. Thank you so much."
You: "...We could try 'I love you'," Sherlock murmured, giving him a gentle kiss and then doing his best to lift John. He did manage it - he was deceptively strong, from all his parkour around the city chasing criminals. "Mrs. Hudson is going to /adore/ you," he declared. "She's our landlady," he explained as he carried John along. "Lovely old woman. Abusive husband, though. On death row in Florida, now, thanks to me and some more intense crimes he committed over there."
You: "The husband. Is on death row in Florida. In case I was being unclear."
Stranger: Wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, John chuckled despite his grief. "So, I take it the police started listening to you? Good on them." John had tried to remember every word Sherlock had spoken to him on that day, but he didn't have the memory Sherlock had. The kiss was soft and sweet and made John's heart clinch. "Poor woman. That's such a sad thing but I'm glad you were able to help her." He had questions. So many, none of which were appropriate to ask in the streets. Had Sherlock found someone in the ten years? Was this obligation? No...no. Sherlock called him love. "I missed you. So much. I just...missed you."
You: "Yeah, they did. ....They're there, and I may have to check in with them before I take you down to the morgue. I took off quickly, and they hate it when I do that," Sherlock admitted, and smiled at John's compliment. "You can ask everything when we're home. And I'll answer everything you ask, if I can. ...I missed you a lot. So much. I never forgot you. Not ever. And you're still going to get to be the one who deflowers me," Sherlock giggled quietly. "...If you want," he added quickly, blushing.
Stranger: John went a bit pale. "Sherlock, it's been ten years...you're still...you didn't...?" There was no way John could believe that someone as beautiful and brilliant as Sherlock had waited for an indentured servant to be freed. But...God he wanted it to be true. Sherlock was all he thought about, and especially when he had been sold for sex. He wanted it to be Sherlock, always. "You're my best friend..." John murmured softly. "You never forgot me..."
You: "I promised, didn't I?" Sherlock pointed out with a soft smile. He carried John slowly back to the hospital. "...You mean everything to me, John. You always have. ...I was never interested in anyone else. And no one was ever really that friendly to me, either. You're still special. The most special, even after so long. ...I can't wait for my coworkers to meet you...they spend far too much time declaring I'm entirely unlovable with no sense of humor," he said as they walked along, Sherlock acting as though he didn't care that there was a lot of staring.
Stranger: "Hmph. Idiots. You're so smart, I bet you have a wicked sense of humor." John was offended on Sherlock's behalf. How dare someone say things so cruel to his only friend? John let his head rest on Sherlock's chest. That spark, that connection he felt so many years ago was still there. He could feel it in the way Sherlock held him. Like he would break. Some had spent a lot of quid trying to break John Watson. Sherlock wouldn't hurt him. "You did promise...I wish I could say I waited as well. I wish..."
You: "Hey. You had reason to live every moment as it came to you," Sherlock shrugged, cradling John close to his body. Soon, they were at the hospital. Some people looked alarmed and tried to get to John, to see what was so wrong someone had to carry him, but Sherlock shooed them and hurried off to the morgue, having easily remembered the pathway. He set John down gently as they stood outside of the morgue. "...Are you ready to see her, love?" murmured Sherlock.
Stranger: Almost by instinct John reached down and took Sherlock's hand. "I didn't get a chance to say goodbye..." John took a deep breath in and opened the door. A shy, slight woman with a sad grin looked up at Sherlock with stars in her eyes. "Hi...oh, hi. I'm Molly. You must be John. Sherlock has told me so much about you..." John gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze. What could Sherlock have said? They had only been together for an hour at most. Molly tucked a pencil behind her ear. "Locker 4....I'll leave you two alone, then?"
You: Sherlock kept John's hand in his, even as Molly emerged. He watched them warily as they greeted each other, but when Molly was friendly, he relaxed. "Yes, please, Molly," Sherlock murmured. When she left, Sherlock leaned down a bit to murmur to John. "...You can get a surprising amount of information out of an hour, months-years of pining, and catching a couple of embarrassing baby stories said loudly to nurses," Sherlock replied gently.
Stranger: "I can't believe a man like you would pine..." John walked into the room. Locker four...all that remained of his sister. "Who told you baby stories about me?" John's hand found the right locker. Stainless steel and chrome. It was all so cold, so sterile. It seemed wrong for his sister to be here. She was loud, giggly, earthy, and always alive. "I know it was just drunk talk but when she found out I was indentured she just rolled her eyes at me and said that she didn't ask for my help. That I made my own bed...how can I be so mad at a person and miss her so much at the same time?"
