This story is for gently69.

Her prompt was:

Johnlock, a case abroad (?), a bit of humour, a little bit of christmas

Deal breakers:

Returns of Moriarty + Irene Adler, Teenlock, John and Sherlock in other pairings

She would generally like to read about:

Cases, Johnlock, angst + comfort, participation of, Mycroft, Lestrade and Molly, humour

 

 

Author's note:

Dear Gently,

I sincerely hope that this is not too far from what you were expecting. Enjoy!

 

Summary: After Sherlock's return, he and John have become a couple, giving them a whole new angle to face their trials and tribulations from. To John's surprise, Sherlock takes being a boyfriend unexpectedly serious, which is how they end up travelling a few days before Christmas...

Rating: Hm. I'd say it's mostly harmless, so probably K+ (= content suitable for most ages).

 

 

Lost and Found

 

Sherlock was incapable of moving. He opened his mouth to speak, but every sound was choked, nothing could be heard. And why try at all, when it was pointless anyway? Still, he tried. The darkness around him was threatening; no night should be so black, so void of stars. Somehow, he knew that this was a cave, or worse: the underworld, a place which might be described as hell. A place where monsters dwelt, monsters of human nature. People whose nature was less than human, to be more precise, who delighted in hurting and killing others. Now that he had been hunting them, he knew they existed. Before that, they were abstract ideas, fairytales, myths, nothing he wasn't able to deal with.

He could feel the the skin of his neck prickle as pure, unadultered terror spread through him; he knew he was being watched, and he still couldn't move a muscle when all he wanted was to get away.

"...rlock."

He was struggling so hard to escape that he only slowly became aware of the voice.

"Sherlock."

He stilled; the voice wasn't threatening. He listened, realized there was touch as well. Two hands which were framing his face, thumbs gently stroking his skin.

"Sherlock. Are you awake now?"

He managed to blink his eyes open, found himself face to face with John. A beacon of kindness and safety in all the darkness. But no, the latter had been a dream. The bedroom was not entirely dark, as the lamp on the nightstand was lit; it was immensely comforting, and he hated it because he hated being afraid of the dark.

"You okay?" John's voice was concerned, soft, affectionate.

"Fine," Sherlock croaked, though he could still feel the terror, which was only abating slowly.

"Another nightmare," John said; a statement rather than a question.

Sherlock had been home for less than four months; it was going to take some time until he had left everything that had been behind.

John's touch made him aware that he was drenched in cold sweat. Slowly, he sat up and pulled his soaked shirt over his head, wondering whether he would ever again be able to sleep without any lights on.

He disentangled himself from the covers, threw the shirt into the laundry hamper and went into the bathroom to wash, since his skin felt uncomfortably clammy. He paused as he met his own gaze in the mirror above the sink: he looked paler than usual, and the dark smudges underneath his eyes were more pronounced. He had not expected it to haunt him so severely, but haunt him it did.

Forever in the trenches, he thought bitterly. He hated the notion that this was victimizing him; he had made mistakes and had paid for them, which was all there was to it in his opinion. The trouble was that his subconscious disagreed, which was also the reason why he had not been able to delete what had happened to him during his captivity. It was not only that, though. The underworld in other places was different to the one in London. There were other rules, other scales, brutality of a kind that was hard to grasp. He would not have considered himself as naive or unfamiliar with violence before his faked death, but it had opened his eyes nevertheless.

He blinked; he needed to remind himself that he was home now, did not have to go back. He was lucky, contrary to many others. And yet, he was still trembling all over.

 

Sherlock was fumbling with the taps when John came in, quietly, as was his wont. He took Sherlock's hands in his and gently turned him around so they faced each other. His expression was affectionate as he eyed the detective now, his mere presence soothing.

"How about a bath?" he asked softly.

"In the middle of the night?"

"Why not? We're both wide awake now, and Mrs Hudson probably won't hear the water running. Low frequencies, you know."

The idea was rather appealing, Sherlock had to admit, so he nodded his consent.

John squeezed his hands, feeling the other's distress as distinctly as if it were his own. Sherlock's eyes were wide as he looked at John now, and slightly bloodshot. He seemed exhausted and weary, something John remembered well: constantly having nightmares made oneself question one's sanity at one point. He clearly recalled how it felt to be worn out and hollow from the frequent terrors he had been reliving, how he had been unable to stop it. He had felt silly, as though he was blowing matters out of proportion, had sometimes even been ashamed of his inability to cope, even though there had been absolutely no reason to be. He hated the fact that Sherlock was going through the same thing, was equally helpless.

 

Twenty minutes later, they were lying in the tub together, Sherlock leaning back against John, who was gently kneading his partner's shoulders. Gradually, the detective relaxed, easing into John's ministrations; John could tell from the way Sherlock's head slowly became heavier. John loved these quiet moments together, despite the reason for this particular one; Sherlock was pliable and uncomplicated when they were this close.

When the water began to cool, John bent forward and tenderly pressed his cheek against Sherlock's: "Are you still with me?" he whispered, eliciting a soft, drowsy hum from the other. The bath had had the desired effect on Sherlock, John noticed with satisfaction, and had calmed him down as intended.

With slightly clumsy movements, they scrambled to their feet and out of the tub, quickly drying themselves off and slipping back into their nightclothes.

"Sometimes I'm running," Sherlock murmured abruptly once they had settled under the covers of his bed, arms wound around each other. His breath was damp and warm again John's neck, but the doctor didn't mind. He was glad that Sherlock had recovered enough to talk about it, which he didn't do often.

Bit by bit, he was painting a picture for John about the things that happened, filling out the blank spaces on the map. It wasn't always easy to listen to, but John wanted to know. Needed to know, in fact, in order to process everything his partner had gone through. It was also a part of understanding the ways in which Sherlock had changed since his return.

John still wasn't sure whether the detective would have admitted his feelings so openly two and a half years ago. Of course, John always suspected that Sherlock cared deeply for him, but he wouldn't have anticipated, wouldn't even have dreamed of hoping that they'd ever have something else than a platonic relationship. But then Sherlock had died (or so John thought), and he had had to live with more than two years of reproaching himself for never even trying to talk to his friend about the true nature of their mutual affection. He had let himself be discouraged by that one evening at Angelo's, way back at their beginning. Sherlock had been so convincing that night, and yet- in the months which followed, he and John had surprisingly quickly grown close. In hindsight, John realized that he had felt nothing but short of being loved and cherished, even if Sherlock had a peculiar way of showing it.

How blind he had been, John thought painedly back then, how utterly ignorant. It also made him feel guilty: he should have noticed something was wrong, shouldn't he? The one person in the world who really mattered shouldn't have been able to commit suicide out of the blue. He should have seen it coming.

After Sherlock's return in late summer, John found that he actually had no idea how to even start talking about the matter. But Sherlock was different, something John realized rather quickly once his anger and disappointment had been dealt with. It seemed that he hadn't been the only one who had had time to think. Thus it was Sherlock, astonishingly, surprisingly, who had made the first move.

Well. It hadn't exactly been a move; he had just been himself, the way he was back then during the first few weeks into his second life. He had begun an argument which had led to shouting, but instead of storming out, Sherlock had turned away from John and hung his head, knowing full well how the doctor couldn't bear seeing him hurt. Especially not then. John distinctly remembered how vulnerable Sherlock's neck had looked, how he had wrapped his arms around himself defensively.

One thing had led to another, and here they were, two weeks before Christmas, cuddling. It had become something so normal that John sometimes woke up and for a second didn't know whether it was actually true and happening. It told him how much everything had changed, but also that he hadn't known nearly enough about Sherlock before their lives had been interrupted.

 

"Sometimes I can't move at all," Sherlock now continued, voice very low, "even though someone's behind me. I can feel their eyes on my skin." He fell silent. John gently caressed the still damp hair on his partner's neck: "It'll pass," he said quietly. "Eventually."

This was one of the things Sherlock most appreciated about John: he didn't lie in order to euphemise things, didn't promise solutions which were impossible to obtain.

Tiredly, Sherlock closed his eyes. He was almost certain he was going to be able to sleep without interruption this time; he always did when John was taking care of him. Before John, he probably hadn't needed this, someone's arms around him in a comfortingly solid embrace, someone's familiar scent in his nose, calming in a way that was nearly incomprehensible, someone's heartbeat drumming out a steady rhythm for him to listen to, to feel underneath his fingers.

John however had taught him that it was nothing out of the ordinary to crave bodily comfort, that he needn't be ashamed or regard it as a weakness if he allowed someone else to be strong for him. It turned out to be a mutual thing, after all, since there were times when John required comfort or consolation, and Sherlock found that it was surprisingly satisfying to be just what the other person needed. It was rather spectacular that it didn't even need words on certain occasions. He was beginning to understand the more intricate workings of being in a relationship, and as much as it intimidated him, he realized that he was not willing to give it up again.

"Good night," he murmured, pressing a kiss on John's throat.

"Night, love," the doctor replied softly, gently running his thumb over Sherlock's neck a few more times before succumbing to his tiredness as well.

 

"Have you decided what you're doing on Christmas, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked John two days later. She was planning on visiting her sister in Northumbria, who for a change was not going on a cruise during the holidays.

"Not yet," John replied, pouring hot water into the teapot. "Sherlock muttered something about hiding in the wardrobe in case Mycroft should come by, but apart from that- frankly, I'd be happy with a good book, lots of food and some decent wine." As long as Sherlock was there with him.

"I see what you mean," Mrs Hudson was contemplative, "after all the trouble."

John sat down at the table with her: "It's so much better than last year, of course," he said, and for a moment, they were silent. Christmas and Sherlock's birthday were the hardest to bear while he was gone, and John still didn't know how he survived at all.

He cleared his throat, not wanting to dwell on that now. He'd just come home from work; Sherlock had left a note on the kitchen table, informing him that he was with Lestrade. John was trying not to worry on those occasions. His more rational part kept telling him it was fine and he should be glad that Sherlock was able to resume his old life, more or less, now that his name had been cleared and Moriarty was out of the way. And yet- he couldn't not worry. Now that he knew how it felt to lose Sherlock, he simply didn't know how to stop.

"What is it, dear?" Mrs Hudson asked, reading his expression easily.

John shrugged, smiling sheepishly:"It's just me being silly," he sighed. "Whenever Sherlock's out on a case without me, I'm... a bit nervous."

"How could you not?" Mrs Hudson looked at him with unconcealed sympathy. "With everything that happened?"

"Yeah. I know." John stirred his tea. "He's changed, of course," he then said. "I sometimes catch him unawares when he's been on his own, you know, pondering, and he doesn't so easily fob me off anymore. He's begun to tell me things, and I'm... yeah, I'm happy about that."

"But?" He should have known. Mrs Hudson often was much more perceptive than they gave her credit for.

"He seems more vulnerable that way. I don't want people to take advantage of that." He rather liked it when Sherlock appeared unassailable, even if he often was considered rude and arrogant. Somehow, it had seemed safer. John didn't know where these thoughts were coming from; it didn't occur to him that deep down, he was still trying to comprehend what had happened to Sherlock during his time away.

A small smile was playing around Mrs Hudson's mouth. "Maybe to you, the changes you're seeing in him are more prominent," she suggested.

"What do you mean?"

"You and Sherlock have become closer than ever," she said, still smiling, "therefore, you're seeing him with slightly different eyes now. His susceptibilities are becoming more and more apparent to you the better you're getting to know him. Maybe he's still the same old Sherlock in the presence of others. Me excluded, of course."

John thought of Sherlock after a nightmare, wide-eyed and trembling and not at all resembling his usual self-confident self. The way he sought John's proximity when they were alone nowadays.

Unaware that he was smiling affectionately at the thought, he nodded: "You're probably right, yes."

Mrs Hudson inclined her head: "I've always been convinced that watching daytime TV is educational," she quipped.

"Oh now, don't go and ruin the moment," John countered.

Mrs Hudson regarded him fondly: "He's much stronger than he appears," she said quietly. "Always has been."

Sometimes, John was a little jealous when he remembered how much longer she had known Sherlock than him. But she's right again: not many people would have been able to do what he did and come back in one piece; it took someone remarkable to do so, someone who wasn't only smart but also rather hardy.

Who knew Sherlock had it in him; he was made of sterner stuff than the doctor would have anticipated.

"He's amazing," John muttered.

Mrs Hudson, who was beaming at him because according to her, she had known right away that her two tenants were destined for each other and who had been over the moon when they had finally become a couple, was just about to answer when they heard the door downstairs and someone coming up, and moments later, Sherlock came in, windswept and exhilarated.

"And what are you all happy about?" John asked while the detective pulled off his gloves without even stopping.

"A case," Sherlock replied, whirling around the table to kiss Mrs Hudson on the cheek.

"Oooh, you're cold," she laughed.

"Started to snow. Pack your bags, John, we're going to Scotland."

"What, now?"

"Tomorrow morning."

"But- it's Christmas in a few days."

"Wrong." Sherlock was glowing with excitement; John hadn't seen him like this in a long time. "It's Christmas now, because we've got a case, a brilliant one at that, and we can't afford to wait."

"We can't? What about my job?"

"We'll phone them and tell them you've got the flu."

"Sherlock-"

"The flight leaves from Heathrow at 7:10."

"Sherlock-"

"I'll fill you in once we're on our way."

"Sherlock."

"Yes. John."

"I can't go to Scotland tomorrow morning. I have to go to work, I can't just pretend I'm ill. It's not how you treat your colleagues."

"But the case!"

"But my job."

"I've already booked the tickets."

"Too bad." John folded his arms in front of his chest and smiled: "I'm afraid we'll have to reschedule."

Mrs Hudson, whose tea had nearly run cold by now, grinned into her cup.

 

Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not an accomplished manipulator. He also was a good actor. Neither of those traits had suffered during his time away, and he was glad about that for multiple reasons. The most important of them was that he needed to feel like himself again, which was so much easier during the days than during the nights. At night, he was at the mercy of his subconscious, and much to his chagrin, he had never been successful in mastering the art of lucid dreaming.

During the days, he was Sherlock Holmes, not dead, famous, easily recognizable. He had worked on a few cases once he and John had sorted things out, but it had taken him some time to slip back into routine. John had tried to help him with that, had sometimes taken time off work in order to be with him. Sherlock suspected that maybe his reasons weren't entirely unselfish: his eyes had been gleaming with pride whenever he watched his partner as he worked; he had missed this as well, after all, as he had told the detective rather early on.

Gradually, Sherlock had reacquainted himself with London and its miscreants. The first time he had solved a case for Lestrade, he had been giddy with satisfaction, for the first time feeling at home outside of 221B again.

Rather early in December, he had eavesdropped on a conversation while pretending to be napping on the sofa. John had gotten a call from his sister, and even though he could hear only half of what was being said and John was talking in the kitchen, Sherlock strained his ears to listen.

They obviously were arguing about Christmas, and judging from John's tone, he was already having trouble to stay calm.

"... give a shit about how I was doing, even though you knew what was going on. And now you suddenly want to play happy family?" ... "No, Harry, that's not how it works." ... "Oh, absolutely, it does sound good, especially if there's snow. But I'm staying at home, with Sherlock."... "And that's where you're wrong, Harry. He is. We-" ... "No, you listen! Just because I don't mention them doesn't mean I don't miss them! But they're not coming back, and I still managed while Sherlock was gone. Yes, I was lonely, and I was hurt, but that's in the past, and I don't need you to tell me how I should live my life now that we're together!" ...

"Actually- we will. It'll be him and me, and maybe Mrs Hudson, and we'll have a good time, because we care about each other."

John sounded tired now. "I know you don't. Here's a twist: I love him, that's all that counts. And now that I've got him back, I'm really looking forward to Christmas for once, which didn't happen very often in the past few years. I don't care about the weather, I don't even care if he'll give me a present, as long as we're together and there's a goddamn tree."

Sherlock lay on the sofa with his heart pounding and his mind reeling and only just in time remembered that he was supposedly asleep when John came in, audibly irritated. He walked over to the window and back to the kitchen a few times, huffing under his breath, before his footsteps approached the sofa, and then he seemed to have sat down on the coffee table.

Sherlock, who was on his side facing the backrest, listened to John's breathing slowly calming down; being watched like this was so very different from his nightmares, since John's affection was almost palpable. After a while, it was getting a tad boring though, therefore Sherlock was glad when he eventually heard John taking a deep breath: "Look at you," he muttered, obviously rather lost in thought, "I love you so much." He fell silent, and Sherlock had difficulties not to give himself away at that point. John however wasn't done yet: "I'm such a lucky bastard," he added, and now there was a smile in his voice.

A moment later, Sherlock felt a tentative hand on his head as John caressed him, gently running his fingers through the soft curls. Sherlock took the opportunity to "wake up", since the moment was convenient. He turned around to John, blinking, and smiled at him, and the doctor smiled back: "Hey there. Mind if I join you?"

Wordlessly, Sherlock shifted closer to the backrest in a silent invitation and turned on his left side, and John stretched out next to and pressed against him, nosing against Sherlock's neck and taking in his scent. Immediately, he felt how it was soothing his frayed nerves. It was marvellous and immensely comforting to feel Sherlock's body against his own, his strong, steady heartbeat, his arm around his midriff.

"What's bothering you?" Sherlock asked, voice very soft.

"Harry," John breathed. "She wanted me to spend Christmas with her."

"That's not so bad, is it?"

"Considering that she didn't even call last year, when I- when things were off, I'd say it's not very good either."

"Hm."

"I want to spend the holidays with you," John murmured, "and no one else."

Sherlock smiled against the doctor's hair: "Don't tell Mrs Hudson."

"With you and Mrs H., and no one else," John corrected himself, unable to subdue a grin.

He then sighed: "There were plenty of times that I wished Harry and I were close. It'd be nice not to be alone in the world, apart from a few cousins whom I'm barely speaking with either."

"You aren't alone in the world. You've got me." The pressure of Sherlock's hand between John's shoulderblades increased as he possessively reinforced his hold around the doctor.

"That's the most beautiful thing you've ever said to me," John smiled at him. Up close like this, he could see the strange multitude of colours in Sherlock's eyes.

"Just stating a fact," Sherlock replied, but somewhere in his voice, there was a smile as well. "We're together, aren't we?" His gaze was full of warmth as he regarded his partner. A pleasant shudder ran down John's spine. How did he get to be so happy?

He hummed in agreement and nuzzled his face against Sherlock's. Wrapped around each other, both of them dozed off this time.

 

Sherlock however didn't forget what he had heard before. Christmas had not particularly interested him ever since he had grown up, but now he was reconsidering. After two years of darkness, two years during which he wasn't always so sure whether he'd be able to return home at all, the idea of a few fairy lights and a goddamn tree seemed feasible. Especially with John, especially since this time, there wasn't going to be another of those obnoxious girlfriends whose names he could never remember. It'd be only them and probably Mrs Hudson; he doubted that Mycroft was going to interfere.

The other reason was one he didn't like to dwell on, but it had left its mark on his conscience like a burn: guilt. He had knowingly put John through hell, and even though it had been difficult to watch and to know, he had had to go through with it. And even though he had been aware of the pain he was causing, he had been distraught when, after his return, he learned how badly John had actually suffered. Sherlock felt he had been stupid and blind, and on some days, he didn't think he deserved such a loyal and forgiving partner. He wasn't done making it up to John for a long time yet.

 

Two weeks before Christmas, Mrs Hudson announced that she was going to spend the holidays with her sister, which was rather unexpected.

"Well," John said that evening, "I'll cook something festive for us, then."

"Hmm," Sherlock, who was reading, pretended to be engrossed in his book. It was easy to fool John in that regard. He had also bought presents already, something John mustn't know.

"And we need a tree," he doctor then said, "otherwise it's not really Christmas."

"Hmm."

"And we're going to switch off our phones for the entire time."

"Hmm."

"He's really not listening," John muttered to himself, and then, fondly: "Idiot."

"Hmm."

Chuckling, John went into the kitchen.

 

"Remind me why I'm doing this?" a rather groggy doctor murmured as he fell onto the seat of a cab one early morning just three days before Christmas. It was bitterly cold, and a fine layer of snow was still covering most surfaces. He squinted:"Shouldn't we take the tube? Piccadilly Line'd take us straight to the terminal." He rubbed his eyes. "God, I'm tired."

"Too early, lights are too bright, too many obnoxious people," Sherlock replied curtly. He leaned over to John for a second: "And you're doing it for me," he nearly whispered, the deep baritone sending shivers down John's spine. "Because you think I'm lovely."

John smiled, his belly full of warmth: "Ever snogged in an airplane toilet?"

Sherlock only rolled his eyes, but he wasn't able to hide the amusement which was briefly visible on his face.

Of course, he equally hadn't been able to contain himself until the morning. After the work problem had been solved rather bluntly by Sherlock calling his brother to take care of the situation ("I'm not a wizard, Sherlock," Mycroft had said, exasperatedly, "how do you expect me to sort matters out so quickly?" "Easy. Have one of your minions find someone who's jobless and slash or desperate for some extra money." John, who'd been able to listen because Sherlock had put the call on speakerphone, had only shaken his head. Hopefully, his colleagues were going to believe him if he claimed family emergency once he was back), John had packed a bag and went to bed while Sherlock sat down and did some research. John fell asleep listening to the monotonous rattling of their printer.

Some time later, he'd been woken again by his partner, who had been bouncing with energy when he finally went to bed: "It's getting better and better," he announced, "you're going to love this."

Groaning, John had pulled the duvet over his head and turned away. This was the old Sherlock, the one who often was oblivious to social norms and other people's needs. He crawled under the duvet and tucked his cold feet underneath John's warm ones, which had the doctor squealing rather undignified. He then turned around and seized Sherlock by his nightshirt: "If you don't let me sleep now, I'll push you into the first Loch we'll come across."

"That'd be Loch Lomond," Sherlock replied (unwisely). Harrumphing, John pulled him closer, wrapped his arms around him and held him in a vice-like grip. "We'll sleep. Now." he growled.

"You're suffocating me," Sherlock complained, his voice muffled.

"I won't. Good night."

"John."

"Sleep."

"John."

"No."

"John!"

"What?"

"I love you."

"Shut up." But it had sounded much less grumpy than before.

 

On the way to the airport, Sherlock read through his printouts while John had closed his eyes and was dozing. By the time they had reached the terminal, it had begun to snow again.

With a sigh because he was rather unwilling to fully wake up and step out into the cold morning air, John rubbed his eyes before taking his bag and following Sherlock, who had already paid their fare.

Five minutes later, he was squinting up at the large departure board: "I don't understand. It says terminal five. Why do you want to go to terminal two?"

Sherlock was beaming at him: "Because we're not going to Scotland, we're going to Sweden!"

John stared at him, wishing he'd had more sleep: "Huh?"

Sherlock seemed oblivious to his partner's confusion: "Yep. Look, it says: Stockholm, terminal two. Flight leaves at 7:45."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Why are we going to Sweden,and why did you tell me we were going to Scotland instead?"

"I thought you might not want to go if it's so far away. Of course, the flight time's not much longer, but sometimes you are difficult like that."

