Chapter 9


“Will you please tell me what’s going on?” John glances over at the speedometer. “Christ Sherlock slow down!”

“I’d like to know too, and you better don’t make me regret letting you drive my car.”

John and Greg are currently being driven by Sherlock who seems to think they’re in a race of some sort; his hands are gripping the leather of the steering wheel abnormally tight and his eyes are piercing at the road ahead as thought it is personally insulting Sherlock by not getting him where he needs to be right now.

Wherever that may be.

Ever since Sherlock called to John, yelled to Lestrade and leaped into the driver’s seat of Greg’s car before he could protest, Sherlock has been entirely focused on whatever got sparked in his mind, if it weren’t for the occasional glances in Johns direction and out the windows of the car, John may have thought that Sherlock has forgotten about their presence at all. Repeated queries as to what Sherlock is thinking have hit a brick wall and rebounded.

His silence has John on edge. It isn’t a typical ‘shut up foolish world I’m thinking’ silence, it is a ‘on the prowl don’t get in my way’ silence and the only time John has ever felt this particular atmosphere around Sherlock was during the last case with Moriarty.

John turns in his seat (one hand gripping the side of the door), mindful of the position of his wings wrapped securely around the front of his body (much like Sherlock’s own), to face Sherlock’s profile.

In the back Greg is leaning forward and holding tightly onto the headrests of both Sherlock and Johns seats; his face tight with worry. John is in a similar state.

“Sherlock-”

“My phone is in the left pocket of my trousers; retrieve it and call Dr James, his number is on my contact list.” Sherlock speaks for the first time during the drive.

Peripherally John notices they are only a few minutes away from town.

“Why-”

“Do it.” Sherlock’s tone leaves no room for negotiation.

Instead of questioning or asking why, John obeys. He reaches his hand into Sherlock’s pocket, neither one noticing how the other tenses at the closely intimate contact, and slides out the phone. Without further delay John taps the screen and finds Marcus’s number quickly.

The inside of the car is tense as John holds up the mobile to his ear and listens to the dial tone.

“When he answers, ask him for the address of his assistant Julia Freemont.”

John wants to ask him why, but he doesn’t have the chance when Marcus picks up at that moment.

“Sherlock?”

“Hello Marcus, it’s John actually.”

“Oh John! Nice to hear from you, why are you-”

“Listen, I’m sorry but if Sherlock’s driving is any indication-” Beside him Sherlock gives John annoyed look before resuming his death match with the road. “-we’re in a hurry and he told me to ask for the address of your assistant Julia.”

What does she have to do with all this? They only met her for a moment.

Whether it’s from past experience with Sherlock or he recognizes the urgency in Johns tone, either way Marcus answers immediately without question.

“24 Marion Lane, take the north exit out of the village. It’s about five minutes down the road on your right.”

John relays the information to Sherlock. The latter nods in acknowledgement and makes an abrupt turn, tires squealing, north now that they’ve entered the village. Both Greg and John grab hold of their respective doors in order to not be thrown against them because of Sherlock’s insane driving.

“We appreciate it Marcus.”

“I trust Sherlock, if he’s asking it must be important. Are you going to interview her for the case? I should tell you she didn’t come into work today, and when I tried calling her mobile she didn’t answer.”

That’s odd. John frowns and looks at Sherlock curiously.

“She didn’t go into work and hasn’t answered her phone.” John says to Sherlock.

Sherlock doesn’t appear surprised, like he already knew. “Of course.” He says and merely continues driving.

John gives him a narrowed look before turning his attention back to Marcus.

“Thank-you Marcus.”

“No problem laddie, be careful.”

“It’s Sherlock, I can’t promise that.” Though I’ll make sure the bugger doesn’t do anything reckless, John adds in his head. John quells the feelings of nausea and anger that rise at the possibility of Sherlock doing something irrevocably stupid, like getting himself killed.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker to John briefly at the comment.

John knows he’s probably jumping the gun a bit, but with the u-turn his life has taken recently anything feels possible.

“I understand.”

No more is said and John hangs up. As soon as he does Sherlock yanks the phone out of his hand – “Oi!” – and promptly puts it back in his pocket.

“What just happened?” Greg pipes up from the back seat.

“Yeah Sherlock, what the bloody hell is going on? And what does Marcus’s assistant have to do with this?”

Sherlock’s wings tense for a moment and then relax at the sound of Johns voice.

The sign for their intended exit shows up and Sherlock turns onto it much like before.

“Damn it Sherlock Holmes! Do not crash my car!”

Sherlock ignores the comment and presses his foot harder on the gas.

“Julia Freemont, almost certainly an alias, has only been working at the morgue for a few weeks. What is likely a well doctored resume and glowing recommendations, also faked, ensured her a job. The house she was living in has to be either a rental or a smokescreen of sorts. Not many well qualified individuals apply for work in a place like this. She herself is actually a well trained doctor, a coroner most likely, evidences by the calluses, scars on her hands and the inflections in her voice when talking to us. I didn’t realize until just recently, stupid, the oddness of a highly trained professional in an underling position at best. Unless she was trying to keep a low profile, while being able to maintain a close eye on what was going on around her. She is the person responsible for the kidnapping and subsequent murder of Jeffery Coffer, and the capture of the others.” Sherlock speedily lets out the words in one long unbroken breath.

The assistant? She seemed so...harmless and rather sweet John thought. Then again, so did Moriarty the first time they met him so you never know really.

John is still confused though, and if the look on Greg’s face is any indication, he is too.

“That seems like an awfully big leap Sherlock.” Greg says.

John doesn’t say anything for the moment and watches Sherlock’s face closely. His expression is unreadable, but through the bond John can feel rising levels of anxiety and his heart has been beating fast (despite his fierce and stoic demeanour) since they left the cottage.

“I know I’m right.”

John crosses his arms and fixes Sherlock with an intense stare. There is something in the way Sherlock said that that has alarm bells going off in his head.

“How do you know?” John utters.

“Really John, I assume you haven’t gone deaf, I told you how I know and I won’t repeat myself.”

Sherlock turns the car onto the aforementioned lane and slows down exponentially.

You’re lying. John isn’t exactly sure why he felt the urge to say that to Sherlock “privately”. I’m not as much of an idiot as you think I am; you’re hiding something and have been ever since you came back.

He watches as Sherlock’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel, otherwise Sherlock gives no outward indication of having heard John, but he knows Sherlock did.

Not now John.

Well, at least he’s not denying it...though John doesn’t feel all that reassured.

I think I deserve absolute truth from you after you faked your death and didn’t fucking tell me. The words sound incredibly hurt, even in his head, and maybe even a bit childish in their delivery. It’s rankling John that Sherlock is hiding something from him, more so than it ever would have before. It’s not just because of what Sherlock did, but because John’s instincts are telling him that whatever Sherlock is hiding is big...big and dangerous. And John wants to help, could that be what it is? At least partially. After seeing the scars, knowing that Sherlock likely went through two years of a very different hell compared to John, and John wasn’t there to protect him...the thought of Sherlock in such pain overshadows whatever anger and hurt John feels towards the man’s actions. Why can’t Sherlock let him help now? He hates feeling useless because there must be something more he could doing to help and be there for...for the man he loves.

Sherlock winces, hands on the steering wheel faltering for a split second.

Get your gun ready. We’ve arrived.

John sighs inwardly but accepts Sherlock’s deviation.

The car slows to a complete stop in front of a house not unlike Johns own; deep red brick, a bit smaller with a lawn more overgrown than his own. There are no lights shining from within, no car in the drive...at first glance it looks empty.

The skin on the back of John’s neck prickles. Something’s not right here.

“Alright, so what are we doing here Sherlock?” Greg asks quietly from the back seat, preparing his own gun; obviously sensing much like John that there is something off about this place.

“She was expecting us.” Sherlock has yet to get out of the vehicle, instead opting to survey the house and surrounding property with a shrewd gaze. John doesn’t bother asking how he knows, neither does Greg. “There won’t be anyone here, no one alive anyway.”

“That’s reassuring.” John mutters.

“There could be something in the house that could give us a clue, in fact I am almost certain she will have left something there on purpose and this is all set up.” Sherlock says matter-of-factly, though there is a dark edge to his voice.

John groans. Of course it is. It always is.

“And we’re just...going to walk in anyway?” John counters.

Sherlock looks at John.

“Problem?” Sherlock quirks a brow.

Problem? There are so many problems with this entire situation I could write them in a book and beat you over the head with it. Does it matter right now? No, because I’m the bloody idiot who loves you...sod. Those thoughts John keeps private.

It is an incredibly inappropriate time, but John can’t help but smirk at their familiar on the case interaction, whatever the circumstances and shadows covering it are.

Though John doesn’t see it due to the dark, Sherlock flushes (much to his mortification) at seeing Johns smirk.

“Nope, shall we?” John gestures towards his door.

Sherlock nods and all three men exit the car at once. He pulls three torches out of his coat pocket and tosses them to Greg and John before turning on his own. They are the only lights to pierce the darkness; the flickering evidence of the town is too far away to make any significant dent. Howling wind and their cautious, yet firm, footsteps are the only sounds.

Sherlock leads the way to the front of the house, John following close behind him and Greg looking sideways every so often; shining his torch onto the dark corners of the property.

“This place gives me the creeps.” Greg grumbles.

“How eloquent and worthy of a long time veteran of the police force.” Sherlock says with no small amount of sarcasm; shining his torch on the door handle of the house front door, eyes narrowed.

John rolls his eyes and joins Sherlock at the oak front door (complete with a round window and old curtains covering it from the inside); his torch catches the edge of one of Sherlock’s wings, the gold sheen reflects the light back to him so brightly he almost has to look away.

He doesn’t though, John notices Sherlock frowning.

“What is it?” John asks, hand immediately reaching for his gun.

Sherlock shakes his head and John lets his hand fall. Sherlock unbends from his crouch and shines his light through a crack in the curtains; attempting to a glimpse of the inside.

It is then that John notices all the windows are covered in curtains, he quickly flashes his torch to the two on either side of the door and the couple on the upper level of the house (John notices Greg doing the same thing), preventing them or passersby from seeing what’s inside.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sherlock go eerily still; his eyes and torchlight stuck on the crack in the curtain.

“Sherlock?” John whispers; edging closer to the man.

John tries to get a glance at whatever Sherlock is looking at but he feels a large, gloved hand land on his shoulder and push him away; the hand doesn’t move and John is shocked to feel those long fingers squeezing him.

John looks up at him feeling worried, the patterns of shadow being cast on his face by those cheekbones cutting through the light of the torch only serve to make Sherlock look ghostlike, accentuating the tense line of his jaw and brow. There is a distinct, though faint, tremor to the hand holding onto John.

Johns hand itches to reach for his gun and find the cause of Sherlock’s distress.

Greg finally seems to notice the tension.

“What’s happening? What do you see?” Greg walks up to them as well, shining a light around them as though searching for something.

John doesn’t take his gaze off Sherlock.

What’s wrong? John silently asks the detective.

John’s instincts are going haywire. He doesn’t like this.

The words in Sherlock’s head seem to spur him into action. He yanks his hand away from John as though electrified and turns to face his two companions with the fiercest eyes John has ever seen.

“John, Lestrade, enter through the back door and I’ll go through here.” Sherlock flashes his light briefly on John and Greg before motioning to the front door.

Both John and Greg hesitate. John narrows his eyes at Sherlock.

“You’re not entering the home of a bloody psychopath alone, what are you think-”

“You’ll be there not a minute behind me, really not much of a time difference. Besides, I doubt there is anything inside that could danger us at present. Now go.”

If there’s nothing dangerous in there, why are you making us go in through the back door? John asks himself.

“Fine.” John reluctantly agrees.

Sherlock nods stiffly before opening the door – unlocked, interesting – and swiftly entering inside.

“Let’s go.” Greg utters.

You don’t have to tell me twice.

John rushes ahead of Greg as the two make their quickly around the house, bypassing decrepit flower bushes and a rusted bicycle.

Assuming the back door is unlocked also (definitely expecting us, Sherlock was right), John cautiously opens it – gun in hand.

The two of them enter the house and begin edging along a hallway that looks far too long for the small place; forcing their breathing to remain quiet and steady, though John’s heart is pounding a mile a minute.

I will kill him if he’s gone and done something stupid, the bastard.

With the stance and eye of a trained soldier, John is careful – walking as quickly as he dares – in his movement and examination of the home around him...though home might be stretching it. There is no sign of anything personal, if anything the house feels empty and there is the stench of...blood.

If Greg’s sharp inhale is any indication, he smells it too.

feck!

Throwing caution to the wind, wings tense and ready, John races through the corridor and enters the first open door he sees on his left with his gun arm outstretched.

John notes in the back of his head that it is in perfect line of sight of the front door.

“Oh my god.” John gasps; his raised arm automatically falling to his side, still holding onto the gun tight.

In the middle of the room is a blond woman around John’s age, naked and with wounds at first glance that look much like Jeffery Coffers. She’s face down on the pale grey wooden floor, head facing John’s direction, brown eyes glazed over in death, a bullet wound clean and gaping between them. Her back is exposed with familiar letters carved and bloody across her shoulders; YKMIWKY.

The room is completely vacant, save for Sherlock Holmes currently crouched low by her head; his right hand currently clenched tightly in his pocket, his left hovering just above the surface of the letters on her back.

John can’t see his face, but the shaking feathers of his wings trailing on the floor behind him give John some insight into his state of mind. John himself is feeling sick, sick and angry at the person – the woman who did this. Sherlock and John have dealt with serial killers in their past, never once was there a woman. Though John knows any brand of psychopath isn’t limited to men only.

Behind him Greg has pulled out his mobile and is calling the police.

With a surprising steadiness, and sensing no further danger, John puts his gun away and slowly approaches Sherlock.

John doesn’t even think, he reaches out and places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock doesn’t throw off the touch.

“You knew her too, didn’t you?” John doesn’t know why exactly, but the second he saw the body and Sherlock he had a gut feeling once again this case was made even more personal for the detective.

Sherlock doesn’t respond, but soon after John feels an odd pressure surround the entirety of his left leg. He glances down and feels a swell of emotion when he sees that Sherlock’s right wing has completely wrapped itself around him, the edges of the feathers brushing the denim of his jeans in a reassuring caress.

The gentle nature of the touch doesn’t seem like Sherlock, and John wonders if it’s unconscious. It wouldn’t be the first time their wings have acted seemingly of their own accord.

“Her name was Eliza Kristoff. I made her acquaintance when I was in Poland.” Sherlock’s voice is monotone, not betraying anything.

John frowns, hand unconsciously clenching Sherlock’s shoulder. He must’ve met her while he was...away. Sherlock also mentioned that Jeffery Coffer was a member of his homeless network. Maybe...why is this woman kidnapping and killing people Sherlock knew? Was she involved with Moriarty somehow?

John is about to voice his thoughts when Sherlock looks up to him from his position on the floor. There is such a hard determination in his eyes, masking a sense of fear.