You: "...I hung around here a lot. I helped her where I could. ....Watched closely if she was doing poorly. And so I overheard some of what she said to the nurses. And it was occasionally about you," Sherlock shrugged, approaching John a little and placing a hand on his shoulder. "And that's a very, very easy thing to feel. ...It will get better. I can help you get better," Sherlock murmured.
Stranger: "You already have." John turned and hugged Sherlock tight. "Thank you. God, you watched out for my sister. Thank you. You...you /never/ let anyone tell you that you are a poor friend again. You are the best friend, and I love you so much. So much." John shook a bit. "I love you. I missed you. I'm sorry I was your kiss and I had to leave. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I love you."
You: Sherlock wrapped his arms around John in return. "It was no problem. Once I found her, I had no choice but to watch her. ...Your freedom hinged on her. I /had/ to keep an eye on her," Sherlock admitted quietly. "I don't mind that you had to leave. You /had/ to. And I have you back now. That's all I need." Sherlock fell silent for a moment. "...When you're all set here, I need to speak to Lestrade really quickly and then we can go home," Sherlock told John.
Stranger: "Whose Lestrade?" John turned. He was the only family Harriet had now. "Just let me see her and say goodbye and then we can go wherever you want to go, okay?" Shaking hands reached and opened the locker. He pulled the slab out. Once upon a time he had been a pre-med student and had done this action before, but never with someone he loved waiting. She looked /old/. So different. Blond hair had turned stringy and dull. Her skin was mottled and pale. Sickness, drink, and death had taken it's toll. John reached out and touched her hand. Waxy and cold. "I should've done more. I'm sorry, Harry. But...I'm glad you're at peace now. I hope..."
You: Sherlock tentatively laid his hand over John's. ".../You/ did as much as you could. ....I'm not sure I did. ...I was too intent on you coming home, and - and getting her to change seems hard. I did help when I could, and had some people of mind watch out and try to redirect her away from liquor stores....but I could've done more, I think....and I would just like to say sorry to both of you for not making sure I utilized all the resources I had," Sherlock said slowly, hoping the statement wouldn't make John angry at him.
You: *change seemed too hard.
Stranger: "You did more than my own parents did..." John sighed. "You can't make Harriet change. She's stubborn...she /was/ stubborn. And then she was addicted. It tore everything else to the side." John patted Harriet's hand and pushed her back. This was just the shell. There wasn't anything left here for him anymore. "You did so much for me, and all I could do was think about you. Let's go. I will go wherever you go. I swear. All I wanted was to be wherever you are, and now that I can, I'm afraid you'll never get rid of me."
You: Sherlock was relieved that John didn't think any worse of him for that admission. "...She helped me, though. Dabbling turned into....well...more like using. ....If not for her and thinking about how my debt might bring down others, I might've let myself get addicted to it," Sherlock commented. "...I'm glad I won't have to pull you along, then. My arm would've gotten terribly tired if I had to drag you with me. Nice to know you'll just follow along...I bet you'll even be leading me sometimes," chuckled Sherlock, dipping down to kiss his nose before he turned to head for the door.
Stranger: "Wait..." John lead Sherlock out into the hallway. "I am not gonna have our first kiss together be in a ruddy morgue." He leaned up on tiptoe and kissed Sherlock softly. It felt just as good as it did the first time. "There. That's better. Now, where do you want to drag me first?" John didn't need to linger in this place. Death was, for him, permanent and he didn't need to linger over the body of his sister. "I'm glad you're not addicted. But I'd take that debt on again, for you. You know that, right?"
You: "Which is exactly why I stayed off of it, you idiot. I never want to do that to you again," Sherlock sighed fondly, resting his forehead against John's.
"Oi! Sherlock!" cried Lestrade, making Sherlock jump and look over his shoulder.
"What?" Sherlock whined.
"You ran off before we could get your statement. I'm only inclined to believe 'urgent business' so many times," Lestrade said pointedly.
"Yes, but this time it /was/," pouted Sherlock. "John, meet Lestrade. The first man on the force to take me serious. Lestrade, this is John Watson," Sherlock said, and he couldn't help but wrap his arms around John a bit protectively.