John felt anger welling up in him. "You're bloody unbelievable," he said belligerently, "I should turn around right now and go home."

Sherlock tried to look contrite: "You'll miss all the fun."

"Oh, really? Tell me, Sherlock- is there a case at all, or were you making it up for some bizarre reason?"

"There is a case," Sherlock replied, somewhat miffed. "And I need you to help me solve it."

John snorted, not saying anything.

"Please," Sherlock said, in a lower voice. "John."

"You could have been honest," John huffed. "I thought we had arrived at that stage by now."

Sherlock, who knew what he was referring to, felt a rather unpleasant rush of adrenaline. He had learned one thing or two about being in a relationship in the meantime, however: "I'm sorry," he therefore hurried to say. Luckily for him, he had arranged his face accordingly by now so that his expression matched his tone.

John was grumbling, but he seemed to be relenting.

"Fine," he eventually said. "But I'm really curious about how you managed to find a case that's taking us to Sweden."

Relieved, Sherlock inclined his head: "I'll tell you the details on the plane."

 

"We're going to a small town called Sigtuna-"

"Is it supposed to be pronounced like 'tuna'?"

"Shut up. It's the oldest town in Sweden, by the way, though that's not important for the case."

"So what is the case?"

"There's a manor house just outside the town, the owners' family has been living there for ages. They've had a series of mysterious thefts. At first, they thought it was an intruder, but now that the house is surrounded by snow, it happened again and they didn't find any tracks leading to or away from the house."

"Hm." John craned his neck: "That the house?"

Nodding, Sherlock handed him the pictures he had been holding on his lap.

"Looks nice," John muttered, regarding the large building with interest. It was built of wood and painted a light yellow. "Impressive. What's been stolen?"

"Mainly jewellery and expensive but useless knick-knacks."

"And you were interested in the case because?"

"It's like a locked room mystery, John," Sherlock said, "only on a slightly grander scale."

"And how did you get to know about the matter at all?"

"Shhh, I can't hear the announcement."

"Sherlock-"

"Shh!"

John shook his head as he looked from the pictures to the detective again; something was definitely odd.

 

They landed in Stockholm-Arlanda at a quarter past eleven. The world outside was white; the snow had obviously gotten a headstart here, piling up to what John estimated was a meter already.

"If you'd told me we were going to Scandinavia, I'd have brought the right clothes," he muttered, eying his boots and Sherlock's shoes, which definitely weren't suitable for this kind of weather. "For both of us."

"We'll manage," Sherlock said airily. "Ah! Rental cars are that way."

"As long we're back home in time," John grumbled as he followed the swish of the dark coat. "I haven't done the shopping yet."

The gently sloping landscape admittedly was enchanting, especially with all the snow and despite a rather overcast sky. The road had recently been cleared, and on each side, there were thin poles sticking out of the snow, marking the edges. Yellow signs were warning them to look out for moose crossing the lanes.

John took in all the wooden houses, many of which had lights in their windows, looking inviting, and suddenly felt Christmas-y. With a huff, he cuffed Sherlock's arm; rather playfully, but the detective still complained: "What was that for?"

"I'm not prepared for this," John said. "Look how lovely it is! I'd have brought my camera!"

"You don't have one."

"Anymore, no, because someone was bored and destroyed it. Still, I'd have borrowed Mrs Hudson's."

"It was an experiment. And you can use the camera on my phone if you like."

"Thanks. The one on mine is rubbish."

"Hm."

The drive didn't take long, since Sigtuna was only about eleven miles from the airport.

"Why did we rent a four by four for this?" John asked. "We could easily have gotten here by public transport."

"I like to drive once in a while," Sherlock replied vaguely and climbed out of the SUV (which happened to be a Volvo, of course).

 

The house was situated among trees; the property was rather large judging by the withered old wall made of small boulders. It looked homely and inviting, just as the other houses on the way here had. The front door opened just as Sherlock was about to ring the bell and they found themselves face to face with a tall blond man: "You must be Mr Holmes," he said, speaking nearly accentless. "Välkommen."

His name was Harald Bergqvist, and he invited them in with genuine cordiality. His wife Lillemor was just making coffee, and they sat down in the spacious kitchen. John was fascinated by how different the house was to all the others he had seen so far; it was cosy and tastefully decorated without being too ornate. In one corner of the kitchen there was a large hooded woodstove which obviously was still being used daily, and John had seen a Christmas tree in what he assumed was the living room.

"It's baffling," Lillemor said when Sherlock questioned her about the stolen items, her English as good as her husband's, "we have no idea what might have happened. There's simply no way someone could have gotten in and out unnoticed in this kind of weather."

"Is it only you two who are living here?"

"Well, yes," Harald said, "and my mother." His face took on a pained expression: "She's suffering from dementia. We didn't even tell her about the thefts in order not to upset her."

John saw that his wife quickly squeezed his hand under the table; a silent solace.

"You don't have any servants?"

"No, we don't."

"Hm." Sherlock, who had been studying the list of missing things the Bergqvists had made, looked up: "I'd like to see where the items were taken from," he said.

"Of course." Lillemor got to her feet and led the way.

Harald sought John's gaze: "More coffee?"

"Er, yes, please." He smiled: "Do you always have snow for Christmas?"

"Most years, yes. Sometimes it doesn't get cold enough until January or even February, but that's rare."

"Wow. Must be nice."

"It is. If one likes this kind of weather."

"Not so much for the commuters, then," John quipped.

Harald shrugged: "They're used to it."

"I can imagine." John stirred his coffee: "Do you have a lot of moose around here?"

"Oh yes. Hunting is also very popular. About 100,000 moose are shot in Sweden each year."

"I didn't know that."

"The population has to be kept in the balance," Harald said. "And there's some excellent meat to be had."

"Huh." John looked into his mug. He'd rather see a live moose, though preferably not on the road.

 

An hour later, Sherlock and John said their goodbyes, promising to be back on the following day.

"So?" John asked as soon as they were out of earshot. "Any theories?"

"I'm pretty sure it was the mother," Sherlock replied, fiddling with his mobile. "Everything that was stolen were heirlooms of some kind."

"And patients suffering from dementia often are under the delusion that people are stealing from them because they frequently misplace things or don't remember where they've left them," John added slowly, putting two and two together as he spoke. "She probably wanted to save the items by hiding them."

"Exactly. I told Mrs Bergqvist to search the old lady's room. She wasn't very happy about it."

John stared at Sherlock: "I'm the doctor, I could have found that out."

"They could have found it out if they hadn't been emotionally involved."

"They are taking it hard," John said. "Understandably."

"Yes." Sherlock put his mobile on the dashboard and backed out of the drive.

"Sherlock?" John asked a moment later.

"Hm?"

"Did we really fly all the way to Sweden to solve a case which you'd probably have deemed a three or maybe a four at most if we'd been in England?"

"It sounded more complicated on the phone," Sherlock replied vaguely. "Probably the language barrier."

John stared at him: "Their English was excellent. Why do I get the feeling that there's something you're not telling me?"

"You've always had a rather vivid imagination," Sherlock murmured, glancing at his phone.

"Where are we going anyway?" John wanted to know. "A hotel?"

"No."

"Great, thank you for the info."

"Wait and see," Sherlock said.

They drove through Sigtuna and then headed west. The town was situated by a system of lakes, the nearest of which was visible through the trees once in a while, a large expanse of white; the frozen surface was covered in snow as well. They were on a dirt road now, surrounded by a rather dense forest, and John wondered if Sherlock knew what he was doing. At one point, the lanes seemed to have been cleared; ever so often they saw one or two lonely houses along the way, all of which looked occupied.

After about twenty minutes, Sherlock pulled into what looked like a driveway; they passed an open wooden gate and came to a stop next to a battered old Landrover.

"Nice," John murmured. On the property, there was a small red cottage, and the grounds gently sloped down to the lakeshore. There was a small wooden pier and what seemed to be a boatshed.

"Who's living here?" John asked as he closed the door of the car. Before Sherlock could answer, the door of the cottage opened, and a man appeared, waving a greeting and approaching them. John wondered whether he had anything to do with the Bergqvists; if he did, he hoped they were going to go back inside, since his feet were uncomfortably cold. He really didn't bring the right clothes for this.

 

"You look pretty," Greg Lestrade said as he handed Molly Hooper a glass of wine and sat down. She blushed, quickly taking a sip in order to prevent herself from saying something silly.

She couldn't hide her curiosity, though, and she didn't see any point in beating around the bush.

"Why did you want to buy me drink?" she asked once she had set down her wine. "I mean, it's nice," she quickly added, "but... I was surprised."

Lestrade didn't seem offended. "I suppose I just wanted to make sure you're all right," he said. "We didn't talk in a while."

Not that they talked on a regular basis, but Molly thought she knew where this was coming from and what he meant by a while.

"You mean, how am I doing now that Sherlock's back?"

Greg smiled good-naturedly: "You got me. I should've tried to be a little more subtle, you're always seeing through me. I could use someone like you on my team. Ever getting bored of your job?"

The only thing Molly was currently bored of was her private life, but she wasn't going to tell Lestrade so. She didn't want to sound like a pathetic old spinster, and besides, he had his own worries, what with the divorce and everything.

"I'm good, thank you," she replied.

Greg didn't say anything, he just drank from his beer and waited for her to continue. He was such a really nice and decent guy, it would have been easy to talk to him. Molly could have told him how she had hoped, against all odds, that Sherlock would return her feelings for him once he was back, and how it had hurt to realize that he didn't. She could have told him about how awkward but also relieving it was for her that John and Sherlock apparently were together now, and how lonely she had felt recently, even more so than before.

She wasn't naive, she realized how large a part hope and repression had played in her pining for the detective, but as it was, it was difficult to fill the sudden void nevertheless. It was a little harder to get up in the mornings nowadays, since she hadn't completely moved on yet. She despised herself for being like that, downtrodden and melancholic because of a man who had never even wanted her.

"Why are you worrying about me?" she asked instead.

Lestrade regarded her wordlessly for a moment, then shrugged: "Dunno. Maybe because it's Christmas and you didn't seem very happy recently."

Molly looked at her glass: "You think I'm pathetic."

"No," Lestrade's patient tone was that of someone who had some experience in dealing with women. "If I thought you were pathetic, I wouldn't bother at all."

Molly couldn't subdue a grin.

"Why," Lestrade continued. "Do you think you're pathetic?"

"No," she said, a little too quickly, to her horror blushing again. "I'm- it's normal to feel lonely around this time of year, isn't it?"

"Tell me about it," Lestrade murmured. "I'm working on Christmas because I couldn't stand the thought of being alone."

"I'm sorry," Molly said feebly. She never knew whether people wanted one to comment on something like that or not.

"No need," Lestrade visibly pulled himself together, sitting up a little straighter. "It'll get easier, I suppose."

"Hopefully," Molly said.

Lestrade contemplated this.

"What are you doing on Christmas, then?" he asked after a moment of silence.

"I'm visiting my mum on Christmas Day. My aunt and uncle from North Yorkshire are staying with her, so I've got an excuse to leave in the evening. A small relief." She smirked.

"Well," Lestrade smiled at her. "Give me a call if you fancy another drink. We can be lonely together."

"That definitely does make it sound pathetic," Molly said, "but I just might."

 

John looked at the old-fashioned key in his hand, barely able to listen to the man who had introduced himself as Arvid and who was currently telling them where to find things they might need, what to do if the water pump failed and to mark their way by leaving yellow tape on the trees if they went far into the woods.

"Call me if you need anything else," Arvid said at one point, "Merry Christmas!" Only then did John shake himself out of his stupor: "Yes, er, thank you. And Merry Christmas."

They waved as the Landrover backed out of the drive, and turned towards each other again. There was a small, hesitant smile in the corner of Sherlock's mouth. He looked almost timid, as though not sure about John's reaction.

"You rented this house for us?" John asked, to be absolutely clear.

"Yes."

"We're staying here over Christmas?"

"Well, yes."

"Just you and me and all the snow and no more cases?"

"Yes?"

John smiled. "I've got more questions," he said huskily, because he suddenly had a lump in his throat, "but they can wait." He put the key in his pocket and stepped closer to his partner. Slowly, he wound his arms around Sherlock's midriff and pulled the other man against him.

"You arranged all this for me," he said.

"Well, there was the case and we had to stay somewhere-"

"Idiot," John interrupted Sherlock fondly. "Once in a while, you can simply admit that you're a good guy."

Sherlock looked away: "I'm not," he said softly. "But I'm aware that I've got a lot to atone for."

"No," John disagreed, reinforcing his grip around the detective. "You really don't."

Sherlock was blinking now, still unable to meet John's gaze. It was astounding by how his guilt managed to catch him unawares at times.

"Look at me, love," John all but whispered. Reluctantly, Sherlock did so. His eyes were a little red-rimmed now, which John found hard to bear.

"I love you so much," he said, unable to keep his emotions out of his voice. "You have no idea. Even without something like this, you're making me happy. There, I don't even need a special occasion to say it, because it's a fact."

Sherlock sounded nasal: "You're a hopeless romantic," he replied, but his eyes were full of affection.

"Yeah," John said, drily, "I'm so romantic that I'm ignoring my cold and probably by now also wet feet just to be standing in the snow with you."

This made both of them chuckle.

The house was as lovely from the inside as it was from the outside. The bigger half of the main room served as a living room, the smaller half as a kitchen. There was a hooded stove similar to the one at the Bergqvist's which didn't only supply warmth for the room but also served as a cooking stove. Only in the bedroom there was an electric storage heater. The bathroom was tiny, but at least there was one, John thought, grinning to himself, instead of an oldfashioned outhouse and a water bowl.

The whole house was very cosy, and John couldn't believe his luck. "I love it here," he said. "You have no idea how much."

Sherlock, who was perusing the bookshelf even though nearly all of the books were either in Swedish or German, hummed, but didn't turn around. John smiled and went to unpack his bag. Confusion spread on his face when he opened it though, and for a moment, he thought he had grabbed the wrong one from the conveyor belt at the airport. He did recognize the warm cardigan lying on top of the other things however, it definitely was his own, and he definitely hadn't packed it. He took it out and discovered more items he hadn't expected, such as a hat and a thick scarf, woolly socks and his old army long johns.

Now where had Sherlock dug out those? John didn't even know he still had them.

"Sherlock," he called. "Could you come in here for a moment?"

The detective popped his head around the door: "Yes?"

"Did you repack my bag last night?"

Sherlock nodded: "Of course. You didn't take the right things." He had also found the present John had bought for him, and had put it in his own bag. John didn't need to know until Christmas Day.

"No, that's because I looked up how the weather in Scotland was like. It's much warmer there currently, and they don't have any snow yet. If you had told me-"

"I'd have ruined the surprise."

"True. I'm starting to think that the real reason is an entirely different one though. You just love to go through my stuff."

"See? Now you're imagining things again."

Laughing quietly and shaking his head, John walked to the door and pulled Sherlock into the room so he could wrap his arms around him once more, marvelling at how good it felt: "I'm not angry, just..."

"Surprised?"

"No."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow: "You said you were."

"About the house and everything, yes. Not about your... methods, though." He recalled how excited Sherlock had been, how he had said "you're going to love this". Now it made much more sense, of course.

"I had to keep it a secret, hadn't I?" Sherlock said.

"Yeah, you did. And it seems that you've been planning this for a while."

Sherlock waved his hand evasively: "It's nothing."

"You conjured up a case. You rented a house. You made sure the fridge and the pantry were well-stocked, yes, I've noticed. You repacked my bag. Arvid said something about boots in our sizes." John smiled at Sherlock. "Did I forget something?"

Sherlock fidgeted a little: "There's a tree stand in the shed. We can put up a Christmas tree, if we like."

John's smile widened: I love you," he said, pulling Sherlock even closer so that he was able to kiss him. Slowly, John manoevered them towards the bed without breaking the kiss, and Sherlock allowed himself to be lowered down on the mattress.

"You know what?" John asked once he was lying on top of his partner, trying not to be too heavy but enjoying the sensation of their bodies pressed against each other nevertheless.

Sherlock's gaze roamed over his face with a small frown: "We're flying straight back home if you say that you don't actually need the snow and a tree as long as you've got me."

John slowly broke into a grin: "Sherlock Holmes, have you been watching romantic movies?"

"Nonsense. I just deduced the sentiments which were running through your head."

"Did you, now? That's interesting, because I wasn't going to say anything like that."

"Oh." Sherlock blushed a little bit. "What were you going to say, then?"

"That I'm looking forward to waking up with you in here."

Sherlock grimaced: "That's hardly any better, John."

John didn't reply, only stared at Sherlock sternly until the detective's expression softened: "Fine. It's also a... well, lovely thing to say."

"Now that didn't hurt, did it?"

"Hm." But Sherlock's gaze was affectionate: "Have you always been so soppy?"

"Not really, no," John retorted, "it only started once I'd moved in with you." He brought up a hand and gently caressed Sherlock's cheek, his temple: "You really brought out my soft side."

They chuckled a little.

"Won't you miss your violin?" John asked once they had sobered up again , tracing the faint lines around Sherlock's mouth with the tip of his fingers.

"It's only a week," Sherlock murmured softly. Involuntarily, his thoughts strayed back to then. He could still feel how his fingers had itched for the instrument sometimes, how he'd have given anything for just ten minutes with it. This was different, not only because he had John with him.

Blinking, he banished the thought of the past two years: "And anyway- there's a considerable stack of boardgames in the living room cupboard, should the need arise to entertain myself."

John groaned: "Not Cluedo, I hope."

"I really don't know why you won't play Cluedo with me anymore."

"Because you're not playing it by the rules."

"Those rules were made by idiots. They don't make any sense."

"To you maybe." John smiled: "We idiots are fine with them."

Sighing theatrically, Sherlock just shook his head.

"John," he then said, and his soft, deep voice sent a pleasant shudder down John's spine. He understood what Sherlock wanted to say: I love you, too. I'm glad we're here, together.

"Love," he replied, very softly, finding Sherlock's lips for another kiss.

 

Dawn had already begun to set in when they emerged from the bedroom at about half past three.

"Is it too late to go for a walk, do you reckon?" John asked, peering outside into the blue twilight.

"Not if we don't go far and take torches," Sherlock replied.

John grinned:"Time to don my long johns, then." He went to the loo first; to his surprise, Sherlock had put on what appeared like brandnew thermal underwear when he came back and was about to slip into a pair of jeans. John had rarely seen him wearing any; to be fair, on Sherlock even jeans looked tailor-made. He didn't notice John's stare, and the doctor shook himself out of it with an effort: it were those ridiculously mundane (though in this particular case, extraordinary) moments which sometimes had him stop and marvel at the fact that he hadn't just dreamed everything which had happened in the past few months. They had always been close, but now the term intimate applied. Very subtly, their boundaries had changed, and something about that made John tremendously proud.

Ten minutes later, they left the cottage, leaving a few lights on. The snow crunched underneath their feet, but the heavy boots Arvid had provided on Sherlock's request had a good grip and prevented them from slipping when they stepped on unseen stones or tree roots underneath the snow. There was barely any wind, and the air smelled clean and aromatic, a mix of trees, snow and unseen smoke. John had rekindled the fire in the stove before they had left; there had only been a few embers left and it had been considerably cooler in the room than before.

Arvid had told them that there were a few footpaths leading into the woods, all marked by red tape around the trees; they followed one of those. The path was winding, sometimes running along the lakeside, sometimes weaving its way around large rocks. At one point, they stopped to look at the vast expanse of snow-covered ice that was the lake; it creaked and broke when they experimentally put weight on it, the only noise in an otherwise quiet world. Daylight was almost gone now, the snow glinting in the light of their torches; the trees on the opposite shore black shadows against the darkening sky, which had cleared off a little. A few stars were visible, and the crescent moon illuminated a few scattered clouds around it.

Neither Sherlock nor John felt like talking; nothing they could have said would have augmented the beauty around them. As silently as they had come, they eventually made their way back.

 

The cottage's windows bid them a friendly welcome as they stepped out of the forest, and it was lovely to enter the warm, cosy kitchen; the cold had bitten into their cheeks rather considerably, since a bit of wind had got up.

John opened the door to the fridge and inspected its contents more closely, then did the same with the pantry. He took a small can: "What's 'Surströmming'?" he asked. Arvid had put a post-it note on it which said: "You're welcome to try this very popular Swedish fish. The taste is unique. PS: Only open the can underwater and try not to spread the brine inside the house." Frowning, he put it back on the shelf: "Sounds... fishy."

Sherlock appeared behind him: "I asked him to buy a few traditional Swedish dishes, among other things. Maybe it's his idea of a joke."

"Or maybe he's serious about it," John muttered. "Anyway, we won't starve, from the looks of it. He even bought a turkey."

He reached into the shelf again: "He seems fond of post-it notes," he added, looking at the bottle he was holding, which was filled with a clear liquid: "My own production," the note read, "very enjoyable with a good meal." He opened it and sniffed at it: "Whoa." The scent in itself was eye-watering.

"Definitely not without a meal," he grinned, holding it out for Sherlock to smell it. The detective did so and grimaced: "Illicit distillation is very popular in Sweden, or so I've been told."

"Huh." John put the bottle back: "Contrary to us, they are used to it then." He refused to think of Harry right then; she was not going to spoil this.

 

That night, John woke up because Sherlock was trembling and breathing rapidly. They had turned away from each other at one point after falling asleep, but now John wrapped his arms around his partner and carefully held him tight: "It's just a dream, love," he murmured against Sherlock's temple, stroking his back,"nothing but a dream. You're all right."

To his immense relief, there was no struggle this time, no panicked attempts to escape; his voice and his bodily presence seemed to suffice in order to chase the demons away. Slowly, the tremors abated, and Sherlock calmed down without even waking up. It was the mildest form of a nightmare John had witnessed so far, and he was glad that it hadn't developed any further. He pressed his cheek against the soft curls and closed his eyes, listening to Sherlock and the occasional sounds the house was making. It had been snowing again when they had gone to bed, and somehow, that made it even cosier inside, nestled into a warm cocoon of thick feather quilts.

 

On the following morning, their footprints from the previous day had all but vanished, as it had snowed considerably during the night; the clouds apparently had come and gone again.

A feeble sun was illuminating the world, and John kept gazing out of the window while he was making coffee, nearly scalding his hand in the process. A fine, almost translucent haze was lingering above the ice-covered lake, making the air glitter in the sunlight and the trees on the opposite shore look like they were floating.

John was so lost in the view that he didn't notice how Sherlock, who had gotten the stove going, was watching him with an absent smile.

"We're some lucky bastards," the doctor eventually muttered, reluctantly turning his attention back to what he was doing, but Sherlock reached into his pocket and and held his phone out to his partner: "Go. I'll make the coffee," he said.

 

John deeply inhaled the cold air when he stepped outside. It was as quiet as on the previous day, and no matter which way he turned, everything looked enchanting. He took pictures of the lake, the boatshed, the trees and the cottage itself; his fingers quickly grew cold, but he didn't mind. It was lovely to be there on this beautiful morning, in those amazing surroundings, with that incredible man.

