Something peaceful for today.

This story is for SilverMoonDragon

Dear SilverMoonDragon,

here is your Secret Santa Fic! You wanted an asexual Sherlock who nevertheless is interested in a romantic relationship; you wanted rain and a fight... and you wanted some other things I'd better not disclose here in order not to spoil too much.

I hope you'll like what I've come up with.

Cheers,

your author :-)




Play it again, Sherlock


From the moment they got into the cab near Battersea Bridge until the moment they arrived in front of 221B Baker Street, they did not speak a word. Too many words had already been spoken after they had said goodbye to Lestrade and while they waited for a cab. The second they climbed into the car their conversation – if you wanted to call it that – stopped and they settled into total silence.

This can't continue, Sherlock had said.

I'm not sure I can do anything about it, John had replied.

You have to find a way, Sherlock had answered.

Thanks for your input, John had said, his voice rising.

I wouldn't call it input, I'd call it...

I don't care what you'd call it!

Whether you care or not, this can't continue!

Yes, you already said that. And if I remember correctly a certain someone kept continuing with something far worse for two years!

Oh, not that again!

Oh, why not? Because you can't do anything about it?

No, because it's totally...


The cab arrived, Sherlock fell silent, John got into the car first, Sherlock followed.

'God, he's right, I know he's right', John thought. It hadn't been the first time that they had a conversation like this one. Since Mary was gone, everything had changed. Had changed yet again. First, John had met Sherlock, then he had lost Sherlock, then he had found Mary, Sherlock had come back, Mary had left. Sort of. John still wasn't sure what to make of it all, apart from the fact that even after so many months he still felt betrayed and like a complete fool. And almost everything tended to remind him of Mary, it seemed. Each case they had been involved in since Mary's exit (if you wanted to call it that) seemed to include a detail that made John think of her and put him in a dark mood. He knew it was irrational, he knew it was stupid, but it just happened. He couldn't control it, he couldn't stop it, he couldn't make it go away.


And sometimes, quite often in fact, pretty much every day, if he thought about it, he wished that none of this had ever happened. No Sherlock and Moriarty on the rooftop of St. Bart's, no Sherlock pretending to be dead on the pavement in front of St. Bart's, no Sherlock pretending to be dead for two years, no Mary. Everything could have been so easy – or not all that complicated at least. And not so painful. Even moving back in with Sherlock into 221B hadn't made the pain go away. It had made things even more complicated instead.


The cab stopped in front of 221B. They got out and rain was pouring down. They both ignored it, and after John had paid the driver it was as if a previously pressed mute button had been released. Sherlock continued: “Because it's totally ridiculous that you're still not over it!”

“Oh, is it? Let's see. The man I love lied to me for two years, the woman I loved wasn't who she said she was, her name wasn't Mary, she wasn't pregnant and now she's gone, probably dead.”

“John, we don't know...”

“Do you know how that makes me feel? I feel like a complete twat! And even more so because every time I see a woman that just remotely reminds me of Mary, I can't think straight and screw things up completely!”

“John, I know, that's what I've been... but it's not your fault”, Sherlock now tried to calm John down, but with little success.

“You're damn right it's not my fault”, John continued his rant and ran a hand through his wet hair. “You pretended to be dead and left me in the dark about it for two bloody years...”

“John, please, not that again, I can't believe we're still not over this. I left you in the dark because it was too dangerous to let you know...”

“Yes, of course!”, John interrupted. “Because you didn't trust me. Because you thought I'd not be able to keep my mouth shut up about it!”

“Yes, John. Because sometimes there seems to be only one way to shut you up”, Sherlock said. His hair was as wet as John's, drops of water trickled off his dark curls and onto his coat, tiny traces of rain were running down his face, almost as if he was crying.

“Oh, really?”, John said, frowning.

“Yes, really. I could tell you now that when Mary tried to shut me up, the only reason why I refused to be shut up was you. But you probably wouldn't believe me, so...”

Sherlock took a quick step towards John and stroked over the doctor's left cheek with an almost imperceptible movement of his right hand, as if to abstractedly wipe away a drop of rain. In return John didn't move an inch and just stared at the detective. It almost felt as if Sherlock's hand electrified John's wet cheek. Did he really feel his skin tickle there for a moment? His skin never tickled. Ever. That just didn't happen.


And then Sherlock leaned towards John and kissed him. Just like that, in front of 221B, in the middle of the night, in the cold, in the pouring rain. It was a short kiss, a shy and almost anxious kiss, and it only lasted for two, maybe three seconds. John knew it only lasted for two, maybe three seconds, he knew, but his stomach, his heart, everything apart from his brain told him that the kiss went on for hours and hours and hours. Everything apart from his head told him that the kiss...


Sherlock stepped back again, avoiding John's gaze and looking down onto the wet pavement instead. None of them spoke a word for what seemed to be the unbearable duration of one of Mycroft's infamous visits to 221B.

“Let's get out of the rain”, Sherlock finally said. He turned to the door, stopped short after a few steps, then walked back up towards John, stopped and turned back to the door again.

“Someone once told me: Oscillation on the pavement always means there's a love affair”, John couldn't help saying. Whereupon Sherlock shot him a quick, almost insecure glance and went into the flat.


--------------------


Once they both were inside the living room of 221B, Sherlock and John just stood there. They did not move nor speak nor look at each other. After a while they could hear Mrs. Hudson come up the stairs.

“Shouldn't you be asleep, Mrs. Hudson?”, Sherlock asked with a slightly bugged out tone in his voice, but still not moving.

“If you want me to sleep, young man, the two of you should refrain from shouting at each other in the street”, the landlady said.

Before Sherlock could get any more unpleasant, John's and his eyes met for a second. John flashed him a glance as if to say Not now, Sherlock and told Mrs. Hudson: “It's all fine. You won't hear any more from us tonight, I promise.”

“I'm glad to hear it. Good night”, she said. Before she returned down the stairs however she looked at them once again and added: “You really need to take those wet clothes off, both of you. You're dripping all over my carpet.“


--------------------


When Mrs. Hudson had left, Sherlock took off his soaking wet coat and carelessly threw it over the back of a chair. He then sat down on another chair, opened his laptop and almost immediately began to type. John, still standing in the middle of the room, looked at Sherlock – well, not directly at him, more like in his approximate direction – and then at the detective's coat.


How he loved this coat. And how he had missed it during the two years of Sherlock's alleged death. And how he had missed it while he had been living with Mary. And how the fact that the coat was back in his life now made him almost as happy as the fact that Sherlock was back in his life now, too.


He had sat in his chair in 221B for weeks, it now seemed to John, staring at Sherlock's empty chair, staring at the empty coat hook at the living room door. Not moving, not eating, not speaking, not sleeping. Just sitting in his chair, staring at the vacant leather chair that just sat there, motionless and silent and almost brooding, like himself. Both of them awaiting Sherlock's return, week in, week out. For months he did not stop hoping. But Sherlock never came, and his chair stayed empty, and no coat ever hung on the coat hook again. Abandoned, all three of them, coat hook, chair, John.


And then, suddenly, one morning or evening or night, it seemed as if nobody had ever sat in that chair at all, as if it had never been used, as if no Consulting Detective with his ridiculous dark curls and his morning gowns and his moods had ever sat in that chair. In that room. In that kitchen, in that flat, in Baker Street, London, England, Europe, Earth, Solar System.


But now he was here, with him, John suddenly thought. Still sitting at the desk, staring at the screen of his laptop, researching who knew what. And there was his chair, and there was his coat. John took two quick steps, grabbed the coat and went over to the door. He carefully, far more carefully than necessary, put it up the coat hook and then turned to go into the kitchen. But before he did so he ran his hand over the coat, swiftly, but not too swiftly.


John went into the kitchen to pour himself a drink. When he stepped back into the living room, Sherlock had gone. He could hear the door to Sherlock's bedroom close.

“Jesus...”, John muttered and sat down in his chair with a deep sigh. While turning the glass in his right hand he thought: 'I can't believe it. I can't believe...'


'...that he just went into the kitchen without looking at me or saying one word', Sherlock thought, leaning against the closed bedroom door.

“I kissed him. I kissed you, John Watson”, he said to himself after a while and sat down on his bed with a deep sigh. “I kissed you. And you have no idea how much I missed you during those two blasted years. And how I missed you even more when I was back and everything felt so wrong. And you probably never will. John.”


--------------------


When John stepped into the living room the next morning, Sherlock was gone.

His coat was gone form the coat hook, and of course he hadn’t left a note or any other sign indicating his whereabouts.


John put the kettle on for some tea and abstractedly began to stroll around the living room. From the floor he picked up some newspapers from last week and put them onto the stack where Sherlock kept the papers for weeks, sometimes even months. Then he cleared some mugs from the desk and the coffee table and carried them into the kitchen. He waited for the water to boil and then returned to the living room with his cup of steaming tea.


Last night had been horrible. It had taken him ages to fall asleep, too many thoughts had kept him awake. What the hell had happened there in the street? Was it even possible that Sherlock really had kissed him? Or had John’s mind just played tricks on him? His mind was pretty good at playing tricks. It had played tricks after his return from Afghanistan and had perfected its trickery after Sherlock had jumped off the roof of St. Bart's. And when Mary had turned out to be… well, no, he didn’t want to go there now.


Instead he placed his mug onto one of the few clear spots on the desk and decided to clean up a little further. Sherlock had the tendency to build up piles and piles of papers, notes and files – some of which John didn’t have the faintest clue how his flat mate had gotten hold of them in the first place. Sherlock hated it when John tried to keep the desk and the floor around it at least a bit tidy, so the doctor usually did this when Sherlock wasn’t around. Afterwards Sherlock never took any notice of John’s house cleaning and never complained about any missing papers or misplaced files. It seemed as if John intuitively put everything where Sherlock would put it himself, if he ever cared to file away all the documents and paperwork.


After a while John was completely lost in his thoughts. He had come across a file about Mary, but hadn’t bothered to take a closer look at it. 'Case closed', he had thought with a grim smile and thrown it onto the floor. Pages and pages of notes that Sherlock had made in regard to Mary’s and John’s wedding also ended up next to his feet.


For a while he didn’t notice anything worth taking a closer look at, until finally some sheets of music caught his attention. It clearly was a piece of music Sherlock had composed, and since the detective always dated his musical works as well as the revisions he sometimes made, John could see that he had worked on it repeatedly over the course of several months. John could identify at least eleven different dates, the first one only two days after Sherlock’s return to London, the last one… from last night.


“But when did he…?”, John said to himself, staring onto the first page, puzzled. Then his gaze fell onto the title of the song, and John swallowed hard.

“For John”.

Two simple enough words, but they pulled the rug out from under John’s feet.

“For John”.

He couldn’t stop staring at the words, the individual letters, written in Sherlock’s unmistakable handwriting. Beautiful handwriting, it suddenly seemed to John.


The composition consisted of several pages, and although John was far from being an expert on music and composing, he was convinced that it must have taken Sherlock – yes, even clever, brilliant Sherlock – hours and hours to write this piece. John was crap at reading sheet music, he had no idea what it all meant and how it might sound. He knew he shouldn’t be staring at those pages, he shouldn’t even have found them in the first place – and he certainly shouldn’t wish for Sherlock to play this song for him.


But he did. He wanted him to, he wanted to listen to Sherlock playing this tune for him so badly it almost hurt.

“Christ…”, he finally said to himself and sat down in his chair, still holding the pages in his hands, looking at them but not seeing anything or anyone but Sherlock right before his eyes.


--------------------


When Sherlock finally returned home, John was still sitting in his chair, sheets in his hands, heart beating so fast he feared it might burst any second. The detective stepped into the living room and took off his coat with a swish. At first it seemed as if he didn’t notice John, but when he finally did, all he said was “John…”.


“Where have you been?”, John asked, his voice sounding a bit unsteady to his own ears.

“Out. Lestrade wanted to see me.”

“A case?”

“Several.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Boring, to say the least.”

Sherlock had sat down in his chair, and he finally registered the papers John was holding in his hands. Was still holding in his hands.


“What have you…”, he began to ask, but broke off and his gaze wandered from the pages to John’s eyes and back.

“Oh, I.. I tried to tidy up a bit and accidentally… I mean, I didn’t mean to…”

“I’m sure you didn’t”, Sherlock said, his voice suddenly very calm and soft. His gaze had settled for John’s face, John’s eyes now. The doctor nervously changed position in his chair several times, until at last he was able to withstand Sherlock’s look.


“Do you want to hear it?”, Sherlock asked, still looking John straight in the eyes.

John took a deep breath. He almost couldn’t believe that he didn’t have to argue Sherlock into playing it for him.

“I would love to. But… what is this all about?”, John managed to ask.

“What do you mean?”

'Oh Christ, you can be so terribly thick about certain things sometimes', John thought, but aloud he said: “This. Everything. This song and… last night in the street.”

“I'm not entirely sure”, Sherlock said.

“Then... maybe you could just play this for me and afterwards we'll... try to find out?”

“Sounds like a reasonable plan.”


To which John smiled, leaned back in his chair, observed Sherlock picking up his violin and violin bow and then listened to the most wonderful piece of music he'd ever heard. And after about ten minutes of music, the two men looked at one another for quite some time, until John finally smiled, broke the silence and said: “Please play it again, Sherlock.”



 

This story is for Kerkerian


Her prompt were 5 keywords: snow, batteries, book, towel, escape


She would generally like to read about: Johnlock (fluff with suspension first), Things which might spice it up: a fight and/or a misunderstanding and/or a mysterious disappearance of Sherlock or John and/or some whump of sorts and/or another location than London...


Author’s Note:

Dear Kerkerian, I’m very happy that I could write this little story for you. Getting you as the presentee also made me a bit nervous because I always enjoy reading your stories very much and I don’t want to disappoint you. I’m afraid, none of the keywords play a very important part of the story but I was able to sneak every word into the story at least once. Besides that, I hope I mostly met your wishes and that you’ll enjoy the story :-) .



From Dusk Till Dawn


Chapter 1 – Dusk



John is dead.


The pounding in Sherlock’s head reached a crescendo due to the chaos and noises around him – people shouting, sirens wailing. The wound on his temple was still bleeding. His ribs ached with every shaky breath he took. But all of this physical pain was nothing compared to the screaming agony inside his heart as Sherlock observed the abandoned warehouse burning and slowly crumbling to pieces – together with the body of John Watson. John was still inside there somewhere when the explosion ripped the building apart.


John is dead.


“Sherlock.”


“Sherlock!”


“Sherlock, look at me!” someone was shouting and shaking him.


Sherlock turned his gaze away from the building and the flames. Lestrade was holding his upper arms firmly and looking at him with great worry.


The DI had never seen Sherlock in such a state before. He seemed to be catatonic, his facial expression was blank, exhibiting almost no emotions but for his eyes which showed his inner turmoil. He was obviously in shock.


“Sherlock,” Lestrade spoke in a calm voice, hoping the other man would listen to his words. “Fire department has the flames under control. We don’t know where John was held captive. The building is not completely destroyed. It’s still possible we’ll find him alive.”


Lestrade knew it was a small hope, but still. John himself had told him about situations he witnessed during his time in the war, where people could be rescued from the ruins of a bombed building after several hours or even days. The DI refused to give up hope for his friend – not until they found his body.


“Sherlock, did you hear what I just said?”


The detective was trembling now but Lestrade assumed it was probably from the cold. Snow had started falling again. Sherlock didn’t say anything but gave a tiny nod. Lestrade hoped it was meant as an answer of understanding.


An ambulance finally arrived and Lestrade carefully guided Sherlock towards the paramedics who had bounced out of the vehicle and hurried towards their patient.


“Take him. He’s in shock, head wound, probably a concussion, maybe some fractured ribs.”


One of the men nodded and put a blanket around Sherlock’s shaking frame.


“Sherlock,” Lestrade once again tried to get the detective’s attention. “The fire is almost extinguished. We’ll start searching with a salvage team as soon as possible. “


Sherlock nodded weakly, although he wasn’t sure why.


“They’ll take you to hospital now. Stay there. I have to organize the rescue but I will come as soon as I can. OK?”


This time Sherlock didn’t acknowledged that he understood. All Sherlock could hear was the rumbling of falling concrete from the building behind him.


John is dead.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Sally Donovan was barking orders over the radio while simultaneously shooing some of the officers around to secure the scene. Sally didn’t understand it. No matter what an abandoned area it was, as soon as there was a crime to watch gawkers were crawling out of their holes like rats. She had just spotted some reporters lurking near the cordon the officers had hastily put up.


“Simpson!” she called towards one of the officers and gestured towards the paparazzi who were unpacking their cameras and slowly heading towards the ambulance. The addressed sergeant nodded and hurried over to get rid of the unwanted visitors.


This was the last thing everyone needed now, some sensation-seeking reporters spotting Sherlock in this state. Sally glanced at the ambulance, where Sherlock was being guided towards a stretcher by the paramedic. His posture was slumped as if all energy had suddenly left his body. He looked defeated. Sherlock’s cries of John’s name as they had dragged him out of the building were still ringing in her ears…


…


Sally rushed into the room, two other officers following behind. Lestrade had just finished untying the rope that had held Sherlock on a chair. The detective was pale; blood was streaming from a wound on his right temple.


“Did you find John? He’s still here!” Sherlock jumped from the chair as soon as Lestrade removed the bonds, but immediately began to sway. Lestrade had to steady him to prevent him from collapsing.


“We have to get out, NOW!” Sally yelled. “Two minutes!”


Sherlock tried to break free from Lestrade’s grip.


“NO! We need to find John!”


“THERE IS NO TIME!”


Lestrade and Sergeant Simpson grabbed Sherlock by his arms and dragged the struggling man out of the room and down the staircase towards the exit, Sally following close behind shouting orders into her radio.


“EVERYBODY LEAVING THE BUILDING NOW! BOMB ON LEVEL 2! ABOUT ONE MINUTE LEFT! HURRY NOW!“


It was almost impossible to understand any replies coming from the device due to Sherlock’s shouting.


“JOHN!”

“GET OFF ME! I NEED TO FIND JOHN!”