There is a pleading there...like he...like he knows, knows what John is thinking, of course he does...and he’s pleading with John to not say it, don’t ask me...oh god.

John gasps, struck with an epiphany.

“You know don’t you? You know who she is! Why she’s doing this, killing these people...” John feels like he should’ve realized this before, he knew Sherlock was hiding some knowledge, but he never thought that Sherlock already knew exactly what was going on and was just choosing not to tell anyone, pretending to not know as much as he obviously did.

Sherlock looks momentarily surprised at John’s declaration; he covers that however and gives a cautious nod.

John laughs bitterly. He takes his hand away from Sherlock and walks away; yanking on his leg until Sherlock’s wing releases it. He has just enough time to glimpse the brief flash of panic on Sherlock’s face before he turns away from the detective, unable to even look at him right now.

John isn’t even sure why he’s suddenly feeling so angry, yes Sherlock lied and hid his knowledge from John, but it wouldn’t be the first time and John already knew he was doing that, so why...John feels a tremor go through his shoulder and an ache cramp in his leg.

It might just be because he is still sensitive from his Sherlock-induced grief, and all the bloody mess surrounding that, and realizing the sheer extent of what Sherlock is hiding just reminds him...that Sherlock doesn’t trust him the way he thought. Does it make him love the bastard any less? God no, and maybe that’s why he’s barely able to resist the urge to break something...anything.

John doesn’t even notice Sherlock come up behind him.

“I couldn’t tell you John.” The tall man speaks, quiet.

John bites his lip.

“And why is that? Oh let me guess, you can’t tell me.” John’s tone is cutting.

“I’m sorry.”

John scoffs and turns around to face the detective.

“Why are you sorry?” John crosses his arms and fixes Sherlock with a glare. Sherlock is silent, staring at him with those intense eyes alight with worry. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.”

John goes to walk away, both from Sherlock and the dead body, when a large wing whips out in front of him.

John growls, wanting to push it away but instinct is telling him not to touch the appendage so deep in meaning and magic with anything but tenderness...which he does not feel like doing right now.

“Let me pass Sherlock.” John snarls.

“I can’t tell you because I don’t have a choice.” Sherlock is insistent.

John clenches his fists and abruptly turns once more to face the Detective, careful to not let his wing brush with Sherlock’s.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, you’re as clever as it gets, I’m positive that if you really wanted to you could find a way. Just like your fake death, but you didn’t and you don’t.” John is breathing heavily through his teeth now, voice low and angry. “Either I’m so useless I’m not worth your consideration, or you don’t trust me. Which is it Sherlock? It has to be one or the other!”

For the first time during this exchange, Sherlock looks genuinely shocked; eyes wide and mouth parted in astonishment. The sight throws Johns anger off for a moment...but only a moment.

Sherlock closes the distance between them until John has to practically bend his head backwards to not collide with Sherlock’s chest. John tries not to let the proximity affect him. The tall man with the sinfully dark hair lowers his face until he is nose to nose with John.

“There is never, and will never be a universe in which I will believe that you are useless, or that I don’t trust you.” Sherlock delivers the words slowly, emphasising each one with clear, no holds barred intent.

John expected Sherlock to slay him for his emotional stupidity, he never expected Sherlock to say...that. Not even sure if he believes him, doesn’t let himself believe him and ignores the warmth trying to crawl itself up from this soul and out through his wings. If Sherlock truly doesn’t believe those of John, than what could the reason be?

It is then that it really occurs to John how close he and Sherlock are, lips barely apart and Sherlock...Sherlock isn’t moving away.

John feels an overwhelming to kiss him, with plunging tongue and sharp teeth, and push him angrily up against the wall; it would be a relief to let out his frustration in an ultimately pleasurable manner...but he can’t, he just can’t. It is taking all his strength to keep his face blank, trying to hide those thoughts from the most observant man on the planet.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker to John’s lips and back up to his eyes. John notices the movement and he suddenly feels uneasy, could Sherlock have deduced what John thought a moment ago?

John is left reeling when Sherlock abruptly moves backwards, breaking the bubble and allowing Johns previous anger to filter in, though not as intense as before.

Sherlock is carefully avoiding Johns gaze, a hand still in his pocket, his other hand clenching and unclenching. Frozen to the spot for the time being, John doesn’t move as Sherlock gives him one last unreadable gaze before storming out of the room and out the front door.

“Whoa – Sherlock! What’s going on?” An irate Greg calls out from the front door.

John didn’t even notice when he left, probably continuing the call with the police outside.

The intensity of what just happened has John trembling..

“John? What happened? Are you alright?” Greg moves to John’s side, sparing the body a pained and sympathetic glance before focusing on the doctor.

John considers telling Greg what he’s discovered about Sherlock’s true knowledge of the case. Where would that get him though?

“I’m fine, Sherlock knows her. Eliza Kristoff he said.” John ends up telling him instead.

Greg looks skeptical at the first part of the statement, knowing that John is lying. He doesn’t push it and instead comments on the second part.

“Her too? Bloody hell, this woman is insane. What on earth is going on?”

John doesn’t respond. Knowing if he did Greg would know he’s lying and might press him on it then. John hates lying to Greg; he hates it even more that he’s lying for the one man who has deceived him more than anyone else.

John pushes those confusing thoughts away for the time being and focuses on the body.

Sherlock may know everything, or at least almost everything, but John still doesn’t (not just with the case, but with Sherlock too) and he can’t help but reiterate Greg’s question...what on earth is going on?

 

 Chapter 11



The spectacle of being served scrambled eggs and bangers for breakfast by Greg with Now Wearing Pants Sherlock Holmes (currently looking through the folder Mycroft left behind like it holds the answer to life, the universe and everything) sitting across from John is odd to say the least, though not unwelcome. If anything, John hasn’t felt this good for a long time.

Not everything is healed, Sherlock is still hiding his knowledge and involvement about the case from him, and after his conversation with Mycroft John is more curious about the cottage than ever (among many other things), but now that John knows more of the story surrounding Sherlock taking that fall and being for two years...John is still angry. Mostly angry that it happened at all, furious with that bastard Moriarty, heavy with the reality that he now knows what losing your best-friend feels like...whom I love more than I ever thought possible. John never truly comprehended how heavy the thoughts that Sherlock never truly cared nor valued or trusted him weighed on him until they were practically gone if not completely. He’s still trying to wrap his head around half of what Mycroft said, but there is no doubt in Johns mind that in Sherlock’s own messed up way, what he did was a selfless thing. A man who didn’t care wouldn’t have made a job like dismantling the criminal empire of James Moriarty potentially ten times more difficult than it needed to be (in order to save the lives of the few people who are close to him) if he didn’t care in some way.

No, not everything is healed, very little has actually been resolved, but at least there is one less weight on Johns shoulders.

Baby steps.

“John, I can hear you thinking from across the table.” Sherlock mutters, eyes still fixed on the content within the folder; which he has yet to share with either Greg or John. “It would probably be wise to stop before your small head explodes.”

Sherlock couldn’t sound more serious, but the barely there twitch of his lips gives away the teasing nature of the words.

Instead of feeling irked, John rolls his eyes and fails to suppress a small smile. It is as though once Sherlock truly believed he did receive John’s forgiveness, he feels more comfortable with engaging John the way he used to.

“Oi! My head is bigger than yours you know; it’s just all that...fluffy madness of makes it look larger than mine.” John retorts and forks up a bite of egg.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Greg sigh in exasperation as he serves himself (the plate he presented to Sherlock has so far gone uneaten beside the detective), but John can tell that he is secretly glad that at least some of the tension between the two has eased.

Sherlock sighs.

“Yes John, you have the biggest head of all the heads that ever headed the planet.”

John blinks for a moment.

“That makes no sense.”

Sherlock smirks.

“I rest my case.”

John gasps.

“You’re a dick.” John points his fork at the man.

Sherlock chuckles.

“Settle down boys.” Greg says as he walks over with his own plate of food. “Hey fluffy madness, you’re not going to eat?” Greg directs the question at Sherlock with a twinkle in his eye.

John nearly chokes on a bite of sausage.

Sherlock’s face scrunches up in distaste and he narrows his eyes at Greg. Without taking his eyes away, he raises his right hand and presses very hard at a point behind his right ear.

“Ow!” Greg yelps as his soul mark flares white hot. “Alright, alright, I’m sorry.”

John watches the small interaction with nothing but amusement. Sherlock nods, seeming satisfied. He immediately goes back to examining the content of the folder.

“So Sherlock, are you going to tell us what it was that Mycroft brought? Something to do with the case?” John asks with genuine curiosity.

Sherlock doesn’t answer for a moment, and then he turns a page...It is like a switch has been flipped. The fairly easy going, teasing nature of the domesticity the three men were experiencing extinguishes at the look on Sherlock’s face.

His eyes are dark and unyielding, the green grey of them turning stormier, colder as he continues to stare at whatever he’s seeing on the paper.

John puts his fork down and leans in toward Sherlock.

“What is it?” Johns every nerve is alight.

Sherlock’s wings are morphing to give the appearance of a sharpened edge again, tightening and spreading outwards. He is radiating tension and barely controlled wrath.

John.

He doesn’t let it show when Sherlock’s voice echoes in his head, small and afraid...the sound so at odds with how Sherlock looks now.

Sherlock what is it?

Nothing.

John frowns.

Greg and John shared a confused and worried glance before turning their attention back to Sherlock.

Then all at once, the ire is gone, the unease is gone and Sherlock is coldly, rigidly composed; betraying so little emotion he might as well be robotic.

“Bunkers.” Sherlock flips around the piece of paper he’d been staring at and settles it between Greg and John.

The two of them lean in towards each other to get a good look at the paper.

“Whoa...” Greg mutters under breath.

John’s eyes widen fractionally as he follows the words on the paper; a list of various abandoned WW2 bunkers in Sussex County.

John was not expecting that.

“Why would Mycroft give you this?” John asks.

Sherlock yanks the paper away and places it back in the folder. Sherlock’s elbows then rest atop the table with his long hands pressing against each other and lightly touching the cupid’s bow of his lips. His eyes are hardened and he is staring seemingly without reason at the wall behind John, not meeting his eyes.

“I found trace amounts of Nobel 808, or Explosive 808 underneath Eliza Kristoffs toenails. It was a plastic explosive used extensively by the SOE during the Second World War; it had the appearance of green plasticine, the traces of which I was able to spot as well as the very faint smell of almonds, also indicative of 808. This, combined with what I deduced about where Jeffery Coffer and Eliza Kristoff were forcibly held before being murdered, makes the theory of an abandoned bunker previously used by the SOE during world war two the most likely possibility.”

“The fact that there was no trace underneath her fingernails where there should’ve been, leads me to conclude that she, and likely Jeffery Coffer also were cleaned of potential trace evidence before being placed in the house. This action was not committed by the killer, she is too smart to overlook the fact that toenails can contain just as much potential evidence as finger nails, and it is obvious that she has her own set of loyal minions to do the dirty work for her. I imagine if the idiot forensic experts had the brains to check Jeffery Coffers toenails and not just his fingers, I would’ve found the trace elements a tad sooner. However, they are idiots and Dr James is very thorough when cleaning and autopsying a body, any bodily evidence at that point would’ve been useless. Because the evidence points towards a bunker used by the SOE, its location would not necessarily be known to the general public.”

“I loathe to admit it, but Mycroft has gotten better at hiding cameras it seems, he would not have known what I had found if he wasn’t ‘checking up’ on me-” A particularly bitter edge appears in Sherlock’s voice with the mention of Mycroft just as John groans at the thought of bloody cameras in his home.“-and the man has yet to get it through his cake stuffing face that his interference is not wanted...however, this-” Sherlock motions to the folder. “-does cut valuable time I could not afford to lose if I had tried to locate the bunkers myself.” Sherlock looks like the admission that he essentially needed Mycroft’s help, though he didn’t want it, causes him great pain to admit. “There are three potential bunkers it could be out of six on that list, all are within the proper distance, all used by the SOE, and all are far enough from each other that it could take too long to check them all out. We could get lucky find the correct one on the first try, but the risk is far too high. Additionally, since this woman is even using one of these bunkers, she likely knows the location of the others and has probably made plans to make it near impossible to know for sure which is the right one without great cost to us. I must choose correctly.”

“Wow, just...shit.” John says in the wake of what Sherlock revealed.

Greg shakes his head and rests his palms against his face. John pinches the space between his eyes, trying to think...this woman is fucking insane, insane and smart, like Moriarty, that is a horrible combination. If the pattern of the last two murders is anything to go by, they don’t have long before the third person is killed. It might help if they knew exactly who this woman is...well, Sherlock knows.

John makes a noise of frustration. A thought occurs to him and he lifts his head to look at Sherlock. The latter of who has his eyes closed, quick and frantic movement obvious behind his eyelids.

“If the location of these specific bunkers was not known to the general public, how did she gain access to them? You mentioned a possibly military connection, but that’s a big leap from maybe knowing someone in the military to knowing the precise locations of bunkers used by the SOE during the Second World War. And why this specific area?” These are two points John couldn’t help but wonder about while Sherlock was talking.

Sherlock tenses briefly, but otherwise shows no reaction to John’s words.

“Observant questions John. Neither of which I have the answers to nor are they relevant at this point.” Sherlock utters in a monotone without opening his eyes.

John raises an eyebrow in disbelief. Not relevant my arse.

Greg looks skeptical as well, though in his case he doesn’t know for sure that Sherlock is lying. John knows he is, because if he truly knows who this person is and the purpose beyond these senseless murders, than he bloody well knows the answers to those questions. John didn’t really believe he’d answer them, but he had hoped.

Bullshit. Why the feck can’t you tell me or anyone for that matter what you know about this psychopath?

Now that John is fairly certain Sherlock not disclosing that information isn’t necessarily about not trusting or thinking John useless, there must be another reason and it is worrying John to no end what the reason could possibly be. He doesn’t like it.

The second Johns voice echoes in Sherlock’s head, his eyes snap open; fixing John with a glare.

You do not need to know. Sherlock replies, eyes unmoving.

John clenches a fist.

Maybe not, but I want to know. Why can’t you just tell me? What are you hiding that’s so bloody important no one else but the great Sherlock Holmes deserves to know?

They’ve been involved in some pretty horrific cases before, even some connected with information that could prove disastrous for various governments and people if said info were released. Sherlock has never purposefully hidden the identity of the culprit from John before.

The sound of a large hand coming down and slamming on the table shocks Lestrade, but John himself doesn’t even flinch; though the widening of his eyes does portray his brand of surprise at what Sherlock just did.

With the wide flat of his hand giving him leverage, Sherlock pushes himself up and leans over to John. John fights the urge to move backwards at the sight of the rather imposing man.

I do not have time for your ridiculous paranoia, I have a case to solve and I cannot, will not, make the same mistake twice!