John looked back to the house and his heart beat faster as he once more appreciated the immensity of this gift. For Sherlock to leave 221B, let alone London, the reason had to be a truly important one, especially in the light of the past few years; he had only just come home, after all.

When John had lain awake that night, he had pondered this. He didn't want Sherlock to feel guilty for the rest of their lives, and he realized that this trip probably was a way to show him that Moriarty, despite Sherlock's earlier fascination with him, had never been as important to the detective as John was. Because of Moriarty, Sherlock had had to leave England; for John, he had done it again, but this time, the terms were entirely his, and the reason for it was so very different.

He wished his parents would know about this, about how his life had turned out. He wasn't sure what they'd have said to the fact that he was together with a man or that he and Harry were hopeless in their attempts to reconcile, but he knew that they'd have wanted him to be happy, not to be alone.

He looked at the snow and suddenly remembered something he hadn't thought about in quite some time, convinced that he now knew why Sherlock had chosen Sweden for their first Christmas after his return.

John was pulled out of his musings when he heard Sherlock's voice: he had opened the window and was asking if John was done. The doctor raised the phone once more and took a picture of Sherlock before he answered: "Now I am," he said, ignoring how his partner rolled his eyes at that.

 

"You're not allowed to delete any of the photos I took," John told Sherlock when he reached for the phone after breakfast.

"I was just going to call the Bergqvists," Sherlock replied, the picture of innocence.

"Hm." John raised an eyebrow: "I'll be watching you nevertheless, just so you know."

Sherlock gave him a sly look while he was dialling.

It turned out that it had indeed been the mother. Harald was apologetic and audibly subdued: "We should have realized it ourselves," he said, "I'm ever so sorry to put you through all this trouble, Mr Holmes."

"Not at all," Sherlock said, never taking his eyes off John. "Dr Watson and I happened to be travelling to Sweden anyway."

Amused, John shook his head; he still didn't know how exactly Sherlock had been made aware of the Bergqvist's case, but he didn't put it past him to find it after he had booked the flights and rented the cottage.

"When you went through my things," he said slowly once Sherlock had finished the call, "I assume you frisked the bottom drawer as well. It's where my long johns probably were. I rarely look in there anymore, it mostly contains stuff I couldn't bring myself to throw out yet."

Sherlock watched him a little warily, waiting for him to go on.

John smiled: "Stuff like old mail. I think you found the postcard my dad sent me from Stockholm." A small pang of pain made itself known; he and his dad had been very close.

"It's from February 1988," Sherlock said quietly.

"The year he died, yes. I remember that we talked about the card, years ago, just after I caught you going through my things for the first time."

"I was looking for your gun."

"Yeah." The smallest of smiles was briefly visible in the corners of John's mouth before he continued: "I told you that it was his last business trip ever, that journey to Stockholm, and that he kept saying how he'd have liked us to have seen it. He loved it." He paused, sounding a little nasal when he continued: "Obviously, we never got round to make a family holiday out of it."

Sherlock remained silent.

John cleared his throat a few times, then looked up: "I didn't think about that card for a long time. I didn't even make the connection until this morning, when I looked round and thought how my dad would have loved this." He shook his head: "Funny that I entirely forgot about our conversation."

"It's because we were a bit drunk."

"Really? Oh yes, we were. Victory wine after solving a case, was it?"

"Hm. The Flying Frenchman. Good thing we never made a habit of victory wine. You'd never have caught me redhanded if I had been sober."

"Sure." John smiled at Sherlock, suddenly aware of how his heart was beating in his chest. After the first few weeks of Sherlock being gone, John had tried not to think about their time together too much, because the pain of once more losing the person who had been able to supply a place for him in the world had been unbearable. Even the memories of good things invariably ended in sorrow, so he had suppressed a lot, most of which was slowly coming back now.

He was grateful for the way things had turned out, and he now realized how true Sherlock's words from a few weeks earlier were, spoken on an afternoon just after John had once again been upset by his sister: "You aren't alone in the world. You've got me."

"Well," he said, "this only proves what I've always suspected and you're always denying."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes: "What?"

"That you're not selfish at all."

Sherlock's ears went pink: "You know how I feel about sentiment," he said evasively.

"It's not sentiment," John insisted, "To quote your own words: I'm just stating a fact. You did all this for me, making this Christmas very special not only because you're back."

"Well," Sherlock muttered, "attempting to stand in for someone's actual family naturally requires an effort."

Only seconds later, he found himself gripped by strong hands, nearly losing his balance and toppling over his chair when John kissed him, fiercely and breathlessly.

"Hopeless-" Sherlock managed to get out once he had recovered, "romantic!"

"No-" John replied between kisses,"just- a lucky- lucky- bastard."

 

The End

 

More author's notes: Dear Gently (again), hopefully this wasn't too fluffy for your taste. I couldn't help myself, it just happened. Writing Johnlock brings out my soft side.

I have ended the story here because the prompt was only for "a little bit of Christmas". I will probably continue it and post both parts on my AO3 account once the Secret Santa exchange is over and the authors have been revealed.

 

Surströmming is a Swedish delicacy indeed, but nothing for the weak-minded or those with a delicate nose. It's canned fermented herring, and the smell supposedly is so bad that it can instantly make one retch.

On Wikipedia, there's a very interesting story about it:

"In 1981, a German landlord evicted a tenant without notice after the tenant spread surströmming brine in the apartment building's staircase. When the landlord was taken to court, the court ruled that the termination was justified when the landlord's party demonstrated their case by opening a can inside the courtroom. The court concluded that it "had convinced itself that the disgusting smell of the fish brine far exceeded the degree that fellow-tenants in the building could be expected to tolerate."

 

The cottage I have in mind might look similar to this:

www . halmbocken . se / kroken/ (just remove the blank spaces).

www . sweranda . se/ indexengelsk. html (go to "rent a cottage" and have a look at Yngslandet).

 

 

This story is for stoertebeker



Her prompt was: cat


Her deal breakers: Mystrade, Sherlolly, Sherlock/Irene, major
character death, Mary as evil person, explicit torture scenes, child
abuse


She would generally like to read about: Johnlock or deep
friendship/Bromance, h/c, sickfic, case fic, AU (as long as it is not
too weird)


Authors note: dear stoertebeker, wish you and your cats a truly lovely
christmas and happy new year. I apologize in advance that you got me
as partner...


Summary: A journey to Cornwall leads to unexpected events and John and
Sherlock have to help each other through rough times.


Ratings: suitable for everybody, nothing too undecent.



The taste of Cornish wines



Sherlock had never been good at attending funerals. It all had started
when they had to bury grand-mere at the little graveyard at Ramatuelle
in southern France. He had been twelve years old.


The day they buried Mary Morstan Watson next to Willie Elisabeth
Watson was by no means better in that respect. The weather was quite
lovely for this time of year. There had been a long dry summer and an
unusually late autumn, it was still very warm with the leaves in all
their bright colours hanging from the trees , which hardly happened
this time of year in London.


He should be with John now. He knew he should. All he could do was to
watch him from afar, the square shoulders in the navy blue coat, the
silvery hair with the countless numbers of shades in the bright
sunshine, god, you cannot accompany him burying his wife close to
his daughter?


" Are you going to tell him?"


The oily voice creeped into Sherlock's ear like some unbidden worm.
Mycroft.


" Brother mine, if you ever breathe a word about this I will have your
dead corpse fed to Mummy's dogs." Mycroft pulled a face as if he had
gnawed on a couple of lemons, then he sighed and turned to join
Anthea, who accompanied him to his limousine with black windows.


○○○○○○


Sherlock sneaked out of the graveyard. His task here was done. He
hated it. Always had. For the moment being there was nothing left to
be done here to ease John's pain.


○○○○○○


" Sherlock, I very much appreciate your help, as you know, and I
admit, that sometimes I'm just lost without it. But don't you think
it's the time now to be at John's side and do what is necessary to
help him pulling through? There are no new leads towards the ..." "
George, I shall not leave this office without a short briefing about the
current state of investigation!"

Lestrade squeezed his eyes shut. "Greg, Sherlock, it's Greg."

Lestrade silently counted the stitches on his sleeve. " Sherlock, just
go. Just this one time. John needs you now."


○○○○○○


John had thanked and bidden the last of funeral guests farewell, he
had made sure to put the little green teddy with the one red ear onto
Willie's gravestone and the bouquet of yellow roses -Mary's
favourites- onto his wives.

He felt no tears inside. He felt empty and numb. Sherlock was nowhere
to be seen anymore.

John shuffled with weary feet towards the street and hailed a taxi. He
could not face his house in the suburbs at the moment, so he gave
instructions to the driver to head towards Baker Street.


○○○○○○


"Sherlock? Mrs. Hudson?"


John climbed the stairs up to 221b and each step seemed to be higher
than the one before. The house was dead silent until he reached the
last flight. A calm melody floated through the hallway, simple and a bit
melancholic. Sherlock's violin. John had always loved it, always, even
at three o'clock in the morning.

John opened the door. It creaked a little, but not so much as to
disturb Sherlock in his musical epiphany. He had put off the jacket but
was otherwise still in his funeral clothing. His eyes were closed, he
lead the bow with calm and steady movements, extracting the most
wonderful of tunes. John thought it might be even more wonderful than
the wedding waltz he had given to him and Mary.


And then.... Sherlock opened his eyes. If he had actually not heard
John's approach he didn't show it. John slowly crossed the room
towards his chair, which had miraculously reappeared after the
shooting incident.

Sherlock waited, not saying a word, calm, a bit scrutinizing, he
thoroughly put away violin and bow. John managed a little smile. "
Don't put it away because of me. It was wonderful, as you surely
know." Sherlock gave him back a little smile. " I can play again for
you later on tonight. That is to say if you....." he paused, but John
knew. If you want to stay over. He sighed deeply. "Christ, Sherlock, I
don't know, right? Just right now I wouldn't know a single bloody
thing!" " Sure. I see. Right."


The silence hang between them. The silence of everything that had
happened over the last days. Of why it was them together in Baker
Street again. It should have been a comfortable feeling, they had
shared this place for long enough. But it slowly became quite uneasy
so John broke the silence. " Why, Sherlock? Why?"

Sherlock didn't look at him. " I don't know, John. But I will find
out."


○○○○○○


One week before


" You're not coming."

"Then you're not going."

"Mary, look, Greg was just asked for help, because the little police
office in St. Yves is quite short of staff at the moment and he..."

"John, I love Cornwall, and I won't be in your way. I...I don't want
to stay here and...." " I know, Mary. Me neither. It just has been..."
"I know, John, I was there, remember?"

John looked at Mary's face. Searched it for some traces of the face he
had once fallen in love with. From time to time it still showed, in a
smile, in a gleam in her eyes. After the last christmas at the Holmes'
house he had never questioned his decision to stay with her, to
forgive her. In good and in bad days. And what they had endured
together lately surely had given them a new bond.


Willie had never stood a chance.

Mary had woken him during the night, it was still three weeks to go
till she was due.

"John, I can't feel her anymore! She's not moving!"

They had rushed to the hospital and John had understood already during
ultrasound and duplex. No blood flow in the umbilical artery, no heart
beat anymore.

Ruptured umbilical chord.

Together they decided to induce labour anyway, because both the
midwife as well as the obstetrician on call explained that it was
considered the better way for the grieving process to be more active
than just having a cesarean.

It was considered to help letting her go.

Willie was born the next morning and laid onto her mothers chest. John
and Mary took all their time to admire her, cry about her, say goodbye
to the baby they would never get to know.

Then she was dressed and put to rest in a little basket to stay beside
Mary's bed until Mary went home again the day after.


So, John considered, Mary needed a little break from the town as well.


○○○○○○


So all of them had travelled to Cornwall the next day.

" There has a corpse been found at the beach of St. Ives. Male, in his
thirties, diving-suit. It appears, he has been copartner at a very
small vineyard south of St. Ives. Seems he went diving quite regularly
and his cabriolet has been found near by."

" Get to the point, Gavin, surely we were not called to the deep
province to brood over a diving accident!" Lestrade smiled at Sherlock
and just answered calmly " Well, Sherlock, there was no water in his
lungs. And the cabriolet was dry, though found open and it had been
raining a couple of times." There. Sherlock didn't answer but leaned
forwards with gleaming eyes.


A couple of hours later they settled into a lovely little bed and
breakfast.

Sherlock watched John and Mary entering their double room. "John, are
you going to join George and me when we head for the wineyard?" "Yes,
Sherlock, I will join you and Greg as soon as I have freshened up a
little."


An hour later the little party gathered downstairs to meet a middle-
aged gentleman with grey hair and in a posh dark stripped suit. "Henry
Sellars" he introduced himself to Lestrade, Sherlock and John. " Co-
owner of Bacchus valley. The late Mr. Thomas Hardy was my partner. If
you allow I will have you brought to the wineyard and show you
around."

" What sorts of wine do you have, Mr. Sellars?" aked Lestrade.

"Well, Mr. Lestrade, we have specialized in very fine dessert wines. We
settled here five years ago and our reputation starts to...."

His eyes widened and he slowly got up to his feet from the chair he
had placed himself on. he stared over Sherlock's and John's shoulders.
Sherlock turned around to see Mary standing frozen in the doorframe. "
Very nice to meet you, Miss...?" Mr. Sellars said. " Mrs. Mary
Watson." Mary answered stiffly. " It is a pleasure to meet you, Mrs.
Watson" Mary didn't answer at once. "The pleasure is all mine, Mr.
Sellars. John, darling, do you mind me going for a walk? We will meet
again at supper, right?" She smiled at the men and turned to leave.


○○○○○○


The vineyard was truly lovely. It was the perfect time of year to
visit it, the plants were in full blossom, sapgreen, and some left
grapes ripe and juicy looking from the warm season and the mild salty
air flowing from the near-by sea. "We are quite busy with delivering
the new wines at the moment. Our quality was a well kept secret at the
beginning but now it's spreading. Our best customer up to now is a
well known three star restaurant in Penzance."


The cellar was well temperatured. Sherlock went through every of the
tiny arch upfolds and scrutinized each of the shelves full of
carefully labelled bottles.


"Mr. Sellars, when was the last time you saw Mr. Hardy alive?" asked
Sherlock. " It was before I went to Oxford for a seminar." answered
Mr. Sellars coldly. " I was not around when the accident took place
and I fail to see...."

The conversation ended in nothings.

Sherlock took a last view into the cellar on his own, then Lestrade,
John and him left Mr. Sellars on his business.


○○○○○○


They took their cream tea in the winter garden. The scones were fluffy,
the Cornish clotted cream was heaven, and the landlady of the place
had made the strawberry jam to go with it herself.

Mary had not yet come back from her walk.

John watched Sherlock and knew instantly that it had been a fault. He
was a bit pale lately, he had suffered with John and Mary for their
loss as well. Well, at least in a Sherlock way. But now his look was
wide open, the eyes bright blue today in the sunlight. And suddenly
there was this one word crossing John's mind. Just this one. Georgous.

He turned away quickly, guilty, and then asked "Any ideas so far,
Sherlock?" It seemed as if Sherlock had to come back from some place
miles away. He turned to Lestrade " You will not be able to catch him,
Lestrade. Invite Mr. Sellars for dinner at this place tonight and we
will apologize and travel back to London tomorrow."

"What? Sherlock, are you kidding?" John was aghast. Sherlock answered
immediately. "No, most definetly not. This is as close to perfect
murder as it can get, this is probably dangerous, and not in a good
way. Do as I say." He rushed out of the winter garden and quietly and
talked to their landlady for instructions.


○○○○○○


When the four men sat down for dinner Mary still had not returned.
John had left a couple of messages on her mobile but it was switched
off. Had she mentioned where she was going? He couldn't remember. He
glanced at the driveway but then returned his attention to the dinner
small talk. It had been a lovely sweet chestnut soup, a roast with
some vegetables and now it was time for the pudding. Sherlock went to
the kitchen himself to fetch a bottle of port to go with it.

It had already been decanted.

Mr. Sellars closed his eyes, smelled, took just a little sip and then
looked at his glass with horror.

"I'm truly sorry to say, but this is... this is...inedible...brackish
even! I strongly advise you to object at the merchant's."


Sherlock did not answer at once. He leaned forwards and there was the
well known gleam in his eyes. The almost hypnotizing gleam when he
hunted. Successfully.


" This bottle is not drinkable anymore indeed. When I entered the
cellar it was clear to me at once that it was tempered 1.75°C above
the temperature which would be considered suitable for wine storage.
Since this is an unusual warm autumn up to now I checked both the
weather here in Cornwall during your days off at the wine seminar and
browsed the history of the air conditioner. It appeared that it was
actually switched off during your absence which left me wondering why,
since there were warm days ahead. This together with the fact that the
late Mr. Hardy's death was set up as diving accident, but somehow with
no water in the lungs and his cabriolet wide open and perfectly dry,
although it had rained a warm, almost tropical like downpour. Too many
coincidences and the universe is rarely that lazy. So to prove my
suspicion I...took this bottle of fine port from your cellar. The wines
went off during the warm days without the climatic, Mr. Sellars. Thank
you for the confirmation. You imprisoned M. Hardy in the wine cellar
before you left for the seminar and turned off the air condition to
make sure that he suffocated. Which he had done the day you returned,
so you clothed him in his diving suit and dropped him into the water
and you left his car at the shore, so everything looked perfectly like
an accident. But why, Mr. Sellars? Why?"


Henry Sellars hadn't moved one facial muscle during Sherlock's
explanations. He didn't even blink. He just stared and it took him
some time to collect all his willpower to answer.

" Mr. Hardy.....he was not.... he had some interests besides the wine
yard. He was actually a gambler and liked to date ladies. Different
ladies but all with a ....well, let's say a bit unusual and expensive
likings. It got more and more money shredding to date them and to
please them, so he wanted to sell his half of the wine yard. I did not
have the kind of money to disburse him but he insisted. It would have
ruined me and all I had worked for the last years." "I see." answered
Sherlock. "Thank you. He's all yours, George." Lestrade sighed and
stood up and began to phrase the rights to Mr. Sellars when his mobile
rang. He answered and the just listened. All of his colour drowned
from his face.

" It's Mary. She has been found shot at the shore."


○○○○○○


Everything went dark around John. Not at once, it was more like
sinking into a dark tunnel, everything disappeared into a big
darkness, his vision, all of the sounds, the look of pure horror on
Sherlock's face. He could hardly remember the night and the day after,
he could not remember how he had survived this, if not for his best
friend staying with him the whole night and travel back with him to
London the next day.

They had prepared everything together. John felt like in trance the
whole time. He couldn't remember if he had been given some pills to
endure the following days up to the funeral of his wife.

○○○○○○

One week later again


"But I will find out."

And John stayed over for the night. He just didn't move, he just
stayed put in his chair, which gave him some odd comfort and Sherlock
played the violin until he fell into restless sleep.

The next day Sherlock was gone already when John woke up. There was a
cup of tea next to him and it was still warm.

John meandered restlessly through the flat, but it was not until late
afternoon, that he heard Sherlock climbing up the stairs and entering.
"Where have you been?"

"I told you that I would find out, John" said Sherlock. "Better for you
to sit down."

John obliged and waited. "She wanted to protect us, John. In the time
between our visit at the wineyard and the dinner they met." "What do
you mean, they met? They ran into each other accidentally and he just
shot her?" "Certainly not, John, do keep up. Nothing was accidentally.
Have you noticed Mr. Sellars eyes, John? They have the same little
rhoms speckling the iris as ...Mary had. This is hereditary, John.
They were half-sibblings but hadn't seen each other since Mary had
gone into the assasin business and surely not afterwards when she had
put on Mary Morstan's identity. He had just a vague perception that in
her past she had not been up to very much she could be proud of.
Anyway both of them recognized each other of course and Mary sensed at
once that he could be dangerous for us. After we had left Bacchus
valley she faced him. She told him to leave us alone and feeling
threatened he overpowered her and thus removed the last person to know
him for real. It seems they had never got along too well." " That was
all she was for him? A threat?" "Well, John, Mr. Magnusson already
said that she had done not so nice things in her past. But she wanted
to protect us, John. That is all we have to know for now."


○○○○○○


Three days later John was still at Baker Street. He felt like he had
not moved since the day of Mary's funeral.

"John, of course you get all the time you need to decide but..." The
question hang between them. John knew. he read it in Sherlock's eyes.
Those wonderful eyes...Mermaid green today. Interesting. Suddenly John
got furious. How could he dare even to perceive such things as
Sherlock's eye colour?? He had just buried his daughter and just a
couple of days later the woman he had made his wife! How could
Sherlock just stand around at the chimney and look so....damn
it!..absolutely alien-wonderful? The rage coiled in John's stomach. "
Damn it, Sherlock, I told you that I don't know! How can you expect me
to pick up everything where we left it before you jumped off the roof?
Everything has changed, don't you see?" "Of course. I'm sorry, John.
But things have not changed for you exclusively, John. Maybe you could
take a second to consider this as well. I....I know ....I just don't
want to be alone anymore, John. And of course I'm not Mary but....
Maybe it could help you as well...." "What if this will never feel
like before again? Living here, Sherlock, living with you, at Baker
Street?" "I will have you anyway" answered Sherlock quietly.

"Christ, Sherlock, don't yousee? "John heard his voice, but
didn't recognize it as his own, too shrill. " I feel like I would
still betray her, or be a rubbish dad, or ....and then you come along
and ....look perfect and....say nice things and....hell, Sherlock I'm
just not.... gay!!"

Sherlock looked at him aghast, mouth hanging open. " But John,
.....John....., neither am I!"

That was all it took for John to cross the room and almost flee into
Sherlock's arms, and all he recognized was that the embrace was just
perfect, they fitted perfectly and John allowed himself the first tears
since Mary had died and been buried, and soon Sherlock's shirt with
the wonderful smell of his cologne (Egoiste) was dump and a mess but
Sherlock held him tight anyway and like he would never ever let him go
again. It was a promise that of course they had to stay with each
other from now on, it was a promise to be with each other through the
good and bad days and now it was just not the moment to decide how far
they would go. It didn't matter at the moment. For the moment being it
was just perfect.

"I know she will always be a part of your life, John. No need to leave
her on the threshold should you come back to me." Sherlock murmured
into John's hair.

"Of course I will. God help me, it's all I want" answered John.
And the embrace endured and neither of them bothered the time.


○○○○○○


The days went by and december approached. John thought that they had
done tremendously well since they moved back together. They had never
talked about how to define their relationship but there were certainly
some very warm looks at each other, more consideration on Sherlock's
side for John's well being, more little contacts when passing each
other. But that was it.


It was not before the 10th of december when they were on their way to
leave the flat and Sherlock held the door for John with a very warm
smile that they heard a little weep. Mrs. Hudson looked at them with
almost teary eyes. Then they noticed. They had just passed the freshly
decorated mistle toe at the door.


○○○○○○


John gave Sherlock the perfect christmas gift. He took him to
Ramatuelle, southern France.

With embraced hands they stood at the grave of Sherlock's beloved
grand-mere. John gave Sherlock all the time he needed, he could tell
by his breathing -pattern. A wonderful grey little cat made herself
comfortable on the grave. She looked at them with half-closed eyes and
started to purr.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock said with a hoarse voice.