Sherlock was struggling and fighting to free himself. Under normal circumstances Lestrade and Sergeant Simpson wouldn’t be able to hold their grip on the man. But his injuries had weakened him noticeably.


“JOHN!”


It felt like an eternity before they reached the ground floor and ran through the main entrance into the open.


“EVERYONE OUT?” Lestrade yelled, still struggling to hold his grip on Sherlock.


Sally looked around, scanning the officers, searching for everyone who had entered the building with them a couple of minutes before.


“Yes,” she said in relief. “Everyone out.” Everyone but John Watson, she thought.


Just then the second storey of the building exploded. The sound of the explosion mingled together with the desperate cries of a man Sally once thought was incapable of human emotions.


“JOHN!”


Terrified, Sally began to realize how close their escape from the inferno before her had been. The few intact windows of the building had burst, flames licking from their holes. The whole building seemed to shake as it lost its structural integrity and began to collapse. The roof and top floor slumped down and the pressure of the destroyed walls pulled the next storey down.


Sherlock gave up any resistance. He was panting heavily and holding his ribs with a painted expression as he sank down on his knees on the cold ground, his face mirroring the horror they all felt while watching the debris falling.


“John,” he whispered.


…



Sally had known Sherlock for quite some time and had never expected to see him in such a state of devastation. She was well aware that both men were close friends but now she witnessed how much Sherlock really cared for John Watson. It shouldn’t have been a surprise though; the detective threw himself from a building to save his friend’s life after all.


Guilt welled up inside her at the thought of that incident. She hadn’t liked Sherlock back then, true, she had despised him. She had been so engulfed in her resentment towards Sherlock’s oddness that she had let her prejudices cloud her judgment. In the month following Sherlock’s suicide, Sally went through a long process of guilt, defiance and realization. She had always been the type of person who hated to admit a mistake - one of her great weaknesses, she knew that. But through the process of self-reflection and even some talks with a therapist, she managed to formulate a sincere apology towards Lestrade and John. She had even visited Sherlock’s grave once.


When Sherlock returned, the old feelings of repulsion had welled up again combined with anger. How could he have done something cruel like that, faking his death, jumping from a building, making his friend watch? After learning the details of Moriarty’s sick game she felt shame and guilt once again. She had allowed herself to be manipulated by this mad man. With all her heart, Sally swore that she would never let something like that happen again.


The doors of the ambulance were slammed shut just as DI Lestrade approached her.


“How is he?” Sally asked, trying to let her voice show that she indeed was concerned for the man.


“Unresponsive. Shock. They’ll take him to hospital.”


A tense silence settled between them as they watched the ambulance disappear. Sally was about to say something when Lestrade spoke again, determination in his voice.


“We’ll need to talk to the fire and the salvage department. I suppose we can’t enter the ruins before dawn but I want to start searching for John as soon as possible. Set up a meeting with the whole team, everyone we need for the rescue, at Scotland Yard at 1am. And we’ll need the blueprints of the building. Get every map and every diagram that could be useful to plan the search.”


Sally nodded. It would be a long night without any sleep for all of them. But Sally doubted she would be able to get any rest anyway after the events of today. They would need daylight for the search; rummaging through the ruins of a bombed building during the night would be too risky. Sally looked at her watch. It was nearly 10pm now, still several hours before dawn. She looked over to the building, where the fire department was still working, although there weren’t any flames visible anymore. The fire from the explosion hadn’t been big. The flames didn’t have enough fuel in the empty building to burn long. That was good. They wouldn’t need to worry about too much frozen extinguishing water then. Unconsciously Sally wrapped her jacket a bit tighter around her. It was cold. The snowfall had intensified a bit and begun to cover the debris around them as if trying to erase the reminders that a good and brave man had probably lost his life today.


Sally looked up to her boss again, knowing that he wouldn’t want to hear what she was about to say. John Watson was his friend too.


“Sir, the damage is severe and we have minus temperatures during the night. We should entertain the possibility that…”


“As long as we don’t know otherwise we are searching for a survivor,” Lestrade interrupted firmly. “And we are doing that with the most possible urgency! Are we clear, Sergeant Donovan?”


“Yes, Sir,” Sally answered.


They both looked at each other for a moment and Lestrade’s features softened as he saw understanding in the face of his colleague.


“We’ll meet at the Yard. I’ll stop by the hospital before hand to look in on Sherlock.” Lestrade said softly, giving Sally’s shoulder a brief squeeze before turning and walking to his car.


Determined, Sally picked up the radio once more, beginning to organize the instructions from her boss. She would do everything within her power to help to find John Watson. She owed it to him even though she feared it would only be a body they found.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Sherlock heard the doors of the ambulance being shut, blocking out the torturing noises from outside. Shortly after that the vehicle started moving. The paramedics had secured him on the stretcher and began to tend to his injuries. They kept asking him questions but Sherlock didn’t reply. What was the point? He had a concussion and some bruising, nothing serious or life-threatening. He would live. Whereas…


John is dead.


He should have been there. He shouldn’t have left the building without John. But they had dragged him outside - Lestrade, Donovan and some of the other officers - preventing him from searching for John. He would have found him, he would have deduced where they had locked him up. There had only been a few minutes left, but that wouldn’t have mattered. Sherlock knew he would have found him. But he couldn’t, he was injured and was dragged out. Now he was here, alive and John...


John is dead.


It was his fault. He should have listened to John. John had wanted to wait for backup. He should have obeyed him. Just this once.


…


The cab dropped them off at the main road nearby, so they walked the last few yards towards their destination. They stopped at a corner on the opposite side of the street, trying to look insuspicious while simultaneously observing the warehouse. From their current position no light could be seen in the building. The whole area was quiet and dark except for the thin layer of snow that had fallen during the day. Although the snow brightened the surroundings a bit, the area still felt like a ghost town to John. A light breeze fluttered through the street and he began to shiver.


“Jesus, it’s bloody cold! I hope Greg hurries up.”


Sherlock was fidgeting beside him but it wasn’t from the cold.


“Let’s go inside. They might be ready to leave any second.”


“No,” John said firmly. “I don’t have my gun with me. And Lestrade will be here soon.“


John turned and looked down the street, hoping to see their reinforcements. But the road was empty and silent. When he turned back Sherlock had already crossed the street and was heading towards a side entrance.


“Sherlock!” John hissed and hurried to catch up with his friend, muttering silent curses for the other man’s stubbornness.


A few minutes later, Sherlock and John were dragged up the staircase of the warehouse by several members of the gang they were trying to catch. Well, the gang had caught them and John’s curses weren’t silent anymore.


“Bloody idiot,” John snapped towards Sherlock. “Of course, Sherlock Holmes can’t be bothered to wait. No, you always need to have it your way. I told you we should wait for the pol-.”


“Shhhhh!” Sherlock hissed. Although he knew that John was mainly frustrated and angry because he had forgotten his gun, his harsh tone still hurt a bit.


John kept quiet. Admitting that police were on the way was probably not the cleverest thing to say in front of their abductors. He threw glances towards Sherlock every now and then, but they were filled more with worry than anger.


They reached the second floor and were led through a hallway until they entered a small room with no windows but a second door on the opposite side. The shelves on the side wall were empty, but Sherlock observed a lack of dust and dirt, indicating that they must have been tightly packed not long ago. As they entered, some guys were moving a hand truck with several boxes on it through the back door. So he had been right (of course), Sherlock thought, the gang was leaving.


“Boss? Found these. Were lurking around,” The man with an iron grip on Sherlock’s biceps said.


A guy almost as tall as Sherlock but twice his muscle mass stepped out of the group of men - Sherlock had counted seven in addition to the two with the hand truck - and took a gun from a holster on his side. He paced between Sherlock and John, looking them both over for several moments without saying anything. Finally he pointed towards Sherlock.


“Tie him up. Lock the other one downstairs.“


The two thugs who held John shoved him roughly towards the door.


“No need to get pushy,” John snarled, but the guys only hardened their grip on John’s upper arm and one thrust his elbow hard into John’s lower back so he hissed in pain.


With a jolt, Sherlock tried to break away from his guards. He almost succeeded but the boss immediately noticed his intention, raised his hand with the gun and punched Sherlock hard in the face. The butt of the weapon hit him at the temple. Sherlock stumbled back, his vision blurred and he sank to his knees. He felt blood dripping down his face from to the laceration the blow had caused.


“Sherlock!” John yelled but his guards dragged him out of the room and into the hallway they had come from.


Sherlock tried to get back on his feet, ignoring the dizziness as best as he could. He would not give in! Several pairs of hands grabbed him despite his struggling, shoved him onto a chair and tied him up.


“Now,” the boss said, grabbing Sherlock’s hair and yanking his head. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?”


Sherlock almost laughed at that question. Somebody who didn’t know who they were! How… refreshing. He was about to snap an answer when one of the guys who had caught them spoke.


“This is the detective fella from the news. Dunno who the other one is but I think he mentioned the police are on the way.”


Damn it John! Sherlock thought. “Any second,” he said instead with a huge grin. Distraction, he needed to buy time now. Come on Lestrade, hurry!


It was obvious this wasn’t the kind of information the boss wanted to hear. With a shout of rage and frustration he hit Sherlock in the face again. The punch was so hard, he fell to the floor with the chair like a heavy sack of flour. Sherlock was gasping for breath as pain exploded in his head. Black dots were dancing in front of his eyes as he fought against the rising nausea.


“Fetch everything quickly. We are moving now!” the boss said.


“What about the other one?” one of his lads asked.


“He’s fine where he is,” the boss looked down on Sherlock with an evil grin on his face. “We are leaving a present.” he said.


Sherlock drew breath to speak when the boss kicked him hard in the ribs and the air was once again knocked out of his lungs. This time Sherlock wasn’t able to hold back and let out a yell of pain. He desperately fought to stay awake but the dizziness was so overwhelming he soon lost focus. He heard the clapping of boots on concrete as the men hurried out of the room. Sherlock thought he might have heard an order being yelled, something like “Prepare the second floor.” but finally everything went black.


“Sherlock!”


Somebody was calling his name. The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t John. John! The thought of his friend brought Sherlock quickly back into consciousness. He opened his eyes, blinked several times and took some deep breaths, at least as deep as possible. His ribs hurts as well as his head and he was still feeling dizzy and nauseous.


“Sherlock!”


Sherlock finally managed to focus his vision. Someone had put him and the chair up again and Lestrade was kneeling in front of him, a worried expression on his face.


“You with me?” Lestrade asked, after seeing that Sherlock had woken up. He nodded.


“Where’s John?”


“Down…” Sherlock said weakly and, despite the pain in his side, took another deep breath. “Downstairs. They locked him up there somewhere.“


“Alright, we’ll find him,“ Lestrade said and began to untie the rope on Sherlock’s hands. The detective began to shuffle on his chair.


“The gang?“


“Escaped. They were already gone when we arrived. Missed them by a couple of minutes I suppose.”


Sherlock’s eyes widened as he remembered the words. “Go, find John now!” he said, struggling to get his hands of the loosened rope. “They said they’d leave something! There is a…”


Sherlock was interrupted by the yell of Sergeant Donovan over the radio on Lestrade’s belt. “BOMB ON LEVEL 2!”


Lestrade immediately stopped untying the ropes and took the device. “How long?”


“3 minutes left!”


“Donovan get down here,” Lestrade answered then looked at Sherlock. The pleading expression of the detective who had instantly realized what the other man was about to do, was hard to bear. But Lestrade shook his head sadly, took a deep breath and spoke into the radio once again.


“WE HAVE A BOMB ON THE SECOND FLOOR. WE’RE EVACUATING. STOP SEARCHING. EVERYONE OUT! NOW!“


…


The ambulance drove slowly through the snow covered streets. Sherlock turned his head away from the annoying man who was still trying to get his patient to speak. He looked through the narrow window on the side of the car. Big snowflakes were dancing outside in the chilly night. If the snowfall continued like that, London would be covered by a thick layer tomorrow - just like the debris of someone’s life.





Chapter 2 – Night



The cab ride from the hospital back home passed in a blur. Sherlock hardly remembered stepping into the car and telling the driver his address. He felt detached from everything around him, as if he was in slow motion while the rest of the world moved at normal speed – the world without John.


John is dead.


They had wanted to keep him in hospital for the night but Sherlock refused. The doctor was very adamant. Sherlock just ignored him and, as they couldn’t force him to stay against his will they finally let him go telling him he should make sure that someone could observe him during the night. Sherlock paid no attention to the instruction. It was no use anyway; there wasn’t anybody to observe him. Mrs. Hudson was with Mrs. Turner and John…


John is dead.


Sherlock got out of the cab and opened the front door of Baker Street. As he stepped into the hallway, memories of him and John entering the house laughing, arguing or being exhausted after their cases were brought back. The numbness inside him loosened, leaving space for an emotional pain that was much worse than his hurting ribs or the pounding headache. Slowly Sherlock climbed up the stairs almost dreading the moment he had to step into the flat knowing its other occupant wasn’t there anymore.


John is dead.


Sherlock took a deep breath, wincing a little due to the pain of his bruised ribs, and went inside. Everything was just like they had left it some hours ago. The kitchen table was still a mess from the experiment with battery acid he had done this morning. The book John had been reading lay on one armrest of his chair. Sherlock gently stroked the fabric of the furniture that had quite naturally become John’s as soon as the other man had moved in. Suddenly there was an image flashed in his mind; John sitting in his chair looking at Sherlock’s empty one, knowing that his friend would never sit there again. Sherlock gasped. Was this how John had felt back then, after he had jumped? Did grief and sorrow hit him with the same force as it did Sherlock now, making his legs buckle? Sherlock sank down on his knees in front of John’s chair. He pressed a shaking hand over his mouth suppressing a sob.


John is dead.


He’d messed up. They had barely spoken to each other recently and now his friend was gone and it was too late. Sherlock had hoped for a chance to talk after the case was solved. He had wanted to explain why he had been so cruel to John in the last couple of weeks. He had avoided his friend. He had spent long evenings at the lab at St. Barts and had stopped asking John to accompany him on cases. First Sherlock had used fragile excuses (“You weren’t there when Lestrade called.” “I was downstairs with Mrs. Hudson!”), but eventually he had just left without saying anything. Sometimes he had delegated minor tasks to John, which weren’t exactly necessary for solving the case. Sherlock had known that his behavior was frustrating John. He himself had felt agitated and miserable. But still, he hadn’t known what else to do to solve his ‘problem’, as he called it. This case had proven to be the final straw for both of them and Sherlock had noticed how much he had really hurt John.


…


The case had come up yesterday - a series of burglaries, seven incidents so far, small but exclusive shops, mainly for premium electronic equipment – normally, nothing Sherlock had a particular interest in. But at the moment he took any distraction he could get. Besides, the method indicated a professional, highly organized gang and they used bombs for their break-ins. How fascinating! Sherlock threw himself into the case files, analyzing the gang’s targets, tracing their patterns and experimenting through the night with different ingredients to match the construction of the bombs. John wasn’t very pleased when he saw the mess in the kitchen the next morning, but he was nevertheless eager to help with the case. Sherlock was torn between desperately wanting his friend’s company, as he had been avoiding it for so long now, and keeping the distance he thought was necessary. Just a few more days, he thought, a few more days and everything will be back to normal.


Sherlock had excused himself to do some more experiments at St. Barts while sending John on some background research on the last two targets. It was useless of course. Sherlock already had all the information he needed. They met at the Yard at Lestrade’s office in the afternoon. Sherlock was in the middle of the explanation of his results as John entered. Sherlock felt that warm rush of affection at the sight of his friend, as it always happened these days, and sighed inwardly. When will it go away? Sherlock continued presenting his results, ignoring John and his attempt to join the conversation.


On their ride back home, John was silent. That wasn’t unusual per se but Sherlock sensed the other man’s tension. He had made it a bit too obvious that he hadn’t wanted John’s help with the case. Like so often in the last couple of weeks, he had shut him out. Sherlock knew that John was unhappy and that he had brought a crack into their friendship. Just a few more days.


The moment the door of their flat closed. John turned towards Sherlock, anger written all over his face.


“WHAT THE HELL, Sherlock!”


“John, …” Sherlock began.


“WHAT DO YOU THINK I AM? YOUR PERSONAL ERRAND BOY?”


Sherlock considered for a moment how he should answer this question. As a matter of fact, John WAS sometimes like an errand boy. But stating this fact wouldn’t be helpful now.


“John ,…”


“WHY ON EARTH DID YOU SEND ME ON THIS BLOODY RESEARCH WHEN YOU ALREADY HAD THE BLOODY INFORMATION?”


“John, I needed to double check,” Sherlock said although he knew how lame this excuse sounded. “It was necessary to ensure that my deductions were correct.”


“YOUR DEDUCTIONS ARE ALWAYS CORRECT!”


“You are overreacting.” Sherlock said in (what he hoped was) a calming tone but avoiding any eye contact. John’s deep blue eyes were just too distracting. He needed to stay focused.


“Oh yes!” John hissed. “That’s it! I am overreacting. Thank you for the clue. I am very relieved now.”


“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you.” Sherlock said. He finally looked at John and gulped as he saw the look on his friend’s face. Sherlock could have handled John’s anger or even disappointment to a certain

extent. But what he saw now was far beyond that. John looked sad and hurt. That was not what Sherlock had intended.


“You made me look like an idiot, Sherlock. And it was not the first time, you know that bloody well!” John looked at him expectantly, waiting for an explanation.


“John…,” Sherlock tried but then said nothing. He just didn’t know what to say. How could he possibly explain?


John let out a huff. “Very well.” He turned around and headed for the door. “I’m going for a walk. I need some air.”


At the doorway he stopped and turned around locking his gaze with Sherlock’s. “If anything comes up, don’t call me. I am not available. But you don’t need me anyway, don’t you?”