Stranger: When Sherlock called him an idiot it felt like he was calling John 'sweetheart'. He jumped when Sherlock did and looked behind him. Oh, a police man. John reached out and shook his hand. "Hi. Nice to meet you. Sorry to make him take off in a rush but...." John's eyes caught a look of surprise on Lestade's face. John remembered the things Sherlock had said. Like nobody took him seriously. Like nobody believed he even had a friend, much less someone who loved him. Decision made, easily. "...well, he's a devoted sort of lover. I promise not to distract him too much. He loves his work /almost/ as much as me." It was fun to see the true look of shock on Lestrade's face.
You: Sherlock smiled shyly at John calling Sherlock his lover. He grinned - the great part about what John was saying about the work was true. He loved it, but John would always be his first love. Sherlock giggled a little. "Yes, of /course/ the man I haven't seen in ten years isn't going to distract me when I'll probably be dragging him along /everywhere/." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Now, if you please, we'd like to go home," Sherlock directed that commented at Lestrade, "with the only reason to linger possibly being to show him off to Anderson and Donnovan, though I think I don't need to get into that," Sherlock said.
Lestrade nodded dazedly and Sherlock took John's hand to head for the door, humming happily. He was positively delighted.
Stranger: John squeezed Sherlock's hand, trying to suppress his own giggles. "Did you see the look on his face? Oh, that was brilliant. You can show me off later, right now I just want to get you home. I want to snog you again and again." It was good to be free. John hadn't walked down a street as a free man in so long. It was great to be able to go wherever he wanted and do whatever he wanted. Yes, he had no money and no property, but he had his freedom and Sherlock. That was all he needed. He paid attention to what had changed so he could find the way back to their flat when he went out for errands. He would always want to run the errands.
You: Sherlock giggled. "To be fair to him, though, he's one of the nicer ones. I think he was surprised that I could love /anything/ more than I could love my work. He's nice. The other two aren't, though. They bully me a bit," he admitted quietly as they walked together. "But yes. Home sounds good. 221B Baker Street, John, next to Speedy's and up the stairs. Smells like fresh bread every other morning. And the pastries smell heavenly," he confided. For the first time in all his life, he had someone to share with, and it was the best feeling he'd ever had.
Stranger: "Yeah? That was a prime piece of real estate when I went in. I'm sure it's lovely." John smiled up at him. "And nobody shall bully you while I'm around. I mean that." John needed to tell Sherlock that. He went silent for a moment. "Demisexual, right? Can't have sex unless you feel a connection with the person?" John blushed a bit. "I'm glad I stopped you. You would've done it, too? Had me right there, just to save me another eighty quid? You beautiful creature...but you were waiting for something. I'm glad it was me."
You: "It's perfect. I even made sure to get one with two bedrooms, in case you wanted a bit of space. Though I did make sure that I have a double bed in case the opposite is true," Sherlock said enthusiastically. He paused to let John continue talking, and then smiled. "In all honesty, I probably would've needed /you/ to take /me/. I didn't know a thing back then. Of course, I've been a lot more exposed to porn and masturbation now, so I do know a bit more," he grinned. "But yes. I would've. ...Because even back then, there was a connection with you. A little one, but a connection nonetheless. But it's gotten much stronger, and I'm glad. So let's go home and introduce you to Mrs. Hudson and cuddle on the sofa. How does that sound?" Sherlock smiled.
Stranger: "That sounds like heaven." John had been living in barracks. Being a grown man and sleeping in a bunk bed was undignified. But he didn't want space, except the great outdoors. He wanted to sleep on a real bed, with Sherlock. He wanted to shower in privacy, unless Sherlock was there. Basically, John wanted to feel like a human again. It hit him like a hammer. "I'm a person...I'm not property anymore. I'm not...Sherlock, you /freed/ me." John threw his head back and laughed. Their bond was real and strong and had lasted ten years of tests. "Oh, God yes. Let's go home, love. Let's go home."
You: ((Crap. I'm worried about my internet. It's giving me weird symbols. If I'm still there for you, my e-mail is [email protected] Oh God I really don't want to lose this one.))
You: Sherlock beamed widely at John, cheerful at his delight. Sherlock walked happily along with John to Baker Street. "You've always been a person, to me. ...A kind person. An extraordinary person. I love you so much, and you mean so much to me," Sherlock declared firmly. "...I needed you, and you came when I didn't even know I wanted you, and I've wanted nothing /but/ you since then. I love you, John Watson. Really and truly. And I can't wait to share a home with you."
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