"Anything, Sherlock." answered John. "Anything"



The end

 

Last edited by Schmiezi (December 4, 2014 5:17 am)

This story is for NotYourHousekeeperDear.

Author’s Note:
WWII without hurt/comfort and too much drama? Talk about a challenge! I hope this is suitably un-angsty enough for you. This is my twisty-turny take on your prompt, and I hope the subject matter because of it counts as quirky enough. Enjoy!

Blurb:
John is, frankly, rather tired of being dragged along with Harry and her friends. It always ends badly for him. But ghost hunting? He can just picture it: dark rooms, locked doors, disappointment - it’s a disaster waiting to happen.

Or is it?

Rating:
Teen for language

Bump in the Night

John really should have known better than to tag along with Harry and her friends. He should have that any ‘adventure’ involving Harriet and her group of girls would end badly for him; after all, he’d proven that point at least ten times by being left behind in increasingly more precarious places.

Like accidentally being left in the locked cellar of Sarah Bergey's house next door for five hours when he was eleven.

But John’s a teenager now, he rationalises. He’s smart enough to know when things are going too far, strong enough to wrestle his way out of a bad situation, and charismatic enough to talk to a few older girls like he knows what he’s doing. This really shouldn’t have been a big deal. Harry had begged him to come along–it’s my birthday, Johnny, and I’m only home for a few weeks before I go back to uni, pleeeeease?–so John had sighed and given his hesitant consent.

If the fact that Harry’s gorgeous best friend Clara would be attending swayed his decision at all, he didn’t admit it.
Harry was the kind of person who became obsessed with topics and activities on a whim before discarding them. She’d had a princess phase, a goth phase, an athletic phase, and an introvert phase. She’d watched Doctor Who for days on end in the summer before declaring it silly and latching onto rom-coms instead. She’d drawn for months before pitching all of her art equipment into the nearest skip and declaring it to be a waste of time, and written manuscripts a mile long before deleting them all.

John had laughed when she said she wanted to start paranormal investigations. When her expression had stayed dead serious, the smile had slid off his face and landed somewhere in the pit of his stomach.

‘You’re serious?’ he’d asked, deadpan.

‘Deadly,’ she had responded with a smirk, waving an EMF detector in his face.

So that was how John Watson found himself lingering behind Harry and Co. with their 11 cm heels, a tan head bobbing up and down in an attempt to peer over their heads and stare at the foreboding black door before them.
The eight members of ‘The Ring’ (as Harry had declared them over a late-night snack at the Chinese restaurant around the corner) all have silly titles and jobs that John had only been paying half-attention to while shoveling hot dumplings and beef chow mein into his mouth. Harry is the Ringleader (they’d all had a chuckle at that while John rolled his eyes), in charge of narrating to the main cameras and directing the equipment. Clara, Jamie, Sarah, and Mish are in charge of the cameras, which had been somewhere in Mish’s basement and luckily are equipped with night vision capabilities. Amina and Charlotte had been placed in charge of the duffel bag full of equipment varying from makeshift instruments and surprisingly costly ‘hunter’ equipment, like a spirit box, Harry’s EMF, and something called an Ovilus that Harry and Co. had bought using old birthday money and part-time job income.

And John? John got to rummage for old voice recorders to hand out as needed.

There are five of the devices in his pockets. He rubs them with his fingers
as Harry slips a key she’d obtained from the landlady of the flats before them into the door and opens it with a creak.

John isn’t nervous. Why would he be? He’s become so inured to violence and scary jump scenes from horror movies over the years that a few bumps and noises aren’t going to scare him. It’s more likely that he’s going to punch anything trying to attack him than flee like a screaming schoolgirl. However, the way the street-lamps catch the glint of the shining ‘221b’ mounted on the door as it opens into the shadows makes him shiver a little.

No one had lived at 221 Baker Street for years. Even the landlady had vacated her flat within the building, telling the Watson children that she had been trying to sell or rent at least one of the three living spaces for years.

‘They always leave after a few weeks,’ she’d said solemnly as she had handed them a plate of biscuits the night before. ‘The place gives people the creeps. It’s an old building, mind you, and I kept lowering the rates, but no one will stay. Even I admit it’s eerie to be in there alone.’

Mrs. Hudson is Charlotte’s aunt, which was how Harry had found out about her golden opportunity. The elderly, doting woman had been more than happy to let the group of uni girls and tagalong John spend the night, ‘Just as long as you let me see what you find when you’re done!’

Harry flicks on her torch and steps boldly into the darkness. Clara bounces after her, camera in hand, and John finds himself still trailing behind everyone, wondering what the hell he was getting himself into this time.
The door shuts behind him with an ominous click.

They stand around in the entrance for a few moments, adjusting to the low light put off by Harry’s torch, before someone reaches forward with a pale arm and opens the second door.

‘Where to, first?’ Harry asks, waving her light around. There’s a staircase to their left and two doors down the hall to their right. John nearly walks into the side of a fireplace, muttering apologies to the girls he runs into to avoid a scrape.

‘That’s Aunt Martha’s old flat,’ Charlotte says, pointing straight ahead. ‘There’s nothing special about it. We could go into the basement flat, but it’s smelly and full of damp.’ The girls give a collective shudder at that, and John wonders why the heck they’re ghost hunting if a bit of mould makes them shy away from investigating. ‘The upstairs one is the interesting place. Lots of dusty furniture, and that’s the one Aunty
kept trying to rent out.’

‘221b it is,’ Harry says decisively, already moving and taking the steps two at a time. John lingers behind, taking in the general layout of the entrance hall and making sure he doesn’t fall flat on his face in front of Clara if he trips on a stair. He automatically fumbles for a light switch as he trails into the door, but a hand slaps his away from the wall.

‘Careful, Johnny,’ Harry hisses. ‘You’ll ruin the mood and scare the spirits away if you turn it on.’

John thinks that if spirits were scared away by a lit room, then there wouldn’t be anything for them to find by now, but he keeps his lips pressed together in disapproval. He thinks he sees Clara give him a reassuring smile, and it makes something warm in his chest, but he can’t really be sure in the dark.

‘Cameras on?’ Clara asks, gesturing to hers. The sound of the devices turning on with clicks and beeps pierces the quiet.

‘Alrighty,’ Harry says, absently smoothing her hair out of her face and smiling at them with white teeth and blue eyes. ‘Let’s get started.’

~
They eventually settle into a circular formation, with the four camera girls around the remaining Ring members. John keeps his hands clasped behind his back as he waits for Harry’s cues to do something other than stand around awkwardly.

‘Hello,’ Harry says confidently into the empty space. ‘My name’s Harry Watson, that’s my little brother John,’ she points at him, ‘and these are my friends, Clara Oswald, Michaella DeWeese, Amina Abbasi, Charlotte O’Callahan, Jamie Moran, and Sarah Bergey. We’re here to prove that this place isn’t just an old, dingy flat full of silly stories. If there’s anyone there, we’re just here to learn about you, talk for a little while, and share your story. If you want to come out and chat, we’d appreciate that a lot.’ She looks to Clara for encouragement, and the small, slender girl gives a smile and a nod.

‘Turn on the EVP recorders,’ Harry says, beckoning to John. He fumbles with them for a second in an attempt to find the power and start buttons before handing them out to the three others. He gives one to Clara and returns her beatific smile before flicking one on himself.

Harry sweeps her torch across the living room. John catches a glimpse of a set of mismatched, old armchairs, a dusty fireplace, a shelf full of decorative bottles, and... hold on a second, is that a skull?

‘Wait,’ he says, lunging forward to grab Harry’s arm and steady it on the white shape. He steps forward, leaping over a cardboard box full of books, to peer at the macabre decoration.

‘Well,’ Amina says, her voice wavering a little. ‘Is it real?’

‘Yeah,’ John says without thinking, squinting at it. ‘You can see where it’s starting to go yellow. Look, there’s a crack there, and you can see by the jaw shape that it’s male.’

They stare at him.

‘Hey,’ he says defensively, raising his hands. ‘You know I want to be a doctor. We learned about the difference in Biology.’

Jamie shivers.

Harry warily stares at the skull for a few moments before setting her recorder down on the chair closest to her.
‘What do you want to try first?’ she asks. ‘We could ask questions, try the dowsing rods, pull out the Ouija board?’
‘We already have the recorders running,’ John points out, taking the initiative to settle onto the dusty floor.
Clara nods and points her camera at him.

‘Who’s going first?’ she asks, stepping closer. ‘Harry? Mina? Charl-’

There’s a thump from behind them, like a book hitting the ground. Jamie and Amina let out squeaks of surprise and terror as Clara pivots, pointing her camera at the direction of the kitchen. Harry’s torchlight skitters over a table, two chairs, a sink, and no one. John cranes his head to get a better look.

‘Did you hear that?’ Sarah asks, stepping back.

‘Of course we heard it,’ Harry snaps.

‘I’m moving,’ Jamie declares, scooting away from the arch.

As the girls rearrange themselves to face the arch and lean against boxes, furniture, anything but empty space, John plays back his recorder into his ear.

Between the grainy, girlish squeals and Mish’s question, he hears something that shouldn’t be there. Is that... laughter?

‘Harry, listen,’ he demands, holding the recorder towards Clara’s camera and hoping the audio distortion will convince Harry of... whatever she’s looking for. His sister gets closer, her ear nearly pressed to the device, as John plays it back again. Something resembling a baritone chuckle rasps through the device, and Harry beams with success at her team in response.

‘Give me that,’ she says abruptly, reaching across John and plucking a still-running device from Charlotte’s fingers. She settles next to him on the floor, crossing her legs and setting the device between them. Amina and Charlotte follow suit.

‘Most people go into these things with some knowledge of the history of the inhabitants of a location,’ Amina starts, taking the initiative. ‘We can’t find anything for this place. I spent last week speaking to historians and researching online, but no fruit. Could you help us out a little?’

They wait expectantly.

‘Maybe a name?’ Sarah suggests, shifting her camera.

More silence. John holds back a sigh.

‘End EVP,’ Clara says quietly from behind John. He automatically reaches forward and hits the red button, lifting the device and passing it back to Charlotte. She gives him a wavering smile of gratitude and turns up the volume, holding it close to her camera microphone and playing it back.

John gets jostled and shoved to the outside of the converging ring of girls. He wonders again if he really needed to be spending the night avoiding the shaking and shrieks of scared uni students, because, despite his contribution to their discovery of the apparent spirit, he seemed to be nothing but the awkward kid getting in the way. Clara must have seen the expression on his face, even in the dark of a London night, because she shifts to allow him to step closer.

The laugh that had been picked up on his recorder doesn’t play on Charlotte’s. Jamie and Sarah squeeze a little closer to each other at the empty static, leaving John just enough room to see where Harry’s hand firmly holds the device in unwavering fingers.

Amina’s warm, Arabic voice wafts through the device through a layer of static, distorting it into an eerie, nearly ghostly declaration. As her first question hangs in the air, the static crackles, and Harry gasps, shaking the device a little.

'Did you hear?' she says excitedly, blond curls bouncing as she whips it around to look expectantly at her friends.

'No,' John says, confused. 'Was I supposed to?'

'It was a definite "go away,"' Mish says from behind Clara.

'I heard that, too,' Jamie pipes up, looking even paler in the near nonexistent light than normal. 'Keep going.'

John didn't hear anything but a burst of static. That laugh, he's certain, was a figment of his imagination. Harry and her friends–even Clara–are just too gullible. He wonders if he can find an excuse to just go home. After all, haunted or not, an old, creaking flat in the dead of the night is a little unnerving. His hand shifts to where he thinks he might keep a gun someday, if the way his life seems to be laid out continues on its path.

The crackle of Amina's technology-warped voice continues on its path. The static of silence at the end of her second question remains constant, save for a bleep of noise at the end. Sarah, who John has decided probably should not have come with them from the way she is shaking like a leaf, jumps and nearly tips Charlotte into him.
'Home,' Clara says. 'Listen again, that's what I hear.’

Harry rewinds it a little. When the sound bleeps across the static, John supposes that it could be interpreted as the word 'home.' Or it could be 'hope.' Or 'hoax.' Really, it just sounds like a radio signal cutting into theirs, but he once again decides that it's kinder to say nothing to the circle of girls nodding their heads.    
   
'That's not a name,' he says instead.

'True,' Clara acknowledges, smiling at him again. He feels heat rising to his cheeks at the gesture, and quickly looks away. 'Suppose we try something else, Harry?'

Harry beams at her and hands off the recorder to Amina.

'Why not? Maybe we'll get better results in a quarantine.' Her lamp-like eyes scan the group until they land on John. A wide grin, full of mischief, crosses her face, and a sense of foreboding falls over John.

Oh, no.

'Johnny, why don't you go first?' she asks.

'What?' he says, caught off guard. 'Now, wait a minute-'

'You can take the master bedroom,' she continues, ignoring him. 'Nice and wide, and not a lot of stuff, so you won't trip over anything and die. Clara and I can go upstairs to the second bedroom and bathroom. Amina and Charlotte can do the kitchen, and Mish, Jamie, and Sarah get to hang out in the front entryway. We'll tackle the basement flat together. Agreed?'

'No, wait, you want me to sit in the dark of an unfamiliar house and talk to the air?' John asks incredulously.

'Really? You're serious?' Harry beams at him. 'Jesus, no. Absolutely not.'

'Aw, but Johnny...' she whines. 'It's my birthday! Please?'

'Harry, I'm here because you asked,' he says, gripping his voice recorders more tightly, 'but I didn't really sign up for this. I didn't know–'

'Please?' Clara asks, and he falls silent. 'It's just for a few minutes, Johnny. Then we're going back to the group activities. I planned this out with your sister, and it'll get much more interesting when it's all over. I know you're skeptical–' John tries to protest, but she gives him a knowing look, and he presses his lips together, '–but I promise that reviewing the evidence is much more entertaining. So... You in?’

'Yes, fine,' he finds himself saying, and he violently curses at himself in his head. 'Let's get this over with, yeah?'

~
Twenty minutes later, John finds himself sitting awkwardly on the edge of a queen-sized, dusty bed, with two recorders on the table next to him and both Clara's and a regular home video camera pointed at him from tripods. The two black masses in the darkness are almost more intimidating than the chilliness and dusty darkness that the master bedroom is. He'd walked through the kitchen to get to it. As he'd passed it, a metal dish had slipped off of the table in the center and clattered to the floor. He brushed it off as his bumbling clumsiness, but something nagged at the back of his head.
    
You didn't touch it, John.
You would have felt it hit your arm.
The angle was wrong.

He shakes his head. Now's not the time to be nervous about myths and legends. He's smarter than this, he knows. He has top-of-his-class marks, Band 1 ranking for his UKCAT, and nearly exceptional scores on his BMAT that'll aid in his quest to make it to medicine in uni, as long as he can keep them in top shape through the rest of sixth form. Science is key to where he wants to go, and he's religious enough to believe in a heaven and a hell and not getting stuck in between.

So he takes a deep breath, and, feeling utterly ridiculous, addresses the air.

'Uh, hello. I'm John, John Watson. You might remember me from down the hall.' He fights the urge to bury his head in his hands and continues. 'I, uh, I tagged along with my sister and her friends for her birthday. Sibling pressure, and all. God, I hate older siblings. But, well, if there's actually anyone there, I don't know anything about the history of this place. I believe we don't know a thing about each other. I don't even know your name.' He lets out a quick laugh. 'For all I know, I'm talking to no one.’

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a pair of earbuds, glancing at the door to make sure no one's looking. Harry told him specifically not to use a headset–apparently, it messes up anything the "spirits" must be saying.
But honestly, right now, he doesn't really care.

So he grabs a recorder and plugs in the earbuds before sticking one into his left ear and looking expectantly at the blackness before him.

'Thought I'd try this,' he says, feeling foolish.

There's a moment of pure 'silent' static as he sits quietly. Then something crackles at him, and he freezes.
'Holmes.'

'Holy shit!' he curses, accidentally dropping the recorder. The device clatters to the ground, yanking the buds from his ears, and he scrambles to replace them.

‘Is there someone there?' he asks, gripping the recorder tighter.

Another beat of silent static. Then that same scratchy baritone chuckle reaches his ears.

'Yes, there is.’

He sits in shock for a minute, trying to come up with a good explanation for whatever he's hearing. Then he swallows thickly and tries to speak past the knot suddenly resting in his mouth.

'So... You're saying-'

'King's or Imperial?'

'Sorry?' John asks, caught off guard.

'Which will you be attending, King's or Imperial?'

John blinks for a moment in the darkness, absolutely baffled.

How on Earth...?

'King's, sorry, how did you-‘

'I play the violin when I'm thinking,' the voice interrupts, blazing right over John's question. 'Well, played. You said you didn't know a thing about me, so there you go.'
     
John lowers the recorder to his lap and closes his eyes. Whatever the feck is happening, he's not ready to process it. Jesus Christ, he's talking to a ghost.

'How do you feel about World War II?'

John takes a moment to register the question. It doesn't help the confusion.

'Sorry, what?'

'Catching up on timelines, gauging the difference since I last spoke to someone. It's been a while now. Helps me to put my thoughts in order. People have issues talking about world conflicts, not really sure why, I'll ask one. British supporter or–'

'Queen and Country,' John cuts in. 'Just to avoid any assumptions.'

'Of course,' the voice says dismissively. 'Look at you, absolutely loyal to Britain.'

John stares at the recorder, where the red indicator blinks merrily at him.

'Did someone say something about me downstairs?'

'Not a word,' the voice promises, and this time it is a little closer, a little louder.

'Then who said anything about where I'm going to uni?'

'No one,' the voice said. 'Well, I did. Technicalities. Just started a school holiday, clearly preparing for university, probably just got your acceptance letter from King's College London.  Wasn't that difficult of a leap.'

'But,' John sputtered, 'how did you know about King's?'

He isn't sure, but it sounded like there was an intake of breath on the other side.
     
'Bit simple, really. Your clothes appear to be limp and washed out, indicating they've  been around for a while, despite the exaggerated change in size that comes with puberty. Indicates lower middle class, saving up money you don't have because your sister upstairs is using most of it. You're clearly an upper sixth form student going by your age and the fact that you've glanced several times at your watch and fidgeted with the recording devices–plenty of work piling up, the way you slide your fingers along the devices is like holding a pen or a pencil when writing something particularly long. You don't have the stress indicators of someone staying up late to bring up their grades or find a job suitable for someone not continuing their education, so doing well in school. You’re on holiday, otherwise you wouldn’t be camping out in an old flat until morning during a weekday. Staying locally in London means you don't have to pay for room and board, so more likely you'll be attending university here. You have an insignia on your jumper with the letters KCL and another on the sticker attached to your device with the letters ICL, so maybe a fan, more likely places to which you have been accepted for university, going by the time of the year and the fact that you are in your last year of schooling, King's or Imperial?'  

'Wow,' John says after a beat of silence. 'You sure you didn't just read my mind, or something?'

'Too easy,' the voice dismisses, and John imagines a figure waving it off with a flick of a wrist. 'Boring. I didn't see or read, I noticed. Much more fun.'

John pulls his mobile from his pocket and glances at the stickers attached to the back.

‘That... was amazing,’ John says, momentarily forgetting who he’s speaking with.

‘Wow. You got all of that from a glance in the dark? How did you get into my pockets?’

A small laugh rings through the static. ‘I’m not exactly corporeal. I can be everywhere at once, filling a room, or sitting on the tip of a pen.’

He sounds rather pleased with himself as John shivers.

They (well, John; he isn’t really sure what the spirit, ghost, whatever he is, is doing) sit in the dark as the cameras whir and continue to record. The absurdity of his situation smacks him in the face with the force of a well-landed punch, and for the life of him, he can’t think of what to say.

‘You really think so?’ the voice pipes up, ringing in dulcet baritone notes. ‘That it was amazing?’

‘Of course it was,’ John assures. ‘Quite extraordinary. Bit scary, honestly, but very impressive, Mr...’

A sigh wafts through the recorder. ‘Do pay attention, Mr. Watson, I mentioned it the first time you heard me.’   

John goes back over the conversation in his head, rifling through the words until he stumbles upon an answer.
‘Mr. Holmes?’

‘The name’s Sherlock Holmes,’ the voice supplies. ‘Holmes of Bletchley Park. And... thank you, I suppose. That’s not normally what people say.’

‘And what do people normally say?’ John asks, glad to have something to latch onto.

‘Well, nothing, really,’ Sherlock admits. ‘They either can’t hear me, or they usually run screaming. But when I was alive, the common response was, “Piss off.”’

John can’t help but smile at that. Then he wonders if he’s gone mental.

Determined to keep his head level, he checks the timer on his mobile. Five minutes left before Harry and the others come for him.

‘Bletchley Park?’ he asks, and the air shifts around him, warming slightly. ‘Important, much?’
Despite having no visual of his ghost, he can almost see Sherlock preening. He envisions a tall, lithe figure, with pale skin and inky curls, smiling briefly at him.

‘I was a consulting detective before the government came recruiting. Only one in the world. I invented the job. When the police were out of their depth, they came to me. Then my brother, who was, essentially, the British Government, roped me into aiding Queen and Country by offering my skill set. Tedious, really, but I was surrounded by people marginally more intelligent than the Commonwealth, and I found I rather enjoyed the experience. My morality was in question from the moment I entered primary school, but defending a cause I believed to be marginally better than the Germans’ was satisfying. I was more interested in the puzzle, the game, and the stimulus the pressure of time gave me. Really, I was there because I wanted to hurry the end of the war along in favour of Britain and return to my crime scenes. People are just more alluring than numbers and letters. Turing was interesting, though. Not many people who aren’t boring, and, in some regards, he was just like me. Terribly empathetic, though, and very introverted. People didn’t capture my attention the way they did mine.’

John lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. Not only has he actually begun conversing with the impossible, but the man occupying the room with him seems awfully important. He glances at the time in his hand before smiling into the darkness.

‘That sounds rather exciting, Mr. Holmes.’

‘Sherlock, please,’ the ghost insists through the earbud.

‘Let me guess,’ John says wryly. ‘Formalities are beneath the great and mighty Sherlock Holmes?’

A huff of indignation rings through the device, and John starts at the puff of air that dances across his cheek.

‘I’m thinking of joining the army,’ he blurts before he knows what he’s doing. ‘Harry and the others don’t know, and I wouldn’t dare worry my Mum and Dad about it until I’m absolutely sure. It’s just.... you’re right. Harry’s using everything we have for her schooling, and I know she feels right awful about it, but there’s nothing we can do. My parents can’t really pay for me to go to uni, much less medical school, even with the grants, and... just being a doctor isn’t going to cut it for me. It’s just not...’   