Sherlock is staring him down, and John is almost ready to retort with equal fervor when something stops him. Sherlock is trying to hide it, but whether it’s because of the bond or something else, John finds it a lot easier to read Sherlock’s emotions. And Sherlock Holmes is apprehensive. Of what exactly, John isn’t sure, but he can see it in the slight withdraw of Sherlock’s wings, the tension in his arms and the trepidation in his striking eyes as he waits for John’s response.

Instinct is telling John there is a much more profound reason for Sherlock’s determination in this case, that goes beyond solving the murders of people he knew, but in the face of Sherlock looking so...uncertain, uncertain of himself, the most brilliant man John has ever known, he finds his own uneasiness about being kept in the dark and need to know is secondary to Sherlock.

Experience has taught him that Sherlock will not divulge information unless he wants to, and if John continues to push he will only create more tension, potentially stall the case with his own agitation and push Sherlock away; he cannot afford to do any of those things. All he can do is keep an eye on Sherlock, and make sure he doesn’t do anything outrageously stupid. John will never forgive himself if he lets his own insecurities get in the way and any them pay the price for it.

So, as much as he doesn’t like it, unless there somehow comes a point where lives are at stake if Sherlock doesn’t share, John will let it go and trust him instead.

John’s defensive posture melts away and he meets Sherlock’s eyes.

Alright. I’m sorry. John finds he means it.

Sherlock looks surprised, and if the release of tension in his shoulders is any indication, he is relieved. He gives John a grateful nod and slowly sits back down in his chair.

You should know that though evidence may suggest otherwise, I take no pleasure in withholding information from you.

The thought trails off in Johns head. John gives a sad sort of smile as Sherlock looks away.

Hey.

Sherlock looks back at him with an adorably furrowed brow John automatically reaches forward and touches the top of Sherlock’s hand with his fingertips. John feels a shiver of pleasure ruffle his wings.

At this Sherlock’s eyes widen and zero in at the point of contact, he doesn’t move his hand away.

So long as you don’t do anything too stupid, we’re good.

John pats Sherlock’s hand, once, twice feels a smile wanting to turn his lips. John lets his fingers linger for a moment more; he realizes what he’s doing and withdraws his hand. He hopes no one notices the faint flush on his cheeks.

Sherlock moves his hand from the table and rests it on his lap; he then looks at John with an almost offended expression.

Don’t be ridiculous, I’m never truly been stupid.

At this John laughs out loud. Sherlock looks pleased at the reaction.

“Um...either one of you mind telling me what just happened?” Greg looks between Sherlock and John, obviously confused.

Up until that point, John and Sherlock must’ve have either forgotten or ignored Greg’s presence.

“Well...” John begins, not quite sure what to say.

Sherlock eyes John briefly before turning to Greg.

“Mood swings.” Sherlock says and shrugs noncommittally.

John snorts and Sherlock once more goes to examining the folder contents.

Greg rolls his eyes. “Tell me something I don’t know.” He mutters.

“The heart symbol was first used to denote love in 1250. Prior to that, it represented foliage.” Sherlock recites.

John blinks slowly; he knows that but doesn’t know about the bloody solar system? He has the strangest priorities.

“Not what I meant Sherlock...” Greg groans.

“Really? Well do learn to be more precise Lestrade, details do matter in police work you know.” Sherlock quirks a small grin.

Greg narrows his eyes. “I am aware Sherlock, thank-you.” Greg responds with no small amount of sarcasm.

“Glad I could be of assistance.” Sherlock nods. He then stands up, folder in hand and strides out of the kitchen.

“What are you doing?” John hollers.

“Walking away!” Sherlock calls back before he climbs the stairs.

“What a smart arse.” John rolls his eyes and pokes at his now cold eggs.

Greg raises an eyebrow.

“You’re just getting that now?”

John reaches over and gives Greg a playful shove before standing up and moving to tidy the kitchen.

John ponders over the last several minutes and thinks that maybe Sherlock wasn’t wrong when he mentioned mood swings.

At least now they have a better idea about where Jeffery and Eliza were kept, and where any other potential victims are currently being held, hopefully they’ll be able to find them in time.


***


It is only a few minutes later, Greg and John tidying up the kitchen, Sherlock doing some serious rummaging around in the guest room upstairs, when there is a polite series of knocks.

John frowns and lifts his hands from the soapy water; Greg pauses in the act of drying a frying pan.

“I’ll get it.” John dries off his hands and hopes with every fibre of his being that it isn’t Mycroft returning.

When he reaches the front door and opens, he sighs in relief when he sees Marcus there.

“Good morning John! I apologize for dropping in unannounced like this, just wanted to pop around and see how you gents were getting along with the case.” Marcus eyes John with a grateful smile as John steps aside to allow the older man entrance.

Today the coroner is wearing a tweed jacket with a bright red cardigan underneath, along with pure white trousers.

“No need to apologize Marcus, it’s good to see you.” John may not know the exact nature of his connection with Sherlock, but he has a rather delightful presence that John can’t help but find refreshing.

“You too my lad.” Marcus gives him a nod as John closes the door. “Oh! I nearly forgot, I brought these for Sherlock.” Marcus raises a canvas bag clutched tightly in one hand. “Where is that boy?”

John looks at the bag with confusion.

“Upstairs. What is it?” John asks with some amusement.

Marcus giggles and taps the side of his nose. “Aye that is a secret; let’s wait for Sherlock to come down himself shall we?” Marcus hands the bag to John; John takes it, slips off his jacket and hangs it on a hook by the door.

Marcus takes the bag gently back from John.

“We could be waiting a while.” John notes with a wave towards Sherlock’s room.

“Mm. True.” Marcus nods.

He seems to be pondering something; John eyes him curiously when Marcus moves to stand at the bottom of staircase.

“Oi Sherlock Holmes! I’ve brought over some Piry-ships, and because you’re a stubborn arse, I’m going to assume you haven’t eaten yet. So you better be down in here in less than five minutes or I’ll drag you down. Get movin’ boo!” Marcus yells up the stairs.

John covers his hand to stifle laughter; Greg pokes his head out of the kitchen at the sound of Marcus yelling.

The sounds of Sherlock pacing abruptly stop.

“Ah, there we go. Shouldn’t be long now.” Marcus’s mouth widens in a smile of satisfaction as he moves towards the kitchen.

Seriously, who is this guy?

John follows and Greg watches the two of them in amusement.

It is at that point when Johns mind goes over what Marcus said.

John shakes himself of that thought for the moment.

“Piry-ships? What are those?” John asks as Marcus sets his bag down on the kitchen table.

Marcus chuckles. He pulls out a plastic container and pops off the lid, holding it out so Greg and John can see inside.

“Biscuits?” Greg says.

“Pirate ship shaped biscuits...” John murmurs. ‘Initially he wanted to be a pirate...’

Oh god, this is too precious. John laughs.

“Mhm. Shortbread. Sherlock has adored these ever since he was little; starting just before the wee genius achieved perfect speech at four, Piry-ships is what he called them. Genie used to make them for him but...well; I thought I’d try my hand at making them this time.” Marcus says with barely concealed sadness. He avoids their gazes as he places the container on the table with an aged and trembling hand.

“You’ve known Sherlock since he was a child?” John asks, eyebrows reaching his hairline.

Due to their interaction John figured they’ve known each other for a while, but knowing Sherlock knows this man from childhood...John isn’t sure whether to feel a bit hurt that Sherlock never mentioned him or amazed that Sherlock has managed to keep a relatively good repertoire with this man, not related to him, his entire life.

And who is Genie?

“Aye I have.” Marcus reaches out and takes a small biscuit from the container. A look of melancholy bliss lights up his face as he slowly chews the treat.

Greg gives moves forward to take his own cookie.

“Wow, these are excellent.” Greg says around a mouth full of cookie.

“Ta very much.” Marcus smiles.

John isn’t exactly hungry, but out of politeness he takes a cookie as well. As he chews he acknowledges that Greg is right, they are indeed excellent.

John is far too curious not to ask.

“Who is Genie?” So far neither Sherlock nor Marcus have given him a straight answer, and if the deep set frown and heavy expression on Marcus’s face is any indication there is probably a good reason for it.

Marcus sighs and pushes his glasses to a more secure position on his face.

“She was, is, very important to both Sherlock and myself.” Marcus takes another cookie. “Otherwise, I think this is a conversation you should have with Sherlock.” Marcus eyes John pointedly.

John feels bad for asking when he notices that Marcus is clearly trying not to cry. Whoever she was, and whatever happened...it obviously wasn’t good.

“Alright. I’m sorry.” John nods, letting the subject lie for now.

“Don’t apologize, it’s...nice to hear her name again.” He pats John on the shoulder.

Silence follows as Marcus, Greg and John all sit down at the kitchen table; the container of cookies between them.

It isn’t long before they all hear the sounds of Sherlock heading their way.

John’s brow rises in surprise. He leans over to Marcus.

“You have got to teach me how to do that.” He whispers.

Marcus just laughs.

“I am not here for the...biscuits.” Sherlock’s deep voice suddenly looms over John from behind.

John looks up at him and notices that he is staring at the biscuits with a pained grimace, eyes wide in disbelief.

John frowns at the biscuits and looks back up at Sherlock; he is now staring out the window, the very picture of a man trying to assert some control; his wings are very still.

John eyes narrow in concern. He does nothing to stop it when his left wing reaches out and brushes Sherlock’s own; a shiver trembles through the man at the contact. A long fingered hand reaches out and lightly touches Johns shoulder. John feels surprise at the action, and a buzz of comforting warmth resembling a hot toddy flows through him.

John notices that in Sherlock’s other hand, he has the folder from Mycroft though it looks much thicker than before.

Across from John, Marcus is looking at Sherlock with guilt.

“I’m-”

“Why?” Sherlock asks, voice bordering on harsh, interrupting whatever Marcus was going to say. He’s still looking out the window.

Marcus adjusts his glasses in what could be a nervous habit.

“You were never good at looking after yourself, especially when your mind was occupied, I figured maybe...you used to love these and I thought you would at least eat them if nothing else.” Marcus watches Sherlock looking pensive, elderly hands folded on top of each other.

Sherlock huffs.

“I have John; I don’t need your...sustenance offerings.” Sherlock grits his teeth, pointedly not looking at the biscuits. “Now tell me the real reason.”

The timing might be inappropriate, but John feels a rush at Sherlock’s words, of course, that is also mixed in with the typical Sherlock related annoyance at the man’s expectation – still – to feed him when necessary, even though Sherlock has complained on more than one occasion about Johns ‘mothering’.

John chooses not to say anything this time.

This time Sherlock is looking at Marcus. If it weren’t for Sherlock’s hand still steady on Johns shoulder, John might’ve thought the two men have forgotten about his and Greg’s presence altogether.

Marcus nods.

“You haven’t contacted me, or responded to any of my calls since...” Marcus trails off and the lines on his face seem deeper somehow. Through his hand John can feel Sherlock tense and if possible the atmosphere in the room grows thicker. “I kept up with you though, your work and how you were doing, seeing you again a few days ago...I was so glad to see you boo, and I-”

“I’ve heard enough. Take them with you on your way out.” Sherlock makes sure to emphasise that last word, takes his hand away from Johns shoulder and gestures towards the kitchen doorway. “And stop calling me boo, I am not a child anymore.” Sherlock’s tone is frosty to say the least. “Leave. I have work to do.”

Sherlock moves away to the opposite end of the kitchen table and begins laying out what looks like photos and a map; his movements rough and angry.

John leans back and crosses his arms, eyeing Sherlock in disapproval. Sherlock has never been subtle, but the way the spoke to Marcus was particularly cold. Of course John doesn’t know what they were referring to and for some reason the biscuits clearly triggered something in Sherlock...John is more concerned than ever.

Marcus sighs and hangs his head briefly.

“Alright, alright.” Marcus doesn’t sound upset, or even hurt, if anything his tone portrays nothing but sympathy.

Both Greg and John remain silent as Marcus slowly gets up from his chair. Instead of taking his biscuits and leaving, he moves over to Sherlock and stops just behind him. Sherlock freezes. “Take care of yourself my boy; remember I’m not the only one who cares about your well being.” Marcus reaches up and pats Sherlock’s shoulder.

To John’s surprise, Sherlock doesn’t rebuff him or even throw off the touch, he barely acknowledges him. It is only as Marcus is turning away when Sherlock nods. Marcus doesn’t notice, but John does.

When Marcus passes by John’s chair, biscuits in hand, John stands up.

“Are you ok? Sorry about that, the biscuits really were lovely.” John speaks, looking Marcus in the eye.

Greg nods and smiles in agreement.

“No worries John, it is I who should be sorry. Keep me apprised?”

“Of course.”

Marcus smiles.

“Ta.” Marcus looks at Sherlock, now back to moving photos around roughly, with a frown of concentration. He leans in towards John. “Don’t be mad at him.” Marcus says in a whisper.

John smiles sadly. “He’s always been a rude sod, that isn’t news to me. I don’t know what’s going on, but if the past two years have taught me anything...it is the lengths person will go to, to try and forget something they’d rather not remember.” That ache echoes in John as he remembers what those two years of believing Sherlock was dead was like...a hell he thought he’d never fully come back from. They are also memories that swirled unbidden as he watched the recent interaction between Marcus and Sherlock. It took John a few moments, but the way Sherlock reacted upon seeing those biscuits was akin to how John would react when he would see something that reminded him of Sherlock...of something that was so essential to him, something he lost. It is that knowledge that kept John from his old instinct of scolding Sherlock in that moment.

Marcus looks pleased at that answer, a tinge of melancholy reflects in his eyes.

“You’re a good man John.” Marcus clasps his shoulder.

“Thank-you sir.” I try. Marcus gives John a piercing look. “Um...what?”

“You should tell him.” Marcus says as he leans in closer to John.

John’s heart starts pounding. John quickly looks behind himself to see if Sherlock is paying attention...doesn’t look like it. Could Marcus....?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” John responds a bit too quickly.

“John.” The look on Marcus’s face is scolding at best.

Geez, he’s worse than my own grandfather. He thinks of retorting but something in him gives and he just sighs.

“I can’t.” If he sounds regretful, John pretends it isn’t there.

It is the first time he has consciously alluded to, out loud, his newly discovered feelings for Sherlock.

This time it is Marcus’s turn to sigh. He looks behind John at Sherlock, and then Greg (who has joined Sherlock at the end of the table). He nods and then let’s go of John’s shoulder, Marcus motions for John to follow as he exits the kitchen.

John feels a bit confused and uncomfortable with the route this conversation has taken, but he follows Marcus none-the-less.

Marcus stops at the front door and turns to fix John with a determined, though sympathetic eye.

“Why not?” Marcus crosses his arms, container of biscuits dangling awkwardly from one of his hands.

John is suddenly reminded of his grandfather giving him a lecture about his reticence of telling his parents about his decision to join the army. The comparison makes John want to spill all his secrets, like he would to his own grandfather (now deceased) ...is Marcus a magician? Bloody hell. John has never been one to discuss how he feels in detail, in some ways he and Sherlock are alike in that aspect, but there is something about this man...Maybe he really is Santa Claus.