…


Sherlock was still crouching in front of John’s chair, trembling, trying to get himself together again. The look on John’s face - a mixture of deep disappointment, sadness and hurt - was burned into his vision. Suddenly he felt nausea rising. He stumbled towards the bathroom, making it just in time before being sick. It’s the concussion, he thought while bending over the toilet, just the concussion.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Lestrade stifled a yawn after gulping down the rest of his coffee. He stood in front of his office’s window looking into the winter night. It had stopped snowing about an hour ago. Thank God, he thought. It would make the rescue a lot easier. He just hoped the weather would remain stable within the next hours. Lestrade tried to suppress another yawn and looked at his watch, quarter to three. They had had to reschedule their meeting because delivery of the building’s blueprints had been delayed but a few minutes ago a clerk had finally brought the plans. Lestrade took the first one, the groundplan of the basement, to put it on his magnetic whiteboard. He stopped for a moment and looked at the scribbling on it. It had only been a few hours since Sherlock had explained his deductions about the recent case, drawing these illegible diagrams. What a day, he thought. Lestrade had been surprised that John was with him this time. Sherlock was working more and more often without his friend lately. There had been a lot of tension in the room due to Sherlock’s strange behavior towards John.


…


They had met in Lestrade’s office at 2:30pm. Sherlock had bounced in with his usual arrogant style, but Lestrade knew the detective well enough by now to see the strain the other man had been trying to hide for some time now. Sherlock started right away with explaining the deductions he was able to make just from looking through the police reports. He outlined the different robberies, their locations and connections on Lestrade’s whiteboard as well as the gang’s structure, their behavior pattern and the most likely type of hiding place. As always the man talked at nearly light speed and Lestrade had to rein him in several times in order to fully understand and take his notes (Sherlock’s messy writing was hardly legible). Sherlock was almost done with his explanation when John tapped at the door and entered the office.


“Nice, you waited for me,” John mumbled. Lestrade gave him an apologetic look and frowned at Sherlock who hadn’t mentioned that John would be attending. Sherlock just ignored him and also didn’t acknowledge John’s arrival.


John sat down on one of the office chairs, fetching his notebook from his pocket. He looked up at the whiteboard and his expression froze. Lestrade saw anger rising in the other man’s face and wondered what had happened.


“And that’s the key factors of their method and choice of targets.” Sherlock seemed to be at the end of his monologue as he took a red pen and drew a circle around some of the figures.


“I suppose your research from the last two crime scenes supports my explanation?” he asked, turning towards John for the first time since his flat mate entered the room.


John gaped at him for a moment. “Yeah, the owner of the last shop, Mr. Evans, said he noticed…”


“Yes, thank you John, we already had that.”


Everything clicked into place for Lestrade. John had apparently been away to gather some information about the victims of the burglaries or something like that and now he was here to present his results, only to find out they weren’t needed. Lestrade groaned. This wasn’t the first time in the last weeks that Sherlock had sent John to do some research that wasn’t exactly necessary. But it was the first time he made it so obviously clear that he had just wanted John out of the way. Not only obvious to John himself but also Lestrade and Donovan. The latter shot him pitying looks, which made John’s cheeks burn with further embarrassment. He clenched the notebook in his hands, nearly ripping it apart. Sherlock either didn’t notice the discomfort of his friend or chose to ignore it.


“Case as good as solved,” he said, looking at Lestrade with a grin on his face.


“We still don’t know where the gang is.” Sergeant Donovan said, annoyed about Sherlock’s smugness. “Or their prey.”


“We will shortly”, Sherlock replied. “I put my homeless network on it and should have news tonight. I’ll call you as soon as I get the message.”


John had gone very quiet. His jaw muscles were tense, his mouth pressed into a thin line.


“Do you have any other questions?” Sherlock asked, eyes fixed on Lestrade once again.


“No.” Lestrade replied. “I think…”


“Very well.” Sherlock interrupted. He turned around and left the office, not bothering whether John followed or not. John let out an annoyed huff, mumbled a brief farewell and hurried after his flat mate. Lestrade sighed. As long as he had known John he had always seen him and Sherlock as equal. Now he couldn’t help but notice how much his behavior resembled a dog following his master.


…


Lestrade didn’t understand why Sherlock was acting this way. He had tried to talk to him but Sherlock dodged every attempt at conversation. The detective might appear indifferent from the outside but he was also snappy, stressed and clearly just as unhappy as John. Something must have happened between the two men. Their friendship was falling apart but neither seemed to have the power to do anything. The thought that John and Sherlock now might never get the chance to resolve their problems almost terrified Lestrade.


The tapping on his door snapped him out of his thoughts. Donovan had arrived, together with the head of the salvation team as well as some of his other officers who would help with the search. Lestrade gestured to them to enter.


We must find John alive, Lestrade thought. He remembered Sherlock’s devastated expression after they had dragged him out of the building. If John is dead, a part of Sherlock is dying too.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


After his stomach finally settled, Sherlock got on his shaky feet. He went to the sink and splashed some water into his face, avoiding his image in the mirror. He didn’t want to see himself as broken as he felt at the moment. With his eyes closed, he grabbed the first towel he found beneath the sink. It was John’s. Sherlock pressed the soft fabric into his face, inhaling the scent. It cost him all his willpower not to break down again.


Sherlock felt exhausted. The pain from his bruised ribs and headache had worsened due to the vomiting. Sleep, that’s all he wanted now; dreamless sleep. The towel still in his hands, he left the bathroom heading towards his bedroom. He tried not to look around while crossing the living room. Everything in here reminded him of John and this dreadful day: the batteries on the kitchen table for his experiment, John’s notebook he had thrown onto the desk during their fight, the puddle of tea Sherlock had spilled on the table during his talk with Mrs. Hudson earlier. It had already dried.


…


He heard John’s angry footsteps on the stairs and then the front door being slammed shut with more force than necessary. Sherlock flopped himself onto the couch with a frustrated groan and wondered how to clear up that mess. John’s tone had sounded sour and the words felt like a punch in the stomach. He felt guilty and angry. He was angry that John made him feel all these troublesome emotions. And he was angry with himself. He failed, his goddamn plan failed! Sherlock had tried for weeks and nothing had changed! Quite the contrary, it actually got worse! And now John was angry and hurt and Sherlock had no idea what explanation he could give his friend. Certainly not the truth! This was out of question.


There was a soft knock on the doorframe. “Woo-hoo!”


Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mrs. Hudson’s babbling was the last thing he needed now.


“You had quite a fight,” Mrs. Hudson said as she entered the room.


“I noticed. I was present,” Sherlock replied without actually looking towards his landlady. His annoyance was clearly audible.


Mrs. Hudson didn’t respond. She went to the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with two fresh cups of tea. She placed one on the coffee table beside Sherlock. His eyes flickered briefly to the cup but he said nothing and didn’t move. Mrs. Hudson had taken a seat in John’s armchair. She drank the first sips of tea in silence with a thoughtful expression on her face.


“You should tell him,” Mrs. Hudson said finally.


Sherlock stiffened and slowly rose from his prone position. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said with a snippy tone.


Mrs. Hudson took her cup and moved over to Sherlock, sitting beside him on the couch. “I may be an old woman,” she said with a sad smile. “But I have plenty of experience in this sort of things.”


Sherlock just raised an eyebrow but said nothing, sipping at his lukewarm tea.


“And I have eyes and my own observation skills you know,“ she continued with a warm smile. “Talk to John. Otherwise you will lose him.”


Sherlock smacked the cup down, spilling tea all over the table, and jumped to his feet. “I can’t tell him!” he said and began pacing through the room. A moment later he sank back on the couch as if all energy had suddenly drained out of him. He threw a glance over to John’s armchair.


“He’ll leave.” Sherlock said quietly, his tone was almost desperate.


Mrs. Hudson placed her hand on Sherlock’s and waited until he looked at her. “Maybe,” she said. “That’s the risk you have to take. But if you keep rejecting him, he will definitely leave.”


Sherlock huffed and looked away. His face clearly showed the tension he was feeling.


Mrs. Hudson got up. “I am with Mrs. Turner tonight. The poor thing has sprained her ankle.”


She took both cups into the kitchen. Before leaving the flat she turned towards Sherlock once more. “Think about it, dear.”


After a few minutes without moving an inch, Sherlock felt like he might explode any second. He hurried to his violin and began playing, the only thing he could think of that might calm him. Absentmindedly he began playing a random melody trying to solve the chaos in his mind.


…


Sherlock didn’t bother to take off his coat when he reached the bedroom. He felt cold anyway although he was sure this kind of coldness wouldn’t go away with a heavy coat or a warm blanket. He threw off his shoes and climbed onto the bed, curling up into a ball. John’s towel pressed into his face, Sherlock finally drifted off into a light slumber.





Chapter 3 – Dawn



Lestrade wasn’t exactly happy to be forced to wait outside. But he was the commanding officer and therefore had to take the lead over his crew together with the chief of the salvage team from the fire department. The two men were standing between a waiting ambulance and a small lorry which was loaded with all kinds of rescue tools. They had started the search at the beginning of dawn, when there was just enough daylight that it wouldn’t be too risky for the people who went inside. The weather had remained stable; it had even warmed up a bit. On closer inspection, the damage to the building wasn’t as severe as originally expected. The ground level, in particular, was mostly intact and relatively easy accessible. The blueprints had shown several cooling chambers on that floor and hopefully John was locked in one of those. Due to the structure of these rooms - no windows, thick walls and massive steel doors - it was unlikely that they had collapsed entirely. Besides, the insulating purpose of a cooling chamber does work the other way round as well, so it wouldn’t have been too cold in there during the night - another point that would increase John’s chances of survival, given that he was indeed in one of them. The team had been inside for nearly an hour now. They had checked two rooms so far, both empty.


Lestrade stepped nervously from one foot to the other, gripping the radio hard. With the other hand he took his mobile from his pocket, checking for calls or messages. Nothing. He had tried to call Sherlock a few times in order to keep him informed about the search, but the detective hadn’t answered. Lestrade was worried about his condition. He didn’t like the thought of Sherlock being in Baker Street on his own. He would have preferred him staying in hospital overnight but he knew the man couldn’t be forced. Lestrade just hoped that the watchful eye of Sherlock’s brother would prevent him from doing something stupid.


“Sir!” the voice of Sergeant Donovan, who had volunteered immediately to accompany the rescue party, came through the radio. She sounded excited. And happy.


“I’m listening,” Lestrade replied. Soon a huge grin spread over his face. In the background over the radio he heard the raspy, tired but very alive voice of John Watson “Is Sherlock ok?”.


“We’ve got him,” Donovan said.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


When John climbed up the stairs to their flat he realized how exhausted he was. The adrenaline had begun to wear off and the physical strains of his captivity were starting to show. He felt dizzy and tired. Violent shivers ran down his spine. John cursed; he shouldn’t have left the blanket the paramedics gave him in Greg’s car. The DI had wanted to come in with him, just to make sure that he and Sherlock were alright, but John had declined. The paramedics were almost furious as John insisted on being taken home instead of to the hospital, which certainly would have been reasonable with a mild case of hypothermia and slight dehydration. But John decided he would be fine without further observation. He was a doctor after all. John was extremely worried. From what Greg had told him, Sherlock had had a kind of a breakdown and he desperately wanted to see him. Still, the 17 stairs proven to be challenging.


John thought of the last time he had climbed up these stairs – it felt like ages though it was only a few hours ago; but those hours had changed everything. The last time he had climbed these stairs, he had come back from the long walk he took after his fight with Sherlock. He had made a decision back then.


…


Dusk was already falling when Sherlock heard John’s soft footsteps on the stairs. He put the violin away as the other man entered the room. John had calmed down; he didn’t look as defeated anymore, still sad but also resolved. Sherlock wasn’t sure what to make of John’s demeanour. Both men looked at each other for a moment.


“Sherlock, we need…”


“I’m sorry!” Sherlock interrupted hastily. “Please, listen for a moment.” He had thought about what to say to John and he was desperate to show his friend that he meant it.


“I’m sorry about today. I shouldn’t have sent you away to investigate when I already had an idea about what happened. And I’m sorry if my behaviour made you uncomfortable. I understand now, that you felt humiliated by my actions. I am sorry for that too. I promise that this will not happen again.”


Sherlock was actually a bit proud of his little speech. He had chosen his words with care, hoping that he had covered most of the reasons why John was angry with him.


John looked irritated at first but finally relaxed a little. He was glad that Sherlock had apologized; that was very rare for him. Maybe that’s why his words sounded a bit prepared. After all, he knew his friend well enough to see the honesty in Sherlock’s eyes.


“Right. Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for apologizing.”


John sat down, an earnest expression still on his face. “We need to talk,” he said.


“About what? I apologized. I mean it, John. Really.”


“It’s ok Sherlock, I believe you. And I am fine with it,” John smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He looked sad and Sherlock didn’t like the way John looked at him.


“I had some time to think,” John continued “and I came to a conclusion.”


Sherlock frowned, not quite sure what John was getting at. “A conclusion about what?”


John took a deep breath and looked Sherlock in the eyes. “I am going to leave Baker Street.”


Wait, what?? For a moment Sherlock was speechless. “NO!” he yelled, jumping out of his seat.


John was a bit surprised by this sudden reaction. “Sherlock…”


“That’s ridiculous John! I’ve just said sorry and you said it’s ok! Why do you want to leave?” he looked at John in disbelief. “I am sorry John, I truly am. I know, I’ve not been quite myself lately, but I will come to it. I promise. Please stay, don’t leave.”


What surprised John most was not only the absolute honesty but also a kind of desperation within his friend’s words and posture. Sherlock looked anxious and insecure – something John has hardly ever seen in the man before.


“Sherlock, it’s not about this particular fight,” he said gently as if trying not to scare him away. “But has it ever occurred to you, that this might not work anymore?”


“This? You mean…” Sherlock’s voice was almost a whisper, his distress clearly audible.


John considered his words carefully as he began to speak. “What I mean is us two, living and working together. You’ve been avoiding me. You’ve been avoiding me for some time now. I suppose you didn’t even notice it, so I probably shouldn’t have gotten so angry with you.”


“John…” Sherlock began but John held up his hand to stop him.


“Please let me finish,” he said. “Sherlock, you were away for almost two years. You had to work alone the whole time, in your manner, with your methods and at your pace. You’re just not used to having somebody around anymore. And, well, it’s quite obvious that you don’t need me. I’m sad about it, but I don’t want to blame you. Your exile changed you.”


“No, John! No, no, no!” Sherlock paced the room, ruffling desperately through his hair and mumbling again and again. “Wrong. This is wrong. No, you got it wrong.”


John looked puzzled. This was not the reaction he had expected. Sherlock had gone pale, his breathing was fast. He seemed to be on the edge of a panic attack.


“Sherlock,” he said in a soothing tone. “I’m not going to abandon you or anything. But I don’t want to stick around and follow you like a lost puppy. I don’t want to force my presence on you when I just slow you down and annoy you. That hurts me. Don’t you understand?”


Sherlock said nothing, just continued pacing. John wasn’t even sure whether he had heard him properly.


“I’m not going to abandon you,” John repeated. “You’re still my friend. But I think, maybe we need some space from another.”


“No John! NO!” Sherlock finally yelled in desperation. “You got it wrong! You got it completely wrong!”


John stepped forward and grabbed Sherlock’s wrist firmly to stop his mad running. “Sherlock, calm down, please,” he said. “Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong.”


“Sentiment,” Sherlock said.


“Sentiment?”John asked. Sherlock just nodded. “Care to elaborate?”


Sherlock took a deep breath and looked John into the eyes. “You’re right. I have been avoiding you… a bit… in the last couple of days… maybe weeks. But you’re absolutely wrong; it has nothing to do with me not wanting you around anymore. I do want you to be around.”


“OK, you are avoiding me but want me around at the same time?” John asked frowning.


“Yes.”


“Sherlock, that doesn’t make any sense.”


“My motives… my motives for wandering off alone and spending my time away is a result of… of an experiment.”


“An experiment!?”


“Yes, I… I needed to test something. If the lack of your presence with me or my work has an influence on the… on the disturbing feelings I have recently experienced when around you. I estimated a reasonable distance could help to improve my state.” After a moment in which nobody said a word Sherlock added “But I’m afraid it didn’t work out.”


John stared at Sherlock dumbfounded. Did he just…? Was this a…?


“I was just so, confused, I… I thought… it would go away … I thought with some distance …” Sherlock stumbled over the words he wanted to say. He looked down on John’s hand grasping his arm. With his other hand Sherlock carefully loosened John grip but didn’t let go of his hand. On the contrary, Sherlock took John’s hand in his and stroked little circles with his thumb.


“I… I don’t know…” he started again, not looking up, just staring at their hands. “I just don’t know what to do or how to say it.”


John stared at Sherlock. He felt the warmth of Sherlock’s hand in his own and the pleasant feeling of Sherlock stroking it. John’s stomach made a strange flip.


“Sherlock, look at me,” he said with a raspy voice.


The other man hesitated a moment but finally looked up. Then John saw the deep emotions within his friend’s eyes. Confusion, desperation, fear and … love. Suddenly everything made sense, Sherlock’s strange behavior, his ongoing absence and pretended indifference. He had obviously tried to deal with his emotions in a very Sherlockian way – avoiding their source instead of facing the situation.


The brief moment both men stood there just looking into each other’s eyes and holding hands somehow felt like an eternity. The silence was finally interrupted by the beep of Sherlock’s phone indicating an incoming text message.


“It’s from Billy,” Sherlock said, after he had pulled the device from his pocket. “They found the gang’s bolt hole. They’re in one of the buildings at the abandoned wholesale market in Brompton.”


“Good,” John said, relieved about the distraction. “I’ll text the address to Lestrade and then we can go.”


Sherlock hesitated, unsure how to proceed. “But…”


John saw the battle Sherlock fought with himself. He wanted to solve the case and this was the final information he needed. On the other hand, he seemed afraid that this might be the only chance he got.


Sherlock’s hand was still in his and it surprised him a little how natural it felt. John smiled and gave Sherlock’s hand a little squeeze. “Come on, let’s catch some bad guys. We’ll talk later, I promise.”