‘Exciting enough?’ Sherlock prompts. ‘I spotted it right away. You are the kind of person who seeks an adrenaline rush. Not uncommon in youths reaching adulthood, especially around the time that the war started and being a soldier was synonymous with being a glorified superhero. But it’s different for you, isn’t it? You crave an outlet. You want that thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins; one man against the rest of the world. I was the same,’ he added when John opened his mouth to protest. ‘Different in that I wasn’t an idiot trying to prove myself to society–no, no, no, don’t be like that, practically everyone is–but the same need for excitement is there. I’d say there was nothing the matter with it, but I am a high-functioning sociopath. However, I’m hardly wrong.’

‘Thanks,’ John says sarcastically. ‘That’s really encouraging.’

Sherlock sniffs (or, at least, that’s what John thinks the sound is). ‘Don’t be ridiculous. You’ll be a fine soldier, and an army doctor.’   

‘Dr. Watson has a nice ring to it, doesn’t it?’ John asks, more to himself. ‘Captain Watson.’

‘Hmm,’ Sherlock hums noncommittally at him.

John opens his mouth to say something snarky, but then the timer on his phone goes off with a cheery burst of music.

‘Fascinating,’ Sherlock says, sounding enraptured. ‘And that’s coming from the little box in your hand? I’m guessing it’s a communication device of some sort. Rather advanced. Is it a computer?’

‘As a matter of fact, it is,’ John says, shutting the sound off. ‘Mr. Turing’s ideas came a long way. I suppose they were your ideas too, yeah?’

‘Obviously,’ Sherlock replies, and John envisions his figure’s smile twitching slightly despite the dismissive tone of the spirit’s voice.

‘John! You done?’ Harry yells from down the hallway. John scrambles to his feet and stares at the cameras for a moment, then the recorder in his hand.

Something inside of him tells him that he shouldn’t let Harry know what happened Harry what happened in the master bedroom of 221b. Sherlock is his secret to keep, after all, and judging by the temperature drop in the spot next to him, the man disapproves of his sister and her loudness.

‘I’ll distort your videos,’ the velvety voice said quietly in his ears. ‘You can take care of the recorder, I’m sure. It was less painful to speak to you than most, John Watson. Thank you for the opportunity.’

John feels his heart sink a little at the obvious dismissal, but he nods into the darkness with the bravery of a soldier, and the static on the other end of his earbud seems to empty a little. He pulls it out of his ear.

‘Let me clean up, Harry,’ he calls halfheartedly.

He slips across the room and picks up Clara’s camera. A playback attempt results in unrecognisably distorted footage and a disturbing lack of sound. Further investigation into the second camera results in the same. He folds up the tripods with efficiency, dropping them onto the bed after shutting off both cameras and feeling oddly hollow.

The thought hits him that he could have just imagined the whole conversation to fill the eerie silence that permeates the air. He grits his teeth, knowing that it is the more logical explanation, but something tells him that what might seem more believable isn’t right.

Slowly, he brings the recorder up in his hand, squinting in the darkness to find the replay button. He grabs a dangling earbud and replaces it in his ear, and just for a moment, his hand shakes.

Then the sound of lithe footsteps against the dusty carpet rings through the air, and the static increases a little in his ears, despite the recorder not being turned on.

‘Unless, of course, you’d like to return,’ a welcome voice says wearily on the other end. ‘Er... not good, leaving so quickly?’

‘Yeah,’ John answers immediately. ‘Bit not good.’

‘Hm. Well, I was saying that your company is not unbearable. I never miss an opportunity to relearn my surroundings, and 60-odd years of the same small flat has been rather boring. I need to relearn London again. But you, John Watson: First glimpse of the supernatural and you take to it like a moth to a candle. Don’t mind talking with a 34 year old ghost who is really around 101?’

John finds that he doesn’t really mind at all.

‘Seen a bit of trouble, too, I bet?’

John contemplates that. He thinks about everything Harry and her friends have done to him, and how he somehow managed to get out of every bad situation looking little worse for the wear. He remembers punching Dean Finch when the kid had the nerve to insult Harry in front of him for the thick glasses she wore when they were both in school together. He recalls forcibly pulling two much larger bullies off of an Irish transfer student two years below just last week and making it through with barely a scratch, other than the bruised and swollen knuckles he sported on both hands.  

‘Yes, I suppose,’ he answers. ‘Probably a lot, actually, compared to a lot of people. Far too much.’

Sherlock’s voice turns mischievous. ‘Want to see some more?’

‘Oh, God, yes,’ John says fervently.

‘Brilliant,’ Sherlock says as Harry’s telltale high-heeled clicks ring against the floor on the other side of the door. ‘We’ll soon meet again, John.’

He barely registers Harry’s entrance as she pulls the recorder from his hands and plays it back, sighing over the static that seems to have replaced his enlightening conversation with the resident ghost of 221b. Clara narrates the stories of the supposed answers each of the rest of the Ring girls had collected during their quarantines, and he is shocked to discover that he doesn’t feel the need to impress her with a hastily fabricated tale of his own. Harry declares the night over, satisfied with her ‘findings,’ and John follows behind the rest of them like he always does.

If anyone notices the smirk on his face, they don’t comment.

~

It’s a few days later when John lifts his recorder from Harry’s room and retreats to listen for the remnants of his conversation. He is mildly disappointed to hear that there is nothing of Sherlock’s voice left on the recording, but just as he is about to turn it off and sneak it back to Harry, he hears a tapping sound from the audio. Hastily, he listens through, and something lights up in his brain as he recognises the patterns from a curious streak during a summer years ago. He goes back through and records the Morse code.   

John grins at the message when he translates it. Harry wonders why John’s smiling so widely when he hollers that he’ll be back late tonight, and not to worry about him, because he’s just going out to meet a friend.

-... .- -.- . .-. /  ... - .-. . . - .-.-.- /  -.-. --- -- . /  .- - /  --- -. -.-. . /  .. ..-. /  -.-. --- -. ...- . -. .. . -. - .-.-.- /  .. ..-. /  .. -. -.-. --- -. ...- . -. .. . -. - --..-- /  -.-. --- -- . / .- -. -.-- .-- .- -.-- .-.-.- /  ... ....

Baker Street. Come at once if convenient.
If inconvenient, come anyway. SH



 

This story is for mrshouse

Author's Note:
Dear mrshouse,
I hope you're going to like this little fic and that it gets near to what you're expecting.
Summary: A case Sherlock and John really didn't want, followed by an surprising conclusion for Sherlock.


Nothing’s going to change?


“You can’t be serious.” Sherlock declared, examining a few indefinable pieces of meat under his microscope which John preferred not to know the origin of.


“I’m serious as anybody can be. Why not, Sherlock?”


Now Sherlock looked up, gazing at John, eyebrows raised. “Do you really expect me to take part in this `happiness, party hats and we-all-love-each-other´-Christmas-thing?”


“Oh, come on, Sherlock. It’ll be just a little party with friends on Boxing Day. Some snacks and drinks, nice chats, a laugh.”


“Spending time with your friends? Not really my area.”


John became a bit angry. “Wrong, Sherlock. Not my friends, our friends! Mrs. Hudson, Molly, Lestrade, Mike. Maybe even Mycroft.”


Sherlock looked at John in an arrogant way.

“Mycroft? Do you really believe that,” He suddenly stopped, leaned back in his kitchen chair and put his fingertips together in front of his face like he always did when he was thinking about something.


“What?” John didn’t like that reaction, not now. In private it was rarely followed by something nice.


“If you are really able to convince Mycroft,” Sherlock spoke his thoughts out loud, “to spend some of his spare time with us rather than with those boorish newspaper readers. That could be a challenging treat indeed.” He gave John a smirk.


John cleared his throat. “Right. We have a deal then?”


“Yes, we have.” Sherlock grabbed one of the Petri dishes with meat. “By the way, do you need the microwave today?”


---


The next morning John was already dressed when Sherlock entered the kitchen, still in his pyjama pants, t-shirt and dressing gown, his feet bare. John was sitting at the kitchen table, half-eaten breakfast and a cup of coffee in front of him. He looked lost in thoughts, turning a small item in his fingers. Sherlock also got himself a cup of coffee and sat down opposite John. Only then did John become aware of him.


“I’ll never understand why you get up this early on a Sunday morning, John.”


John snorted. “It’s Saturday and around eleven a.m. already.”


“Oh, is it?”


They fell silent again. John continued playing with the item, an amulet with Celtic symbols as Sherlock discovered. “What is that?” he asked after a while.


“Oh this: it’s just a little talisman. My grandmother gave it to me when I was fifteen. She told me it’s a symbol for admiration and love and someday if I have met the right one - one who really deserves my love - I should pass it on.”


“So you haven’t found the right person yet?”


“Well, I think I have.”


“So?”


“So what?”


“Do I know that person already?”


“Yeah you do.” John suddenly got up, let the amulet slide into his trouser pocket and put his plate and cup on the cupboard next to the sink. “Right. I still have a few things to settle. Think I’ll be back sometime in the afternoon. If you consider eating anything for lunch, there’s some chicken curry left in the fridge. But I would advise you to clean the microwave before using it. And feel free to wash the dishes.”


John grabbed his jacket and left. Sherlock stared after him a little bit puzzled and sipped at his coffee.


---


Sherlock spent the day with his experiments, researching on the internet and updating his website. He even ate the chicken curry, but of course didn’t care about the washing up.

Though he was busy all the time he felt bored. Nothing really interesting happened, no convenient murder or even any other crime. He hated staying at home all day if it wasn’t for a very good reason. After writing a short essay about the speed of growth of maggots in corpses for his website in the early afternoon he had nothing to do and started moving restlessly through the living room and the kitchen. Oh, how he hated this peaceful pre-Christmas period.


As he started to arrange his books on the shelves once again, his mobile alerted him to a text. He nearly leapt to the kitchen table where it was lying. A message from John: “host taking britsh bank euston rd I am in ther”


While he was impatiently directing the cab to Euston Road Sherlock received two more text messages from John, peppered with spelling errors, telling him that there were three masked and armed men and that a security guard had been shot. Sherlock didn’t answer because he didn’t want to sell John out with the sound.


He waited for more messages but his mobile stayed silent. That fact made him extremely nervous.


When he reached Euston Road he could already see police barriers. He jumped out of the cab, threw a £20 note at the driver without really caring how much he actually had to pay and ran to the barriers. He tried to spot someone familiar. Yes, there he was.


“I need to speak to Detective Inspector Lestrade,” he demanded. The young police officer closest to him answered hesitantly, “Sorry sir, but that’s not possible at the moment.”


“Tell him Sherlock Holmes is here.” As the police man didn’t react Sherlock added louder, “Now!”


It looked like the police officer wanted to respond but as he saw Sherlock’s penetrating look he changed his mind, nodded to a colleague and went to Lestrade. Sherlock could see the Detective Inspector looking in his direction, shaking his head resignedly and saying something to the young lad who returned and lifted the barrier tape. “It’s okay, Sir.”


“Of course it is,” Sherlock murmured.


He hurried to Lestrade who offered him an unfriendly greeting. “What are you doing here?”


“I was around. Police sirens everywhere, so I thought I’d have a look.”


This was an explanation Lestrade didn’t accept. “Did you listen to the police radio?”


“You know I have my sources. There are three armed men in the bank. A guard was shot. What’s the plan?”


Lestrade sighed. “What the hell ... where did you get that from?”


“John is in the bank, Greg,” Sherlock hissed.

The DI seemed to be surprised and shocked. Surprised perhaps because Sherlock got his name right but definitely shocked about John. “Oh feck!” was all he could respond.


“Exactly. So, what are we going to do?”


“Oh, we will do nothing, Sherlock. I asked for a negotiation expert. The alarm was activated twenty minutes ago and the hostage-takers are still in the building. They destroyed the security cameras in there but missed one which seems to be more hidden. Unfortunately it only shows a small part of the room. But we can see one of the hostages and also the offenders crossed the picture a few times.”


“Show me.”


“No, Sherlock you can’t barge in,” Lestrade looked into Sherlock eyes, sighed again and then led him to a van nearby.


“But how do you know all the details?” Lestrade insisted.


“John managed to text me. But,” Sherlock gave the man from Scotland Yard a worried look. “I didn’t hear anything from him for about ten minutes.” The thought of what could have John stopped from texting stabbed Sherlock in the gut.


---


John had just wanted to withdraw cash at the machine. But his card hadn’t worked, once again, and because the machine hadn't called him by name and he couldn’t spot Mycroft’s car anywhere he’d come to the conclusion that this time it was for real and he’d entered the bank to sort it out. Though it was pre-Christmas time there’d been only a few other customers and he’d been glad that he wouldn’t have to queue for long. Just a moment later two disguised men with guns had stormed the branch from the front entrance, shouting, “Down on the floor, everybody, down! And shut up!” Another armed man had come from the back. John wasn’t sure if this guy had already been in there or maybe used a back entrance.


John had raised his hands and slowly got on his knees, and then he’d been nudged back to the place where he was now sitting on the floor, with his back against a counter.


Damn! Why did such things always happen to him? This morning he hadn’t been able to make an important decision and now he was a hostage in a failed bank robbery. Failed because the security guard had taken action, pulled his gun and been shot and one of the clerks had activated the alarm. Certainly these guys had planned a fast in-and-out-thing, not a longer stay with participation of the police.


They’d sworn a lot and drawn the plastic curtains to prevent anybody from getting a look inside and vice versa. The security guard was lying in a slowly growing pool of blood. John didn't have any hope for him. Shit! He wished he’d brought his gun but usually he didn’t do that in the daily routine.


A young woman sat on his right, silently crying. On his left there was a man in dirty overalls, his eyes nervously following every move of the hostage-takers.


Carefully, always observing the villains, John got his mobile out of his trouser pocket, laid it next to him on the floor, to hide it behind his pulled up legs, and started typing with one hand. His neighbour reacted even more nervously.

“What are you doing?” he whispered, “If they spot it.”

To John’s ears it sounded like shouting.


“Shush! Trying to get help.” John stopped short as one of the gunman looked in their direction.

“But the police ...”

“Know someone better. And now Shush!”

Altogether he sent three text messages. But then one of the villains decided to sit on the counter he was leaning against, making it too dangerous to continue texting. Hopefully Sherlock got the messages alright, because John partly typed them blind.

Each of the gunmen reacted absolutely differently to the situation. A calm guy had lifted himself up on the counter behind John. In the mirror image of the glass door opposite him, John could see that this guy was just looking around or examining his gun. Another one was standing near the entrance, only two metres away from the dead security guard, observing the hostages. The third one worried John the most because he seemed to be extremely annoyed. He restlessly walked up and down the room, fidgeted with his gun and shouted rudely at the scared hostages from time to time. He was the one who’d shot the guard.


John swallowed. Was Sherlock already outside? He must be.

---


Sherlock was staring at the monitor. The picture showed a young man in a suit, obviously one of the clerks, sitting on the floor next to an information desk with a scared expression . His forehead was bleeding. Nothing else could be seen.


“No sound?”

“Unfortunately not, Sherlock.”

“And this camera is the only one left?”

“Yeah. I think they missed this camera because the plant, tree, whatever takes the view a bit.”


In fact there was a twig with leaves at the edge of the picture.
Suddenly a phone in the van started ringing. A police officer answered it and passed it on to Lestrade. “The hostage-takers. They called 999 to get through.”

“Put them on speaker,” Lestrade ordered, and then he answered the call, “This is Detective Inspector Lestrade speaking.”

“We need a van and free retreat.”

Sherlock gasped. John. They were using him as a spokesman. Last time someone did that, John was wearing a semtex vest around his chest. “Oh god,” Sherlock whispered. His throat was dry and he pressed his hands to his thighs Lestrade wouldn’t see how much they were shaking.


“If you try anything stupid we have hostages. You want them all back alive?”
Lestrade wanted to reply but got no chance.
“You have one hour.” The call was terminated.

“That was ...”

“John.” Sherlock ended Lestrade’s sentence. “The forced him. It sounded like he was reading something.” Sherlock closed his eyes to gather himself. John needed him. He needed John more than anything else. That was a surprising realisation in Sherlock’s mind.


He must do something. “Plans. I need plans for the building.”

---


The calm hostage-taker nudged John to the floor again after he’d forced him, gun to head, to make the phone call and read the message scribbled on the back of a brochure. This time John found himself next to the young clerk who had activated the alarm. Fortunately the calm guy had prevented the nervous bloke from killing the clerk too and had just beaten him with his gun.


“They going to kill us,” the young lad snivelled quietly.

John tried to calm him down. “Police are already outside. In any case they need us. They have no chance to end this good for themselves otherwise.” The young man just looked down and shook his head.


John tried to brace himself. What would Sherlock do? First, have a look around. It was a smaller branch bank, just two counters. There were three clerks and, John turned his head slightly to count, seven other hostages. What else? The front door was an automatic sliding-glass door, next to a big window. He didn’t have a clue what was behind the door at the back; probably an office, a common room and toilets.


Sherlock would certainly have had several ideas already how to escape this situation, but John was stumped.


“The police need to get in here somehow. Front door. Where else? Back door? Windows?” The young lad nervously observed the rude villain, who restlessly did his rounds, and shrugged his shoulders.


“Think!” John demanded.

“Maybe there is a window into the men’s toilets. Could be big enough to... But it’s not easy to reach, because -”

The rude guy reached them. “Shut up!” he snapped at them, emphasising his words with his gun.

John raised one hand. “Okay, okay.”


A toilet window. Sherlock needed to know. But how could John tell him? He had to find a way.


In the meantime?

Observe the villains. They were disguised, wearing some kind of ski masks. John no longer believed the hectic one to be the most dangerous anymore. No, in his opinion the calm guy was the more dangerous now. At that moment the calm one caught John’s eye. Though John looked down immediately, he came over and kicked against John’s leg to get his attention. His voice was muted by his mask. “I know you. You and your strange friend with the hat. Do you think he’s outside?”


John tried not to show his surprise on his face and pretended not to understand. “Sorry, I don’t”


He was interrupted immediately. “Robin and hat-man. Laughed a lot about that.” And then he added in a more aggressive way, “Is he there? After you texted him?”


Damn! John recognised that his unknowing façade was useless. He cleared his throat. “I don’t know.”


The masked guy crouched down in front of John and pointed his gun at him.
“I didn’t choose you for this call by accident, you know? It was a warning for that Holmes chap. Think there has to be something to follow. Get your mobile out and text him.”


---


The plans didn’t help. No visible possibilities to get inside the branch apart from the main entrance, not even a back door.


“Sherlock, look,” Lestrade suddenly said.


And there was John on the monitor, first alone with the young clerk, obviously whispering. Then the back of one of the villains in black overalls appeared. Sherlock desperately tried to figure out what was happening but couldn’t see anything. His eyes were wandering nervously over the screen. He didn’t have a clue what to do, an unacceptable condition.


And then his mobile sounded a text alert.


“I am the next one they are going to shoot. Answer that you understand. Window. Chin” Shocked Sherlock looked up at the monitor.

A gun barrel hit John’s face brutally, he was thrown back and his head banged on the floor.


“Bloody fucking hell!”


Sherlock’s fist smashed on the controls of the video equipment and Lestrade and the police officer startled.


With narrowed eyes Sherlock took a deep breath to calm down again. He turned to Lestrade. “Out. I need to think.”


“Sherlock, the negotiation expert is going to be here any minute. We should ...”


“Out!”


Lestrade grimaced but, with a slight move of his head, indicated the officer to follow him out of the van.


---


John felt numb after the blow. He heard and saw the hostage-taker speaking as if through a curtain.


“No more tricks. Next time you try something like that you’re dead.” John’s mobile vibrated. The villain grabbed it from the floor and read the message. “He understands.”


Suddenly he turned around and threw the mobile against the opposite wall where it broke into pieces.


“Oh yes, he’d better,” he hissed to John before leaving him.


---


After Sherlock had texted back he read John’s message again and again, keeping one eye on the monitor. John was still lying on the floor, carefully touching his bleeding nose.


The villain had had a reason for beating him. What was it?


“Window ... chin,” Sherlock mumbled. It was the only part of the message that didn’t make sense.


Different words appeared in his mind palace. Chin, chine, chink, Chinese, China ... Chinese!

But why should John ...? Suddenly his face lit up.


“Oh John, you are incredibly smart,” he proudly admitted. He reached for the plans again and let his eyes search for the right hint.


Window and Chinese. Certainly John didn’t think of Chinese restaurants with a good view in this situation. They only had one case together where Chinese were involved, “The Blind Banker”, as John “nicely” named it in his blog. And there had been an acrobat who was able to get in everywhere; even if it seemed impossible at first sight.


Lestrade stuck his head in. “Anything new, Sherlock?” Sherlock waved him nearer. “I need your eyes, Graham. We have to find a window that’s difficult to reach. Obviously at the side or back of the building.”


Lestrade joined Sherlock and he found something. “There’s a small window. Seems to be in a toilet. Why do you need this?”


“Brilliant. I’m going in.”


“You’re doing what?”


“You understood me. Let’s have a look. Unfortunately I’m not a cat burglar and might need some help.”


Sherlock jumped out of the van and was followed by a puzzled Detective Inspector.


---


John was able to sit up again. He was still dizzy, had a stabbing pain in his head and his nose hurt. He was leaning against the information desk and the young clerk passed him a tissue.


Now John was just hoping that Sherlock got the hint he couldn’t finish in his text message. The villains were on edge and John was sure that a escape attempt wouldn’t work. If the police went in for something; and they had to - everything would get out of control. The one who silently stood near the entrance the whole time was now sent to the rear part of the branch by the calm one who seemed to be the leader.

John observed what happened through a veil in front of his eyes.


Since his childhood days John hadn’t hoped to celebrate Christmas so much.


---


The window was at the back of the building on the upper floor. A quick look showed Sherlock that he could use a fire escape to get there. Lestrade once again tried telling him not to do it but of course that was useless.


Sherlock jumped, grabbed the fire escape, climbed up and pushed himself along the house wall on a narrow spur until he reached the window, which fortunately had been left ajar. The window was really small, but after he got rid of his coat and scarf by carelessly throwing them back down on the street Sherlock just managed to squeeze himself through.

He found himself in the men’s bathroom. He realised only now that he had no plan for what to do next. He had been that keen on getting into the building that his normally brilliantly working mind had skipped to follow. He reached for his trouser pocket. Yes, John’s gun was still in it. He’d taken it before leaving Baker Street, just in case.


In this moment he heard footsteps outside. Sherlock vanished into one of the cubicles, just in time to hide himself from someone entering the toilets. It had to be one of the villains. Sherlock doubted anyone else was allowed to walk around. He listened attentively, trying to figure out where exactly this guy was standing; which wasn’t that easy since his own breathing sounded extremely loud. A flush, and then a tap was turned on. A clean criminal, Sherlock thought sarcastically. He needed to use the element of surprise. Fast. He rushed out of the cubicle and knocked the masked man down using John’s gun. And then, looking down on the stock-still body he had an idea.


---


John had a look at the clock on the wall. It seemed to him like ages, but actually only slightly more than an hour had passed since he had entered the bank and all this had happened. He wondered what Sherlock was doing right now.


The calm one joined him once again. “You’re alright?” John only glared at him.
“Broken nose, ey? Bad luck. But that happens when you do stupid things. My friend,” he nodded to the nervous bloke “would certainly have gone further. He is a bit unpredictable.”