“He’s Sherlock, I really don’t think this particular kind of...sentiment would be welcome.” John ends up saying; it is the truth at least.

Marcus looks annoyed.

“In my seventy five years of life experience, whenever anyone says bollocks like that, it is an excuse because they’re afraid.”

John’s eyes widen a little. Marcus sure is feisty for seventy five.

“Choosing not to tell Sherlock that I...it just has nothing to do with me being afraid.” John inwardly groans, oh don’t you sound bloody convincing. Marcus simply raises an eyebrow. John sighs. “Besides, even if it...was about that, hypothetically, it would be a bloody miracle if Sherlock reciprocated.” Not to mention impossible.

“Like coming back from the dead?” Marcus counters with a grin.

‘One more miracle Sherlock for me, don’t...be...dead.’

John doesn’t really know what to say to that.

Marcus’s expression suddenly turns grim. “Sherlock is like a son to me, his parents are good people but they didn’t always...understand his quirks, I watched him grow as a child and into a rebellious teenager...and even though I haven’t been a direct part of his life for many years now, there is one thing Sherlock Holmes has always managed to do. And that, is surprise me.” Marcus puts down the box of biscuits on the stairs and puts on his tweed jacket as he speaks to John. “He is consistent and unpredictable in many ways. For this John...I’d bet my pound on the latter. Assumptions are often dangerous; Sherlock might just surprise you too.” Bag of biscuits in hand, Marcus opens the front door. “Of course, all of that is meaningless if you’ve already decided you’d rather live with the surety of never than the possibility of maybe.” Those beady golden eyes shine with humble wisdom many years bring.

The latter statement makes Johns hackles rise a little.

He crosses his arms and stares at Marcus with a glare of his own.

“I appreciate all you’ve said Marcus, but with all due respect, this is my business. Not yours.” John is surprisingly polite, but no less determined.

It would be idiotic to deny that much of what Marcus said has hit one or two nerves.

The older man nods slowly.

A gust of cool wind flows into the cottage through the open door.

“Of course, I do not mean to tell you what to do; your life is your life, no one else’s.” Marcus acknowledges, not seeming at all put off by Johns defensive posture. “I just know what it is like to lose someone you love. The pain I experienced at her loss...was unbearable, it still is. If we had never been together...yes I might’ve been spared that pain, but I also would’ve been spared what we had together and nothing is worth that.” Marcus adds with a last commiserating pat to Johns shoulder before he walks away, leaving a somewhat shaky John in his wake.

 Chapter 13


They’ve been driving for nearly three hours. It may be hard to imagine how in such a small country where there are so many people, that there are still miles and miles of nearly empty landscape. According to Sherlock they’re almost at their destination, apparently they’ll come to a turn off that will stretch a fair distance into the forest, but it is a dead end so they’ll have to walk the rest of the way; not too far, Sherlock says.

They’ve been driving alongside a forest for several miles now, nothing but the cool sunlight illuminating the vacant country side.

England really is an underrated country in terms of beauty. Johns mind is too preoccupied however to truly appreciate that. The countryside is a blur to his vision, both because of the racing speed with which Sherlock is driving, and though John may be looking out the window, he’s not really seeing anything...too distracted by thoughts of what may be coming, the note he found that Sherlock was obviously trying to hide, and Sherlock himself.

This sick and crazy woman – whom they’re now going to hopefully stop, maybe, or at least possibility rescue her next victim...same old same old – is killing people because of something Sherlock apparently did...what did he do?

I can barely concentrate.

John is a bit shocked to hear Sherlock’s voice in his head so out of the blue. He shifts uncomfortably.

Oh? Why’s that?

Somehow John suspects that Sherlock expects John to know exactly what he’s talking about, if the slight sigh to his right is any indication.

You haven’t stopped your persistent thinking since you entered the car; it’s giving me a headache. Now, tell me what’s on your mind.

John frowns at Sherlock and crosses his arms, feeling a bit indignant and certainly not intent on responding...for several reason.

Sherlock must’ve noticed John’s sour mood in response to his words, because like John did before, Sherlock shifts uncomfortably and tightens his hands on the steering wheel.

If you want of course, I’ve heard it can help some people if they talk about their thoughts and...feelings to someone else.

John’s brow quirks in disbelief. The words are slightly stilted and uncomfortable in tone, but John is surprised to feel that they seem entirely genuine...especially considering the high-strung nature of Sherlock right now, the darkness looming around and before him caused by their intended destination (John assumes), Sherlock’s additional words are quite...unexpected.

And in spite of the storming nature of his own thoughts, John can’t help but feel a sort of fond amusement at Sherlock’s awkward attempt to be John’s sounding board.

Regardless, John suspects that right now is not the right moment to divulge his new found knowledge. If all goes according to plan, John might get his answers anyway...somehow, John knows that has less a chance of happening than Sherlock giving an impromptu Macarena performance. Neither John nor Sherlock have ever been lucky enough to have their cases go ‘according to plan’.

The thought causes a ray of remembrance to shine through his swirl of tension. Interesting how the most frustrating and tiring part of his life was also the most invigorating and wonderful.

Adorable attempt at playing therapist aside, I’m sure my thoughts and feelings would bore you.

John freezes when he realizes what he just said – thought...feck. John resists the urge to bang his head against the window.

Sherlock glances over towards John with a furrowed brow before returning his gaze towards the road.

Firstly, you John Watson are one of the least boring people I know, most of the time. Secondly...adorable? I am not, nor have I ever been adorable.

Coming from Sherlock, that first part is a compliment and John chooses to take it as such, bizarre as it is. The second part...John curses his bloody mind for let slipping that word in the first place, however Sherlock’s indignant though at being called adorable is, ironically, adorable – yes, John can freely admit that now, to himself anyway. It might be worth telling Sherlock the irony of his last thought just to see look on his face.

Still, it isn’t really the best time for John to tease.

Whatever you say.

John shrugs and deliberately turns away so that Sherlock can’t see his face. He can hear Sherlock grumble something along the lines of ‘idiotic’ and ‘frustrating’. John finds himself smiling for the first time since finding that note.

The thought causes the cursive words to resound in his yet again.

‘You of all people must realize actions have consequences...You destroyed me, and I will ensure justice is served no matter your pointless efforts...YKMIWKY’

YKMIWKY...what does that even mean? Does this woman intend to kill Sherlock in the end? John has never hated a possibility more, however intuition is telling John that killing Sherlock isn’t the point to all this...if it were, wouldn’t she have done it by now? So what is her ultimate objective?

You’re doing it again.

John groans.

Shouldn’t you be focusing on driving?

I can focus on many things at once.

John sighs, of course he can.

You’re driving way too fast. John says in effort to deviate the conversation.

Your attempt at distracting me with something you don’t actually care about is pathetic at best.

John taps his hand in a rhythmic movement on his thigh.

Can’t blame a guy for trying. The quip falls somewhat flat.

You discovered something that is troubling you. Sherlock’s baritone sounds in his head, entirely sure he is correct...he is of course.

Johns hand stops moving for a brief second. It takes effort not to react to Sherlock’s words. Though knowing him, nothing can prevent Sherlock from eventually deducing exactly what’s on Johns mind.

Sherlock’s eyes momentarily zoom in on the movement in Johns hand before increasing the speed of the car, casting his eyes with laser focus at the forest alongside them.

Have I now? John responds, nonchalant.

Your heart rate has increased by a minimum of twenty beats per minute, you’ve been abnormally quiet, and you have a tell when you’re thinking hard about something, either tapping your thigh or deep breathing with particular frequency. You’ve been doing both of these, ergo, you are troubled.

Smart arse. John doesn’t say that the increased heart rate has as much to do with his worry as it has to do with his close proximity to Sherlock. That has John feeling a bit more on edge, worried that if Sherlock deduces much deeper he’ll discover...

Just...just stop it Sherlock. I don’t particularly feel like satisfying your curiosity right now.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock frown, obviously wanting to continue prodding. He doesn’t though. Sherlock nods and once again his focus is entirely on the road in front of them.

A minute or two passes, and it doesn’t escape even Greg’s notice that a new level of tension has risen in the car.

I...my interest in knowing what you’re thinking isn’t solely because of my curiosity.

John swivels his head to look at Sherlock’s profile. He hadn’t been expecting Sherlock to continue what he thought was a dropped conversation.

John is more befuddled by the almost vulnerable nature of how Sherlock spoke.

Oh?

Sherlock’s frown deepens. He doesn’t respond. After a few seconds Sherlock turns his head away from John and out the window. John notices that the wing closest to John moved with Sherlock and is now shyly reaching towards the doctor.

John watches in surprise. He looks up at Sherlock as he allows his wing to reach out. The feeling of assurance and safety when the tips of their feathers touch is incredible. Sherlock appears to sigh in relief and John smiles in spite of himself.

Sherlock has never been a man to expression his emotions, however on the rare occasions when he did – including recently, it was always done with actions rather than words.

John isn’t sure exactly what Sherlock is meaning to convey now, of all times, but the gesture warms his heart all the same.

Their bubble is abruptly popped when Sherlock slows the car down to a crawl, turning into the partially hidden dirt road.

“We’ve arrived.”

The words are ominous, though not quite as much as the dark undertone of the forest. The trees must thin out further down (or up, since they are on a slight incline), because right now, even though it’s still day, the trees are so thick and crowded that barely any light is shining through.

Sherlock, peering out the window, makes the observation that this road has been used frequently and by a van of some sort, due to the width of the tires. Other than that, he is completely silent.

John can feel an undercurrent of fury building in Sherlock, although his face and posture betray nothing except cool determination. John absently notes that ever since the bond, John has been able to detect Sherlock’s emotions more concretely than ever before.

Greg has tensed also, carefully scanning the forest as they drive. John himself is concentrating on finding that eye of the storm calm, a practise he perfected during his time in the army. His gun hand twitches.

It is time to focus entirely on their goal; investigate the bunker, possibly deal with this woman if she is there (though according to Sherlock she more than likely is), and if they’re lucky rescue whatever victims she may have locked away.

It doesn’t take long before they reach the end, by that point they have climbed up a significant distance, the area has leveled out and the trees are significantly thinner.

There is no sign of the bunker and John wonders how far they’ll have to walk before they reach it, and if the killer has anyone guarding the area. Once Sherlock stops the car, he doesn’t hesitate before getting out. Almost simultaneously Greg and John get out also. Sherlock tosses Greg his keys before slamming his car door closed and scanning the forest with falcon eyes.

John and Greg have moved to stand beside each other, both of them preparing their guns accordingly, waiting for an indication for which direction they’re headed.


Everything around them is surprisingly silent, barely the tweeting of birds or the scuffle of other wild life. The loudest sound is the breathing of the three men.

Sherlock knows which direction the bunker lies, however he is confident he can find a shorter route to get there. He quickly spots a point between two trees where activity has recently occurred, faint scratches on the bark, broken branches and fallen leaves naturally moved off to the side by heavy footsteps.

Sherlock is vigilant for any sound or sign that’ll signal someone’s approach while he calculates the various routes he could take in order to reach his destination. Luckily, though he hates to give Mycroft any credit especially now, Mycroft included a detailed map of the areas specific to the land surrounding the various bunkers within the folder he left to Sherlock. That, plus his extensive knowledge of all the forests in England, including soils and vegetation unique to each one, makes devising the shortest route to the bunker hardly difficult.

One thing Sherlock didn’t anticipate, throughout his unplanned return and the case, is the amount of effort he would have to put into suppressing his emotions, distracting and persistent things, many of them caused by the doctor standing five feet behind him.

Sherlock meant what he said to John not long ago, he can think of several things at once. Often does even if he would rather not. When Lestrade confronted him about his supposed romantic inclination towards John, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get the idea out of his mind. An idea he admittedly had to crush more than once since his acquaintance with the remarkably interesting ex army doctor. Sherlock had been determined to write off his feelings towards John as admiration, or interest piqued in the wake of John being one of the few people to surprise Sherlock on a semi-regular basis. John is deceptively ordinary; normal by all accounts and yet...yet there is a quality to him that Sherlock can’t quite place that makes him unique. Perhaps that is why Sherlock finds him interesting.

Sherlock has always had a passion for scientific truth; soul mates, soul magic and love are three things that cannot be fully quantified by science. Time was Sherlock would’ve said that love is a combinations of pheromones, chemicals and neurons rather than anything else. However, given his experiences of the past two years...Sherlock has had to, if not change than adapt his assumption. Love is a combination of pheromones, chemicals and neurons; however it is something else also, because it originates in the soul not the mind.

The event that sparked that particular revelation was indeed the conversation he had with Lestrade. His words sparked a chain reaction of thought within Sherlock. Sherlock believed himself to be incapable of love, loyalty and dedication perhaps, but not love. He never allowed himself to entertain the possibility that he might just be as primal and foolish as everyone else. The last time he thought he felt love, of any kind, it affected him in a way he never thought possible. So much so that he firmly believed, for a long time, that love was nothing but a weakness, a defection that inevitably brought nothing but pain and destruction to those who embraced it. How could anyone covet something so inherently destructive? That is a question Sherlock has never been able to find an answer too.

And then he met John Watson, recently invalided from Afghanistan, psychosomatic limp, bearing signs of soul mate death, and so incomprehensibly fascinated by Sherlock and his ways deemed insane and psychopathic by many.

Love is something that can be at least somewhat quantified by science, it is partially a biological function, but where else biological function is for the most part logical (as the name suggests), love isn’t. It is a thing that is both scientifically quantifiable and yet at the same time it isn’t. That is the thought that went through Sherlock’s mind when Lestrade confronted Sherlock about his own feelings and Sherlock had yet another revelation. Love is John. John is love. Sherlock has never been able to adequately quantify John Watson; the lurking moments of surprise that Sherlock could never entirely predict kept that from being possible. Yet at the same time John at his surface is no more fascinating or interesting than any other Englishman in his forties. His living habits are predictable; his taste in jumpers is quite frankly a ghastly abhorrence. His tendency to express compassion to total strangers and yet possess the ability to shoot a moving target without hesitation are facts both inherent to the doctor and as such unsurprising to Johns personality, and yet the combination of them shouldn’t exist in the first place.

John Watson is an enigma. A mystery solved that can never actually be solved. It is a paradox that Sherlock has pondered, especially within the last few days, and also the reason Sherlock knows he could never get bored of John Watson.

John is so much like the frustrating nature and reality of what people call love, destructive, ordinary, predictable, unpredictable, quantifiable, indescribable, persistent, forgiving, unforgiving, wolf in sheep’s clothing, capable of compassion and brute force, frustrating, annoying, powerful...John. Therefore, if John is love, and Sherlock finds himself unable to let go of the doctor, no matter how much his rational mind may argue the point, and finds himself continuingly drawn to the man, thinking about him more than anything else...doesn’t that all mean that what Sherlock feels for John is love? Loving love, how disgustingly cliché and romantic of him. Yet when Lestrade sparked that chain reaction, Sherlock had been unable to deny it to himself.