…


Sherlock stirred in his sleep. It wasn’t a really deep sleep, more a light slumber; the kind of state between sleeping and waking where you are aware that you are dreaming but not awake enough to control anything. Sherlock went through his conversation with John again and again, trying to change the events, to make them stay in the flat. But they always leave. We’ll talk later, John had promised. We’ll talk later. Sherlock sobbed. He could still feel John’s cold hand stroking his cheek. Wait! That hadn’t happened! John hadn’t stroked his cheek and his hand hadn’t been cold at all!


“Sherlock,” somebody whispered.


Sherlock groaned and began fidgeting. This was developing into a nightmare. He felt hot, his hair was plastered against his sweaty forehead, his shirt clung to his body.


“Sherlock, wake up!” John said.


John… JOHN!


Sherlock jolted upwards, wincing at the pain that shot through his rib cage and gasping for air.


“Sherlock.”


Sherlock’s eyes snapped open. Beside him, sitting on the edge of his mattress, was John, with a very worried expression on his face. John!


John is alive!


But wait, he’d seen the building explode. John had been inside. John… John is dead. He must be hallucinating. Sherlock’s breathing sped up, he felt light-headed and nauseous once again. Black dots began dancing in front of eyes and his ears were ringing.


“Shhhhhh, Sherlock,” John said. He stretched out his arm and carefully stroked Sherlock’s cheek, then cupped his face completely in his hands. “Breathe Sherlock! Breathe. Easy, in… and out… in… and out.”


They sat there for a while; John in- and exhaling slowly and audibly forcing Sherlock to mimic his breathing pattern. Sherlock finally took one of John’s hands into his, searching for the pulse. There it was, strong and steady - the rhythmic thumping beneath his fingertips, a simple reassurance as Sherlock slowly began to drift back into reality.


John is alive.


“John,” he whispered.


Sherlock looked at John who now carefully stroked over the stitched wound on Sherlock’s temple and frowning, still worried apparently. John was pale; his hands were cold, his skin raw as well as his lips which also had a slight blue color. And he was shivering. Though John tried to suppress it, Sherlock could still see the tremors running through his friend’s body. He’d been in the building the whole night, Sherlock suddenly realized.


“Shouldn’t you be in hospital?” Sherlock asked, now very much worried himself.


“I’m fine.”


“No, you’re not.”


“I wanted… I needed to check on you.”


“I‘m fine.”


“No you’re not.”


“I am now.”


“Me too.”


John smiled at Sherlock, who hadn’t let go of his hand, his fingers still on John’s pulse point. The worries about Sherlock’s condition had proven to be a distraction from his own exhausted body. But now as the shivering began once again, John thought about those nice warm jumpers he had in his room. A hot cup of tea would probably do them both good as well. But his attempt to rise was interrupted instantly.


“DON’T!” Sherlock said, almost panicking again, grabbing John’s wrist harder to stop him from moving away. “Don’t go. Stay! Please!”


Sherlock’s face still showed the terror he’d gone through the night before. Just like the fear John had felt while being locked in a crumbling building, not knowing what had happened, if he would make it out and if Sherlock was still alive (“Please, god, please! He can’t be dead! I can’t lose him again.”). John swallowed hard against the lump in his throat and nodded, suppressing a shudder that wasn’t from the cold. Sherlock took off the coat he was still wearing and put it around John, guiding him to lie down. John instantly started to relax under the warm shelter of Sherlock’s coat and his eyelids began to droop. Sherlock felt his own exhaustion catching up with him. He huddled close to his friend and covered them both with his blanket.


“Rest,” Sherlock said softly.


“You too,” John whispered.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------



Sherlock woke up several hours later from a dreamless sleep. The room around him was dim. Dawn, he thought at first but soon noticed that the light wasn’t quite right nor did the noises outside fit the estimated time of day. Sherlock glanced towards the clock on the wall he was currently facing; 5:20pm, late afternoon then, daylight was almost gone but Sherlock still felt sleepy. As he tried to turn over a dull ache in his chest reminded him of his injuries. Suddenly the events of the past two days came rushing back to him. He gasped as adrenaline was pumped through his body making his head pound.

John! John is… alive.

A warm body was pressed against his back and an arm slung around his waist. In addition he felt a steady breathing that was tickling his neck. Carefully Sherlock turned over, gritting his teeth as he put pressure on his bruised ribs. But the pain was manageable and almost forgotten as soon as he looked into John’s face.

John is alive.

The other man was still sleeping. His features were relaxed; the stress of the recent events didn’t show. He had regained a normal color and, as Sherlock carefully took John’s hands, he was relieved to find them warm. John was still wrapped in Sherlock’s coat and Sherlock smiled at the sight. He looked absolutely adorable. He wouldn’t have minded just looking at his friend for hours, guarding his restful sleep, but John finally opened his eyes as well. Both their eyes were roaming over each other, observing their condition, reassuring themselves that the other was ok. Soon Sherlock began to feel restless. He thought about the events of the previous evening, especially their conversation in the living room. Hundreds of thoughts and questions were running through his mind. He was about to say something when John halted him.

“Shhhhh,” he whispered putting a finger on Sherlock’s lips. “Don’t talk. Let me try something.”

John caressed Sherlock’s lips with his thumb, moving his finger gently over his cheekbone. Then he leaned forward and carefully pressed his lips onto Sherlock’s. The kiss was shy at first, just their lips brushing together. Slowly John began to kiss other parts of Sherlock’s face: the tip of his nose, his cheeks, the corner of his mouth and then his lips again. Sherlock was so stunned from the sensation he felt of John’s skin on his own that he was barely able to move. Slowly and tenderly John brushed his tongue over Sherlock’s lips encouraging him to open his mouth slightly, granting access. Their tongues danced around each other’s - gently first but the kiss became deeper and deeper as Sherlock finally began to respond. He cupped John’s face and fell into the pace of their kissing, nibbling on the other man’s lips, exploring his mouth, tangling his tongue with his. The feeling of passion and happiness made a moan escape Sherlock’s lips. John smiled. While their hands were ruffling through each other’s hair, their kissing continued until they were both almost breathless.

Sherlock snuggled deeper under the blanket shuffling closer to John who was instantly putting his arms around him. Their foreheads touched and they looked at each other for a long time, telling each other with looks what they weren’t able to say with words.

I thought I’d lost you.

I’m still here.

Don’t leave me.

I won’t. Never.

Finally their eyes began to drift shut. Feeling safe and loved they slept soundly in each other’s arms until the dawning of a new day.



- The End -




 

Last edited by Schmiezi (December 24, 2014 9:18 am)

Schmiezi wrote:

Todays story is for BreathingIsBoring.
 

Authors note:

Your prompt was; I’d love a Post-Reichenbach Reunion that isn’t S3 canon-compliant, with pre-slash to slash Johnlock and a Sherlock with sad emotions. Crying is acceptable from either or both parties. AU - Soulmates preferred. And you wanted to read about Casefic, Wingfic, Magic Realism, Soul-Mates and Post-Reichenbach Reunion.

Thank-you so much for the prompt! This is probably the longest story I've ever written and I owe it all to you. I hope I've managed to capture what you wanted to read about in an entertaining enough way.
I wasn't able to get it 100% beta'd in time, but I was able to edit myself. There may be some mistakes, but I will polish the story later and put it up on AO3 at some point after the authors are revealed.
I hope you enjoy!


My head's under water, but I'm breathing fine

 

Prologue


How did I end up here?

John wonders, as the last vestiges of sleep drift away and for a moment all he feels is peace, a blissful ignorance...a feeling that is quickly shattered by the memory of his dream, and a hollow aching sensation echoes throughout his body. He resists the urge to cry. He doesn’t cry. He won’t – can’t let himself. John Watson’s life may feel out of control to him, but he is – was a soldier, a doctor, and has seen death many times over...he can do this one thing and not let himself cry.

John lets out a shaky breath and closes his eyes. His hands clench beneath the flannel bed sheets in an effort to control the tears threatening to break free. An image from a long ago memory, yet still so close to his heart, is brought forward by the dream and resounds powerfully through his mind - curls, rain, copper, blood, pavement vacant eyes, shock - he quickly opens his eyes again, and the mirage of a man still so important to one John Watson flashes in front of his eyes before disappearing into oblivion...much like the man himself.

Now wide awake, John pushes himself into a sitting position and rests against his headboard. He angrily bangs his head against the wall, relishing that particular pain but cursing the one now throbbing with vengeance in his leg...as if it were saying “I am your only companion now” ...as if I need the reminder.

John laughs bitterly. He glances down at his bare arm, barely illuminated by the beginnings of dawn. John only has two live soul marks (his father and Greg Lestrade, the latter a surprise that occurred shortly after meeting the DI, and just another connection between him and his deceased best-friend), crackling with a feeling akin to electricity under his skin. There are two other burned marks close to his inner elbow, they are all that are left of the soul mates he once had, though he doesn’t need a physical burn to remember the pain of their passing; his mother, and the man he met while on tour in Afghanistan, Bill. Living through their deaths hadn’t been easy, it never is when a soul mate dies, no matter what place they hold – friend, parent etc. A part of John has always felt mystified that neither he nor Sherlock developed a mark when they met. Sherlock never commented on that fact. Despite that, John doubts either of them had ever connected to another person the way they did with each other...an incredible feat, John knew, coming from the Detective.

Honestly, as bloody annoying as the bastard was, a more hidden part of John can admit that he wouldn’t have been surprised if he and Sherlock grew wings (and there’s a thought that adds more salt to his sore heart wound). But they never did.

There exists in this world soul marks (permanent fingerprint marks that appear anywhere on the body, unique to the individual, when one meets a soul mate, this could be anyone from a friend to family), soul wings (everyone is born with small nubbins between their shoulder blades, these are what can give everyone the opportunity to grow wings. Whether that’s as a child or an adult, it only happens once you meet your deep soul mate. The one person, who perfectly complements your soul, knows you on a level no one else can. This could also be a family member or a friend, but it is most commonly a person you have a romantic connection with) and soul magic...the latter is a side effect of the first two. Once you meet a soul mate, your souls automatically tap into each other, no one knows exactly why or how (it’s the way it always has been) but it opens a gateway that allows both individuals to perform mostly minor abilities (and some are only able to be performed in the presence of the other). This could be anything from empathic telepathy to being able to instantly heat up a cup of tea (one John acquired early on in life, due to his mother, and lived on even after her death, something that typically only happens with what is considered minor magic) with the touch of a finger. Soul wing abilities are the most powerful ones, the wings become the physical manifestation of the magic through which your soul works and connects (it is the same with the marks), and once that happens deep soul mates (of which there is only one per individual) often have full telepathy (only with each other), can do telekinesis, heal minor to major wounds or even short ranged flight.

All this came up often during The Work, John knows that the whole concept of soul marks, wings and magic has always...irked the Detective; he understands the basic concepts much like everyone else but it is a science that can’t be entirely quantified or logically explained. John had wondered if that was why Sherlock never talked about his own markings, but later he thought there must be another reason. In all the time they lived together, John never even saw Sherlock’s soul marks (though the Detective deduced exactly how many – burned and live – John possessed within minutes of meeting). Whenever John brought it up Sherlock either would sigh in boredom or ignore him altogether. Initially John chuckled when he thought they might be on his arse, something he has seen happen before during his many years as a doctor (and a proficient lover), but that theory quickly left John’s mind as he didn’t allow himself to follow that particular train of thought for long...no reason to after all, John always told himself.

He does know that at least Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade are two soul mates of Sherlock’s, since they both told him though Sherlock himself has never explicitly confirmed so. Mrs. Hudson is the living proof that a mother doesn’t have to be related by blood, and Lestrade is the proof that soul mate or not you can still get an often uncontrollable urge to punch said soul mate; a trait both he and the DI often related with, and not just because he and the man were soul mates. John and Greg have an interesting relationship (though the two haven’t spoken for a few months), since the latter was both soul mates with the Detective and his loyal Blogger, very strong camaraderie and mutual understanding more than anything else.

John has absolutely no idea what the deal was with Sherlock and Mycroft. Given the odd and reclusive nature of the Holmes brothers, they could be anything.

And John wasn’t the only one surprised by the fact that Sherlock and he didn’t present as soul mates. Mycroft never alluded to any surprise though, any thought he might’ve had was well kept behind his stony facade.

John groans, abruptly cutting off his wandering mind... too bloody early for that.

At the thought he turns his head to glance at the clock on his nightstand: 6:00am.

As if the haunting dream and subsequent mind wandering weren’t indication enough, John can already tell this is going to be a particularly bad day.

Everyday for the past two years has felt like a battle, less urgent now than at first...but the battle has never ceased. Even when he left Baker Street a year after (the cloying reminders of his dead best friend and borderline claustrophobic nature of the place felt like they were killing him) and moved far from London (something he never thought he’d do) into a well kept cottage left to him in Sherlock’s will (the Detective had never mentioned the cottage before, so when John found out he was surprised and a little confused, Mycroft never explained it), the battle never stopped.

If you were to look at John Watson now, walking somewhat uneasily out of bed and into the loo adjoined to his bedroom, you would think a part of his soul had been ripped away. Soul mate or no, in his most vulnerable moments, John can admit to himself that is what it feels like, he should know.

Sherlock Holmes is gone, yet he continues to severely impact the life of John Watson still. John splashes his face with cold water, and allows a single tear to fall. No more. No more.

Though he tells himself this, the ache in his heart he can’t deny tells him there will be more and he is far from the stable healed man he’d like to be.

John turns around and looks out the single window in the loo, and takes a deep breath. Who would’ve thought that adrenaline, danger addicted, adoring of London, ex-soldier and Doctor John Watson would one day be grateful for the peaceful atmosphere of the Sussex countryside, and the boring lifestyle of a part-time country doctor.

Certainly not John Watson.

How did I end up here?


Meanwhile, in the distance a woman with bright red hair and cold focus watches the cottage, her navy blue jacket flapping delicately in the soft wind; her confidence and quiet anger absolute in her rigid stance within the field, shadowed by a tree, outside of the home of John Watson.

“I’m waiting, Sherlock Holmes.” She whispers, her words go unanswered and lost amongst the countryside.

However, not so far away, as if he heard, Sherlock Holmes has left his pseudo exile with his own brand of anger, motivated by fear he would never admit to (John, John, John...) fueling his speed towards John Watson.

It’s time to come back to life.





 

 Chapter 2



I’m hallucinating, I must be, because...what the...what? How...what is this the twilight zone?

Standing in front of John Watson, in all his traditional Belstaff coat and dark curly hair (both soaking wet) glory, is the unmistakable figure of Sherlock Holmes. Consulting Detective; dead for two years...two years.

The man in front of him looks...almost afraid, nervous. That can’t be right, Sherlock Holmes doesn’t get afraid.

Those opalescent eyes are fixed on John, the violinists hands twitch nervously at his sides as he gauges the reaction of his ex-blogger...shouldn’t he be...pleased? He doesn’t look pleased, why isn’t he? That doesn’t matter now. He has to get inside. John...John, it is good to see you...I never should’ve missed you as much as I have.

Summoning up his determination and locking away the persistent sentiment bashing around his mind, he opens his mouth to speak.

“John, while I appreciate that this must be...shocking, I assure you I am not dead nor am I a hallucination, with that covered I need to enter and I require the immediate use of your laptop. It is urgent.” Sherlock is all business and very little consideration as he speaks, and those last few words are laced with something dark that John hasn’t heard in -

It all hits him like an ice cold shower; simultaneously shocking him and breaking him out of his confused daze. His hand, white knuckled and gripping the door knob like a lifeline, begins to shake and disbelief is quickly replaced with a deep and resounding anger, he is a pressure cooker ready to explode.

“You-” John is humiliated to hear his voice come out hoarse and cracked, he breathes deeply, taking comfort in the eye of the storm feeling washing over him as he gazes at the clearly impatient detective. “You were dead, I thought...” His voice still isn’t as confident as he would like, emotions warring and overwhelming him from all sides.

Sherlock’s impatience recedes for a moment, his face flickering with regret that John is too blinded with rage right now to see.

“I will explain everything to you, I promise, just let me inside...please.”

John doesn’t know why, but the almost desperate please – a word he scarcely heard from the man – being uttered by Sherlock of all people is what causes him to crack.

He rushes forward and grabs Sherlock by the lapels of his coat, so tightly that not even a crow bar would be likely to break his grip, and pushes the tall man with incredible anger fueled force into the doorframe. The sound of over six feet of Holmes hitting the frame of wood and stone creates a sound loud enough to be heard over the persistent rain.

Sherlock’s eyes widen in surprise and he automatically reaches up and tries to pull Johns hands away, he doesn’t succeed.

“Two years! TWO YEARS! You heartless bastard I fucking grieved for you for TWO. BLOODY. YEARS!” John is screaming. He is angry. He is hurt. He is confused. He is relieved. He is thrilled. He is furious. “How could you...why?” John’s voice has gone frightfully quiet, the anger no longer a roaring noise but a quiet and dangerous one.

Sherlock finds himself no longer trying to pull John’s hands away from him, instead he holds onto John’s with the same amount of strength, his hands are adorned with black leather gloves.

This...this wasn’t how it was supposed to happen, none of this was how it was supposed to happen, Sherlock knew that John would be upset but this...John was supposed to be happy, delighted. Sherlock is floundering, for once in his life he is truly dumbfounded and feels like a child walking into a mine field labelled ‘John Watson’.

He is speechless for all of twelve point two seconds before he is suddenly reminded of why he is here. His determination returns full force, along with the anger, hatred and fear associated with it. He fiercely ignores the stinging pain ranging down his back. John.

“Now is not a good-”

“NO!” John yells again, pushing Sherlock – if possible – even further into the door frame. “Right now is the perfect time.” John pushes his face right up into Sherlock’s; his expression tight with barely controlled tears.

Sherlock is careful not to move or betray any pain he’s feeling from John’s actions. He puts on his most apologetic mask, surprising himself when he discovers it is not an emotion he needs to exaggerate.

“John.” Sherlock utters with a calm steadiness, though his heart is pounding away in his chest. “If I could tell you now, I would. However the explanation is too long and there is something I must confirm first, and for that I need you to let me inside and allow me the use of your laptop.” Sherlock finishes. John narrows his eyes, so many emotions present in his face that Sherlock can’t even deduce the precise nature and reasoning for them.