“Do you really think that’s going to work?” John’s voice sounded strained.


“What?”


“Your plan for escape.”


The villain laughed. “It had better. How many deaths are there going to be otherwise? If only a little thing goes wrong he,” again he pointed at the nervous guy “will lose his nerve. And then I will also be running for cover.”


“Yeah, he shot the security guard, but you and the other guy still could get away with robbery. A good lawyer...”


“Ah, shut up. That’s not an option.”

Right at that moment the third hostage-taker came back from the rear part of the building.


“Everything’s quiet?” the presumable leader asked.


The other guy didn’t answer, just nodded with his head bowed.


The leader waved him nearer and gave him an order, pointing at John. “Keep an eye on this bloke. He’s always good for an unpleasant surprise.” The calm one left John to have a careful look outside through the edge of the curtains.


John was a bit relieved that he didn’t give the order to the nervous guy. One false move, even a slight one could be the last straw.


John’s minder was standing near to him, so close that he touched John’s pulled up legs with his shin. Annoyed John looked up and met eyes gazing at him through the sight of the mask. Sherlock’s eyes, unmistakable. John gasped. Subtly Sherlock shook his head.


Christ, Sherlock, what are you doing? John thought and he nervously stared at the villains and back at Sherlock.


“Strong enough to take one?” Sherlock was hard to understand, whispering through the mask. John knew he had to be strong enough, so he nodded.


“We wait. When they’re standing together I will shoot at their legs. Then you'll go for the left one, me the right one. Okay?” Sherlock went on. Sherlock had expected John to reach for his gun but he still seemed puzzled.


The young clerk also started to whisper. “What’s going ...” but a nudge and a warning look from John silenced him immediately.


Both Sherlock and John started to observe every move of the masked men, waiting for the right moment, being ready to attack at any time. Unfortunately they always stood quite far from each other. It was too dangerous to shoot one of them because the other one had too much time to react. The minutes passed by.


Sherlock realised that his plan was poorly thought out. Not good, definitely not good.


Suddenly the calm villain came over again. Damn!


“They take their time, ey? They’re willing to take risks. What do you think?”


The question went to Sherlock’s direction who just nodded.


“feck, did you lose your voice or what?” The villain came nearer, and hesitated.


“Now!” Sherlock shouted and lunged at the guy. John jumped up and ran over to the other villain, forgetting about the pain he was in. But he wasn’t fast enough and the criminal was able to shoot. With a loud yell John continued his attack. He reached the man and knocked him down by punching in the temple. Then he collapsed over that guy.


Sherlock was also able to overwhelm his opponent very quickly. He pulled the mask off his head and threw his gun to the young clerk. “Here. Your turn.” He pointed at the unconscious hostage-taker and ran over to John.


“John ... feck, John.”


He carefully turned John’s motionless body around and pulled him away from the unconscious villain.


He could see that John was bleeding. This damned fucking arsehole shot John in his leg.


“John, come on, John, please, don’t ...”


John opened his eyes. He swallowed. “Calm down, Sherlock, it’s just a graze. Nevertheless it fucking hurts.”


“Are you sure?” Sherlock looked worried at John’s bleeding thigh.


John showed a forced smile. “Did you forget? I am a doctor.”


The main door crashed open and Lestrade and his men stormed in.


---


The party was over. The last one to leave had been Lestrade sometime around 2 a.m., and not really sober anymore. John wanted to call a cab for him but Lestrade suggested calling Donovan instead. Before John or Sherlock could keep him from doing it, he had already dialled her number on his mobile and gave “order” to pick him up. Of course she didn’t and Lestrade left mumbling something about needing fresh air and so on.


Even Mycroft had shown up for an hour, probably only to update his files on the attendees with personal information.


Surprisingly Sherlock had enjoyed the party quite a lot. He’d played the violin, they’d had canapés and drinks, and he had nearly been able to relax. The last party he remembered attending was during his time at university. He’d taken part just to study people’s change of behaviour under the influence of alcohol. The paper he’d published afterwards hadn't found many fans because he’d mentioned quite a few fellow students by name.

Now Sherlock was alone in the living room. John had gone upstairs not long ago. Time to do something useful. Sherlock sat down in his armchair, stretched his legs and placed his notebook on his lap. But he wasn’t able to concentrate. He put his fingertips together and stared into space. He just couldn’t stop thinking. Why had he cared so much for John during the bank robbery?


Of course they’d been in many dangerous situations together before but this time Sherlock hadn't felt any thrill. His mind had just been filled with the fear of losing John. He had acted completely illogical; a fact that had been impossible before John moved into 221b Baker Street. Sherlock mused on his desire to not letting John go when he hugged him after everything was over, the deep gaze they had exchanged. And that amazing indescribable feeling in his stomach when John’s and his lips touched for a brief kiss, noticed by none in the hectic pace, before John was brought to the ambulance.

Sherlock had read a lot about this special feeling, this feeling called love, about its chemistry and results. But he hadn't been able to imagine himself feeling it someday.


After leaving the hospital, being assured that John “only” had a broken nose, a graze to his left leg and a mild concussion, life had gone on as usual.


Really?


Sherlock wasn’t sure about that. They hadn’t spoken about the kiss and also hadn’t repeated it. But something had definitely changed. They touched each other casually more often, on arms, hands, shoulders, chest and back. And Sherlock observed John much more than he used to, and in a different way, when John wasn’t aware of it. How John’s hands typed his blog, his facial expressions when he read the newspaper, how he sat in his armchair with closed eyes stroking his injured thigh while listening to Sherlock playing the violin, his shape under the blanket when he was staying in bed the whole day after his discharge from hospital.

So that kiss, had it just been an overreaction because of adrenalin and relief? How did John feel?


Lost in thoughts Sherlock let his eyes roam and spotted a little red box on the mantelpiece right next to the skull. A present someone forgot? No, there hadn't been anything after Lestrade had left. Sherlock stood up and took the box. A small card was stuck to it. “Merry Christmas Sherlock”, in John’s handwriting. Oh no! Didn’t they agree to leave all that stuff? He would return it immediately the next morning. He put it back but then decided to take just a quick look. He opened it and lost his breath for a second.


His heart beat faster and his eyes were burning as he took out the little item, turning it between his fingers ... the Celtic amulet.

 

Last edited by Schmiezi (December 7, 2014 11:38 am)

 Guardian


Note from the author: in order to avoid spoilers, the name of the recipient, message and prompt are at the end of the fic.


I normally don't see the point of visiting graveyards. I never really understood the need to visit earth, grass and stones with names on them, while the invisible remains below don't even resemble the person one once loved. Today, I just made an exception. The pointlessness of the ritual isn't important if one just wants to say goodbye. As long as there is a ritual. And as long as there is truthfulness. My name is Mycroft Holmes and I've got a secret to share with you. I killed my brother.


Having a detective brother around is a mixed blessing, depending entirely on what he might be detecting. Sherlock always had a tendency to understand too much but he didn't understand enough. He didn't understand how difficult it is to stand up to your own blood and do the ultimate deed. And now he never will. I can't deny that never seeing Sherlock again is a strange thought. However, reality will wear off the novelty in due time. Let me tell you what led to the death of my brother and that disastrous last New Year's Eve. I didn't see his reflection in the stone, I just heard his footsteps.


It was January 2015 and the Watsons had had their baby. Of course, these events are always accompanied with pointless celebrations, as if bringing a child into this world has at some point has become an accomplishment. I helped to prevent a WWIII, something you've never heard of, that's because it was prevented, in case you wondered. Yet they expect me to congratulate people for being able to act on their biological urges. This world is stranger than most people think it is.

But you're not here to listen to my musings on the fairness of our universe, charming as the thing might seem to some. It just so happened that, for reasons beyond my comprehension, I was invited. Of course Sherlock, attentive brother as he is (and quite aware of my dislike of these types of events) insisted on my presence. Going to this would probably increase my chances of getting away with missing something else. Therefore, I had my PA buy an appropriate present, which, for reasons unknown to mankind, turned out to be a teething ring.

There I was, giving this thing to the woman who once almost killed my brother, basically out of politeness. They accepted it politely and then the whole polite ritual had come to a close. I was quite relieved. Unfortunately, one is also expected to make conversation and be generally charming, even when there is no ultimate purpose. I silently congratulated myself for belonging to a club where no one is allowed to talk.

She smiled at me kindly. 'Thank you, Mycroft, so nice of you to drop by.'

I'm not doing that again. I might as well have transmitted that thought telepathically to my brother, who smirked at me just outside Mary's view. Without Sherlock and me ever needing to talk about it, I know she shot him and he knows I know. I don't hold any grudges against her. I'm not concerned with childish endeavours like anger and revenge, I only care for reality. I know things about her Sherlock doesn't. She has made sacrifices no one else can make. Even if that means killing your loved ones. She's a guardian.


John looked at Sherlock. He moved uncomfortably from one leg to another. I knew exactly why. Due to Johns new obligations, they hadn't seen each other in a while and John felt a bit guilty about it all.

'So, what have you been up to all this time?' he finally asked.

Sherlock took this opportunity to be as dramatic as possible. 'Cold case file from 1987. Something impossible happened.'

He then waited for John to ask the inevitable, which John duly did.

'Something impossible?'

'The miraculous Christmas deaths. Five Balliol men died a few hours from each other and no one knows why. They were friends'

'Balliol men? Like in Balliol, the Oxford college?'

'The very same. I went there too, we all went there.'

'So it was about five students. Was it a car crash? Drunk driving? Unbelievable as it sounds, students do those sort of things.'

'Pay attention John, it's Christmas.'

'Hit by a giant Christmas tree? Food poisoning from black pudding?'

'No John, it's Christmas, what do people do at Christmas?'

'Work. At least if they're you.' He gave me a look as to not to exclude me. 'Or if they're you of course.' He shrugged. 'Others might visit their families.'

'Exactly,' said Sherlock, 'they were visiting their families. They lived all over the country. Yet, at that one Christmas day, they all died within an hour from each other.'

'How?'

'Natural causes. Epileptic seizure, heart attack, food poisoning, a car crash and one suicide.'

'That's impossible.'

'Well, it's certainly implausible.'

Implausible, that single little word that would always get my little brother in great trouble. I didn't say anything. If I protested, he'd only be encouraged and I didn't want that. I didn't want that at all.


I was hoping that he would get bored after a while and focus his attention on other things. But a week later I noticed that he was still on the cold case. So naturally, to encourage those other things, I met up with DI Lestrade. I invited him for lunch in a small cafe near the Thames. No, it wasn't a date, as some people here so keenly seem to desire. Although I'd rather have Sherlock draw that conclusion than find out what we actually spoke about.

'Is it gonna rain?' he said with a look at my umbrella.

I ignored the attempt at humour. 'You know why we're here,' I said.

'Sherlock.' Lestrade sighed. 'What has he done this time?'

'Nothing,' I dropped a pause in which I looked him directly in the eyes. 'Yet.'

He rolled his eyes. I must give it to him that he wasn't overly impressed. 'What do you want?'

'You've given him a cold case. Five students.'

He visibly relaxed. 'Oh, that thing, yeah that's a bit fishy. Thought it'd give him something to do.'

'I'd rather have you give him something else to do.'

He gave me a puzzled look. Curiosity had sparked. 'Why? It's pretty old.'

I looked at him evenly. 'None of your concern.'


When I met Lestrade the next time he told me Sherlock was no longer pursuing the case. I wasn't exactly reassured. Lestrade has his qualities but subtlety isn't really his greatest virtue. It wouldn't surprise me if he were pushing things a little too obviously, with disastrous consequences. Or that he just told him that I didn't want him to pursue the case. So I did what all good brothers do. I broke into his house when he was away. This time the ratio between body parts and furniture was relatively fortunate so I just considered myself lucky. You must know that when you're in his house, what he's working on isn't a great mystery. It's usually on the table, or the sofa, under the microscope, in the fridge and most likely also spread out on the floor.

This time it was the coffee table. On it was a big file, spread out over the surface, covered with post it notes. I took one look at the file and I knew I was in big trouble. This would have to stop, one way or the other. When he came home I used my last line of defence. Sarcasm.

'Christmas murders, Sherlock? Honestly? Were all the interesting cases taken?'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'Five young friends dying at the same time of natural causes. What do you think?'

'Coincidence.' I lied.

'That seems very unlikely.'

I shrugged, as casually as I could. 'Improbable things happen all the time, due to the sheer number of general things happening.'

I saw him looking at me with those piercing blue eyes. The problem with those eyes is that they tend not to miss anything.

'Since when do you care?' he asked suspiciously and I knew my act had failed. There was only one way out.

I shrugged. 'I don't,' I said and started to talk about something else. He joined in, but all the time the blue eyes were alert. I knew I just cemented his determination. He was now on the case and no one would be able to let him go.


I can persuade leaders of entire countries, but when my stubborn brother has put something in his head there's simply no hope to change his mind. I am well aware of the fact that the more I try, the more he resists. At this point the only thing I could hope for that he would leave it alone by itself, maybe helped with some condescending remarks from me. The only thing I could do now was to monitor him as closely as possible. Knowing that situations like this could always turn up I take care to tell him that I hate his coat, thus ensuring that he wears it whenever possible. There's a little microphone sewn into it.


Molly Hooper must have been busy with something when they came into her laboratory as one could hear the centrifuge. She was probably isolating DNA from homogenised tissue.

'Molly, do you have a moment? Five mysterious murders.'

'Sure.' You could hear the clicks as she disposed the tip of her pipette into the waste bin and put the pipette on her bench. She wasn't too busy apparently.

Sherlock put up his dramatic voice. 'Five students, friends, die in different locations at the same time.' He lowered his voice. 'As if they had a telepathic connection.'

'Then why hasn't it been in the news?' said Molly.

'Because it happened in 1987,' said John.

'Right.' Molly sounded sceptical now. 'And this is urgent because...'

'It's not urgent, it's interesting. How can that not be enough?'

'Right.' Molly picked up her pipette again. 'Five murders, go.'

'Five Oxford students died in 1987. Matthew Baker, suicide, George Webb, car crash, Oscar Mills, epileptic seizure, Julian Gardner, heart attack and Harry Johnson, food poisoning, medical records unfound,' rattled Sherlock.

'That's five deaths, not five murders.'

'If you want to know a rough estimation the chances of five young people dying at the same time, you take the base rate of people in their twenties dying spontaneously and take it to the fifth power.'

'That's probably a number with a lot of zeroes.'

'Yes, but you're right, it could be chance.'

She ignored his sarcasm. 'So now you want to examine the bodies. From 1987.'

'Not from the car crash and the suicide. Cause of death wouldn't prove a thing. Ideally I would examine the other three bodies and the car. Natural causes may not be so natural indeed.'

'And you need my help for what? You do know what people do with dead bodies, don't you?'

'Toxicology tests on the content of their stomachs. Mass spectroscopy, reaffirm cause of death, that sort of thing.'

'You won't find any toxin after so many years, unless you get really lucky. You know that. What are you really looking for?'

'I don't know. Something, anything that could cast doubt on the original reports.'

He must have smiled wickedly. 'And are you any good with a shovel?'


I can't exactly tell you where they went, I don't have a GPS tracker on Sherlock, you see, just a microphone. However, it was night, John and Sherlock were with Molly and there was digging. I also knew where the three students were buried. I had played with the idea of removing the bodies, but that would only be more suspicious. A body that has been in the ground for so long is unlikely to give them any clues anyway. They only seemed interested in the one who had the epileptic seizure.


They drove to the graveyard and arrived there just past midnight. They parked as close to the gate as possible, without drawing attention to the car. Then they walked in the dark. The gate was locked but Sherlock carried a large bag with pliers and other equipment and with a few scratches and cracks, the gate swung open with a screeching sound. It was silent when they walked to the grave, only the soft sound of their footsteps. When they arrived, they dropped their bags with comparatively loud thuds and took their shovels. A pause, they must have looked at each other under the starry sky, and then they started digging.

'This is the weirdest thing I've ever done in my life,' Molly whispered.

'And the most illegal, probably,' said John.

She giggled. 'I really don't think so.'

They worked in silence for a long time until they hit the coffin. Then they slowly cleared the lid, that apparently was still intact.

'You know what to look for when looking for cyanide poisoning?' asked Sherlock.

'Smell of almonds?' asked John.

'Yes, but I don't think he will smell of almonds any more.'

John laughed. 'Me neither.'

The metal and rotten wood wouldn't easily give way and they worked it until it finally gave in with a big crack.

'Definitely not almonds,' John noted and Molly giggled.

Molly put on plastic gloves and then there were the sounds of a digital camera. Sherlock was making pictures.

'Just get a good view of the larynx,' Molly said. She turned the remains in the right direction for him. More pictures.

'Look,' Sherlock said. He pointed at something and Molly understood at once.

'We've got it,' she said.


They closed the coffin and shovelled back all the soil until everything was as close to normal as was humanely possible. Only when they walked back to the car, they began to relax.

'That lock is now definitely broken,' said John.

'That's correct,' said Sherlock, 'but the owner will notice a broken lock, and then notice that nothing has disappeared and probably won't make too big a fuss about it. The stones on the grave conceal our work if they don't look too closely.'

The sound of a cigarette lighter. It could only be Sherlock.

John's voice. 'The only cyanide we're going to find today is in that cigarette.'

'There's cyanide in cigarettes?' said Molly sarcastically. 'Turns out they're not very good for you? I always thought they were a miracle cure.'

'For overpopulation probably,' said John.

'I'm well aware of that, John. As you might remember I once wrote a paper on the contents of tobacco ash.'

'How could I ever forget that?'

'I've never heard of anyone dying of cyanide poisoning from cigarettes.' said Molly.

'I have,' said Sherlock. 'It's possible if you smoke enough. Or if you get a bad batch.'

'So far, it looks like you're trying to find out,' said John. 'At least you're a true empiricist. You're not afraid of leaving traces?'

Sherlock laughed. 'You are grossly exaggerating. And no one but me can identify this type of ash.'


The next evening, the atmosphere in Molly's lab was elated and when John came in, Sherlock almost jumped at him out of enthusiasm.

'We've found it John, it's absolutely amazing.'

'What? The cyanide? That's not even physically possible.'

'No,' said Sherlock with an impatient twinge in his voice. 'Please pay attention, we never looked for traces of cyanide, it's got a half-life of one hour. Bit hard to detect after twenty eight years, don't you think.'

John just ignored that and waited for the explanation. Sherlock waited for another guess but when that didn't come he just went on.

'The autopsy reports, John, you do remember those, do you?'

'Yes, one car crash, one suicide, one epileptic seizure, one food poisoning and one heart attack.'

'Yes, yes, yes, and you remember the method of suicide?'

'Yes, cyanide, that's when you speculated that the other three could also be caused by that.'

'Exactly.'

'But it's impossible to find.'

'That's correct.' Sherlock laughed smugly.

'Sherlock, I'm gonna get you a good therapist, you're enjoying this way too much.'

'Molly, would you please explain what was in the autopsy reports.'

Molly was smiling too. 'Cause of death for both the food poisoning case and the epileptic seizure were suffocation. One choked on his vomit, the other on his tongue.'

'That's why we went to the grave of the epileptic seizure guy.'

'Ok, explain.'

'We found some remains of his tongue. It was in his mouth.'

'So he didn't choke on his tongue. That doesn't prove he was murdered.'

'No, but it does prove that the autopsy report was wrong. And together with the strange timing, this most definitely suggests that something very strange was going on.'


That was the last thing I heard about the Christmas murders for quite a while. There was nothing else to discover and Sherlock probably filed away the case. New things came on our paths and it seems that everyone had forgotten about it. However, there's one unfortunate thing about calling a case 'the Christmas murders': every year you're going to be reminded of it.

It was Christmas eve and they were having drinks at Sherlock's place. Surely, this was something the Watsons arranged (since such an action initiated by my brother is very unlikely) and their whole little clan was there: the Watsons and their child, Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Miss. Hooper. Given how my brother normally behaves, he was actually being charming by comparison. The whole thing wouldn't have been restarted if it wasn't for Mrs. Hudson.

'Oh, poor Sherlock, didn't even get a murder for Christmas,' she teased.

He smiled at her. 'I almost never get that lucky.'

Lestrade laughed. 'I once gave you a cold case that you immediately dubbed 'the Christmas murders'.'

Sherlock pulled a pained face. 'Ok, so technically I didn't have any hard evidence for that, but the circumstantial...'

'You had a hunch.'

'And you know why. You must have noticed the massive smell of fish that came off that case.'

'Of course. Unfortunately, fish doesn't hold up in court.'

'Five friends, dead within an hour of each other by unrelated causes, one of which is certain to be false...' Sherlock looked into the distance and frowned.

'What is it?'

'If it was murder, it was very well done. No one would ever be suspicious if it wasn't for the bizarre time coincidence.' He looked at Lestrade, suddenly excited. 'So it's possible that the murderer suddenly panicked, but it looked very well planned. This is a very strange hypothesis but it could have been some kind of message. A secret message for someone who knew where to look.'

'Who was that and why was that message sent?'

'Exactly.' Sherlock rubbed his hands. 'And how has it been received?'

Lestrade stretched. He was going to have a Christmas break and wasn't all that interested. 'Well, seems that the case might still show some promise. Who would've thought. Did you know your brother really didn't want you to look into that case?'

Greg Lestrade is not always the most helpful person in the world.

That's why it's called Baker Street.

Now, what is he deducing about the Christmas decoration around him?

http://ohlookbenedict.tumblr.com/post/71805663799

Thanks to one of Santa's Helpes for finding this.

This story is for SolarSystem.

Dear SolarSystem, this is your fic. I really hope you like it.There will be a more … explicit version of it on AO3 after the Exchange. :-)

Your prompt was “an object that should play an important role: the fireplace in 221B”.
These are your deal breakers: Parentlock; Teenlock; AU; any kind of love story that involves Mary as main protagonist
You said you would generally like to read about Johnlock (hurt/comfort, fluff, romance); exploring the relationship between Sherlock and Mycroft; something about Mary/John/Sherlock


All they needed


This should be perfect, shouldn't it? John was sure that it should.


He suppressed a sigh and looked down at Deborah, who was very close to falling asleep in his arms. There was a content smile on her face, and that alone should be enough to make the day perfect, right? His daughter was six months old now, and content smiling was a relatively new achievement.


She was babbling sleepily, probably telling John's jumper all about her day. A warm feeling spread inside of John. Who would have thought that he would love being a father?


He looked up to watch Sherlock and Mary, who were busy trying to light a fire in 221b's fireplace. Only recently had Sherlock hired a firm that turned his gaslight fake fireplace into a real one, and now he and Mary decided to make 221b a bit cosier. They were having little success, mainly because they both had absolutely no idea how to light a fire, but they were clearly having fun and enjoying each other's company.


It was a little miracle how their relationship had survived the shot in the chest. If anything, they seemed to get on better than ever.


Apparently he was the only one who had stopped loving Mary that day at Leinster Gardens.


And that was the main reason why John did not think that today was perfect. He was married to a woman he no longer loved, best friend of the man he loved instead, and had never found the guts to tell at least one of them the truth.