He can admit within the most hidden and darkest corners of his mind palace that the idea of loving John, in a way he hadn’t wanted to for a long time, and being deep soul mates with him, terrifies Sherlock to his very core. And no matter how many lectures he or Mycroft gives him on the dangerous destructive nature of love, it hasn’t made a difference. It hasn’t prevented Sherlock from thinking that John is the most beautiful human being he has ever seen, and he is sure on the entire planet if not universe; it hasn’t prevented Sherlock from indulging in his comforting sweet woolen smell when he has had the rare occasion to embrace him. It hasn’t prevented Sherlock from dreaming, when he does sleep, dreaming about him; moments of intimacy, both delicate and passionate in every sense. These are feelings and thoughts that even Sherlock knows goes beyond the ordinary bounds of platonic friendship.

Sherlock doesn’t even want to think about the overwhelming panic he felt, more than once since his return, at the idea that John might never forgive him or want to see him again. The sheer relief he felt when John said ‘I forgive you’ made Sherlock want to cry (he resolutely didn’t though). In the few moments during his necessary exile away from London, ridding the world of Moriarty and his disease of an empire, Sherlock would find himself thinking about 221b and John; their cases, experiments, the adrenaline, the danger, the surprisingly domestic in-betweens, even the almost daily arguments. He would always feel an ache when thinking about his life, his home, and he would mostly contribute the feeling to malnourishment or something else, anything but the idea that he misses John so deeply that he could feel the ache in all his extremities.

Of course, once Sherlock saw John for the first time in two years, and that ache returned...he didn’t know what to call it. That is, not until all the pieces connected into a picture Sherlock couldn’t deny or rationalize away no matter how hard he tried.

Sherlock loves – is in love with John Watson, a man who in Sherlock’s opinion, perfectly embodies the very nature of love.

Sherlock has only sparingly thought of his own sexual orientation. Evidence and human behaviour suggests that sexuality is often fluid, and there is no one orientation or identity that is normal or regular to the human condition, despite what ignorant fools say. Sexuality, gender, or lack thereof, is a vast and diverse aspect of human beings. Sherlock has educated himself on many, if not all, possibilities. He has found that knowledge has been significantly helpful on cases.

Sherlock has been attracted, in many ways, to people before, mostly men, however he has never felt the need to pursue anything. John is the first person Sherlock has had any significant feelings for, which include want and desire. However, when he thinks of loving and being attracted to John, Sherlock doesn’t believe that John being male is necessarily a part of it. It is who John is, therefore a part of what Sherlock loves about him. If John were anything other than a man, would Sherlock still love him? Of course. John is John. A penis and a flat chest are coincidental.

John may never reciprocate Sherlock’s feelings, to be perfectly honest Sherlock can’t see how that is possible. Sherlock is a cruel, callous man, barely worthy of John’s presence as it is, how could such a man as John love a man like him? A man who values his work above all else, who displays strong sociopathic tendencies and who couldn’t really care less about people in general. No, it is impossible, and he will have to be careful to make sure John never suspects his feelings for the doctor go beyond friendship. The idea of not having Johns love is an unfortunate reality, the idea of not having John’s friendship is unfathomable. It may make him weak, but John has become intrinsic to Sherlock’s life, and he cannot lose him.

The idea of possibly losing him again...is one that Sherlock refuses to even ponder. For he is sure he would crumble if he allowed himself to even imagine John being...gone.

Sherlock’s mind works at a speed unlike any other human being, barely seconds have passed since a part of Sherlock’s mind went down the twin roads of John and love while the other part was calculating a route through the forest.

He has found one.

Sherlock is about to call out to Lestrade and John when he feels his mobile chime in his pocket. Sherlock heaves a frustrated breath and pulls it out, quickly unlocking the device and reading the text.


You’re being foolish. – MH


Sherlock glares daggers at his phone.


If I’m a fool, you’re a troll living under a bridge. – SH


Another text comes before Sherlock can put away his phone.


I know you blame me for what happened, I admit I should not have been so hasty in my judgements. However, wouldn’t it be wiser to wait for the police to arrive before venturing forward? – MH


Don’t pretend you aren’t sending your own minions as well; besides, waiting for the police to arrive is like waiting for snow in summer. I cannot afford to waste time waiting when she could be getting away or killing another one of my contacts. – SH


I see. – MH


Sherlock narrows his eyes. Those two words from Mycroft say more than any spiel the cake-eating fat man has already said.


What? – SH


Nothing brother dear, I am merely admiring your intense dedication to tracking down this woman purely because she is responsible for “the death of your contacts”. – MH


The sarcasm is near leeching from the phone. Sherlock growls.


Don’t. Call. Me. That. You know precisely my reasons for getting to her before she proceeds with her plan. – SH


I know. Good luck brother dear. – MH


Sherlock grimaces at the repeated endearment. Sherlock is about to angrily shove his phone away when there is another text.


I know you’ll keep an eye on John; the man is almost as foolish as you. I wouldn’t put it past him to perform a heroic act of some sort and take a bullet for you should the opportunity arise. I would hate to deal with the fallout should he perish. – MH


Sherlock tenses at Mycroft’s words.


I would sooner kiss you than allow John to die. – SH


Sherlock could not feel more conviction as he types those words even if he tried.


What a horrifying thought. – MH


Precisely. Now, go stick your head in a hole somewhere. I have a killer to apprehend. – SH


Take care of yourself too, whatever you may think of me now, you’re still my brother. – MH


Only because biology makes it so, Sherlock adds in his head. Sherlock resists the urge to throw his phone harshly against a tree and instead puts his phone away without responding.

“Are you alright?”

Johns amber honey tone is music to the silence surrounding Sherlock.

Sherlock takes a moment to mask his emotion and turns around, a hum of deep burning sparks in Sherlock when his wing brushes against John’s torso.

John is looking at Sherlock with concern, eyeing the phone in his pocket before looking back up at Sherlock’s eyes...the same colour as the wings adorning Johns back.

“Of course. I believe I have found our route to the bunker. We will have to be quiet and alert; however the journey should take no more than ten minutes at the most. Follow me and do exactly as I say.” Sherlock narrows his eyes at John for the last part.

Mycroft is right about one thing, it is in John’s nature to be heroic. John says he doesn’t want Sherlock to do something reckless and stupid, what Sherlock didn’t say is that if John attempts to do either one of those things, he will see what Sherlock Holmes truly looks like angry.

John appears to consider Sherlock for a moment.

“Lead the way.”

Sherlock doesn’t miss how John didn’t capitulate to doing exactly as Sherlock says, but to save time Sherlock doesn’t argue the point and merely nods at John, and at Lestrade standing right behind John.

“Step where I step.” Sherlock rumbles out.

He turns back around towards the forest and begins the walk to the bunker, he hears John and Lestrade following.

Sherlock has never felt more rage, or such a strong desire to replicate Jack the Rippers style on a living person than he has towards this particular killer.

There is nothing Sherlock won’t do to protect John Watson.

 Chapter 15




John dreams again. This time, it isn’t of the cottage, but the cold stark reality of a hospital room.


John is standing in the corner of a room, it is quiet except for the slow beeping of a heart monitor.

The woman lying on the bed is frail, asleep, her pallor so grey it only accentuates the aged quality of her skin. Golden wings fall over the edge of the bed, John notices that veins of grey and black are leeching through the shining gold of the feathers.

This woman is dying.

John has seen this woman before. She is the one from the cottage, with the little boy and the other man.

The door to the hospital room opens and two men enter. One is clearly the other man from before, John notices the same dying veins invading his wings as well.

The other...the other is no longer a little boy, but a man, a teenager. He wears a long dark grey coat; his curls cover his head in an untidy mop and his blue grey eyes are unblinking and focused on the dying woman.

Nothing can hide the looks of twin devastation on the men’s faces.

The older man takes a seat in the chair beside the woman in the bed, reaching out to let his hand rest on hers. The young man doesn’t go any closer than the foot of the bed, he is rigid and still, though there are silent tears running down his perfectly sculpted face.

“The doctor said we should say goodbye.” The older man recites flatly, gaze unmoving from the sleeping woman.

“Why?” The young man responds in a surprisingly deep voice.

The other man looks at him.

“You know why Billy.” He says softly.

The young man, Billy, squeezes his eyes shut, grimacing and turning away from the bed.

“I tried...I tried to find a way to save her, I couldn’t, I’m useless, worthless-” The young man chants, broken and angry.

“No!” The other man interrupts, as loud as he dare. The young man stops talking. “Come here boo, please.” The older man’s voice breaks at the last word, he reaches out a hand to the young man standing a few feet away.

The young man’s eyes carefully avoid the woman on the bed as he makes his way over with stilted steps. As soon as he is close enough, the older man grabs Billy’s hand in his.

“You listen to me William; there is nothing, nothing more we could’ve done. We, everyone, did everything they could. Don’t blame yourself, I beg you.” The older man’s voice is insistent, his hand grips the woman’s tighter.

Suddenly Billy – Williams face flashes with rage and he yanks his hand away, pacing angrily all over the room.

“Obviously not! If everyone supposedly did everything they could she-” The young man stops briefly to point a shaking finger at the woman in the bed. His tone is angry and scathing. “-would not be there! She wouldn’t...” The young man cries out and begins to bang his head harshly against a wall.

The older man leaps away from the bed to stop the younger man.

“Billy! Billy stop it, stop!” The older man grabs Billy into a hug from behind, pulling him away from the wall.

Whatever composure the young man had is gone, his face has crumpled and tears are pouring in rivers down his face.

He looks beautiful when he cries.

“Why? Why her, why why why...” The young man’s voice is clogged with tears.

The older man is holding tightly onto William, John sees he is about to cry too.

“I don’t know. There is no answer to that question.” The older man says with a voice hollow and broken.

William clasps the older man’s hands around his middle tightly, head hanging in despair.

“M-Marcus? Billy?” A voice, hoarse and fading, calls out from the bed.

The two men whip around to face her.

“Sweetie!” The older man – Marcus hurries over to the woman’s side, tears still running down his face as he grips her hand tightly.

She waves her other hand around, eyes glassy and unseeing. She’s blind.

Billy hasn’t moved.

“Billy, where are you?” The woman smiles as she searches for the younger man.

He hesitates, though he does walk over and grab a hold of her frail looking hand; Billy looks terrified.

“I’m here grandmother.” William says quietly, trying to sound stronger than he’s obviously feeling.

The woman’s smile lights up her entire face, even on the verge of death.

“I’m glad Billy, I’m glad you’re here. Mmm, my boys.” Her foggy eyes turn to the ceiling and she desperately tries to move her fingers to hold the hands of her boys back, but she is too weak. “Where is my, my son?”

“He’s on his way. I love you, I love you so much.” The older man, Marcus, leans over and presses a light kiss to the corner of the woman’s mouth.

“I know. I love you too.” The woman answers, her glassy eyes fall closed.

Her wings, and Marcus’s, begin to curl inward and their colours transform into a dark and ashen grey.

It is nearly time. The edges of the dream begin to turn dark and hazy.

“Grandmother?” Billy utters, sounding panicky. He falls to his knees beside the bed and holds his grandmothers hand in a death grip.

“Mmm, I’m alright Billy, I’m alright...you’re my little genius, my beautiful grandson, you always will be.” The woman’s voice is growing fainter.

Billy pushes himself up and off the floor and sits himself on the bed, he leans over and rests his hands on the sides of his grandmothers face.

The older man watches this interaction with growing sorrow.

“You can’t leave, you can’t! I...I don’t have anyone, please.” His voice breaks.

The woman smiles sadly and shakes her head.

“You know that isn’t true. You must promise me something, alright?” The woman’s voice suddenly turns louder, a last burst of determination surging in her voice.

Billy bites his lips and nods, stroking the sides of her face.

“Love yourself, love what you do and hold onto the people you love and who love you for as long as you can. Do these things, and you’ll be ok.” Though she can’t see him, the woman turns her face in Billy’s direction. “Maybe even raise your own bees, I know you’ve always been fascinated by them.” She adds with a little grin.

He shakes his head in protest, resting his forehead against hers.

“I won’t, I won’t be ok.” Billy sobs and his head falls from hers and lands on her chest. He begins sobbing in earnest.

“Yes you will. I love you William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

Those words echo as her last. Her heart beat turning weaker and then stopping altogether.

The loud, single beep indicating flat line is like a twisting knife to the two men currently grieving by this woman’s bedside.

Her wings turn to greying ash and vanish, as do the older man’s; the connection with his deep soul mate is gone, he will never be able to perform any magic ever again.

Billy continues to sob.

Marcus, crying as well, reaches out and rests his free hand on top of William’s head.

“Billy...”

The young man suddenly tenses. His sobbing ceases and his expression turns hard. He pushes himself away from the bed, heart jumping in his throat.

“Don’t. Call. Me. That.” The young man spits angrily.

Without another glance to his grandmother or Marcus, William strides out of the room.

The edges of the dream disintegrate into ash, fading, fading...


John’s eyes flash open.

Sherlock...that was...Sherlock....how? It was so real...

With the dream still lingering his mind with a sort of surreal shock (what kind of dream was that? Was it even a dream? It must’ve been, but then why...), John shifts within the warm comfort on his bed...wait.

Memories from when he last remembers being awake bombard him and suddenly John feels dizzy.

The forest...he bunker...Sophia...John being shot...Sherlock...Sherlock.

John gasps with the sharpest clarity as he remembers the memory of Sherlock crouched over him, looking more terrified than John had ever seen him and the moment they shared.

John remembers it all, the feeling of Sherlock’s hands on his face (much like they were on that woman’s in dream, Johns mind supplies), desperately trying to fight tears John could see welling in his eyes, his warm hand covering his own, pressing down on the wound...and then, John touching Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock letting him, the emotions John could feel pouring through Sherlock...an echo of the sealing of their bond.

With a start John remembers how he bared himself to Sherlock, not in so many words exactly, but in his expressions, his actions, he remembers the look on Sherlock’s face as the genius read every emotion John couldn’t help but feel in that moment... John feels anxiety at what might happen now, his heart rate increases, the feeling of being shot a bare echo in comparison, but then Sherlock’s own response to John filters through it and John thinks...he bared himself too didn’t he? John never thought he’d see sentiment despising Sherlock Holmes express the feeling John is positive he saw and felt...what does he do now? Talk to him? Let Sherlock come to him? Will he? The idea of having an emotional heart to heart with Sherlock Holmes of all people is strange, not just because of him, but John too has never been good at talking about this kind of thing. The possibility that Sherlock might feel for him the way John feels for Sherlock is no longer wholly impossible, will anything come of it though? John doesn’t know.

There is doubt in John too, the entire incident was adrenaline fueled and emotionally high, how will things be and feel in the light of day? Will Sherlock simply write off Johns observations as idiotic due to blood loss?

And there is the matter of the case as well. John doesn’t know what happened to the young man, and the whole confrontation between Sherlock and Sophia is another can of worms all together.

How did they get back to the cottage? What happened after John...passed out?

John has so many questions, too many for having just woken up, which to ask first? Maybe a cup of tea will hold the answers, or even coffee.