It is silent for a moment, and Sherlock is growing impatient once more. He decides to try a new tactic, one that has worked in the past.

“Besides, I don’t fancy myself sopping wet, I’m sure my hair looks ridiculous and your frightening jumper – I’d been hoping your taste would at least marginally improve during my absence – is getting half wet due to our awkward position of being half in and half out of the door, and since I highly doubt you keep your laptop outside – even you aren’t that much of an idiot, I do need to be on the dry half of our predicament. Although I suppose there is a benefit to this, since that is clearly a new handmade jumper you’re wearing – given to you by Mrs. Hudson most likely – obvious since there are no signs of it being preshrunk and it is quite clearly pure wool which is sensitive to shrinking when wet, it is already nearly too small for you, any more exposure could render it useless for you which would be a major relief for all of humankind I’m sure-”

John growls and releases one hand from Sherlock’s coat and covers his mouth, pressing down with increasing pressure.

“Shut up, just...shut up!”John Watson angered is a force to behold indeed. Perhaps humorously deducing the jumper, no matter how hideous, was not the wisest course of action.

Sherlock is momentarily distracted by John’s hand on his mouth, calloused by many years of using a gun, war, being a doctor, old healed grazes from one too many knocks into walls running after the Detective, so many examples of the man’s bravery present on this one appendage, there is a minor wart forming near a finger, the one close to the corner of Sherlock’s lips. For an instant, Sherlock is tempted to stick out his tongue and taste John’s hand, an impulse quickly quashed by the insistence of what he needs to be doing now and an increasing pressure across his...shoulders?

Johns unwavering focus on Sherlock slips for a second, something Sherlock immediately jumps upon. He notices John’s shoulders moving uncomfortably, his grip on Sherlock is lessening.

Sherlock frowns, his eyes darting with increasing speed all over John’s body, rain and any urgent matter are temporarily forgotten. John’s hand slips from Sherlock’s mouth, his body is rigid with tension not caused by anger but...pain, yes, physical pain.

John pushes away from Sherlock, immediately hitting the opposite side of the doorframe; the action causing the shorter man to groan loudly.

“John!” Instinct urges Sherlock forward. He doesn’t even notice until he is kneeling at John’s feet, after the latter has started convulsing and slid down the frame, that he himself is also experiencing pain across his shoulders and down his back. Sherlock bites his lip hard and his hands flutter uselessly around John, trying to move him yet unable to...the pain is...

It feels like multiple bones are breaking (a sensation he has experienced too many times to count) and being reformed over and over again. There is an electrical current humming through his skin and deep down to his nerves. What part of his mind palace that isn’t overrun with this overwhelming feeling of pain and quickly forming fiery warmth is shouting and panicking...because he knows what this is, oh he knows it very well. No matter his own personal feelings on the matter, it would be stupid of him if he didn’t recognize the symptoms despite never having experienced them before. He can’t control it, he wishes he could, and so he finds himself collapsing onto the ground beside John, his entire body shaking and seizing as well.

He can feel his vision blackening, just before he loses consciousness he looks towards John, surprisingly, he sees him gazing back at him his eyes slowly closing shut.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

What exactly he is apologizing for, Sherlock doesn’t know. He is sure there are many things social standards would think he needs to apologize for.

The last thing he feels before succumbing to blackness is a flare of fear as what little logic that isn’t overrun reminds him once more of what he needs to do now and that he is stupidly encumbered by...this, his mind spits angrily.

The last thing he hears is John’s voice calling his name...not in anger, but...an emotion Sherlock has a difficult time placing. He does think however that it is the first time he’s heard that voice, not in his mind palace, say his name in two years.

The last thing he sees is two gouging rips forming across Johns back.

And the last thing he says - more whimpers (though he would never admit it), is a quiet and pained – “John.”


***


Bugger. What happened? I must’ve fallen asleep...

John’s thoughts are foggy at best, memories flitting around with no clear path, his head and body pounding. He feels something soft and warm on top of him...a blanket? Am I on the sofa? Lying down definitely...Do I have a bloody hangover? No, I’m sure I hadn’t gotten around to drinking yet...

That thought seems to clear the fog and everything comes rushing back in one, painful, disbelieving swoop.

Sherlock.

It hadn’t been a hallucination. It was real. It all happened so fast, so unexpectedly, but it was real.

John is sure he’s never sat up so fast in his life; his breath comes out ragged, his eyes widen. His heart begins to race ever faster as the flurry of memories, words, feelings and everything cycles itself on repeat...shock...pain...relief...anger, so much anger...confusion...how...why...pain, more pain...falling, Sherlock too...no, not again, must move...blackness...

Most of all, Sherlock showing up without a care two years after obviously faking his death, as if it didn’t matter, as if he didn’t redefine John Watson’s definition of what hell really is...feck. That bastard better have a bloody good explanation. He won’t, because there isn’t one...there surely won’t be, how can there be? What the hell am I going to do...?

John doesn’t know how he can answer that question, doesn’t know what he’s going to do. A reason, he needs a reason, needs to know, more than anything...why.

Just the thought of talking to Sherlock, causes John to feel swirls of nausea, feelings of anger, deep hurt and god...such a profound sense of pure relief (alivealivealive), among other things John doesn’t care to look too carefully at right now. He feels himself on the edge of tears and hates himself for it. He is normally such a steady person. Right now, he feels like he’s just about ready to crack again, his fists clenching painfully tight. John knows he has a temper, he also knows that despite everything, getting angry won’t help him right now...no matter how justified it is. Sherlock had always been one to push his buttons after all.

Somewhere, someone is having a go at him, he’s sure of it, because really...the two year anniversary of Sherlock’s “death” is the day that the man himself comes back...well, he doesn’t know whether to laugh or punch something – someone.

John’s mind is still foggy and aching, and there is an odd feeling he can’t quite place reverberating everywhere from heart to stomach to back. There is also a new inherent feeling that John can only describe as a sense he never had before, like...his heartbeat is echoing back at him...but how is that possible? He knows there’s something he’s missing, some detail his addled brain has yet to notice.

Where is Sherlock? Run off again?

John refuses to acknowledge the slight panic he feels at that thought (really, it shouldn’t be possible to never want to see someone again and yet at the same time never want to let them go) and finally looks around the room he’s in; the living room of the cottage. The fire is curiously going strong, the rain has stopped and the sky is darkening and covered with grey cloud. The front door is closed, a quilted blanket John remembers noticing in his now bedroom when he first moved in is covering him. The Belstaff coat and John’s jumper are draped carefully over John’s usual chair, both with oddly identical rips along their backs...what?

John is preparing to stand when he finally notices he is nude from the waist up, bare chest glistening in the firelight.

What the – Sherlock!

John groans in frustration, wondering why on earth Sherlock thought it was ok to strip him half naked. He is about to yell his name when an itching sensation causes him to reach behind himself and scratch his back –

John freezes for a moment and then...this time, John does yell...loudly.

“What the – shit!”

John thinks he hears frantic footsteps pounding towards his direction from upstairs, but he is too distracted right now to do anything more than jump around trying to see his own back...because there, where the normal little nubs on his upper shoulders once were, are the beginnings of wings; forming slowly, almost too slowly to notice, bones protruding and feathers already spreading out in layers upon layers; mostly Down at this point, with the other types just beginning to make an appearance. The shafts of them are deep blood red and the waxy coating of new and growing feathers cover them, many shades of blue and cold jade green with rivulets of brown gold already visible flash brilliantly; zinging with energy that has John currently standing stock still, with his head turned at an awkward angle to gaze at them, breathing heavily, utterly gobsmacked.

A part of John notes that the shades of colour are the exact same as Sherlock’s eyes...

This can’t be happening. It’s not possible. It is nearly unheard of for two...deep soul mates (oh god, that’s what Sherlock and he are aren’t they?) to not develop wings upon first meeting, which is why John assumed Sherlock and he weren’t, but not impossible. Everything he’d thought, every feeling and impulse he’d been feeling since he saw Sherlock standing outside his home in the rain, is suddenly wiped away...it is not unlike the feeling of being shot, no pain at first, just blanket shock, the pain comes later, burning white hot. Except this time, there is no pain; the pain is gone, that is what he felt before losing consciousness, leaving nothing besides a bone deep ache, similar to a bruise, and a pair of still growing wings...wings!

“Ah, you’re awake, good.”

The deep baritone, slightly breathless, breaks John out of his trance.

John quickly turns around, fully intent on expressing many expletives ranging from ‘bastard’ to ‘fucking hell’ until he actually sees Sherlock...John isn’t the only one with wings.

If John were to say that this situation is surreal, it would be an understatement.

Here he is, half naked, wings forming on his back, his heart and body aching for two entirely different reasons, and he is standing across from his previously “dead” best-friend...whom is also sporting his own pair of growing, and rather...stunning wings (John begrudgingly acknowledges, the wings suit Sherlock’s stature), they are steel grey borderline silver in colour with a hint of brown along the edges. The man in question is wearing nothing but a towel and is dripping wet, not with rain water, but with the hot water caused by use of the aging shower. Remnants of steam rise off Sherlock’s broad shoulders.

John stops himself from staring too long, and blames the hot fire for the flush forming along his neck and face. Snap out of it for goodness sakes, this is ridiculous! I still don’t know a bloody thing about what the hell is going on and now this...John is tempted to ask himself the question ‘how is this my life?’ but truthfully, he stopped asking himself that shortly after moving in with Sherlock all those years ago. Because no matter how angry and hurt he is, how confused and discombobulated he feels, despite the grief laden tedium of the last two years...a part of John has resigned himself to the reality of learning to expect the unexpected, and it is not always pleasant. He may not be ready to fully admit it to himself, let alone say it out loud, but seeing Sherlock alive...is the best goddamn surprise he’s ever had. It doesn’t help that as soon as Sherlock entered the room he realized that the echoing heartbeat he feels and hears isn’t his own, but Sherlock’s. If he needed further proof that he isn’t crazy and that Sherlock is actually alive, that is it.

Regardless, he will toss the silly boy out by his ear if he doesn’t find out what happened two years ago, and what is happening now.

The two men are in the midst of an odd standoff, John staring at Sherlock with a tight expression; internally debating which of the thousand questions to ask first, his wings are already reacting to his internal emotions and contracting with tension. Sherlock watches John with a carefully constructed mask, his eyes are darting all over John with a piercing intensity and he can’t completely block the wariness he is obviously trying to hide.

The many kinds of tension enveloping the room would need more than a knife to cut through. The two of them fully aware of what the presence of wings between them means, and the knowledge of what feels like a deep betrayal on Sherlock’s part from John’s perspective and a necessary one from Sherlock’s.

In short, it’s a bloody mess.

Just then, there is a deep sigh from the Detective; the heavy sound breaking the silence of the room.

“John, I know this-” Sherlock gestures to his wings and then to the rest of himself. “-must be a shock to you, but there is something we must do and I need you to do it.”

Glossing completely over the fact that Sherlock Holmes just admitted to needing John, the latter man blinks. “We? Just like that?” His tone is incredulous. “There is no ‘we’, there hasn’t been a ‘we’ since you buggered off and made me believe you were dead!” His voice is raised significantly by the end of his outburst, his wings spread widely on instinct.

Sherlock seems entranced by them for a moment, his eyes gazing at them with curiosity. The look is gone quickly though and Sherlock moves to stand closer. John resists the urge to move backwards and keeps his eyes firmly on Sherlock’s face and not on his...mostly naked body.

The warm flush John feels is only caused by his anger and the fire of course.

Sherlock’s eyes are intense, his brow drawn in increasing focus, his wings also spreading. Out of the corner of his eye John notices that the tips of their wings are very close to touching and he feels an involuntary shiver, for a brief moment he swears he sees Sherlock experience the same.

Sherlock narrows his eyes at John. “I didn’t just ‘bugger off’, faking my death was a necessary evil and I do not, will not, regret making that choice.”

John laughs coldly.

“Unbelievable, you’re...wow.” John closes his eyes and clenches his fists; aware enough to realize strangling the man probably won’t help. “You don’t have any idea do you?” John doesn’t really expect Sherlock to answer, and he’s right when the man merely looks at him with something akin to perplexity. “You really think it is...ok, don’t you? To run off gallivanting who knows where for two years and then showing up as if no time has passed and telling me you need my help?” John scoffs. “Unbelievable.”

I thought I was at least worth more to you than that. Stupid, I really am an idiot. John doesn’t voice those thoughts aloud and instead rests a tired palm across his face, really trying hard to ignore the pounding in his heart and the elephant in the room; the fact that Sherlock and John have presented as deep soul mates despite...everything. John still doesn’t see how that is possible and he can’t handle figuring that out right now and what it could mean.

“I. Was. Not. Off gallivanting.”

John is momentarily taken aback by the ferocity in Sherlock’s voice and looks up at him; shocked to see his wings, though still growing, spread incredibly wide, and his starburst eyes narrowed even further and...angry. Why is he angry?

“So what were you doing? Playing hide and seek? Going on an extended vacation?” Contrary to what some might think, John does have a logical brain, and that brain is incessantly whispering that whatever Sherlock did he had to have a logical reason for it but right now...John doesn’t want to hear it, his emotional reasoning has taken over. “What was so bloody necessary that it required you putting me through fucking hell?! You have one chance to tell me everything, right now and no ‘there is no time I need help’ bollocks, no excuses, no vague ‘I’m Sherlock Holmes, all people in the world are idiots so I shouldn’t have to explain myself’ responses, I don’t care how you faked it, I need to know why and I need to know now.”

There, he said it.

John is breathing heavily, half anxious and half angry at how Sherlock will respond (though he will never admit to the former).

Sherlock hasn’t moved, his eyes centering on John’s, his mouth slightly parted and his eyebrows creased in thought. A small measure of time passes with no sound but the crackling of the fire, the twitching anxiety of their new wings and though neither is aware of it, they also hear the echoing sound of the others heart beats.

John is just beginning to wonder if they’ll eventually turn into statues just standing here when Sherlock appears to give in and finally speaks.

“Moriarty’s web was a dark pervasive thing, and I knew that even if or when he died that his empire would struggle to live on and most likely succeed if I didn’t intervene...and as much as I loathe to admit it, my brother as well-”

“Mycroft? Mycroft knew?” John throws his hands in the air. Of course he did. Bastard.

Sherlock gives him a trademark look, begrudgingly – and with clenched teeth – John sighs and motions for him to continue.

“Yes. I despise giving him any credit, but I wouldn’t have been able to accomplish this without his or Molly Hooper’s assistance-”

“What?!” John screams. Molly...she knew? “You told Molly Hooper?” He doesn’t say ‘you trusted Molly Hooper but not me’; the unspoken words are loud enough on their own. John is somewhat surprised to find that he isn’t even all that angry with Molly, she would’ve done anything Sherlock asked her too...having feelings for Sherlock Holmes never ended well.

Sherlock looks almost pained for a moment.

“I needed her assistance with my-”

“Shut it...just-” John wants to punch him, but...sigh. “continue.”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate.

“I predicted long before it happened that Moriarty would organize my downfall. My brother and I concocted a plan so that when it did happen it would happen on our terms, giving us the advantage, and an opportunity to rid the world of Moriarty once and for all. Mycroft and I knew when Moriarty practically allowed himself to be captured that it was time, so he deliberately let slip details of my personal life-” That...he did that on purpose? John was so angry with Mycroft for it and it was...all planned? God... “-to him and we waited. When the time came, we prepared for every eventuality. I deduced that Moriarty would likely lure me to the rooftop of St Bart’s, a rather dramatic way to complete his story. I...I knew you wouldn’t likely leave my side, so I gave you a plausible reason to leave me at the hospital-” John feels as though his stomach has been wrenched from his body, that conversation has haunted him all these years, he called his best friend a machine only to see him jump to his death barely an hour later and he couldn’t...couldn’t... “-and when I-”

“I don’t give a rat’s arse how you managed to pull all that off, just...tell me why.” Tell me why you didn’t trust me; tell me why I “had to” believe you were dead.

John’s frustration is growing, partially with the effort of trying to keep his strong waves of emotion at bay. Sherlock blinks a few times, hesitates, and then sighs deeply. He straightens up into a perfectly straight posture; steeling himself.

“Moriarty was never going to stop. He had to be destroyed. I faked my death so that members of his web wouldn’t come after me and I could have the chance to dismantle it inch by inch, country by country, severing off its heads so that the hydra couldn’t grow back. This has taken me approximately two years.” John knows that isn’t the end of it. He continues to eye Sherlock, all the information he has already told him slowly sinking in. John waits for him to continue and give him the reason he’s really looking for. “I...”

Now Sherlock turns away towards the fire, a look of deep concentration on his face. John looks at him with a steady gaze but says nothing.

“I couldn’t tell you because it was of the utmost importance that as few people knew as possible, Mycroft and Molly were necessary, you knowing wasn’t. I couldn’t allow anything to risk this succeeding and I wasn’t convinced you would be able to pretend I was dead while knowing I was alive. Taking you with me wasn’t an option. Your sudden disappearance could’ve jeopardized the whole operation immediately. You had to believe my death was real. It was the only way.” Sherlock’s breath hitches as if to speak further, but he closes his mouth and looks John in the eye.

John is speechless. He wasn’t expecting...that. How can that have possibly been the “only” way? John refuses to believe that. Moriarty was evil; he understands the necessity of getting rid of him absolutely. John can even understand why Sherlock faking his death would make the most sense, and even though he would’ve gone with Sherlock (in a heartbeat) he can also understand Sherlock’s reasoning for him not being able to go with him. What he doesn’t understand is why it was “necessary” for John to truly believe he was dead. Did Sherlock just not trust him enough? After everything they’d been through? John knows he’s proven himself over and over again, and he was a bloody soldier! It’s not as though he hasn’t been a part of secret operations before, during his time in the army.

It seems Sherlock had no qualms about using John to make sure he would succeed; a pawn, helpful, but ultimately not worth much. It is cold logic, heartless, efficient, and John shouldn’t have expected anything different.