For good reasons, of course.


The best reason was sitting in his lap, stubbornly fighting sleep. Deb was just perfect, and as much as it had surprised him, Mary turned out to be a good mother. They were a good team, he and Mary, at least when it came to raising a child. And didn't a child need both mother and father?


Mary's laughter broke through his thoughts. Sherlock chimed in, and John felt like something bitter was boiling inside of him. Whatever Mary had said or done, it could not have been that funny, right? No reason for Sherlock to be that amused, right?


Oh Jesus, John felt like an ungrateful idiot. He should be glad that the two of them got along so well. Instead he was … what? Jealous? No, that was not it. Discontent, disappointed by himself? Yes, more like it.


He had no right to be discontent. He was married to a woman who, besides all her character flaws, was a wonderful mother to his daughter. Character flaws like being a liar, being egocentric, being cocky, being …


No, that was not the reason why he was starting to dislike her. Sherlock was egocentric and cocky and an occasional liar as well. The difference between them was that deep down inside, Sherlock was a good man.


Deep down inside of her, Mary was simply an egoistical liar.


Was that really it? John had to bite his lip to stop himself from sighing. There was no need to try and blame it all on Mary. She was who she was, and he had fallen for her, once, when he was …


Deb suddenly started crying, and only seconds after that she had fallen asleep on John's arm. He couldn't help but smile. It was always the same. She would never fall asleep without a little fight. Just when he stood up to place her in the travel bed Sherlock had bought just for her, Mary's voice pierced through the flat.


“You should lay her down in her travel bed, John.”


That was all John's nerves needed to snap. He got up way too fast, unable to hide his anger. “What a wonderful idea,” he hissed. “I would have never thought about it myself.” He tried to keep his voice low so he wouldn't wake up Deb, but he saw that Mary got the point. Carefully, he placed his daughter in her bed and threw Mary an accusing glance afterwards.


Instead of apologising or acknowledging why he was angry, she instantly started to distance herself. “It was only a suggestion,” she said, voice cold, pretending not to understand why he was so angry all of a sudden.


That's what she always did. Even when John had tried to tell her that she was forgiven, one year ago, she had been bossy and arrogant instead of being grateful.


John was vaguely aware that the two situations didn't have too much in common, only that Mary drove him crazy with … well, with being herself.


At a loss of words at that realisation, he did what always drove Mary crazy. He fled.


###


John's sudden departure hit Sherlock by surprise. From his point of view, the evening had been as close to perfect as evenings could be lately. When the Watsons had arrived, Sherlock had entertained Deborah, which was always a lot more fun than he had thought it would be.


Afterwards, when John had taken over the baby, Sherlock had really really tried to be good friends with Mary. As always. Not easy, that one, but he was getting better and better at pretending.


And then, out of nowhere, John had gotten angry and left the flat, leaving his girls alone with Sherlock. Mary had tried to pretend she wasn't furious. She had also tried to call John, but it turned out that his mobile was still lying on the table next to her. She had waited for him to come back for a while and then she had given up and taken the baby home.


When Mary and Deborah were gone, Sherlock sat down in his chair, immediately lost in thought. There was more to John's outburst than momentary anger. He was clearly unhappy, bordering on depressed. As to why, Sherlock was completely clueless. All he knew was that John being unhappy was an unacceptable condition. It hurt Sherlock way too much.


He sighed. Back in the beginning of their friendship, things had been so easy to resolve. A psychosomatic limp, a craving for adventure, those had been things Sherlock could handle. But now he was at a loss.


He entered his mind palace, swiftly walking into the room he created for John only. Funny room, that. He had intended it to be a nice version of the room where they had inspected the body of Jennifer Wilson. But every time Sherlock let his concentration slip, it changed into his old nursery at his parents' house.


Anyway. He stood in front of the wall he had used as a giant notebook when he was a child and started writing a list of reasons why John should be happy. It read:


    - loves his wonderful daughter

    - loves his wife

    - wife loves him

    - daughter adores him (as far as possible at that age)

    - wife provides certain amount of danger

    - wife has not killed someone recently

    - best friend provides certain amount of danger

    - best friend gets along with wife

    - best friend loves adorable daughter to pieces


He thought about adding “best friend loves John more than his own life” but decided against it. It was true, of course, but John was not to know, and so it was pointless to list it here.


It was a long list that made the reasons behind John's starting depression even less comprehensible. Well, maybe he needed to look at it from another angle. So next to the first list, Sherlock wrote down a second one. Reasons for John to be unhappy. But no matter how hard he thought about it, Sherlock could come up with only two points:


    - daughter regularly pukes on all his favourite sweaters

    - best friend broke his new reading glasses on purpose


And the last one shouldn't even count, as they had been really unflattering. In fact, John should have been happy about it. So Sherlock moved that point to the first list and was still completely clueless about why John was so unhappy.


Sherlock tried to go through his recent memories of things they had done together, to find out if there were clues he had missed. But that didn't quite work out. It was rather annoying. The deeper his love for John grew, the more distracted he became when watching him in his mind. So instead of analysing his face for signs of dismay, he got lost in how wonderful the (lately very rare) smiles were.


And who had thought that it was possible to for his (one-sided) love to grow that deeply? What had started as mild curiosity and secret pining had now turned out to be something very serious. Well, pointless to think about it. It had nothing to do with John's state of mind and was hence of minor importance.


When Sherlock got out of his mind palace, he found Mycroft sitting opposite him in John's chair.


Damn.


Did Mycroft know how much that bloody chair occupied Sherlock's mind? He had tried to relabel that chair, so it would stop being “John's (abandoned) chair” and simply be “a chair”. Didn't work.


He had moved that chair to another room, so he would not be reminded of John's absence every day. But that had only left a John's-chair-shaped hole in the fabric of the room.


Currently he was working very hard on seeing it as a reminder that John existed, even when he was not here. A reminder that once there had been a time where Sherlock woke up happy about his company.


The fact that Mycroft was sitting in it while Sherlock had been thinking about John was definitely no coincidence.


“Leave,” Sherlock snarled, knowing that it would have little to no effect on his brother. It felt good, anyway.


Mycroft just smiled at him. It was an arrogant, smug smile but the worst part of it was that there was honest pity and understanding in it. Mycroft having pity on him was even worse than Mycroft trying to control his life or Mycroft being the clever one.


“Trouble in paradise?” Mycroft asked, “Are there shadows looming over the little Watson family?”


“That's none of your business” Sherlock snapped. For a while, Sherlock pretended to ignore Mycroft. He picked up his violin and played a few notes. Then he made himself tea. Then he sorted some of his papers that were scattered on the floor. Then he tried to light that fire again, only to fail once more.


All the time he felt Mycroft's slightly sardonic smile following him wherever he went.


When he finally accepted that his brother wouldn't go away any time soon, he sat back in his chair again.


“Other people would be glad about such a development,” his brother went on as if there had not been an eighteen minute break, “Think about it. If John and Mary broke up, you could finally make your move to make John all yours.”


Mycroft's eyes pierced right through him. There was a snappish remark on Sherlock's lips already, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to say it. Because Mycroft was right, of course. A divorce would be the best thing for Sherlock to happen. Even if there was no chance that John would ever love him, he would surely move back in here again.


Yes, a divorce would be nice for Sherlock but would it also be good for John? Surely not.


“I am not like other people,” Sherlock simply stated instead.


Mycroft still watched him closely, and something changed in his expression. “No, you are not,” he said, surprisingly soft. “But that does not mean that you have to remain unhappy for the rest of your life.”


Little signs of brotherly fondness always left Sherlock speechless and today was no exception. Mycroft seemed to wait for an answer for a while, then sighed a little. “You should tell him how you feel,” he said. Then he picked up his coat and his umbrella and left without looking back.


Getting advice from Mycroft was a hateful thing in general. Getting good advice from Mycroft regarding his love life was unbearable. But when Sherlock finally came up with a very clever remark, Mycroft was long gone.


Damn.


He considered throwing his tea cup at the door just to make a point, but what was the sense in that? For a moment Sherlock longed for the times when he would have thrown it without even thinking about it.


When he was placing the cup in the sink (where it would mysteriously disappear sometime tomorrow, only to reappear in the cupboard, cleaned and dried. He suspected Mrs Hudson's doing here but never bothered to find it out) he heard distinctive steps on the stairs.


John.


“I forgot my jacket and my mobile when I left,” John stated the obvious after coming in. For some reason, John was the only person in the world who could state the obvious without driving Sherlock insane. Probably because Sherlock loved the sound of his voice.


“It's over there,” Sherlock gestured to the chair. He felt like he should say something else but wasn't sure what.


Apparently, John felt as awkward as Sherlock. “Yes, uhm, thanks,” he stammered. “I really should go home and apologise or something.”


Which was stupid, really. What John really needed to do was talk to Mary to find out why he was that sad. But that wouldn't happen, right? They didn't talk like that. They just … went on.


Oh. A new thought crossed Sherlock's mind. Was it his job as best friend and best man to talk to John about his feelings?


A frightening thought but surely true.


“You are depressed,” he started and immediately regretted that. Not the most subtle opener. But then, John wasn't for subtleties anyway.


“No,” John lied, avoiding Sherlock's glare.


“You have no reason to be depressed,” Sherlock went on.


“Oh, really?” John answered, sarcasm think in his voice now. “Well, then I will just start to feel happy again. Thanks a lot, all my problems are solved now.” He had nearly shouted the end and was now looking at Sherlock with a strange look in his eyes. A mixture of regret and relief.


Boy, Sherlock really felt out of his depth.


“So you are having problems” he stated.


Judging from John's sarcastic laughter that was true.


“Tell me about them?” Sherlock ventured on. It sounded more like a question in his ears, for he was still feeling completely out of his depth. They didn't do talks like that. For a good reason. They were both rubbish at it.


John looked like he wanted to leave again. He started to fidget, his hands opening and closing again and again. He was clearly fighting for composure.


“I,” he said, slowly and nearly controlled, “don't have any reason to be depressed, do I? No reason to feel bad, except that I am a complete idiot.” He was shouting again. One of the many good things about John was that Sherlock never felt insulted when shout at by him.


But why did he think so low of himself? Curiously, Sherlock went on to navigate blindly through this talk, “Apparently you are not. You are a wonderful father and a loving husband.” Something was happening in John's face, but Sherlock couldn't identify it. So instead he continued, “You are the best best friend anyone could have and ...


“If I really were a good man, I wouldn't still be married to the woman who shot the man I love,” John blurted out in his anger. And froze.


###


Damn. This was not at all what he had wanted to say. When Sherlock didn't answer, John looked up and saw that he stared at some undefined spot in front of him, not moving. Only the rapid blinking of his eyes told John that there was some kind of thought process going on. John mentally kicked himself. He had never intended for that to be said.


For a while, both men remained silent. Then Sherlock looked up, utterly confused, and asked, “Who else did she shoot lately?”


Now it was John's turn to stare in confusion. “What are you talking about?” he asked, not comprehending what Sherlock's question was about.


“You said,” Sherlock explained, speaking very slowly, as if trying to understand something very very complicated, “that she shot the man you love. But the only recent victim I know of is me. So, who else got shot?”


Oh. But that would mean that Sherlock really didn't know. Could that be true?


John had to think of how he reacted when asked to be John's best man. And then it all made sense. Sherlock had no idea he was loved.


“You,” John answered, a bit surprised by how soft his own voice sounded, “I am talking about you.”


“Oh,” Sherlock said. He froze again, a far away look in his eyes, a frown on his face. Apparently gone to his mind palace, probably to analyse every single thing John has ever said or done.


John waited for him to return to the real world for a few minutes. And for a few minutes more. And some more. Nothing. That gave John way too much time to think about how stupid he'd been again. How could he not notice that Sherlock had been completely oblivious to John's feelings? Sherlock had had problems understanding he was John's best friend. No wonder he couldn't comprehend that John, that anyone could be in love with him.


Would it have changed things if John had known that Sherlock hadn't known? Yes. He could have told Sherlock and … No. He wouldn't have done that. Not after the wedding. But before. Before Sherlock had jumped into his non-death. All this time John had thought that Sherlock had ignored his stares on purpose.


But what difference would it have made?


After fifteen minutes of fruitless contemplating, John got up to make some tea. When he returned to the living room with two cups, Sherlock was still gone inside his mind.


So John sat down and wondered about what to do once Sherlock reappeared from his mind palace. What was he thinking about John's feelings anyway? Was he flattered? Surely. It was not like Sherlock to miss an opportunity to be flattered.


Was he embarrassed? Probably. But surely only because he had missed the clues. Angry? Who knows.


Would it change their friendship? Well, the real question was, could Sherlock handle the fact that John was unrequited in love with him?


Was it unrequited?


Yes. Yes, of course it was. Sherlock was the most self-centred man John knew. If Sherlock had been in love with John at some point of their relationship, he would have let John know and would have taken whatever he needed.


Or not?


John let out an exasperated sigh. Right now he felt like he didn't know anything any more.


When Sherlock had not moved for more than thirty minutes, John got up and lit the fire Sherlock and Mary had been clumsily trying to light before. It was getting dark outside, and the fire's soft glow made Sherlock's face look soft and warm. There was still a frown on his face, but there were also wrinkles that hadn't been there when they had met. Laughter lines around his eyes. Was he happy with his life?


Usually John was very careful not to look at Sherlock like that. Was that one reason why Sherlock was hit so completely by surprise?


After another thirty minutes, John sent Mary a text. “Back at 221b. No longer angry. Still need some time here.” He thought about adding, “Sorry” or “Don't worry. Everything's fine.” But everything was far from being fine, and “Sorry” was too shallow for the blunder he had made.


After another thirty minutes, he helped himself to the left-overs from the fridge, hoping it was really just Thai and not some experiment.


When Sherlock hadn't moved for nearly two hours, John got restless. They really needed to talk about it, one way or another. Besides Deb there was nothing in the world as important to John as Sherlock, and their friendship being in ruins was unacceptable.


He tried to get Sherlock out of his trail of thoughts by calling his name, but to no avail. Then John gently touched his arm.


For the first time ever, that worked. Sherlock blinked rapidly, then focused on John. His expression was unreadable. He cleared his throat. “You … love me,” he stated then, and finally met John's eyes.


John nodded, not sure what to say next.


Sherlock seemed to be at a loss of words, too, and after a while, John felt like he needed to say something or they would continue staring at each other for the next two hours or so.


“Look,” he started, “I shouldn't have...”


And then suddenly, he was in Sherlock's arms,hidden in a clumsy yet fierce embrace, his face pressed against Sherlock's chest. “You really love me,” Sherlock said again, this time marvel and happiness in his voice.


John drew back a little to look at Sherlock, really, just to look at him, but all of a sudden they were kissing, and John managed to think how wonderful that felt, and then he didn't get to think for quite a while.


###


“I never did that before,” Sherlock felt the need to confess afterwards. They were lying on the carpet in front of the fireplace, side by side, still completely naked. John's head resting on Sherlock's chest, their legs tangled. John's hair tickling Sherlock's cheek.


The fire in the fireplace right next to them was making peaceful noises, giving John's face an almost unearthly glow. It was quite possible that Sherlock had never been that happy in all his life.


“Really?” John asked, sounding surprised. “Oh, wow. I mean, you were really good and you seemed to know exactly what we were doing and ...”


“Not sex,” Sherlock huffed. Or tried to huff, while he rather felt like giggling because John had just said that he had been really good. “This.”


John raised his head a little, still looking very surprised. “Staying together afterwards to cuddle?”


Sherlock felt himself flushing. He nodded wordlessly, and felt John's head come to a rest on his chest again. “In that case,” John said with a warm smile in his voice, “I am flattered to be your first.” He reached for a blanket that was lying nearby and covered them both.


They fell silent again, completely content with feeling each other. Sherlock let his hand trail up and down John's arm, felt the little hairs, the softness of his skin. He had had fantasies about touching John like that, but he would have never thought that he would be allowed to actually do it in real life. And to think he could do it again, whenever he ...


But John was an honourable man. No matter how long they both had been waiting for that to happen, Sherlock knew that sooner or later John's mind would stumble over the fact that he had just cheated on his wife. And who knew how he would deal with that fact. Maybe it was better to get over with it now.


“What will happen next?” he asked, and when he felt John's body tense up, he moved even closer. He tried to tell himself that he wanted to comfort John with this gesture, and not himself.


In his mind palace, he watched his future unravel on the old TV in his nursery. John would tell him that he needed to stay with his wife and daughter. Sherlock would be understanding and try to get over the fact that their love would always be unfulfilled. So would John. They would both fail, seeing each other more and more seldom because it would simply be too painful. In the end, Sherlock would be sitting in front of a cottage somewhere in the country. Old. Alone.


Or John would leave Mary. She would flee the country, taking Deb with her. They would try to find Deb but fail. John would try not to blame Sherlock for losing his daughter, but in the end he would fail too. Would rather leave Sherlock than grudging him every day. Sherlock would be sitting in front of a cottage somewhere in the country. Old. Alone.


Or John would …


“... love you.”


What? He blinked.


“You didn't hear a word I said, did you?” John asked, more amused than offended, and Sherlock could do only so much as shaking his head. There was still a strange lump in his throat that silenced him.


But John smiled warmly and explained, “I said that I didn't regret what happened, and that it will happen again and again. Because I love you.” He stretched a bit to press a not so chaste kiss on Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock felt it, he really, truly felt all the love John had been hiding inside of him for so long.


“I will have to sort it out with Mary,” John then goes on. “And I might need Mycroft's help when it comes to the …


“Well, we can sort it out right now,” Mary's voice cut through the room, ice cold and bitter.


Sherlock took a second to mentally kick himself in the backside. He should have heard her entering the flat. He should have been more alert. Should have locked the door.


He had never felt that naked before when he looked up and saw her pointing a gun at them.


She was fully aware of what had happened here, of course. (It really didn't take a genius to figure that one out.) She was angry and hurt and determined. The gun was aimed at John, who, like Sherlock himself, was completely naked, in more than one way.


In Sherlock's head, the TV started playing again, this time in black and white. Mary shooting John. John dying right next to Sherlock, who is forced to watch helplessly. Sherlock standing at John's grave. Sherlock, bitter and broken, sitting in front of a cottage somewhere in the country. Old. Alone.


The pain he felt in his chest now was much worse than the one Mary had caused when she shot him one year ago.


“I am sorry,” he heard John say, “I should have talked to ...”


“Shut the feck up,” Mary interrupts him.


She is beyond reason, Sherlock realised. No way out for them except overpowering her. Given the fact they were both on the wrong side of a loaded gun, and that there was no suitable weapon within reach, their chances were small.


She would kill John.


For a moment, Sherlock's mind blanked out. He should find a solution. He should find a way out. He should come up with a plan, but the thought of John dying was unbearable, and he could no longer think at all.


“Mary,” John started again, and Sherlock could literally see something snapping inside of her.


He knew that he should do something, anything. But his mind refused to work. Sheer horror was spreading through his body, through his brain, and he knew he should do something. Instead, he could only watch.


The gunshot rang loud in his ears. So did John's short, pain-filled scream. They were still lying so close that Sherlock could feel how John's body stiffened for a second. Then it seemed to lose all tension. He felt John's head slump down on his chest.


No. Please please not.


Ignoring the danger Mary still presented for himself, he reached for John's neck. There, a pulse. Too fast, too weak, but there. Where was he hit? Oh, stomach. Painful. Good that he had faded out instantly.


His caring instinct, the one he always denied to have, kicked in. Frantically, he pressed the blanket against John's wound, telling him softly that he needed to hold on, that everything would be all right again, that ...


“Oh feck, Sherlock,” Mary snarled, “you pathetic little lamb. Shut up and face death like a man.”


Not dignifying her threat with looking up, he snapped, “Why don't you shut up and get it over with instead?”


He didn't look at her, because he would never want her to be the last thing he saw. Keeping his eyes fixed on John, he steeled himself for the final gunshot.


Only that instead, he heard a rather unceremonious sound that could be inscribed like “clung”. Completely surprised, he looked up. Mary was gone, replaced by Mrs Hudson, who was swinging a frying pan.


“Poor girl,” she said, looking down at Mary, “She never really got over her past, did she?”


Sherlock's brain needed one point eight seconds to keep up with reality, then it was back online. He renewed his pressure on John's abdomen with one hand, checking his pulse with the other while shouting at Mrs Hudson, “Ambulance!”


“Already called for one, dear,” she answered, and only a little flutter gave away that her feelings were in turmoil, “Using the special number your brother once gave me.”


Good. That was good. Sherlock looked down at John again, who was still unconscious. “Hold on, John,” he prayed, not sure if he only thought it or said it loud. It didn't matter, anyway. All that mattered now was John's life.


###


Before waking up properly, John drifted in and out consciousness for a while. He couldn't react, couldn't even think, just felt himself floating. Sometimes it was dark, sometimes bright, but there was one constant all the time: he could always feel Sherlock's presence.


When he finally woke up properly, he wasn't at all surprised to see Sherlock sitting by his side. John blinked, finding that he couldn't speak, most likely due to a breathing tube. But he felt Sherlock's hand on his own. For right now, that was all John needed right now.


All was well until Sherlock started speaking. “John,” he whispered, his voice raw. Only now did John see the dark circles underneath his eyes, the pallor of his skin, his blood-shot eyes. Oh. Looked like John had been out cold for a while, probably in a quite serious condition.


He wished he could tell Sherlock he was fine, but shouldn't Sherlock deduce that anyway? But instead of relaxing, Sherlock tensed visibly. “John, I ...” he tried again, and stopped. And before John could fully process it, Sherlock had stood up and uttered, “I can't. I'm sorry, but I can't.”


He was gone faster than John's eyes could follow him.


A nurse had to tell John all he missed back at 221b, about Mrs Hudson knocking down Mary, about Sherlock frantically trying to keep John's bleeding at bay, about being brought to hospital to have an emergency operation that saved his life.


About Mrs Hudson picking up Deb from the babysitter and taking her to Baker Street with her.


About Mary ending up in the same hospital, recovering from the head injury she had suffered. She should have been transferred to the hospital ward of Holloway Prison by now, but someone had delayed that transfer. That way John would get a chance to talk to her before she was locked away for attempted murder on her husband as well as for the attempted murder on Sherlock Holmes one year ago.


The nurse also told John how Sherlock had spent eleven days in a row by John's side, only to flee the very moment John had woken up.


Before he could give all that another thought, John drifted off again, still exhausted.


When he woke up the next time, he was alone.


The breathing tube was removed then, the medication was changed, and a physiotherapist came to discuss how they would get John up and running again soon.


Still no sight of Sherlock.


Mrs Hudson paid a short visit, fussing over John, trying to play down her heroic deed while beaming with pride the whole time.


When it came to Sherlock, she just shook her head. “I don't know what is going on in his funny brain,” she said with a sigh one day. “He looks like a ghost. Barely eats, doesn't sleep … Threw a tantrum when I came to clean the last remains of your blood stain. And God forbid if I try and clean the fireplace.”


When he was alone again, John tried not to worry about him but failed.