All John knows for sure is that he wants answers; he just doesn’t know which ones he wants first.

John pushes himself into a sitting position and notices its dark outside, the light of his clock flashes seven pm. Wow, I’ve been asleep for a long time.

John yawns, rests his elbows on his knees and rubs the heels of his hands against his eyes. He stretches and flexes his wings.

It is then John notices that he is wearing nothing but his underwear.

Ok, so someone undressed him and tucked him into bed...John has absolutely no memory of that.

The sound of his door knob turning causes John to frown and look in the direction of his bedroom door. It is gently pushed open to reveal a frazzled looking Sherlock, wearing a deep cinnamon coloured dressing gown (it seems that Sherlock got his love of those from Marcus) tied tightly around his body with a grey t-shirt underneath.

He’s holding a cup of steaming tea in his free hand.

John blinks as an uncontrollable surge of emotion flows through him at the sight of the man he’d just been thinking about (dreaming about?), the man he...the man he loves.

Sherlock has yet to look in John’s direction; his expression is one of deep thought, worry tainting the gorgeous blue of his eyes. John doesn’t say anything as Sherlock turns to close the door.

When Sherlock finally looks in John’s direction, Sherlock seems surprised to find John awake; his hand clenches the mug tightly.

He freezes. So does John.

The silence and tension is awkward to say the least. Sherlock looks away from John, his face barely masking the uncertainty hiding behind his eyes.

“I brought you tea. Lestrade made it but I...carried it up here.” Sherlock suddenly says, a bit brusque, and holds out the mug to John as Sherlock finally meets Johns gaze with a guarded look in his eyes.

John smiles in a way he hopes is reassuring.

“Ta Sherlock.” John nods, gently taking the tea from Sherlock’s hand.

Their fingers brush and both men feel a tremble.

Sherlock is still standing there when John takes a sip. It’s perfect and John sighs in relief at taste of the hot, comforting liquid.

The silence is still awkward, but with the presence of tea John feels he is slowly gaining the strength to talk with Sherlock about...everything.

First things first, Sherlock needs to stop staring at him like he’s about to combust.

“Are you going to sit down or stand there for the rest of the evening?” John quips, trying to sound amused, sipping his tea while watching Sherlock.

Sherlock’s wings flutter and he shifts uncomfortably.

“Oh, right. Of course.” Sherlock mutters, he moves to sit at the end of John’s bed, his gaze anywhere but on John.

His posture is too rigid to be comfortable.

John frowns and puts his tea down on the bedside table.

“Sherlock, are you alright?” John asks quietly.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak and then abruptly closes it. He surveys the room once before returning his eyes to the wall opposite him.

Definitely nervous.

“I’m perfectly fine John.”

John narrows his eyes in disbelief.

“Look at me.”

Sherlock tenses further. His movements are almost robotic as he turns to face John; the guarded look in his eyes is even more prevalent than before.

John doesn’t like it, why is he so on edge?

“Does that satisfy you?” Sherlock jibes.

John crosses his arms.

“No, you still haven’t told me what’s wrong.” John ignores the mocking sarcasm of Sherlock’s tone, recognizing it to be a defense mechanism.

“I told you I’m fine John.” Sherlock sighs, shifting a bit on the bed.

“And I’m calling your bluff.” Johns leans back to rest against the headboard.

Sherlock’s hand clenches. John waits. His patience is rewarded when the tenseness of Sherlock’s demeanour fades bit by bit, the action clearly takes effort on Sherlock’s part, revealing that uncertainty and caution from before.

There is still a somewhat guarded look in his eyes though, but John will take what he can get.

“Talk to me.” John leans forward, hands resting on the tops of his thighs.

Sherlock looks at John, his eyes are soft for only a moment before Sherlock scowls and gets up from the bed. His dressing gown and wings swirl out behind him as he walks towards the bedroom window. Sherlock turns so John can only see the barest hint of his profile; he has one arm lying across his chest with the elbow of his other resting on it; a tight fist resting against the tips of his lips.

“The man Sophia shot, Bill Wiggins, he didn’t survive-” feck. “-I suppose one could call him the leader of my homeless network, he was an intelligent young man, his death is...regrettable.” Sherlock’s voice lowers for a moment. “I had hoped we would be able to save his life and stop that woman, it was foolish and naive of me. Mycroft was right, emotion blinded me and I nearly paid the price...again.” Sherlock’s wings sag dejectedly, his voice hard and angry. He flicks his eyes towards John before turning back towards the window. “You might believe it terrible of me to say, but the most tragic consequence of failing to save him, is not his death but what his death means.”

John’s brow furrows as he listens to Sherlock speak.

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you remember what Sophia said John?” Sherlock posits.

How could I forget?

“Every word.” John tends to remember the events surrounding getting shot with startlingly clarity. Frankly, John is surprised he didn’t have a nightmare or a flashback.

She certainly said a lot, John isn’t sure what Sherlock could be referring to.

Sherlock nods.

“You found the note she left me at the last crime scene.”

John pauses for a moment...certainly didn’t expect him to say that.

“Yes.” John shifts uncomfortably.

Sherlock hums. “I hazarded as much in the car.” Sherlock looks distracted for a moment. He shakes his head. “In the note Sophia repeated the letters YKMIWKY, I have always known what they meant, much like several if not all aspects of this case. You killed mine, I will kill yours.” Sherlock pauses. Johns brow rises, you killed mine I will kill yours? What could – “If you do remember, I’m sure you recall how she emphasised many times that I killed someone important to her, and that in revenge she would do the same to me, so I could suffer what she suffered.” Sherlock’s breathes in. “His name was Sebastian Moran, Moriarty’s second in command and the sniper assigned to kill you if I didn’t jump, he was also the most difficult to catch and I couldn’t get to him until later. I killed him, broke his neck.” Sherlock begins pacing the room, still keeping his gaze away from John. John watches him closely, heart pounding. “He had wings, and he wasn’t without talent, taking him down was difficult but I managed. Sophia is his daughter, Sophia Moran. She and her father shared the same connection we currently do, when he died she became...unstable. I wasn’t even aware of her existence until people I knew began to go missing, once she exposed herself it wasn’t difficult to figure out what she was up to. Her father was one of the most talented snipers in the British military; he was dishonourably discharged many years ago and became a freelance assassin. His father was a world war two veteran and worked in the SOE, hence the bunker. I assume when Moran had Sophia he figured out a way to keep her existence hidden. I deduce when he teamed up with Moriarty, he offered to increase Sophia’s security in exchange for Moran’s services and loyalty.” Sherlock takes a deep breath, gathering his thoughts. “But I digress, the point is her entire motivation for everything, killing the people who were chiefly responsible for helping me locate Moran, and...everything else-” Sherlock flicks a glance at John. “-was to kill the one person who mattered most, to destroy me in the same way I destroyed her.” This time, Sherlock stops pacing and looks at John; sadness and anger (anger with himself) sharp in his features.

John lets everything sink in for a moment, processing the information...wait, of course. John had gotten inklings listening to Sophia and Sherlock talk, but hearing it confirmed...god.

“Me, she wants to kill me.”

Sherlock gives a stiff nod.

“Her ultimate goal is to kill you in revenge for my part in the death of her father.” Sherlock starts pacing angrily again.

To be honest, John feels a bit overwhelmed. What is he supposed to say to what Sherlock just revealed? What can you say when you realize you’re the reason a woman decided to kill innocent people and plans to kill you to destroy the man you love? If what John remembers of what Sophia said is true, John doubts she would’ve gone for killing those three. When she realized Sherlock had a deep soul mate like she did...well.

Bloody hell....Oh, wait a minute.

“We weren’t even bonded then, how could she have possibly known?” John asks, feeling a bit confused.

Sherlock frowns.

“She and her father bonded the way we did, after many years of knowing each other. Apparently, there are signs pre-bonding consistent with that type of connection. When she discovered it was me who killed her father, she did some research and came to the conclusion that you and I were latent deep soul mates. Sophia was desperate for some...satisfaction; she believed she had found her opportunity for it despite the rarity of deep soul mates that don’t connect immediately. Lucky for her, she was not wrong about us.”

“Lucky?” John asks with disbelief.

Sherlock grunts.

“For her.”

John sighs and leans forward, resting his hands on his face; covering his eyes.

“How did she find out you were the one who killed her father? Was she a part of Moriarty’s network?” John asks. He hears Sherlock stop pacing. A bit surprised, John lifts up his head and sees a deep fury has taken over Sherlock’s features.

“No, she was not.”

John frowns.

“Ok, so...how did she find out then?”

Sherlock goes to the window again, back facing John. Waves of anger are rolling off Sherlock now.

“I was betrayed.” Sherlock spits out.

John’s eyebrows hit his hairline in surprise.

“During your time away?”

“Towards the end, yes.” The words come out clipped.

Bloody hell, from what Sherlock, and Mycroft, have told him not many people were in on the plan...and one of them told this woman Sherlock killed her father? Setting this whole bloody mess in motion? Shit, John is going to kill this person.

“Who was it?” John asks angrily.

Sherlock looks at John with a vaguely surprised expression. That fades as Sherlock takes in John’s question. A hard, cold look overtakes his features and Sherlock faces the window.

“It hardly matters now.” Sherlock mutters.

John growls in frustration.

“Sherlock-”

“No, John. Do not ask me again.”

John relents, though reluctantly. He’s about to ask Sherlock something else when a thought occurs to him.

“Hold on, you said towards the end?”

Sherlock is silent for a moment. “Yes.”

“So you weren’t entirely finished taking down Moriarty’s web when someone let slip you killed Moran?”

Sherlock’s words make something in Johns stomach churn unpleasantly, what if...

“No. The central points were all destroyed; there were only fragments, underlings left. I was determined to be rid of them all. I was forced to return early when...” Sherlock’s voice trails off.

“When she kidnapped those people and you realized she was after me?” John finishes for him. Sherlock nods, hands clenching tightly behind his back. John takes a deep, steadying breath. “So...does that mean when you’re done here, you’ll be....” John can’t even finish. Maybe it makes him pathetic, but his stomach is already in knots at the thought of Sherlock leaving again.

“No John. It will not necessary for me to leave again.” Sherlock says and Johns exhales in relief.

There is silence for a few moments, both men in their own, deep thoughts. John reaches for his now cold tea, taps the side, and holds it gently as it warms. He takes a sip of the now hot liquid; thinking.

Sherlock is still staring out the window when John feels the urge to ask a question he’s honestly wanted to ask ever since Sherlock started talking.

“Why didn’t you tell me all of this from the beginning? I was the one apparently in danger, I deserved to know.” John slides out of bed and walks up to Sherlock, determined to get an answer.

Sherlock is still decidedly not facing John. His body is still tense and there is an undercurrent of frustration and vulnerability hum through their bond.

“I’d hoped I could deal with this without you ever needing to find out the details.” Sherlock quietly admits.

John groans. “Why? What would’ve been the point of that?” John repeats insistently.

Sherlock’s wings recoil slightly in a protective gesture around his body.

John takes a step closer.

“Sherlock...”

“I made a mistake. The same mistake, twice. I underestimated people and you got in harm’s way because of it, twice, because of my folly. The mere idea that I was the one responsible for you being put in the position of being killed, twice, it is deplorable. I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t...I’m sorry.” Sherlock’s wings are trembling, and his voice echoes such self-loathing and misery John has to do something.

He reaches forward and touches one of Sherlock’s wings. The first time he’s done so directly with his hand.

The effect is immediate. Sherlock stills and becomes calmer. Through the bond, John can feel a sense of pure happiness from Sherlock that he is trying to hide.

Oh...

John feels his body tremble as he has another revelation. He puts his mug of tea down on top of dresser, leaving his left hand on Sherlock’s wing.

“You didn’t tell me the full story surrounding your fall either.” John notes, heart pounding in his throat. Sherlock tenses, realizing that Mycroft must have told him, but then releases the feeling as John begins rubbing a joint in Sherlock’s wing, a different tremor altogether courses through Sherlock’s skin. “Why?” John doesn’t really expect an answer, his assumption is proved correct when Sherlock remains silent. “May I tell you my theory?” John teases.

John doesn’t see it, but Sherlock’s lips twist in a faint smile, though his entire body is thrumming with barely controlled anxiety.

“If you must.”

“Good.” John clears his throat, continuing to rub Sherlock’s wing joint. “My theory is, and feel free to stop me at any time if I begin to make a bloody arse of myself, that you didn’t tell me a big part of faking your death and then this whole thing with Sophia, is not because you were heartless or didn’t trust me like I thought just a couple days ago-” Sherlock shifts uncomfortably. “-in fact, quite the opposite. Your heart guided those actions, not your mind. No matter how you rationalize it, your heart ruled your head the first time because you couldn’t watch me – or Greg or Mrs Hudson – die, and you didn’t find a way to tell me because you wouldn’t chance even the smallest amount that someone in Moriarty’s network would find out. I’m still bloody pissed about what you put me through, but I understand why you did it and I meant it when I said I forgive you.”

John breathes deeply, his hand on Sherlock’s wing stops moving. “The second time, you couldn’t tell me because explaining everything in detail, Sophia’s motive, your unusual emotional state during this whole case etc, would’ve clued me into the fact that you were doing all you could to protect me. You didn’t tell me about your fall, or Sophia, because you knew...you knew that with all the details at my feet, with our bond, there is no way I would not be able to see.” John stops there, gulping nervously. Just do it John, put the final nail in your coffin or open a door to who knows where. Sherlock hasn’t interrupted him, that has to be a good sign right?

Sherlock has grown increasingly still and quiet throughout John’s words, a distinct feeling of being on edge thrums underneath his skin. He shifts uncomfortably when John stops speaking.

“No way you would not be able to see what?” Sherlock’s voice is barely audible.

Here we go.

“There is no way I would not be able to see that you...you love me.”

There, the words are out, John Watson has taken the plunge...god I hope I didn’t just make a huge mistake or...or misinterpreted or something, those are John’s fears and doubts speaking more than anything. Still, suspecting that Sherlock Holmes loves him goes against some long held assumptions John once had about the man, those assumptions are wavering though. Too much has happened, there is just too much evidence, especially within the last few days that unequivocally proves Sherlock Holmes has a heart deeper than many of the shallow people John has met in his life.

Anyone who thinks otherwise can go to hell.

Sherlock breathes in sharply.

“You...are not wrong.” Is what Sherlock finally says, quiet and slow. “But I can’t.” Sherlock finishes.

Johns hand falls and he steps away, suddenly feeling cold.

John vaguely remembers Sherlock uttering those exactly words, in that exact desperate tone earlier today in the forest.

“Can’t what?” John tries to keep his tone as steady as possible.

“I can’t lose you John. I can’t. I can’t! I won’t do it! I refuse to.” Sherlock whirls around and yells in Johns face; his eyes wide and afraid, mouth and jaw tightened in anger.

John flounders a bit at Sherlock’s sudden outburst. He quickly recovers and tries to calm Sherlock down.