Sherlock’s eyes seem to widen in shock.

“John, you’re an idiot. Whatever you’re thinking, stop it.”

Bloody mind-reader.

John is just tired now; drained and worn out of from...all of this, the pain both inside and out, the grief that in the end was a waste of his time, the deception, feeling more useless than he has in a long time, the self-pity, the goddamn wings (and isn’t that another can of worms that will require his attention) and Sherlock Holmes...feck it. John Watson just wants to sleep for the next million years and recharge.

John doesn’t say anything, just stares at Sherlock for a few more seconds, his face expressionless. Sherlock actually looks concerned, but John doesn’t really notice it. Instead, he turns around, completely bypassing Sherlock and walks towards the stairs; noticing as he moves that his wings have sagged dejectedly and that the heartbeat he still hears is roaring faster.

Before he even reaches the archway leading out towards the stairs, he hears that cavernous voice call out from behind him.

“John!”

He stops, and turns around, fighting to have just enough energy to keep his stoic composure.

Sherlock is moving much closer to him, keeping one hand clutching his towel closer to his waist and the other twitching as if fighting an urge to reach out. John acknowledges that Sherlock paints an intriguing sight; mostly naked, silhouetted by the glowing firelight, wings twitching and reflecting that light, dark curls just beginning to dry and resting against those too high cheekbones that have always suited his ex-flatmate (although, John notes inwardly, this is technically his house isn’t it?).

John feels like a fool.

Can he ever forgive Sherlock Holmes? There is no way he can answer that question just yet, he has barely begun recovering from the barrage of Sherlock and the information he trailed in through his wake. John does know that he needs some space, desperate, and so he doesn’t say anything as he waits for Sherlock to explain why he called out to him.

“I do still need your help.”

John blinks slowly. Is it too late to punch him?

He doesn’t answer, instead he turns back around and resumes his course for the loo and a much needed refresher shower. He is mounting the stairs when he hears Sherlock again.

“John!” Sherlock shouts, significantly more urgent and just a tad worried. “I would not ask if it wasn’t important.”

Against his better judgement, he pauses, but doesn’t turn around.

“I’m going to take a shower Sherlock, tell me about whatever it is after I’m done.” He struggles to keep his tone emotionless and professional, but that’s always been Sherlock’s area of expertise. He doesn’t automatically say he’ll help or that he’ll think about it, those are two things he cannot promise, and John is feeling more than a little bit ticked because he just knows that is what Sherlock expects him to do.

John badly needs a moment to himself to reflect on everything that’s happened in the past few hours. His brain is turning to mud and his body is becoming increasingly heavy, whether that’s from all the emotion of what’s happened or the stress his body is going under with the forming of his new limbs (god, if he wasn’t so drained he’d laugh at the cruelly bizarre turn of events)...he doesn’t know, probably both.

“Alright.”

John swears he can feel Sherlock nodding, obviously showing some common sense for once in his life. Honestly, he expected him to push, but he ends up surprising John instead. John shakes his head of it and resumes his trek up the stairs and enters the loo adjoining his bedroom.

He doesn’t notice Sherlock standing unmoving at the bottom of the rickety staircase, lost in thought, wandering his mind palace with nanosecond speed searching for answers to so many questions he’s being bombarded with, analyzing the new and mostly unexpected developments. Knowing he made a mistake sometime somewhere, knowing he missed something and cursing himself for it, because it has only put John Watson in danger yet again...even so, Sherlock cannot fight another enemy without John again, he won’t, and he curses himself for that weakness too.

Sherlock feels himself torn between wanting to caress his wings, so perfectly glistening with the colour of John’s eyes, and wanting to rip them from his back and let the blood pour. He doesn’t want them, has never wanted them, and yet...sigh, so many questions, so many things to do, so little time...and there is one question echoing in his head, along with the oddly reassuring beat of John Watson’s heart, more than any other...Has everything been for naught? Have I saved John Watson only to lose him anyway?

 Chapter 4



The car ride into the small village isn’t long. It is however incredibly awkward and uncomfortable. Sherlock gave a bare bones explanation to Greg, leaving out the exact details of his and John’s reunion, telling him only why he faked his death and why he is here now. Hearing it again...John has a feeling that Sherlock isn’t being entirely honest, which wouldn’t be a first really. John resolves to confront him later about whatever it is he’s hiding.

The feeling that he is being kept in the dark about something makes him feel sick. John wants to get angry again, but since his initial blow out has passed, whenever he looks at the man he’s been missing these past years something stops him from blowing up again. Whether that’s the sight of the wings (and the mixed emotions that gives him) or something else, he isn’t entirely sure.

Who knows when that will change though?

They only got in the car after Greg heard it all, or as Sherlock put it only what was necessary to hear; filling him in on the murdered man. After that, with Sherlock in the back and John and Greg in the front, the drive was silent. The latter two shared multiple silent glances, seeming to speak without words.

How are you?

Fine.

You’re lying.What’s going on with you two?

No bloody clue.

Think you can forgive him?

Can you?

Eventually, maybe.

He’s never going to say sorry. I doubt he’d even care enough to.

Do you really believe that?

I don’t know what to believe anymore.

Sherlock doesn’t say a word, elbow resting against the window; gazing out the glass with fire in his stare the entire drive.

The ride is pretty much like that until they arrive at the local police station, mortuary and resident coroner.

They pile out of the car, Sherlock exiting far more quickly than the other two men, and stride towards the entrance.

There are only a few cars in the lot, the one closest to the station is black with tinted windows, John assumes it belongs to the man standing directly adjacent to the entrance; wearing a long dark grey coat, standing abnormally straight, and wearing an obvious ear piece.

“Very conspicuous.” John notes dryly.

Greg, who is walking along side him, snorts.

“Any idea what’s going on here?” Greg asks.

“No more than you mate.” He really doesn’t. The presence of what looks like an intelligence agent of some sort is a surprise, suggesting this is more serious than Sherlock is letting on...and that just makes John feel all the more frustrated.

In front of them, instead of heading towards the door, Sherlock changes direction and walks with an angry pace over to the man standing beside it.

They are too far away to hear anything concrete, but Sherlock is clearly giving this man a beat down.

Why – Ah, of course.

“Mycroft.” Must be one of his agents.

John has never particularly warmed to him, and his involvement two years ago really put him on John’s blacklist. Even though he knows now that he apparently didn’t actually sell out his brother, he still knew that Sherlock was alive for whatever reason and for some inexplicable reason lied about Sherlock leaving John the cottage...those are just a few examples on why John doesn’t trust him. If this case is really somehow linked to Sherlock’s return, even though he has yet to see any indication of that, John isn’t surprised the bastard is already involved.

“Of course.” Greg grunts. “Always an infuriating tosser.” He adds.

John laughs and smiles for a moment.

“Must be genetic.”

Greg chuckles in response while the both of them wait for Sherlock to be finished.

For a moment, John feels light. This, this is familiar...joking along the sidelines with Greg while watching Sherlock perform his speedy deductions at crime scenes. The current scene is so similar that John finds himself smiling once more.

All he has to do though is notice the detective’s wings and his smile to falls when he remembers that it is not similar at all.

John strides forward, leaving the moment behind (he hears Greg follow), and walks up to Sherlock.

“-fault, this isn’t necessary nor do I need my dear brother’s help any longer, I never want to see him or any of his useless minions ever again!”

John had planned on intervening, the sheer fury in Sherlock’s voice brings him up short. He’s never truly liked his brother per se, but in general when they interacted it gave more the sense of an unresolved sibling rivalry issue coming forth rather than genuine dislike or hatred. Now though, if someone told him that Sherlock Holmes hates his brother he would believe him.

He is fuming, wings (though still small and growing) spread angrily out of his body, eyes a threatening gleam, hands clenched tightly to his sides.

Sherlock Holmes angry has always been an intimidating sight for most people.

The other man is watching Sherlock with a surprisingly calm demeanor, but even he seems somewhat wary of possibly getting his nose broken.

“What’s going on?” John finally interrupts, both to prevent said nose breaking possibility and to move along with what Sherlock wanted to do in the first place.

Sherlock doesn’t alter his threatening stance. The other man however glances at John briefly before looking back at Sherlock.

“As I said before, I have been instructed to remain here unless otherwise ordered by my superior, and that isn’t you Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock growls. John instinctively reaches out and grabs Sherlock’s fist, not really sure why he does it. He could say it’s to prevent Sherlock from punching the man, even though at his most angry straight up punching has never been Sherlock’s style. That is more John’s forte.

The detective breaks his death glare from the agent for the first time since arriving and turns to face John; eyes widened in shock. Neither of them moves their hands away.

“I don’t know what’s going on here, but he did come here for a reason yeah? I doubt verbally berating this man is going to help.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches briefly, he looks to the agent and back to John, debating with himself. With an angry huff he practically tears his fist away from John and grabs him by the elbow, pushing the door open with his other hand and nearly dragging the staggering doctor into the building.

John is shocked enough not to do anything until they’re already inside.

“Whoa – whoa! Hey! What the hell are you doing?”

“Getting you away from him.” Sherlock tightens his grip.

“Sherlock stop!” John yells and yanks his arm away. “I am perfectly capable of walking through a bloody door on my own!”

Sherlock’s hand flails a bit uselessly with the suddenness of John’s departure. John narrows his eyes at Sherlock as the man stalks forward into his personal space.

“I do not trust him or anything even connected with my godforsaken brother. I will protect you.” Sherlock speaks in an even, dangerous tone.

What the hell? John is suddenly livid. Protect him? Protect him?! If he hadn’t...

“He is just a man doing his job for feck’s sake! I do not need or want your protection Sherlock Holmes, as far as I’m concerned I’m only here now because a murderer needs to be caught, having to deal with you again is an unfortunate side effect.” It is malicious, and John knows as soon as the words leave his mouth that only a fraction of his anger is justified, the rest is fueled by the hurt he doubts will ever really go away.

If John weren’t staring at him, he doubts he would’ve seen Sherlock visibly flinch at his words. He does though, and instantly feels a rush of guilt. It doesn’t help that he swears he hears, feels, Sherlock’s heartbeat speed up with anxiety. A part of him is sickly glad to see his words even made an impact...which doesn’t help the guilt. And why should he feel guilty after what Sherlock did?

Sherlock’s wings recoil nearly out of John’s line of sight, but he doesn’t move; though his face has donned an expressionless mask.

John is still breathing heavily, he expects Sherlock to fight him on that and argue with him further, and he’s prepared for it-

But then, Sherlock releases a long breath and straightens up.

“No matter our situation, if you do not wish to see me again after all this has been dealt with, I will understand.” Sherlock isn’t looking at John as he says this, eyes fixated at a point beyond him. His tone of voice is flat and unreadable.

John is surprised at the flare of panic he feels and he senses his wings reflect that. No, no you don’t want to lose him again. But what he did is unforgivable! How could he do it? If he cared at all how...all that doesn’t mean you want to lose him again.

feck. He doesn’t even know what to say.

“Sherlock...” John hesitates.

The man in question doesn’t appear to be listening, as soon as John starts to speak he brushes past him – careful to avoid his wings – and disappears somewhere to his right.

John is rooted to the spot, going over and over the past exchange in his head, trying to make sense of it. It is then that he remembers that he is inside the police station, and that there are people around, in the lobby and behind the desk. All of them frozen and watching him curiously (three of the people have wings John notices). That’s not even counting Greg who is waiting at the door Sherlock must’ve disappeared through, looking at John with sympathy.

For some reason, John fancies he hears Mrs. Hudson’s voice right then ‘having a bit of a domestic?’

Damn it.

Ignoring the stares, John turns around with faintly angry footsteps and heads in Greg’s direction; the latter is holding the door open for him.

“Are you ok?” Greg asks softly as John reaches the door.

“I’m positively chipper.” John puts on a smile.

Greg knows he’s lying, of course he does. He doesn’t say anything though and lets the door swing shut as John walks down the long hallway connecting the main lobby of the police station with the mortuary. In the year he’s lived here, he’s never had reason to be here before, but it is small and not that hard to navigate.


Greg Lestrade follows, feeling worried for his soul mates and friends. No matter what the bastard did (and boy is he mad about it, though he understands the reasons he gave), he hopes Sherlock and John can reconcile. He’s known both men together and apart, the two of them are vastly better in so many ways when they’re a team. It would be a tragedy if John takes Sherlock up on his offer.

With a heavy sigh, he speeds up his steps to catch up with the Detective and his ex-blogger.


***


The coroner, Dr. Marcus James, isn’t there when they enter the room. His assistant, a young woman named Julia Freemont, is the one that leads them to the table housing the body in an adjoining room. Clearly they were expected. Whether that is further evidence of Mycroft’s interference or Sherlock himself called is up for debate.

There is only one occupied table. The four of them walk up to it and the assistant pulls back the white cloth, exposing the entire body. Sherlock is immediately enraptured by the corpse, his eyes attuned to the smallest details and focused so intently that everything else fades away. It has always been a sight that John found fascinating. With the current circumstances, and what happened earlier, John is finding this whole experience very surreal to say the least.

“Dr. James should be along shortly.” The assistant gives them all a thorough once over, lingering a few seconds longer on Sherlock John notices with a clenched jaw (why does that bother him?), before leaving them alone in the room.

Greg eyes her curiously as Sherlock and John examine the body in their own way.

“They’re very accommodating here.” Greg notes with some surprise. “Mycroft’s doing do you think?”

John has noticed that too, no one has asked questions and no one has yet to look surprised at their presence (aside from the rather public spat Sherlock and he had).

“No.” Sherlock mutters, hovering over the victim’s right wrist.

From what John can see, there are deep bruise marks around the wrists of the victim’s hands, ankles and an even wider one around his neck, they appear to be perimortem. There is also a bullet wound between the eyes, likely to be the cause of death. Other than that, and the two soul marks he can see, John can’t see any other oddities.

“No?” John responds though Greg is the one who asked the question. With the presence of the agent out front and how easy it was for them to gain access, John assumed it was Mycroft’s doing. Or is Sherlock just being stubborn?

Greg looks confused too and moves closer to Sherlock and subsequently the body.

“No.” Sherlock repeats, clearly distracted and not intending to offer up further explanation.

John sighs, not wanting a potential confrontation like earlier to happen (right now at least) when they should be focusing on the victim in front them, a man Sherlock apparently knew.

There will be plenty more opportunities for confrontations with Sherlock later. John is sure of that.

Greg is leaning against the wall, watching Sherlock move elegantly around the body; inspecting everything from the victim’s fingernails (after having donned a pair of latex gloves from nearby), the roots of his hair to the clean bullet wound in the center of his forehead.

It is as Sherlock is opening the victim’s mouth and looking inside that the door behind the three men flies open.

“Sherlock Holmes!”

John jumps a little in surprise at a very loud, very exuberant voice (as does Greg) and turns around. The man is obviously the coroner, dressed in a long white coat and significantly shorter than John, bald save for faint wisps of hair around the sides and back of his head, this is offset by a thick full beard nearly pure white with only speckles of grey, thick black rimmed glasses cover golden eyes. The resemblance to Santa Claus is uncanny enough to be scary, jelly belly and all.

Sherlock straightens up from his awkward crouch. He doesn’t look at all surprised by Dr. James’ entrance. There is a faint twitch of a smile in the corner of his mouth, so small John is sure he must have imagined it.

“I’m Dr. James.” The man reaches out to shake John’s hand.

“Uh, Dr John Watson.” He replies automatically.

“Ah, I see! You must be the part time GP they hired a while back, very good, very good.” Dr James replies with an amused smile, causing John to feel a bit confused. “So you must be Greg Lestrade!” He turns his smile on Greg and also offers him a handshake.

“I am indeed.” Greg shakes his hand, also looking a bit bewildered.

“Pleasure to meet you both! Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

John frowns and backs away quickly when the doctor nearly pushes him out of the way in his haste to get to Sherlock. For a second John assumes that James is about to tell Sherlock off for being in his morgue, it wouldn’t be the first time (Molly did have her days, no matter how much leeway she gave them), but John’s jaw promptly drops to the floor when the little man throws his arms around Sherlock’s waist and Sherlock only hesitates a second before embracing the man back.

Seriously, what the hell?

Still shocked, John glances at Greg, the man looks just as surprised.

They know each other? Greg mouths.

John turns his attention back to the anomaly of the very tall Sherlock Holmes being embraced by a man nearly half his size and actually returning the sentiment.

Sherlock Holmes hugging someone and not even looking uncomfortable while doing so. This can’t be real.

Dr James appears to whisper something that causes a look John has rarely seen before to cross Sherlock’s face before being hidden behind a blank mask; pain.

James then seems to squeeze Sherlock very tightly – causing Sherlock to wince – before letting go and backing away.

“I can’t believe it’s been over twenty years! It really is good to see you laddie!” Dr. James speaks with a very recognizable Scottish accent. “When you jumped off that rooftop-” It is now Johns turn to wince, and clench his jaw at the mention. “-you bloody well scared me to death! Thank god Mr and Mrs. Holmes told me you were alive-” Wait what? “-never do that again you hear me?”

Suddenly John is tense everywhere and his vision is clouded with a red haze, his entire body seems to clench. Who the feck is this guy? Why the feck did he know Sherlock was alive? Apparently everyone in England including the bloody Queen knew the bastard wasn’t really dead!

He knows the conversation has continued in front of him but he hasn’t heard any of it. John’s eyes are closed, and he’s breathing deeply in an attempt to control himself. The sensation of a hand touching his shoulder causes him to open his eyes.

The first thing he notices is that everyone has stopped talking and is looking at him, Greg is standing beside him (it is his hand that’s on his shoulder) with an expression of deep sympathy, the coroner even looks concerned and Sherlock...Sherlock is watching him like he knows, knows exactly what happened, of course he knows. He looks...so...so goddamn sorry and uncertain that John wants to go over there and throttle him.

John is just watching him. Trying to comprehend what is going through that brain, a pointless exercise he knows. There is no use trying to figure out why a man Sherlock apparently hasn’t seen in over twenty years knew he was alive but not John.