Then, Mycroft paid an unexpected visit. John was not sure if he could stand talking to him in his current weak state but to his surprise, Mycroft made a pleasant company. Mostly because he refused to beat around the bush.


“You know that legally speaking, you are not married to her because she used a fake identity. I took the liberty of arranging the paperwork to make the annulment official. One word from you and it will be done,” he said instead of the usual how are you banter.


“Thank you, Mycroft” John answered, honestly grateful. He would still have to deal with the fact that he cheated on her, even if it was only this one time and even though the marriage was not legal. But right now there were more pressing questions to be dealt with.


“What about Deb?” he asked.


“Oh, I have also prepared papers to give you sole custody,” Mycroft explained smugly. For once, John didn't mind that. For once, he was glad that Mycroft was such a manipulative meddler.


“It will be sole custody until” Mycroft went on, thoughtfully, “You find … someone you'd like to share custody with.” John couldn't help but think of Sherlock instantly, who seemed to love Deb to pieces. Sherlock, who was God knows where at that moment, fighting some demons John didn't have a clear idea of.


Those thoughts did not pass unnoticed. Mycroft gave him the most piercing glare John had ever been exposed to, snorted, and left without a word.


About one hour later he returned, a sulking Sherlock right behind him. John couldn't help but imagine that Mycroft had dragged his little brother here by the ear.


“This is unacceptable, brother,” Mycroft hissed. “Your cowardice prevents John from healing properly. Get over your childish little trauma and talk to him!”


With that, he left the two. In the door, he stopped again, and added, “Tell him about Redbeard if you must, and get the hell over it.”


“Redbeard?” John asked, and Sherlock flushed. It made him look nearly irresistible.


Then he shook his head. “Our family dog when I was a child and absolutely irrelevant right now.”


He was still standing in front of the bed. Too far away for John's liking. Out of his reach. When John tried to sit up to reduce the distance between them, he regretted that instantly. Despite the narcotics he got, there was a sharp pain in his stomach. Stupid.


He had to lay his head down again and tried not to start panting. He would need a long time to heal.


At least his stupid move made Sherlock come closer after all. “You are in pain,” Sherlock blurted out. Then he shook his head and started babbling, “Of course you are in pain. Why do I state the obvious? I never state the obvious. I should do something else instead, right? Hold your hand or something. I always held your hand, all eleven days. Why don't I hold it now? Can I? But I don't know how you feel about it. Us. Is there an us? I really ...”


“Sherlock,” John said with exasperation. Sherlock stopped dead and stared at him.


“Sherlock,” John said again. He was way too weak to be polite now. All he wanted was Sherlock by his side and some peace of mind. Soon. So he bluntly went on, “Why did you leave?”


At that, Sherlock seemed to collapse back onto himself. He sat down on John's bed and stared at the blanket. “I ...” he started and stopped. Then he started again, “I got scared. When Mary pointed the gun at you. So scared that I couldn't think of a single thing to do to help you.”


He looked terribly forlorn. Vulnerable. John knew exactly how he felt.


“I've been through the same thing once,” he told Sherlock softly. Their hands were interlocked now but John had no idea who had grabbed whose hand first. It didn't matter anyway.


“Really?” Sherlock eyes him curiously, “When?”


Thinking of it was still painful, but John knew that they needed to get it out of their minds now. “When you were standing on that roof top and I simply couldn't find the right words to stop you from killing yourself.”


His words were hanging between them for a while. They had never talked about it before, not like this. It was more than overdue.


And it was necessary. The past years have left them both damaged. Sherlock's faked suicide, John's marriage, Appledore, their first over-hasty sex and its consequences.


Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, John was sure that they were redder than usual. “I've never been in a relationship before, John,” he said then, quietly and austere. “Is it possible for lovers to be happy together even when there has been so much hurt and pain in their past?”


Lovers. Hearing this was all John really needed. Raising his head would cause too much damage to his belly, so he pulled Sherlock down to himself instead. He should probably say something meaningful now, something important. Instead, he kissed Sherlock, soft and gentle, and then not so soft, again and again.


They would have to talk some more, soon. But for now, they were together and in love and that was all they needed.

 

This story is for SusiGo.

Secret Santa Note:  This story is for the Lovely SusiGo, who wanted Love, Love, Love with a touch of humour and angst and definitely no Johnlockary!  Hope she enjoys x

BILLY, PSYCHOPATHS AND STUPID IDIOTS

Chapter 1:  I am a Stupid Idiot

John stared at the ceiling as he listened to Billy Wiggins thump his door down.

“If you don’t come to the door John, AT ONCE!  I’m… I’m banging this down”.

The thing about depression, thought John, was that it was a bit like a wet blanket.  Cold, uncomfortable and soppy, but it immobilised you, froze you to the spot.  

“I’m serious!  Sherlock told me to!”  Wiggins warned.

Bloody Sherlock.

“What on earth,” began John, glaring at Wiggins as he opened the door in his T-shirt and boxers, “Do you want?”

Wiggins grinned at him.

“Get dressed mate, you are taking me out for breakfast!”

There it was again, that annoying grin.  John clenched his fists.

“No.  I am going back to BED” John pushed against the door only to find Wiggins had wedged himself partly inside.

“Nah, breakfast mate.  Sherlock said to tell you if you didn’t he’d start using again.“
Wiggins, grinned.
 “I mean, it’s all the same to me really, I’ve got some great stuff I could get hold of for him, make a bit of  packet for me-self if we go down that track actually…” he added thoughtfully.

John stared at Wiggins a moment.

“Give me a minute,” he said quietly.
That just couldn’t happen, Sherlock on drugs.  After everything, there was no way John would let that him go down that track.  Sherlock knew that John would think that of course.  John Watson, ex-soldier, doctor, idiot… so easily played.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
“So,“ began Billy, stuffing a forkful of his fry-up in his mouth and chewing as he talked, “I did this counselling course through the local council…”

“Oh for God’s sake,“ said John, choking on his coffee.

“And, I told Sherlock about it, and he said to come counsel you, that I’d be at least as good as that bird you had if not slightly better given my well-developed deduction capacities”

“Oh Sherlock said that did he? “ John found himself grinning.

“Well, not in those words exactly, but I could tell what he meant,” Billy replied as he cut his sausage.

“What exactly did Sherlock say, Billy?”

“He said, ‘Get him to talk, you idiot.  I can’t, so you need to!” and then he kind of pushed me against the wall using my shirt collar… almost tore it, actually,” Billy rubbed his neck as he spoke, as if smoothing out the marks.

“Well, thanks Billy, but you can finish your breakfast and then tell Sherlock that I am fine and don’t need to talk,” John said firmly.

“No offence mate, “ said Billy, “But you do need to talk.  I mean your assassin wife, who I actually always thought was weird by the way, not that the great Sherlock Holmes would ever listen to me!”  Billy pierced his egg with a fork.
“Anyway, the weird bird tried to kill your best mate, then your best mate told you to get back with her anyway because you are attracted to psychos or some such rubbish and anyway she was up the duff preggers and then it turns out that she never was preggers, and it was all fake,”  
Billy took another big bite of his fried egg.
 “But your best mate had known that all along and just didn’t tell you because he knew you would die if you left her, and then she tried to kill your best mate AGAIN, and  almost succeeded this time if it hadn’t been for..,” he continued.
“Ok, Billy, that’s quite enough!” John said firmly standing up, as he felt the anger boil up through his body.
“So you need to say what you are feeling John, my counselling teacher told us, you need to let it out”
“What I am feeling!  Great Billy! Look tell Sherlock I am fine and don’t need a counsellor!” screamed John, rising.

“You are feeling sad! Pissed! Stupid!  Dumb! An idiot! Worse than an idiot even! A moron!!!“ John thumped his fork down on the table.     

John stared at Billy dumbfounded, his face reflecting the bemusement of the customers in the greasy spoon.  

“I am a stupid idiot!” John screamed back.

“You sure are, mate, “ smiled Billy, shuffling back into his chair and picking up his fork.

John sat back down.

All of a sudden, he felt better than he had done in ages.    


Chapter 2:  The Dossier

14th February 2014

Attention:  Mr M. W. Holmes
    Re:  Incident at Dr John H Watson’s Home:  54 Ealing Place, Islington, N1 5JH

We are writing to inform you of the sequence of events we believe to have occurred on the 2nd of February 2014.  As directed, no action has at yet been taken for the crimes described below.  

10.51 am: Dr John H Watson returns home early from his morning shift to discover his wife, Agent 51278 AKA ‘Mary Morstan’ adjusting her prosthetic pregnancy belt.

11.07am: Agent 51278 reveals that her pregnancy is fake and that Mr Sherlock Holmes was aware of this fact.

11.09am: Dr Watson sends the following message by SMS to Mr Sherlock Holmes “You’ve done it again.  I cannot forgive you this time”

11.38am: Mr Sherlock Holmes arrives at 54 Ealing Street and enters the front room.  He directs Dr Watson to leave the premises.  Dr Watson refuses to leave and attacks Mr Holmes in the front room.

11.45am:  Agent 51278 pulls out an unregistered pistol from the kitchen and points it at Mr Holmes.  She confesses to Mr Holmes that she is a double agent working for a terrorist organisation based in Afghanistan.  

11.46am; Dr John Watson shoots and kills Agent 51278 using an unregistered hand gun drawn from his left pocket.

12.45pm:  D. I Greg Lestrade arrives at the scene.  The police statement reads as follows:
“An unfortunate series of events lead to Mr Sherlock Holmes shooting Ms Morstan in self-defence.  Forensics at the crime scene confirms this likely scenario.  “

12.49: D.I. Lestrade’s statement and file on the case was confiscated by MI5, who have subsequently destroyed all evidence and reference to these events.

1.15pm; Agent 67301 directed D.I. Lestrade to forget the above events at the insistence of Her Majesty.  D.I Lestrade agreed.

3.15pm:  D.I Lestrade was promoted to Detective Sergeant.  

Please destroy this dossier on receipt.

Sincerely,
Agent 67301




Chapter 3: Cover Up

John tentatively knocked on the black door.  221B had once been home, the first home he had known since coming home from war, and now it was odd to feel as uncertain as he stood outside.  
“Come in, dear,” said Mrs Hudson, opening the door.  “It’s always good to see you, “ she smiled.


“Thank you, Mrs Hudson” replied John briskly, finding the formalities add to his sense of unease.
Gone are the days I can just walk in.

“John,” said Sherlock, “Thank God you are here.  My brother was just leaving” He glared at Mycroft, who was sitting in John’s chair.

“Hmm,” said Mycroft, rising stiffly as he reached for the umbrella resting at the side of the chair. “Actually, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with Dr Watson, brother-mine, if you don’t mind, before I make my departure,“  

“Things?”  demanded Sherlock, angrily, rising to meet Mycroft at the chair.  

“Things that are quite reasonable to discuss given this is the second time I am covering up a murder charge for his benefit. “ replied Mycroft acidly.

“Oh PLEASE, “replied Sherlock sardonically, “MI5 stuffed up again, John did you a big favour, without John…”  

“Right,” said John, cutting in, “Let’s discuss then, and shall we Mycroft?”  Holding his body straight, he marched up to Mycroft and Sherlock.

“Well….” began Mycroft, hesitating.

“Well indeed, Mr Holmes, “said John, words flying out of his mouth before he got the chance to edit them.  “Let’s see, your brother risks life and limb to rid the UK of Moriaty’s web.  While he is away you allow an agent assassin to begin a relationship with his best friend as part of a deal you and your friends have made with a hostile government.  Now it just so happens that at my wedding, that’s right MY WEDDING, Mary gets a telegraph from our good friend Charles Augustus Magnusen, AKA, CAM.  Sherlock realises Mary is in fact a double agent, and acts to get me to stay with her in order to protect me from death.  Hence the baby, hence, Sherlock’s near death experience, hence bloody me shooting that bitch to save your brother, because sure enough, you all powerful Mycroft Holmes were playing with your umbrella thinking about your next chess move!  Cover up, my lily white arse!”  John spat out the last word, shaking with rage.

“Seems it is time to go after all brother, dear,“ Mycroft responded, tight-lipped, “John, “he nodded.

He exited the room swiftly.  Sherlock plonked down on the sofa.

There was silence.  

“My lily-white arse?”  Sherlock giggled.

“You’re the one who has been trying to get me to talk to Wiggins” John grinned back, sitting next to Sherlock.

“Ah yes,” said Sherlock, “Thought you might want to talk it out that’s all”.  Sherlock stared at the ground.

The room fell into silence once more.  John looked over at Sherlock’s profile. The mop of curls was bent down, staring at a spot in the carpet.

“Can I move back in here?” asked John, the words seeming to come out of nowhere.  

Sherlock’s face lit up with a stellar smile, his features crinkling with an expression John could only identify as joy.

“Of course!” he replied quickly.

“Thank you,” smiled John back.  There was something about Sherlock’s expression that filled him with lightness and possibility.  “Mwah!” he said exuberantly, leaning over impulsively to place a kiss on Sherlock’s cheek .

Sherlock jumped and stared open eyed at John.

“Mmm… that’s quite alright.  I mean we do have your bedroom.., I mean Mrs Hudson’s spare bedroom upstairs, as you know, and I am always happy for help with the rent… that is if you can pay, when you go back to work I mean, I mean if you are up to it... “Sherlock spoke quickly, the words tangling themselves as he voiced them.

John shuffled awkwardly on the sofa to create some more space between him and Sherlock.  There was something so adorable about Sherlock when he stumbled his words like that.  He almost felt like leaning over for another kiss, just to throw him off balance again.  But that would be too cruel…

“Perfect, “ John smiled at Sherlock, and reached for the newspaper on the coffee table.  

Chapter 4:  Billy’s new assignment

“Now Billy, “ commanded Sherlock, pacing in the lounge room, while Billy perched open mouth on the couch. “I’d like you to find John Watson a woman, “

“What?” replied Billy.
    
“A woman, you know Billy, they have two X chromosomes, wear pink and high heels and things.  Surely you know what a woman is Billy!” Sherlock spoke quickly, frustrated by the conversation.

“I know what a woman is Sherlock, believe you me,“ Billy said, “But why do I have to find John one?”

“Um, never you mind... Now get out a pen!”  Sherlock stared at Billy.

Billy remained on the couch, gaping at Sherlock.

“You do know how to write don’t you?”  Sherlock said to Billy, “Mycroft told me that the government education system was going to pot, but I have to say I didn’t think things had gotten that bad!”

“Yes, I know how to write” snapped Billy.  “What am I writing, exactly?”

“A list of requirements” replied Sherlock swiftly. “Now here is a pen and paper, now go!”  He handed Billy a notebook and a biro.

“Number 1, “said Sherlock, returning to his pacing “She must be nice, but not too nice...  John doesn’t go for too nice, he goes for psychopaths really, but not a psychopath… Mary was a psychopath who seemed nice, so this time, maybe a nice lady who seems just slightly like a psychopath.”

“What?”  

“LISTEN Billy!”  shouted Sherlock, “What kind of an apprentice are you?  Number 1:  A nice psychopath, it’s really not that hard!”  Sherlock sighed loudly.

“Sorry boss, right,” Billy scribbled on the pad.

“Number 2.  She must live in a small flat, with room only for one.  There can be no question of John moving in with her.  Preferably a single bed…” Sherlock continued thoughtfully.

“Nice psychopath with single bed, got it” said Billy, “Next?”

“Number 3, must have initially interesting occupation, that turns out to be a highly boring occupation.  The idea is to give him enough to lure him in, but not enough to keep him there too long.  Something like…   a police officer who works in the tax department, or karate master who teaches kindergarten kids…”

“Hmm, so what should I write?”  Asked Billy, confused.

“Number 3.  Boring exciting job.” Sherlock said, “Honestly, do I have to spoon food you everything?” he grumbled.

“Number 4?” asked Billy, scribbling frantically.

“Number 4 is sex.  Must be boring in bed” said Sherlock.

“Oh, and how am I going to find that one out?” demanded Billy

“Have I taught you nothing about deduction, apprentice?”  Sherlock responded.

“Point taken,” responded Billy.  “Five?”

“Must HATE me” replied Sherlock.

“Well, this looks easy, “said Billy drily, “All I need to do is find a nice psychopathic tax department police officer with a one bedder, who is dull in the sack and hates you”

“Come on,” grinned Sherlock, “The ‘hates me’ bit is easy”

Billy grinned back, “But WHY Sherlock, WHY?”

Sherlock was silent for a moment and stood still.  He turned directly to face Billy,

“Because I never want John Watson to leave me again, never ever,” said Sherlock.
“The guy shot his bird for you, he’s not going anywhere,” replied Billy.

“Well, this time, I’m being more careful, that’s all” said Sherlock.

Chapter 5:  The Nice Psychopath

John slipped back into life at Baker Street easily, like putting on an old pair of denim jeans.  Seeing Sherlock every day, whether it was in the kitchen cooking God-knows what kind of body part on the hob, pacing up and down the lounge or slumped in sulkiness on the couch, felt natural, like the way things were supposed to be were restored. How good John felt again, how completely at ease he was, came over him one morning almost as a shock as he watched Sherlock pacing whilst he read the newspaper from his armchair.  This was the way he had always felt at 221, but he had never noticed how darn it good it was, not until he had left.

“Why are you pacing?”  John asked astutely glancing at Sherlock over his newspaper.

“Um, no reason, “replied Sherlock briskly, almost defensively, John thought. “  Billy is bringing over someone a bit later that’s all.”

“Case?” asked John.

“What?”  Sherlock was staring at his skull on the mantelpiece.  “Oh, yes, um case… something like that, yes.”

John put his newspaper down.

“Sherlock?  What’s going on?”  

“No, um nothing…” the door knocker punctuated Sherlock’s words, “Um here they are…”  

Before John had the chance to question him further, Sherlock had glided down the stairs.

John stood up, his heart pounding in the familiar way as he waited for Sherlock’s plan to become clear.  They always did eventually, whether it was a brilliant plot to get a hardened jewel thief to confess to his mother or a convoluted manipulation to make Molly give him a corpse overnight.  John had almost given up the asking, because the surprise was what got him going, made him feel alive, made Sherlock himself so God-damn addictive….

“John, “said Sherlock.  His baritone low and oozing charm, “I’d like you to meet Tessa,”

John held out his hand to the woman standing behind Billy.  She was blonde and voluptuous, a Mary doppelganger essentially.  He smiled tightly.  “John Watson.  Nice to meet you, “

The four of them sat down awkwardly.    Tessa took the interview chair, as John’s thoughts took flight.  
Remember when she sat on that chair John, when you and Sherlock made her a client.

“Um, Tessa, “began Billy proudly, “Is a forensic analyst”

“I’m a forensic accountant actually.  I analyse the accounts of failed businesses,”  corrected Tessa sharply.  

“Well that’s just boring isn’t it? There is no exciting there at all, is there Billy?” Sherlock glared at Billy.

“Sherlock…” began John, watching Tessa colour.

“No it’s fine.  I actually think Mr Holmes is pretty boring himself.  I’ve seen your website and it’s as dull as an old lead pencil.  Still, I’d be happy to look at your accounts when your consultant detective agency inevitable FAILS!”  Tessa retorted.

Sherlock glared at her.  

“And she is not even slightly nice,” continued Sherlock looking at Billy.

“What is going on here, Sherlock?”  John felt as if he was watching some sort of bizarre tennis match.

“Oh nothing, John… So where do you live Tessa?”

“A one- bedder in Canary Wharf” smiled Tessa, obviously proud of this fact.

“See!” said Billy pointedly.

“Oh yes.  It’s a one-bedder, but it’s enormous!  I’m looking to rent out a section actually.  You wouldn’t be interested would you, John?”  continued Tessa.  She gave John a sweet, if not slightly seductive smile.

“Ok, that’s it!” Sherlock got up, “Everyone out!”  He shouted.

“Sherlock, that’s rude!”  John protested.

“Oh, I don’t mean you John… hey, what are you doing?”  He glared at Tessa who was rummaging through her bag.

“Um nothing really?” Tessa responded.

“No! Not nothing!  You were going to give John a business card, weren’t you Tessa!  And not any business card, a red business card.  Red, because you are good in the sack! Which I could tell even if I hadn’t seen the card, by the way she crossed and uncrossed her legs on the chair and the way she tucks her hair around her ear.  And then to top it all off the seductive smile!  You are way too hot!“
 “Are you making a pass at me?” smiled Tessa at Sherlock.

“Just get her out Billy!  NOW!”  Sherlock shouted.

“Believe you me, I am out of here, weirdo!”  Tessa stored out the flat, slamming the door as John and Billy gaped at her.

“You too, Billy” said Sherlock firmly.

“What?  You can’t say she didn’t hate you at least” retorted Billy.

“I said, OUT!”

“Fine!”  snorted Billy as he stormed down the stairs.

Sherlock sighed as the door slammed and adjusted his jacket.

“Sorry about that, John” he said calmly.

“Sherlock, what was that about?” John felt as if he had just witnessed a train crash.  

“She was supposed to be nice… I told him I wanted you to meet a nice psychopath with a small one bedder and an exciting boring job… and she was supposed to be boring in bed. That was important.  I thought I had taught Billy better than that...” mumbled Sherlock.

John took a break, experience told him to go slow here.

“OK, why did you want me to meet a nice one bedder psychopath with an exciting job who was boring in the sack?”
“Because, I don’t want you to go again,” Sherlock said quietly looking at the ground.

“Sherlock…” began John

“You don’t need to say It John.  I know you wanted the kind of life with a wife and a kid, like the one you chose with Mary.  Maybe, I need to find you a homeless nice psychopath who would be prepared to live here…”  Sherlock said thoughtfully.

“Sherlock…” John interjected.

“Oh Ok.  She can be good in bed.  But quiet.  If she is going to live here, I need to be able to think sometimes in quiet and she needs to tolerate the violin.  Maybe a deaf and dumb nice psychopath who is homeless but great in bed.  I can try Billy again.  Do you think I should give him another chance?”  Sherlock asked.

John walked towards Sherlock and grabbed his hands.  Suddenly all was clear.

“Shut up you idiot.”  John squeezed Sherlock’s hand.  

“John, I...” Sherlock started, staring at John’s hands on his own.

“When I shot Mary, “ John began, “I shot her for you.”

“Yes, I know, John.  But you were very angry with me, because I lied… I mean kept the truth about the baby from you.  As usual to save your life, of course, but that’s never stopped you hitting me before.”

“Yes, I was angry Sherlock, “ John continued, “I was angry because Mary had stopped me from being with you again.”

“John…” Sherlock said softly.

“And being with you again,“ John said looking up into Sherlock’s angular face, gazing at him now puzzled. “Is what I want. Being with you again is all I want.”

John reached for Sherlock’s mouth and opened it gently with his lounge as he caressed his soft lips.  Sherlock breathed in sharply, hesitating for a moment, before responding with passion, licking and sucking John’s mouth as he grabbed his hair, pulling his face closer.

“John,” said Sherlock gasping for air.

“You are simply the nicest psychopath there is,” smiled John as Sherlock scooped him up in his arms.

THE END.