“Sherlock, you won’t-”

“Don’t say it, don’t you dare say it.” Sherlock is edging closer into Johns personal space, so ferocious and angry he is walking John backwards. John barely notices when Sherlock suddenly has John backed up against a wall, it is also at that point John notices he is still in nothing but his pants and socks. “You can’t say it, don’t be an idiot and give me false platitudes, because I will lose you. That is simply how it works. People lose things, material goods, other people, whether through disconnection or death, it is all that ever happens. I nearly killed you twice; you may still die, if not now than in the future. Whether it’s by disease, or another gunshot, old age, you will die and I will lose you. I can’t see that happen, I can’t watch someone I...” Sherlock pauses, his eyes bulging and red, saliva drips down from the corner of his mouth from the ferocity with which he speaks, his wings are flared out dramatically and John is still backed against the wall with his heart beating painfully in his chest in response to the aching pain radiating off of Sherlock.

“Not again, I won’t do it. Whatever emotion I may feel, I can’t deal with it...it is a weakness, a disadvantage, you’re in my head and I hate it, I hate that you’re there all the time, I hate that I have grown so sickeningly dependent on your companionship, a friendship of which I will never be worthy of. I hate that you make me lose control. If I give in to that weakness...losing you will be worse when it inevitably happens. I hate that you made all my work to keep myself distant and divorce myself from the trivialities of being human...I hate that you’ve made all that irrelevant. I...I hate your preposterous jumpers! This, all this is your fault! I hate you, I hate you John Watson, I hate you...” Sherlock’s voice trails off in a pained whisper; his face is directly in front of Johns, his breath hot and seething, angry tears forming in his eyes.

Oh Sherlock...John bites his lip and fights the tears forming in his own eyes. You wonderful man, what happened to you?

John is gobsmacked at the long and emotional tirade Sherlock expressed. He doesn’t believe for one second that Sherlock truly hates him (his own emotions, maybe); it is after all easier to say I hate you than I love you.

He has never seen Sherlock so...so helpless. It’s heartbreaking.

What can I even say to all that?

John reaches out a hand to do...something. Sherlock knocks it away and grabs John’s hands. John grunts in shock as Sherlock pins John’s wrists on either side of his head.

“Stop that.” Sherlock growls.

John doesn’t move.

“Stop what?” John breathes out.

“Stop looking like you...like you care so much. It makes this...” Sherlock seethes.

John clenches his fists.

“But I do, I-”

“Don’t say it!” Sherlock snarls. “It doesn’t make sense. I am regarded as a cruel man; I couldn’t care less about sparing people’s feelings, I have no respect for authority, I’m manipulative to the extreme, callous, sociopathic, I’m not even a woman...you cannot love me.” Sherlock’s voice falls. “I left you grieving for two years, whatever my reasons it makes more sense for you to hate me for that. Not...not...” Sherlock insists, his emotions a storm John can barely see through.

John feels a single tear fall down his face. feck.

“Damn it Sherlock! I don’t care whether it makes sense or not, I don’t even care that you’re a man, feck that! What matters is that I could never hate you Sherlock, even when I was angry I never, not once hated you. I love you-” Sherlock whimpers. “-I love you and I have for so long, nothing you can say or do will ever change that.” And it has taken John a lot of grief, literally, to realize that.

“No, it isn’t, can’t be possible...” Sherlock still has his long fingers wrapped around John’s wrists as he struggles to comprehend John’s words.

His eyes are darting all over Johns face, as though searching for a lie.

He won’t find one.

“Deduce all you want, everything I’ve said is true.” John says, utterly confident despite the swirling butterflies in his stomach.

Sherlock growls in frustration.

“You don’t understand John, because if you do...if you do love me then I won’t be able to...” Sherlock tries to explain, his eyes wide and face tense.

“You won’t be able to what Sherlock?” John breathes out. “Please explain it to me!”

“I won’t be able to not love you back.” Sherlock confesses, eyes downcast, barely audible even this close.

John can’t help it, he smiles.

“So you do love me then?” His tone is light, and teasing, though he feels anything but.

Sherlock gives John a scolding look, though he doesn’t miss the twinkle of amusement in Sherlock’s eyes, there and then gone in a blink.

“Oh no, I definitely hate you.” His voice is still pained, though not as heavily as before.

John smirks in disbelief.

“Prove it. Walk away and don’t come back if you truly hate me.” John feels a spark of worry when he fears Sherlock might do just that. He is stubborn enough to.

Sherlock narrows his eyes; he then closes them and curses under his breath.

“I...I can’t do that.” Sherlock admits. John is careful not to move when he suddenly feels Sherlock’s forehead fall to his own. “You are a menace John Watson.”

John shrugs.

“Birds of a feather....”

Sherlock grimaces in a distaste.

“What a disgustingly overused metaphor.” Sherlock mumbles.

“I’ll concede to that.” John chuckles.

It is silent for only a moment, but that is long enough for the slight lighthearted nature to drift away and for the earlier distress and insecurity to rush back in.

Sherlock moves his head away from John and lets his hands fall, though he doesn’t move away from John completely. John panics that Sherlock might try to run afterall, there is still something John needs to say.

“Sherlock, I need to say something and I want you to listen to me and please, please try to really listen, ok?” John forces himself to lock unrelenting eyes on Sherlock, willing him to understand. Sherlock still has an air of discomfort and pain about him, but he nods his assent. “I have a lot of issues, trust just one in a million, and there is no one I trust more than you. There is no one who annoys and frustrates me more than you; there is no one who fascinates me more than you, that matters to me more than you. At this point, too much has happened, we’ve gone through too much for me to not love you, and I don’t see that changing. I don’t know what’s going to happen; I don’t have any expectations about what’ll happen between us now, hopes...possibly.” John pauses to take a breath. “Either way, the only thing I know for sure is that no matter what you decide, no matter what you do, no matter what you deny or admit to yourself, I just know, I know I’m in love with you...so much, you are so beautiful to me Sherlock. I wish...I wish you could see how phenomenal you really are.” John smiles. Sherlock’s mouth parts in surprise, his wings quiver and shake. “I don’t know all of what’s happened in your past, but I love you, every single part of you, whatever you feel about yourself, that is the truth.” John doesn’t think he’s ever said the word love so many times in his life, never thought he’d even say it like that let alone so many times, but he did and he means it.

He’s breathing heavily by this point and Sherlock...Sherlock is standing there in shock, hands shaking. He looks like he’s desperately trying to control himself from doing...something.

“I...John, I don’t deserve you.” Sherlock whispers brokenly.

John shakes his head and cups Sherlock’s face.

“I don’t know a lot, compared to you I know nothing, but I do know that you do deserve love and...if you’ll let me, if you want, I will spend the rest of my life proving that to you.” Ten minutes ago, John never thought he would say something like that; it might as well be a proposal. And yet, John finds he means it with all his heart.

Sherlock squeezes his eyes tightly shut; he closes them and walks away from John.

John stands still as he watches Sherlock begin to pace; muttering unintelligible words under his breath, his hands tightly gripping his hair.

John wants to go over there, wants to embrace Sherlock and promise him that everything will be alright. But something is stopping him, and it’s a promise he can’t make.

Sherlock suddenly stops, facing away from John.

“I don’t know what to do. Tell me what to do.” Sherlock says desperately.

John smiles sadly. “I can’t tell you what to do Sherlock.”

“Tell me what not to do then.” Sherlock whirls to face John again, fire in his eyes as he looks up and down John’s body before focusing his eyes on Johns face.

John slowly shakes his head, knowing he’s flushing now.

“I can’t do that either.”

Sherlock growls.

“You are immensely frustrating.” Sherlock tugs on his hair.

“I’m sorry.” He is, John knows hearing all this can’t be easy for Sherlock, realizing his own feelings must be even harder, and John can feel there is something else going on here, something happened, something huge that wounded Sherlock so deeply it still affects him to this day. John is sorry for all that.

Suddenly Sherlock’s whole manner changes, his hands fall and he slowly lifts his head to gaze at John with vibrant anger and disbelief.

“Sorry? Sorry? Why are you apologizing? You have nothing to be sorry for, if anything I should be, I have done more-”

“No!” John strides forward and grasps Sherlock by the shoulders. “I am tired of playing the fucking blame game, let’s just accept we’re both sorry for a lot of things and leave it at that.”

Sherlock gives John a piercing look.

“You say that like its [i]easy, oh just leave it at that he says! It’s all ok now! Oh Sherlock I’ll love you always even though love is proven to be fluidic and can change! I will love you no matter what even though you’re a sociopathic freak who-”

John grabs the sides of Sherlock’s face, pulls him down in one, quick movement and smashes their lips together.

Sherlock immediately stops speaking, which was partially John’s intention. Hearing Sherlock refer to himself as a freak it just...made John unbelievably angry, he had to do something. So John did the one thing he has restrained himself from doing, the one thing he denied and suppressed for so long.

He gave into the urge to kiss Sherlock Holmes.

At the moment he doesn’t know if he’s just made a big mistake because Sherlock isn’t moving, he’s completely frozen in shock. John finds he can’t move because the moment his lips touched Sherlock...there was silence, not just around them, but it was like everything became still, his emotions, his thoughts...everything. John has never experienced a kiss like that in his life.

John finally does pull away, the slight sweet smack of lips disconnecting echoes in the room. John notices Sherlock’s eyes are closed and John wants nothing more than to kiss him again, but he backs away.

Just as John lets his hands slide away Sherlock abruptly opens his eyes and holds Johns hands to his face, indicating they should stay there.

There is still fear in Sherlock’s eyes, a pain lingering not far away, but there is amazement there as well...that, is new.

John gulps.

“Sherlock-”

John is interrupted as Sherlock surges forward, grasps John’s waist with his hands and plants a kiss on his mouth. It is Sherlock that tilts his head, opening his mouth to go further, it is Sherlock that holds John tighter and backs them into a wall; holding John tight against his body.

John moans and grips Sherlock tighter; holding like a lifeline, lengthening what is admittedly the most passionate kiss John has ever experienced in his life.

Joy, joy, joy, joy...that is the emotion overwhelming Johns senses, all other thoughts and memories aren’t important right now. In this moment, he has Sherlock here, Sherlock close, one hand on his face and the other tugging at his curly hair. Sherlock has his hands tightly squeezing John’s hips, pressing the entire length of his body against the shorter man. John’s wings are splayed to their full length against the wall and Sherlock’s are resting against them; perfectly lined up.

Suddenly Sherlock’s hands vanish and he pulls his lips away from John, he doesn’t really have time to question or feel disappointed when Sherlock’s hands reappear beneath his thighs and the taller man lifts John up against the wall so their heads are now level. John’s heart is sky rocketing in this new position, one he has been a part of though never on this end...John finds he doesn’t mind.

It is barely more than a second before Sherlock wraps John’s legs around his waist (once more John is awkwardly made aware he is nothing but his pants) and holds them there. John interlocks his ankles and the two men look at each other for a moment, breathing heavily, pupils blown, rimmed with colour, relief and love, before rejoining their lips deeply; wet, warm, rough and soft.

A thought suddenly interrupts this wonderful feeling and John stills. He can feel Sherlock frowning.

“What is it?” Sherlock asks, breathless, as he pulls his lips away.

John glances down at his leg...the leg he’s sure got shot at today. There’s no wound, no pain, how...

“My leg.” John simply says, flicking his gaze in confusion to the startlingly wound free limb.

“I healed it.” Sherlock shrugs, as much as he can while holding John up. The man really is incredibly strong.

John’s eyes widen.

“You-”

“Yes, I healed it, not intentionally, it happened when I touched your leg while you were still conscious. I’m surprised it took you this long to notice. Regardless it appears we have discovered another soul ability of ours; if I can heal your wounds logic suggests you will be able to heal mine as well. Unless you have any immediate concerns, I think we should go back to kissing now.”

John chuckles and smiles at Sherlock’s impatience.

“If you insist.”

Sherlock smiles a smile John has never seen before (he wonders if he’ll get a chance to see it again), a simple twist of lips that expresses nothing but a shy sense of awe. “I do.”

John can feel Sherlock’s thumb begin rubbing tingling circles on his bare thigh, right where John had been shot. The two men meet in the middle when they kiss again, slow, sensual, learning and passionate.

How long this moment will last, John doesn’t know. There are more questions, and plans to be made, talks to be had...but for now, for now John can’t imagine a more perfect flash of time than this.

 

 Chapter 17




John awkwardly slides to a halt in the doorway leading to the living room. He sees Mycroft sitting in the chair he usually occupies and Greg leaning against the mantle, looking at John with an amused smile.

Sherlock quickly follows and stops beside John, stiff as board at the sight of his brother.

The two men are breathing heavily from their playful interaction.

“Sherlock, I believe the last time I saw you run down that particular set of stairs was Christmas morning over thirty years ago. You woke up before everyone else, aside from me of course, to see if your makeshift Santa trap worked.” Mycroft comments with a raised brow in Sherlock and John’s direction.

Sherlock sends Mycroft a murderous glare, fist tightening at his side.

John blinks. Santa trap? Seriously? John bites his lip to keep from laughing.

So the cottage belonged to Sherlock’s family...John is suddenly reminded of his dream, of the few dreams he’s had all around the same people, the cottage, Marcus, Sherlock, Mycroft.

John gasps as all the pieces fall into place...Oh god. Those weren’t dreams! They were fucking memories! What else could they be?

John knew from the start they were different, never had his dreams been quite that...detailed before. He’s only had them since Sherlock arrived, they must be his, but...how is that even possible? How...it’s got to have something to do with the bond. What other explanation is there? In the last one John had, there was a woman dying, and...Marcus was there, John is sure now; it was definitely the Marcus he’s met, except younger. The wings...the woman’s wings and Marcus’s wings, they were deep soul mates, Sherlock...Sherlock was there too, also younger, the older woman called him William Sherlock Scott Holmes...that must be his full name, and at some point he dropped his first name and started going by one of his middle ones.

The older woman was his grandmother...his grandmother. John remembers Marcus saying; the first time they met him that Sherlock was sent here to live with his grandmother at some point during his teens.

Oh...Oh. Of course. John is no mind reader, but somehow he feels like he should’ve put the pieces together before.

Sherlock would have.

A lot makes sense now.

John comes back to himself, and he notices three sets of eyes watching him. Greg looks vaguely concerned, Mycroft looks unsurprised. John looks up at Sherlock beside him.

He looks...distressed; eyes widened, breathing even heavier than before, wings way, way too still. Other than that he looks perfectly normal, he is probably using all his energy to appear as normal as possible in front of everyone, even John can barely get a read on his emotions right now.

He knows what John figured out; it must have read on John’s face, Sherlock has edged away from John. It is clear he didn’t want John to know, at least not yet.

Knowing what he knows, or at least suspecting what he does, John finds he isn’t surprised Sherlock as yet to say anything and...well, John can’t be upset because he doubts he would’ve necessarily been forthcoming about something like that either.

John hasn’t taken his eyes away from Sherlock. There is a daring look in the man’s eyes, he expects John to say something, maybe to get angry or confront him.