With a quick movement he throws off Greg’s hand and walks towards Sherlock. Dr James adjusts his glances and sidesteps out of the way and heads towards a cluttered counter a few feet away.


Sherlock is watching John carefully as he approaches, preparing himself for a punch. If it comes, he won’t move out of the way.


John stops in front of Sherlock, not saying a word.

“Dr. James is a friend of the family, in recent years he has especially become close with my parents. Mycroft told mother and father I was alive. They told him about my true status, not me.” Sherlock tells John, keeping his gaze focused on him.

John narrows his eyes.

“Who else?” John’s tone is dangerous, daring Sherlock to lie.

“John, there is no time for this now, we must continue-”

“Who. Else. Knew.” John repeats, low and threatening. His wings flare out, an ache coursing through them as he stares Sherlock down.

Sherlock sighs deeply.

“Twenty five members of my homeless network and Mycroft’s top MI6 operatives.” A pause. “That’s all.” Sherlock adds in an attempt to be reassuring. It doesn’t work.

“So just your brother, Molly Hooper, your parents, the coroner over there, at least a quarter of your homeless network and who knows how many of Mycroft’s people. Fantastic.” John, still breathing heavily, finally looks away with his eyes closed.

“Fifteen.”

John looks back up at Sherlock.

“Mycroft’s people, there were fifteen.”


Sherlock doesn’t know why he said that, and he is barely finished speaking before John begins to throw a punch.


His fist is a hairs length from colliding with Sherlock’s face when John suddenly stops.

Sherlock hasn’t moved.

He doesn’t know why that caused him to stop from punching the sod when he deserves it, but it does. John is still so, so angry. Sherlock watched as John formed a fist and threw his arm back, gaining power to throw into the punch only a trained soldier would be capable of. John knows Sherlock observed everything. Yet, Sherlock didn’t move, either to move away or to grab John. He knew John was going to punch him and he just stood there as if waiting for it...willing to take whatever John gave him. The thought reminds John of the scars that he caught a look at earlier. He feels another type of anger to join in to party with the first.

John suddenly feels a cool, silky presence on his still raised fist. Feathers are touching John lightly; stroking him...a calm feeling hums through his body, trying to sooth the fire of his anger. Sherlock...Sherlock’s wings are touching him. The man doesn’t appear to know he’s doing it, his eyes watching Johns own. When he sees John looking at his own hand in shock Sherlock tilts his head and does the same.

Sherlock stiffens, as do his wings, and he recoils them in horror.

“I...didn’t mean to do that.” Sherlock mutters, sounding frustrated.

John sighs in defeat and lets his fist fall. That was...John doesn’t even know. He rests a palm on his face.

“Sorry.” The word is spoken very quietly, and surprisingly calm. John lifts his gaze to Sherlock. For a second John thinks he’s apologizing – and isn’t that a shocker – for the wing incident, but then he continues. “I can’t, won’t apologize for what I did, if nothing else believe me when I say it was necessary. It didn’t occur to me you would be so affected by my death. For that, I feel...regret.” And amazement, but Sherlock doesn’t say that out loud. “And I’m...sorry.” Sherlock feels like a child learning to walk in this conversation. He hates the feeling. But he needs John focused, so much could go wrong if he isn’t at his best. Sherlock needs him at his best, so he can’t risk potentially making John even angrier with a lengthy, fake apology that Sherlock has often done during his life when required. John may be an idiot, along with everyone else, but he is also smarter than everyone else and he would see through that. It has to be genuine, and it is.

Being back here, and this case...has Sherlock more an edge than he’s felt in a long time, another feeling he hates, and desperate for John’s forgiveness. He will only admit it to the darkest most hidden corners of his mind palace, but he needs John’s forgiveness and it pains him to know that it is unlikely he’ll ever get it.


“Sorry...you’re sorry.” John mumbles to himself, no longer looking at Sherlock.

He doesn’t want to think about it, not about that fact that a sorry, even from Sherlock Holmes will never be a suitable balm for all that has happened. He doesn’t want to think about the many more questions John intends to ask or the fact that in less than a day Sherlock Holmes has once again changed his life in both the worst and best way possible.

Sherlock must’ve heard John, but he doesn’t say anything.

“Shall we continue then?”

It is not a request, not really. Sherlock is only humoring him, but John can’t deny that in his state he does appreciate it none-the-less.

John doesn’t say anything; Sherlock just straightens up and gives a sharp nod.

John thinks he feels the lightest touch of a hand brushing his arm as Sherlock walks away from him and over to the coroner, whom is very obviously looking away from them in an attempt at giving them privacy.

He hears the door open behind him and Greg enters. Odd, he didn’t even notice him leaving. Then again, he was pretty distracted. The DI walks right up to John, holding two steaming cups of to-go coffee.

“There was machine in the lobby, figured you and I would both need this after the two of you were finished.” Greg comments as he hands John one of the cups.

He’s always been more of a tea man, but he will on occasion drink coffee and right now...right now coffee smells like heaven. He takes the cup gladly and sips the hot liquid.

“Ta.”

“No problem.”

Greg doesn’t ask if he’s alright, or what all that was about. He doesn’t need to.

“So, do you think the two of you will be able to get through this day alive?” He asks instead.

John actually laughs a bit.

“I have no idea.” He tips his cup to Greg before taking another sip.

“Oh you might, could get lucky.”

“Is it possible to be lucky and be in hell at the same time?” John counters.

Greg shrugs.

“I’ve recently decided that anything is possible.” Greg says, taking a sip of his own coffee.

John sighs, then looks at Sherlock; currently looking attentively at pieces of paper on a clipboard while Dr. James watches.

“We’ll see.” John eventually says.


***


The clatter of the clipboard hitting the empty metal table beside the body clues John in to Sherlock’s and the coroner’s presence by his side once more.

And just like that, it is back to the case. All other worries in John’s mind taking a back seat for the time being. John takes both his and Greg’s empty to-go cups and places them in the trash can not far away.

“A surprisingly thorough job on the autopsy Dr James, certainly compared to others you are most competent.” Sherlock says with a nod in the aforementioned man’s direction.

“Coming from you I’ll choose to take that as compliment.” Dr James appears amused.

“Sorry, I have to ask, how do you two-” John begins to ask.

“It is irrelevant.” Sherlock interrupts, clearly anxious to continue.

“Sherlock had a troubled youth, his parents sent him to live out here with his grandmother for much of his teen years since the young lad enjoyed it so much when he was a boy. I had lived here for many years even then, and I was close with Genie-”

“Marcus!” Sherlock hisses, suddenly angry.

“Who’s Genie?” Greg asks just as John was about to.

Dr. James looks surprised and turns to look at Sherlock.

“You’ve never told them? Not even Dr Watson here? He is your-”

“Enough!” Sherlock roars. Everyone shuts up quickly. “Now is not the time. If I have to endure anymore interruptions or listen to this pointless babbling the case will suffer, and I need to solve it.”

Sherlock is practically vibrating with the energy of his words, darting fierce eyes between the three of them.

Who’s Genie? And why is Sherlock hell-bent on this case and yet for the first time that John knows of, is showing none of his usual tells of getting a high from solving a murder? Is it because he knows the man? But in what way? It must have to do with his pseudo exile, how though? With the emphasis Sherlock put on need...John is more bewildered than ever.

Greg puts his hands up in surrender. Dr James abruptly closes his mouth, looks frustrated for a moment but concedes with a nod. John, not entirely sure why he does it, decides to throw Sherlock a bone.

“Well, what do we have so far?” John asks.

Sherlock looks momentarily surprised. He holds John’s gaze for a few seconds before nodding gratefully.

“His name is Jeffery Coffer. He was a member of my homeless network. Twenty two years old.” Sherlock states matter-of-factly, though John doesn’t miss the stiffness in his shoulders and the twitching in his wings.

There’s the connection.

“I’m sorry Sherlock.” John says, entirely genuine.

Sherlock ignores him.

“He’s been dead less then forty eight hours, bound by leather straps on his wrists and neck, and chains on his feet-” Sherlock points to the mentioned body parts while he speaks, his voice already beginning to speed up like it does when he’s about to begin a long diatribe of deducing. “-likely wrapped around them multiple times and attached to a single longer chain, probably attached to a ring or heavy weight in the middle of a floor. The bruising pattern and abrasions suggest he tried to pull against them for hours at a time. He wore a device that connected his wrists and neck together, because of that he wasn’t able to move them hardly at all, the bruising is weaker there. His front teeth are broken and there are multiple cracks on many of the others. Something long, wide, hard and irregularly shaped was stuffed through his mouth and down his throat; far enough to prevent him from crying out, not far enough to allow for suffocation. He would’ve been in considerable pain, and for a long time. The bruising pattern on his tongue and roof of his mouth suggests it was a gun-”

“A gun?! Bloody hell.” Greg exclaims, wiping a hand down his horrified face.

John doesn’t say anything; maintaining a steady facade, though he is equally horrified. Much of what Sherlock described is similar to a lot of what he saw during his time in war, he wonders if there’s a connection with it somehow.

Sherlock gives Greg an irritated look, clearly annoyed at the interruption, he continues without comment however.

“Yes, a gun. I deduce it was probably the barrel end of a sniper rifle-” Sherlock’s fist clenches and he looks up at John, breaking his gaze from the body, when he mentions the gun being a sniper rifle. “-military issue. I doubt the murderer themselves was in the military, merely had access to or knew someone who was, although they would’ve had to have at least minor skill in marksmanship. He was held captive for seven days before being killed. The bullet that killed Coffer was fired by the same gun that was shoved into his mouth, while he was still bound and unable to move.”

John frowns.

“Why would the murderer bother using a military issue sniper rifle to kill a bound man? He was immobile, and if all they wanted to do was kill him a hand gun would’ve been much simpler. Using that kind of gun to kill him...I don’t know, just seems odd to me. They must’ve had another reason for it.” John posits, crossing his arms.

Sherlock grins briefly.

“An excellent point John, and one the police and medical personnel here didn’t even notice-”

“Oi!” Dr James exclaims.

“-and one even Lestrade here could’ve pointed out even with his force of trained monkeys.”

“Gee thanks.” Greg gives Sherlock a look and rolls his eyes.

John turns his head to the side so no one can see the smile threatening to break out on his face. He feels a bit pathetic, and it is not a situation to be smiling about, but getting genuine praise from Sherlock feels...good, perhaps because it was always seldom given. Definitely pathetic.

Sherlock continues.

“The type of gun used is heavily involved in the motivation of this crime. The fact that the body was placed quite clearly on display is meant to convey a message. This won’t be the last murder this person commits, there will be two more and they have already been kidnapped and are likely being held where Coffer was. It could be anywhere within a two to four hours driving distance. I’ll need to look at the evidence and his clothing to get a more accurate read on where he was kept and killed. Dr James, could you get me-”

“Whoa whoa whoa! You said the gun was heavily involved in the motivation for this crime...” Greg halts Sherlock.

Sherlock looks at him like he’s being slow.

“Yes...?”

“You sound like you know what the motivation is.”

Sherlock visibly stiffens, though his face gives nothing away.

“I know nothing for certain, but with what I know so far it is the usual. Revenge. Love. Nothing unique.” He shrugs, attempting to appear nonchalant.

Greg doesn’t look like he completely believes him. John doesn’t either. His gut is telling him Sherlock is lying...again.

“You said all this is involved with your return, how?” John asks.

“Merely my return here, I didn’t allude to anything more than that.” Sherlock is adamant, leaning down once more to hover over the body, his gaze fixated on a point on the victim’s neck.

Greg and John share a look. Dr James is watching Sherlock with a curious expression.

Sherlock’s response, while logical, doesn’t feel right.

“Sherlock, what’s going on?” John asks, trying not to sound as frustrated as he feels.

Sherlock doesn’t answer him. The movement in his wings though has changed, like they’re trying to hide from John’s gaze. If John looks closely...they look like they’re quivering. Why?

“Dr James, assist me.” The older man and Sherlock carefully twist Coffer so his torso is resting on his side and his back is facing the two of them.

Sherlock freezes, and reaches out with a long latex covered finger, lightly touching something on the victim’s back.

Both Greg and John move around to see what he’s looking at.

There, carved very deeply across the upper back of Jeffery Coffer are a series of letters:


YKMIWKY


“I saw those when I was doing the autopsy, no idea what they mean.” Dr James comments. “It was done post-mortem.”

“Nothing I recognize either.” Greg says, leaning down slightly to take a closer look.

John looks away from the letters and up at Sherlock, who still hadn’t moved upon seeing the letters. He looks...in a word, petrified. The fact that John can see it and Sherlock hasn’t masked it yet, is in some ways more worrying than the fear itself.

John moves a bit closer to him.

“Sherlock? Are you ok?” John asks, quietly so no one else can hear.

Sherlock’s focus remains glued to the letters on the victim’s back.

“No.” The word comes out in a hush, if John weren’t paying attention he doubts he would’ve heard it. He is surprised by the honest answer.

John looks at Greg and then at Dr James. He catches Sherlock’s attention by pulling him a bit by his coat sleeve. Sherlock looks at him with confusion before noticing John wants to pull him away to talk more privately.

Sherlock concedes and follows John with caution to a far corner of the room.

John stops walking and turns to face Sherlock.

“Will you tell me what’s going on? I’m not an idiot, you clearly know more than you’re telling us. I haven’t seen you like this before.” John urges.

“A lot can change in two years.” Sherlock says, sounding almost sad for a moment before regaining his normal professional baritone.

John’s expression darkens slightly.

“I’ve seen you scared before Sherlock, remember?” John points out, the both of them flashing back to Baskerville. “I know what you look like scared.”

“So you’re saying I look scared? Don’t be daft.” Sherlock scoffs.

“Sherlock...”

“I really don’t see why it would matter to you anyway.”

“What?”

“I am not conceding your point, merely wondering why my state of being matters to you when you clearly hold very little regard for me at present. You said yourself dealing with me was ‘an unfortunate side-effect’ in comparison to this case. If anything, you should be more concerned about the fact that there is a serial killer out there who needs to be caught.” Sherlock says this all with a shuttered gaze and no emotion in his voice; the ultimate poker face.

John growls.

“I didn’t mean that.” He insists. Not in the way he’s implying anyway.

“Yes you did.” Sherlock argues.

“No, I didn’t. Not like that...” John says, suddenly feeling on edge and very uncomfortable.

Sherlock looks doubtful, leaning slightly forwards.

“And how, pray tell, did you mean it then?” Sherlock asks.

John’s jaw flaps for a moment before closing completely. What did I mean? I meant it, at the time I certainly did, but...John groans, getting frustrated.

“Sherlock, back to my original point. You said you weren’t ok, and you won’t tell me why?”

“That is correct.” Sherlock accepts the obvious deviation in topic.

“And you won’t tell me what it is you’re hiding? Don’t say you aren’t, this is one time when I know I’m right.” John adds the last sentence when Sherlock looked like he was about to protest. Sherlock doesn’t say anything, watching John with a studious gaze. “I don’t get it, you say you need my help, but you won’t tell me what’s going on? How can I help if you know something I don’t?”

“I always know something you don’t.” Sherlock says simply, with a minor shrug very characteristic of the detective.

“Do you want to be punched? Is that what this is about?” John asks, getting annoyed.

“Maybe.” Sherlock smirks.

“You’re a bastard.”

“Now that I’ll concede to.” Sherlock is smiling now.

John tries not to, biting his lips, but he fails and finds himself smiling also. Sherlock looks relieved.

It is oddly reminiscent of their old banter; it is both a reassuring and painful balm to the wound Sherlock gave him. John knows what Sherlock is doing, deviating from answering John’s question. The thought makes him feel both frustrated and angry, after everything Sherlock is still lying, but...maybe it is because of their new bond, but something is instinctively telling John that Sherlock isn’t lying to him because he doesn’t trust him; which if John is going to be honest, is what he’s afraid of here. John, at the moment, ironically doesn’t trust that instinct. He still harbors resentment (more than resentment) that so many people knew about his and he didn’t. And there’s another thing that John doesn’t get. Sherlock’s told him why he did what he did, but he hasn’t given John an answer as to why he left him completely out of it that has John in anyway satisfied. Maybe he’ll never get the answer he wants, maybe it doesn’t exist.

It is a depressing line of thought. And the moment of fond normality that Sherlock and John shared is gone in a blink.

Sherlock seems to notice and watches John’s thought pattern on his face, his smile falling along with Johns and his eyes barring any light that had been shining through them before...a look akin to misery passes over his face.

John looks away from Sherlock, closes his eyes for a second and takes a deep breath. Still not looking at Sherlock, he walks around him and back towards Greg and Dr James.

He doesn’t get very far before he hears Sherlock speak.

“You seem to have this idea that I didn’t, or don’t, trust you. That you don’t...matter to me.”

John stops moving, clenching his fists.

“Can you blame me?” John says without turning around.

There is a pause.

“No.” Sherlock admits. “Nevertheless, I have often found that when someone forms an opinion, particularly an idiotic one, it is impossible to convince them otherwise.” Sherlock is speaking so quietly it is hard to make out his tone.

John rolls his eyes, still not facing him.

“Your point?”

John hears footsteps from behind him. Sherlock comes into his line of vision and fixes him with a steadfast gaze.

“I should think my point is obvious.”

“That I’m an idiot?” John isn’t sure whether to be annoyed or not.

“Precisely.” Sherlock says, seeming almost proud.

With that, he turns around and strides toward the other two men in the room still hovering around the body; picking up the autopsy report as he goes.

Sherlock may be an intellectual, logical, a scientist and genius of reasoning, but when it comes to emotions and other aspects of human behaviour, Johns a bloody master compared to him. Now though, he feels lost. Was that Sherlock’s roundabout way of saying John matters to him? Maybe, John isn’t entirely convinced, and right now trying to analyze the feelings of Sherlock Holmes is giving him a headache. Sherlock has never expressed himself in the traditional way, that’s one thing that hasn’t changed at least...a fact he finds almost comforting. God he’s fucked up.

 Chapter 6



It is nearly 4:00am according to John’s clock. Greg went to sleep hours ago, if the loud snoring across the hall is any indication. If John really listens, he can hear the faint sounds of Sherlock still moving around the kitchen every now and then. The rest of day had passed in a haze of tension, Sherlock working in the kitchen, pacing frantically around the house, often with his eyes closed, and Greg and John feeling essentially useless because Sherlock wouldn’t let them do anything, inform them of his progress or tell them anything that was going through his mind. John especially felt ticked because Sherlock got angry whenever John wanted to go outside alone and Sherlock wouldn’t tell him why, for the sake of his blood pressure John relented. And then, when John pointed out he would have to go into work soon, Sherlock then told him he called and told his boss he was sick and would be taking a leave of absence. Suffice to say, nothing had gone particularly smoothly that day.

John went to bed at midnight and tried going to sleep...but when he did, he was hit with a nightmare.


Sherlock was lying on the pavement outside St Barts, almost peaceful. No one around, blood pooling everywhere, at first glance it looked like it was coming from Sherlock...but it was pouring out of Johns chest. Tears of horrible pain fell down his face as he watched his dead friend, the both of them frozen and unable to move. Suddenly, Sherlock opened his eyes; they were pure white...empty. His face, deathly pale, turned to face John. John didn’t react and continued to sob, kneeling before the moving corpse of Sherlock Holmes. The world around him turned to red fog, a loud whooshing sound gave John the strongest urge to scream. Sherlock was suddenly in front of him; still covered in blood, still pale, his eyes a swirling milky white. He leaned towards John, lips a hairs breadth from touching his own. John felt his burning hot tears continue to fall. Suddenly there was a sharp pain in his chest as John screamed out, causing the red fog to darken, swirl and attack itself. He looked down and saw a coat covered arm through his chest, grasping around his beating heart. Panic, overwhelming panic threatened to tear John apart. He couldn’t move, he wanted to move but...he couldn’t. He felt another arm curl around his shoulder, cold when it touched his suddenly naked body.

“I’ve got you.”Sherlock’s deep voiced breathed out, hoarse and icy cold.

John noticed Sherlock had become naked as well, his head now resting on Johns shoulder; back bare to Johns eyes where he can see hundreds of scars flaring bright red across that pale skin.

John whimpered, his heart and body torn, aching. Why couldn’t he move? Why, why, why...

“You will always lose me. And I will always be here.” As if to emphasize his words, the hand of Sherlock Holmes strengthened his literal grip around John’s heart.

“I don’t want you here.” John screamed out.

There was a dark chuckle.

“You’re lying.”

John couldn’t deny it. He knew it was the truth.

“If you’re not here, then I can’t lose you again.” John found himself saying, tears punctuating his words.

“You will always lose me.” Dream Sherlock repeated.

Around them, the fog darkened to black, Sherlock’s words echoing loudly everywhere...a hole opened up in the ground before them and Sherlock fell backwards; disconnecting himself from John, the black vortex sucking him in.

John wailed. A hollow ache filled him up when he realized his chest was empty.

The last thing John saw before Sherlock disappeared was a pale fisted clutching a blood red heart.


That is when John woke up, three hours ago and he hasn’t been able to fall asleep since.

After waking up covered in sweat, wings flapping over and over again (he belated realized they had grown, though still not full sized), John had shakily gotten out of bed; took his sheets off, got changed into clean and dry boxer shorts, and then collapsed onto the bare mattress. He’s been staring at his ceiling ever since then; feeling phantom pains from the nightmare echo in his chest. There is an additional ache that hasn’t ceased since he awoke, a feeling of faint irritation dancing across his skin. John assumes it’s from the nightmare.

How does one even begin to process a dream like that?

Considering the day he had, John isn’t surprised he ended up having a nightmare, although contents of the nightmare were surprising...in a way, and the sheer vividness of it was...painfully intense. John thinks he remembers reading somewhere that deep soul mates, when they dream about the other, it is a more vivid and powerful experience than any other.

Perfect. John groans in frustration.

John isn’t even sure what he’s doing, staring at the ceiling uselessly.

Waiting for something to coalesce and make sense? Waiting for his soldier ingrained control to take over and allow him to breathe? Waiting for all this, everything, to have been a dream?

Sherlock is alive. Alive, not dead. So much other crap is going on, but that fact more than any other is what is reverberating throughout John’s mind. When John awoke from the nightmare, the fact that Sherlock had faked his death didn’t even matter, it mattered that Sherlock was alive and here in his house. Not in a box underneath the cold, hard earth. Of course all the other feelings associated with that seeped in after awhile, leaving that intense relief of Sherlock being alive stained with a vein of anger, hurt and leftover grief. John knows he has every right to feel that way, but he can’t really understand why he feels so angry, like his body is boiling from the heat of it. Why can’t he be like Greg and be hurt, be angry, but just be grateful Sherlock is alive? John has never been one to forgive easily, but this feels different. It’s almost as though...but that’s just the point, he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence. He feels angry for a reason he can’t name, and that just increases Johns frustration.

John is wide awake, but he closes his eyes briefly. The image from the nightmare that has stuck in his mind the most, not the arm through his chest, but the image of Sherlock’s back...maybe because it is closer to reality than anything else in that confusing horror. The scars he saw on Sherlock yesterday were obviously healed; but they didn’t look like they healed well, and some looked relatively recent.

John finally feels something coalesce; his abilities as a doctor, a thing he can use as distraction. John swings his legs off the bed and goes into the bathroom. He searches for the white box in the cabinet above the sink; his first aid kit.

John could define this as two birds with one stone, as cliché as the metaphor is. He gets to actually do something and maybe feel useful, and he’ll be able to see Sherlock not covered in blood with eerie white eyes. Of course that’s if he can get the sod to cooperate.

Donned tightly in his robe (his wings being small enough at this stage to be encompassed within the fabric), with purpose in his steps and a substantial aid kit in his left hand, John quietly exits his bedroom and heads down the stairs.

The kitchen light is on and there are the faint murmurings of Sherlock’s voice. John can’t make out anything specific but he sounds angry. As John approaches he catches the tail end of what sounds like an argument.

“-hadn’t done it this would not have happened in the first place! If anything happens to him because of what you did, if anything happens to him at all, I will hold you personally responsible and I will be merciless.”

John stops walking and frowns. Who’s he talking about? Or rather who is he talking to?

He hears a faint beep, Sherlock must’ve hung up.

“Unless you have developed temporary paralysis, you can come in now John.” Sherlock raises his voice slightly, vestiges of the darkness he heard in his voice before linger.

Shit. John sighs. Of course he knew you were there. Him and his very selective bat-like hearing.

John walks forward and pushes the door of the kitchen open wide.

Sherlock, still wearing those sweats from earlier, is standing by the kitchen window facing John; phone clenched tightly in his hand. There is an odd look on his face, one John hasn’t seen before and is finding difficult to place, as he looks at a piece of needle point art hanging on the wall. It is a bright purple Iris flower, with an almost cartoon like bee resting on a petal. It was there when John moved in.

If John had to place the look on Sherlock’s face it would be...lamenting. Strange. Not for the first time John wonders what the connection is between Sherlock and this house.

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly, takes a deep breath and turns around. He looks at John carefully, eyes whipping up and down John curiously. A frown morphs his expression into concern; probably deducing the signs of John having a nightmare. He coughs and glances away, throwing his phone carelessly onto the countertop. Sherlock walks over to the kitchen table, eyeing the first aid kit in Johns hand as he sits down.

“That’s for me.” Sherlock rests his elbows on the chaotic table (papers, evidence bags, crime scene photos, Johns laptop, and various equipment scattered everywhere on its surface) gesturing pointedly to the white box.

“Mhm.” John hums, walking over to Sherlock and placing the box firmly in front of him; causing a few pages of note paper to flutter.

He’s watching Sherlock with a firm gaze, and the man doesn’t hesitate in giving him a calculating look back.

“You want to look at my scars, now, at four in the morning.” Sherlock sounds very disbelieving but he doesn’t look away from John. He shifts uncomfortably and his wings automatically curl protectively over his back. “I assure you they are quite healed.” Sherlock speaks firmly, clearly intending on ending the conversation and ignoring John. “I am very busy.”

John doesn’t move. Sherlock, disregarding John’s presence, reaches across to bring the open laptop closer to him, before he can do that John closes it and holds it out of his reach.

“John! Give it to me!” Sherlock growls. He immediately stands and makes a swipe for it, John dodges him easily.

“It’s my bloody laptop!” John argues with a fierce look.

Sherlock is chasing him around the table now. The sight would almost be considered funny, but there is nothing joking or playful in the demeanor of these two men.

“Stop! This is idiotic and juvenile; I need that for the case.”

John is still holding the laptop up high. He stops on side of the table; Sherlock staring him down from the other. Neither man looks at all happy.

They are at an impasse.

“Why are you so freaked out by me taking a look at your scars?” John asks.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be stupid, I am not ‘freaked’ out.” His tone is sardonic. “There is simply no need for you to see them. Now, give me the laptop.” Sherlock reaches out a hand across the table. John is certain that if he doesn’t concede Sherlock will resort to actually leaping across the table if he has to.

“Don’t lie to me, you are freaked out, you nearly jumped out of your skin when I noticed them yesterday! Why?”

Sherlock tries to feint to the side, John easily matches him. Sherlock narrows his eyes, hands now gripping the back of a chair painfully tight.

“Why do you care so much?” Sherlock counters.

I don’t know, maybe I shouldn’t care anymore, I just do you infuriating bastard. John isn’t entirely sure now why he’s wasting his effort with this; whether it’s pride, genuine concern, or a desire for Sherlock to just...let him take control. Could be all three, maybe he’s trying to prove something, god knows what. All John knows is that he needs to do this, even if Sherlock is right and there’s not much John can do for the scarring anyway.

While John is thinking this, Sherlock is watching him intently. John notices his eyes flick towards the spread wings behind Johns back, Sherlock’s expression morphs from one of tight annoyance to puzzlement.

It takes Sherlock only a few seconds to straighten out of his threatening crouch and reach for the bottom of his t-shirt; face carefully blank.

John blinks. That...was easier than I thought it would be. A bit surprised by Sherlock’s concession, Johns brow creases and he watches Sherlock takes his arms out of the sleeves and allow the shirt to gently fall backwards; wings sliding smoothly through the holes Sherlock made.

Still staring at each other, John replaces the laptop back on the table; hand pulling away slowly, his eyes linger on Sherlock shirtless, wings spread wide much like Johns. Even now John can admit Sherlock is an attractive man, you can still be an arsehole and be good-looking, but right at this moment...John’s attention is almost enraptured, why can’t I stop staring? John shakes himself out of his gaze. Sleep can do funny things to you.

Sherlock crosses his arms in front of him and raises an eyebrow in John’s direction.

“Shall we get this over with? Quickly.” Sherlock is very much aggravated, but he moves towards John and hesitates for a brief second before turning around and presenting John with his back.

John allows himself the shock of Sherlock being accommodating for once, but then he feels his stomach clench at the sight before him.

Oh...god.

He’d obviously seen part of the scars before, but even Sherlock’s wings cannot cover the extent of the damage. They’re...everywhere. Old, recent, jagged, circular and starburst shaped, so many wounds on that marble skin makes John feel sick. The most recent ones are the several he noted before that look like they happened as the result of...being whipped over a long, long period of time; angry white marks with tinges of red lines criss-crossing all over his back. Several of them probably should’ve had stitches but never got any. John feels angry, angry at whoever did this to Sherlock, sick that he wasn’t there to protect or endure it with him. Sherlock is right, there’s not much he can do, but he’ll do what he can. At least they aren’t glowing, dripping red like in his nightmare.

“John?” Sherlock sounds unsure now, his head turned a bit awkwardly in John’s direction though not looking directly at him.

“Sorry, I...sorry.” He finds himself meaning it, in more ways than one. Now Sherlock looks at him, faint hints of surprise on his features. John taps down his pointless urge to hunt down whoever dared hurt Sherlock like this and pulls out a chair for Sherlock to sit on. “Sit.” His voice comes out hoarse and he nods towards the chair.

Sherlock complies, straddling the chair with his crossed arms resting along the back, his marred canvas of scars facing John.

John pushes the sleeves of his robe up to his elbows, opens up the kit and proceeds with settling on what he’ll need for Sherlock. The wounds are far too healed for antiseptic or antibiotic cream to be of much use, but he can help the scars themselves heal at least. All this is very basic stuff for a doctor, but it’s the least he can do.

He takes out an antiseptic wipe, purely to make sure the area is clean of all dirt and removes it from the packaging.

Sherlock is very still as John carefully brushes the wipe over his scars, mindful of avoiding the wings; which have curled forward and away from John, allowing him better access to Sherlock’s back.

“How did this happen?” John finds himself asking, his force far more calm than he’s actually feeling.

Sherlock tenses for a moment and John glances up to the back of that dark, curly haired head.

“It doesn’t matter now.” Sherlock replies.

John pauses and the only sound in the kitchen is the symbiosis of their breathing.

“It matters to me.” John discards the wipe and waits a moment for the moisture on Sherlock’s back to dry.

“Why?” Sherlock asks, genuinely curious.

Johns cerulean wings flap in anger.

Why does he need to know? Really? John isn’t sure how to answer that without giving away feelings he’s not ready (unsure whether sure he’ll ever be) to express to Sherlock.

At the moment though, what is bothering John is the blasé attitude with which Sherlock is treating the scars, the genuine surprise at the care John shows towards them as if...as if Sherlock truly didn’t realize anyone would care.

John never really thought much on it before, but the arrogant, self-proclaimed sociopathic Sherlock Holmes has such a low opinion of himself that he can’t really comprehend why anyone would care for anything about him other than his genius mind and what it can do.

John sighs.

“Because even though I am still furious and hurt by what you did, I happen to care about what happened to you.” That at least is the truth.

John can just imagine the perplexity on Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. John frowns and reaches for the cream. He uncaps the top and rubs a moderate amount between his hands to warm it up.

Sherlock twitches slightly at the feeling of the lukewarm cream on his skin, still keeping perfectly still. John can almost be called reverent in the way he is expertly applying the scar cream to each of Sherlock’s marks. Unpleasant shivers course through his body as he becomes intimately familiar with Sherlock’s scars, imagining how they could’ve happened; whipping, stabbing, a bullet wound even. Most of them not torture, but rather the markings of a man deep in the trenches with no exit.

The comparison makes John feel shockingly guilty at how he initially reacted upon first seeing Sherlock yesterday, justified or not. John is finding it much easier to control whatever anger he feels and focus completely on the task at hand.

A few moments pass, John is almost done when Sherlock finally speaks.

“I was undercover in Serbia several months ago, tracking one of the last primary commanders in Moriarty’s empire when I was captured by a group of his underlings. The man turned out to be much more intelligent than I had originally thought, led me into a trap. He didn’t know exactly who I was of course, so I suppose not that intelligent, or else I doubt I’d be alive right now.” Sherlock begins with a voice of surprising steadiness.

John has to take a deep calming breath at that last part. He doesn’t say anything though, just continues with his work and remains silent.

“I’m sure you’ve figured out what they used to...encourage my capitulation. They wanted to know why I was after their commander and who I was, several days passed before I was rescued.” A darker tone enters his voice when he mentions being rescued. “It was hardly my first unfortunate capture during those years, but it was...grueling. I doubt my deductions on their unfortunate lives helped me, but it kept my mind distracted at least.” His shoulders tense and his wings appear to clench, Sherlock’s voice fades away as he finishes speaking.

John laughs bitterly. “You just...had to aggravate them didn’t you? Couldn’t keep your bloody mouth shut.” His fist clenches and rests on Sherlock’s skin, right next to a particularly long scar in the middle of his back. “You’re such an idiot.”

Sherlock hums noncommittally.

John is horrified to realize there are tears forming in his eyes. His entire body and face tenses as he tries to control himself.

“John?” Sherlock’s voice has gone quiet.

It is then that John notices he has his forehead resting on Sherlock’s back also; giving into the reassurance of Sherlock here, alive. John’s eyes widen and he rapidly backs away.

Sherlock turns around in his chair. “Are you...alright?” He asks with concern.

John doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound so sincere before. John angrily wipes at his red eyes, ashamed and embarrassed at his emotional weakness in front of Sherlock of all people. You were a soldier, control yourself John Watson.

John once again laughs bitterly, putting away the contents of the kit with angry movements.

“Am I alright? Am I alright? No I’m not bloody alright. This happened to you, just everything that’s happened and I...you were...feck.” John can’t get his words straight and if he’s going to lose it he will not do it in front of Sherlock.

He notices Sherlock quickly stand up from the chair, eyes darting worriedly all over John; his wings seem to want to reach towards him.

There is a painful tension in the air that neither is entirely sure where it’s coming from.

John snaps the kit shut, grips it tightly and moves to exit the kitchen as quickly as possible. This was a horrible idea, stupid, stupid –

John’s frantic thoughts are stopped at the touch of long fingers encompassing his arm; preventing him from leaving.

“Let me go Sherlock. Now.” John sounds almost angry.

“I’m sorry John. I wish I knew how to...” Sherlock growls in frustration, his grip on Johns arm remains firm.

John sighs.

“I know.” John says with a pained echo.

The grip on his arm slackens and John moves again to exit the kitchen. He reaches the doorway before he hears the rumbling sounds of Sherlock’s rough baritone.

“Will you ever forgive me?”

John stops. Yesterday, John might’ve immediately said no, amazing how much can change in one day. Seeing what Sherlock truly went through, getting just a snippet of it, really puts some things into perspective.

He turns around, not looking at Sherlock, and points to the tube of cream he used; which he left on the table.

“I doubt you’ll remember to use that every day, especially with the case, but when you do, please use it. It’ll help with the condition of your scars.” John says in lieu of an answer to Sherlock’s question.

It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either. What it is, is hope.

John finally looks up at Sherlock and their eyes meet. Sherlock gives John a capitulating nod before turning around and returning to his work.

Right, moving on.

John exits the kitchen for good this time. That feeling of tingling irritation, which had been gone in Sherlock’s presence returns once they are no longer in the same room.

And when John Watson sleeps, it is for once, free of nightmares.