John wants to say something, he does, but...if he’s right, it really isn’t his place to officially say something first. Mycroft knew exactly what he was doing, probably made that comment on purpose the damn fucker, to give John a push into figuring out the answers to the myriad of questions he’s had drifting around his mind.

He reaches up and simply squeezes Sherlock’s shoulder, giving him a small smile.

Sherlock looks surprised. Leaving his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, John turns to face Mycroft.

“Now, why are you here Mycroft?” John asks.

Mycroft surveys John with a pensive look and gives him a nod of approval before leaning back in his chair.

“I’d quite like to know that as well.” Greg seconds.

“Sherlock, why don’t you reiterate to Greg what I’m sure you told John about Moran.” Mycroft motions to his brother before standing up. “In the meantime, I’m going to get tea.”

Ah, so he is here about the case, John figured as much. Mycroft is not pleasant to deal with, but if he can somehow help them in catching this Sophia Moran, he’ll accept his help without question. He’ll deal with the repercussions of having Sherlock and Mycroft in the same room later.

“You’re getting your own tea?” John finds himself blurting out, not sure why he finds the idea so odd.

Sherlock actually snorts.

Mycroft pauses on route to the kitchen.

“Contrary to what some might think, I am not entirely dependent on those in my employ. I am perfectly capable of getting my own tea when I feel motivated to do so.” Mycroft responds, a bit coolly.

He exits the living room and it is as if everyone takes a collective deep breath.

“I tell you, you’re pure sunshine compared to him Sherlock. He gives me the creeps.” Greg says while bending down to stoke the fire.

“I can hear you.” Mycroft’s voice echoes from the kitchen.

John, again, bites his lip to keep from laughing.

Sherlock looks amused. That vanishes when John lets his hand fall and his attention is once more on the doctor.

He doesn’t say anything, just watches John.

John shifts a bit under that penetrating gaze.

“What?” John shrugs, trying to seem casual.

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

You haven’t said anything.

John nods.

No, I haven’t.

Sherlock tilts his head.

Why?

To be honest, if John had never had those dreams, he might have said something. There was something so personal about them, if Johns crazy arse theory about them somehow being real, Sherlock’s memories or something (who knows), then he is sure Sherlock never meant for him to see them.

Regardless, now is really not the time for John to say anything. Maybe later, after Mycroft’s gone, assuming there’s even time.

Because it would be a bit dickish of me if I brought it up with your brother right here, and besides, I figure there’s a reason you haven’t told me.

Sherlock looks taken aback.

You would’ve said something a few days ago. Sherlock notes, it isn’t a question.

John nods begrudgingly. True, if by some miracle he suspected what he’s pretty sure to be the truth now, a few days ago he might have said something right away.

A lot has changed in a few days though.

Maybe.

What changed?

John raises an eyebrow. It’s not just the dreams, he does want to tell Sherlock about them, at least find out why he’s having them (Sherlock might not even know).

There is another very important thing that has changed within the past few days. John takes a deep breath.

I realized exactly how much you mean to me.

Sherlock’s mouth parts, John’s eyes flick to his lips before focusing back on his eyes.

Sherlock looks at John with a frown between his eyes, he reaches with a hand and John struggles to breathe when Sherlock caresses Johns cheek with his fingertips; lightly, as though experimenting.

I accept that answer, but don’t think I don’t realize there is something you’re not telling me. Sherlock thinks as he lets his hand fall from Johns face.

I’ll tell you later.

Sherlock nods and turns away from John. John doesn’t begrudge Sherlock for keeping his emotions firmly under wraps for the moment; Mycroft’s presence in the house doesn’t help at all.

Sherlock walks over to the chair opposite the one Mycroft was sitting in and lounges in it; legs hanging off one arm rest, close to the fire, head resting on the other, eyes closed, his wings are curled and tucked beneath him, trailing out along his sides.

John smiles a bit at the sight of Sherlock doing that, so typical of when they were at Baker Street.

“John?” Sherlock pipes up from the chair, hands now resting across his abdomen. John figures he’s doing the Sherlock form of centering himself, likely realizing that no matter how pissed he is at his brother (for whatever reason) that if he can help them with the case, a case in which John is the primary target, Sherlock will put up with him.

John is instantly reminded of several aspects of their conversations earlier, about how dedicated he is in protecting John, how there is nothing he wouldn’t do for him. John feels the same way about Sherlock.

“Yeah.” John stretches his arms above his head, wings automatically following the movement. Peripherally he notices the firelight reflect on the metallic sheen of the feathers.

“Why are you still standing over there?” He asks, still with his eyes closed.

John rolls his eyes.

“I was thinking.” John shrugs and walks over to Sherlock.

“Hm, arduous I’m sure.” Sherlock mumbles.

John gives him a playful smack upside the head.

“Ow!” Sherlock pins an affronted expression on John as he rubs his head.

Greg chuckles under his breath as he replaces the poker on its stand.

John smiles and looks down at the frowning detective.

Sherlock grumbles and turns back to face the ceiling with closed eyes. John watches the detective for a moment more before turning to look at the fire, grateful for the warmth dancing on his skin.

“John.” Sherlock says from behind him.

“Mm?”

“You’re still standing. Sit down, right here.” Sherlock pats the armrest where his head is. Even though he can’t see, John faces Sherlock and crosses his arms. When John doesn’t respond Sherlock sighs. “Please.”

John smirks.

“There, was that so hard?”

“Very.”

John rolls his eyes again and waits for Sherlock to lift his head. John sits on the wide, cushiony armrest and Sherlock places his head atop John’s thigh.

The entire series of movements is extremely natural despite the newness of their ‘sort of maybe thing’.

John likes it.

Sherlock still has his eyes closed, so John is the only one who sees Greg giving them a knowing look and a smirk.

John gives a tiny shrug and looks down at Sherlock once before meeting Greg’s eyes.

Greg’s eyes say how happy he is, his face says I am so going to tease you about this later.

The faint tinkling sounds of Mycroft making his tea are the only sounds to break the silence.

What are you thinking about? John thinks to Sherlock.

Sherlock continues to breathe evenly, though his hands are now in his typical thinking position beneath his chin.

Sophia Moran. I suspect that Mycroft is here to help formulate a plan for her capture, now that it is unlikely she will return to the bunker, or the other ones we have little to no frame of reference for where she could be hiding. I hate to admit it but we stand a better chance of finding her with his resources and I am willing to put up with his presence now that we may have no other choice.

John nods, barely resisting the urge to card his fingers through Sherlock’s curls.

What was that Japanese letter about? John finds himself asking, Sherlock never mentioned it when he was giving him his explanation of the Moran’s. At Sherlock’s mention of the bunker the little detail returned to Johns mind as unexplained.

M is a consonant, there are very few of them that aren’t paired with vowels in Japanese, that particular letter long ago carved into the cement was Japanese for ‘mo’ the beginning two English letters for Moran. During my investigation into Sebastian Moran, I discovered his father spent a significant amount of time in Japan during the Second World War. Sherlock’s voice echoes in a monotone.

Huh, alright then.

Just how many languages do you know? John asks curiously. He knows that Sherlock is quite the linguist and yet in all his time of knowing him he has no idea how far his talent in that area goes.

I am fluent in fifteen, speaking, writing and reading, including Hebrew, Gaelic and Mandarin. I have adequate knowledge of five others.

John’s eyes pop.

Wow, you really are a genius aren’t you?

Sherlock opens one eye and quirks a brow at John.

I am merely dedicated in the pursuit of knowledge valuable to my work, being able to communicate is vital.

John gives him a slightly skeptical look.

Sherlock Holmes, you are many things but humble isn’t one of them.

Sherlock pouts. John honest to god giggles, which might have been Sherlock’s intent because he’s now smirking.

Yes, fine, I am a notorious genius. Happy now Watson?

What do you think Holmes? John pokes Sherlock’s cheek.

Sherlock looks serious for a moment, a contemplative look in his eyes that has John feeling suddenly somber.

I believe you are happier now than you were this morning, even though you found out a serial killer has made it her mission to kill you in order to make me feel her pain.

John looks at the sad and angry expression on Sherlock’s face. He doesn’t internally respond, merely nods his head and tweaks a loose curl hanging on Sherlock’s forehead.

“Hey, you two.” Both Sherlock and John abruptly whip their heads around to face Greg; watching them with a curious expression. “Should I be worried?” Greg waves a hand between the two of them, likely indicating that he suspected they were communicating internally.

“No worries mate, we weren’t gossiping about you.” John shrugs.

Sherlock twists his face in distaste at the word gossip; however he eyes John with an amused twinkle.

“It isn’t truly gossip if we are discussing the truth, although that can be relative to the individuals in question. However I think we can both agree that Lestrade continues to harbor a particular affection for Molly Hooper.” Sherlock teases.

Greg blushes and John has a hard time not laughing, he is able to resist in the end.

“feck off.”

Sherlock preens and resumes his earlier thinking posture, eyes closed. John rolls his eyes.

“Alright, alright, enough. Sherlock, shouldn’t you be telling Greg about....?” John trails off.

Sherlock’s eyes flash open again; he looks at John somberly before putting on a mask of gravity and facing Greg.

“Mhm, I’d quite like to know what it is everybody else knows that I don’t. Who is Moran?” Greg asks, leaning against the mantle.

John feels Sherlock stiffen slightly.

It only takes a moment, but soon Sherlock begins reiterating everything he told John...well, almost everything. It’s obvious Sherlock is only telling Greg what he needs to know, since the only details Sherlock is leaving out are largely personal ones that have no actual bearing on the case (namely Sherlock’s depth of feeling for John), John doesn’t say anything.

Sherlock recites the information with as little emotion as possible, and by the time Mycroft returns with a steaming cup of tea, Greg has absorbed the information and is asking his first question.

“So this woman is after John and we have no idea where she could be?” Greg has straightened his position, continuing to watch Sherlock with a grave and focused eye much like when he was speaking.

He didn’t seem all that surprised when Sherlock neglected to mention all that information, although John noticed him twitch with irritation that Sherlock hid as much as he did.

He also seemed just as outraged as John when Sherlock mentioned someone had betrayed him.

Sherlock straightens out of his lounging position and elegantly arranges himself in the chair, wings hanging gently off the sides. John doesn’t move from his spot on the arm rest.

Sherlock is about to speak when Mycroft enters the room holding his tea.

“Unfortunately my people lost track of her about five kilometers from the bunker, she obviously had a plan in case her choice locations became unusable. Regrettably we have only theories as to where she could be, since her three warning targets – so to speak – have been dealt with, her primary focus now will be John and since she knows we are closer to her than she’d like, she’ll probably up her efforts.” Mycroft answers Greg’s question and resumes his spot in John’s typical chair, umbrella leaning against it.

“We have no time for theories. I can’t believe your people lost her, useless.” Sherlock grounds out, looking at his brother with disdain. The urge to say more, or do more, possibly set Mycroft on fire (though only John can do that) is practically crawling out of Sherlock’s skin.

To John’s surprise, Mycroft doesn’t respond with a put upon remark like he usually does when he thinks Sherlock is being childish, he simply frowns at Sherlock and accepts the words without comment.

John looks between the two in confusion. Seriously, what is going with them?

“Mm. Miss Moran will be waiting for her earliest opportunity to take John, and I don’t doubt she won’t hesitate to take advantage of it when it comes. This won’t be easy, as she likely knows by this point, her impatience on top of her already fragile emotional state. She is clever, but anyone who is emotional is much more likely to make mistakes, or overlook something.” Mycroft casually taps his umbrella on the floor (the rhythm reminds John of a metronome) and glances at Sherlock with a pointed brow.

Sherlock’s jaw tightens and his hands clench on the armrests. It doesn’t escape Johns notice that Sherlock has positioned his left hand so it is resting along the edge of John’s thigh.

“You would know all about that wouldn’t you?” Sherlock retorts frostily.

Mycroft sighs, though he doesn’t deny it. Both Greg and John are now very much aware of the rising tension between the brothers.

“I am merely making the point to posit that we should take advantage of the situation now before she has time to recuperate and potentially make her capture more difficult.”

Sherlock nods reluctantly. “I concur.” Sherlock says, eyes narrowed in thought.

“So what do we do?” John asks, fresh out of ideas.

Mycroft stills the movement of his umbrella and pins Sherlock with an intense gaze.

As soon as Sherlock’s eyes meet Mycroft’s a dark cloud seems to erupt from Sherlock and he slowly pushes himself up from the chair. John watches with wide eyes, he rare sees Sherlock look quite this menacing.

“No.” Sherlock growls out threateningly in Mycroft’s direction. “Absolutely not.”

John moves to stand up and looks between the two in confusion.

“Do you have a better idea?” Mycroft responds, unaffected by Sherlock’s words.

“Any idea is better than that one!” Sherlock yells.

“Am I missing something here?” John interjects, standing between the men, hopefully to avoid an actual fist fight.

The sudden rush of fury that even Sherlock couldn’t hold back worries John.

Sherlock responds without taking his eyes away from Mycroft.

“No, Mycroft was just being an idiot.”

Mycroft sighs.

“Sherlock, this has the best chance-”

“Do you honestly think I will trust any of your ideas after what you did?” Sherlock utters low and dangerous, body thrumming with anger.

An ominous, tense silence follows those words.

After what he did...god, it was bloody Mycroft.

John gasps.

“It was you.” John breaks the silence.

John has never fully trusted Mycroft, his very position makes that near impossible, but never did John ever think he would betray his own brother in this way...it’s...it’s incomprehensible.

Greg seems to get where John has gone because like John, he looks very angry too.

John sees red before any reason can crack through him. He rushes forward and pulls Mycroft with soldier strength out of his chair and holds him up by the lapels of his suit.

“You better start talking fast Mycroft, and it better be a damn good explanation because if it isn’t you will have three, very, very angry men who know how have been trained in the use of guns, and I haven’t shot anyone in far too long a time.” John wouldn’t actually shoot Mycroft, but the anger and threat come across as being scarily real, even Mycroft looks unsettled in the face of Johns rage.

Johns first thought when the inexplicable revelation that Mycroft is the betrayer is that he put his Sherlock in danger, could’ve gotten him killed for fucks safe, any thought about how that means John is now in danger because of him barely computed.

No, his rage is almost entirely fueled by the intense desire to protect Sherlock from danger and right now, in Johns mind Mycroft is dangerous.

It then occurs to John that those innocent people are dead because for whatever insane reason Mycroft didn’t keep his mouth shut.

That thought just makes John angrily throw Mycroft back in his chair (the man grunts with pain). He crosses his arms and assumes a threatening stance in front of Mycroft, whom he is trying very, very hard not to punch right now.

Greg is shooting Mycroft daggers with his eyes.

Suddenly the way Sherlock’s been acting around him is perfectly understandable to say the least.

John glances at Sherlock, still standing behind him.

John doesn’t think he’s seen Sherlock smiling quite that wide in a long time, he looks downright thrilled at John’s reaction to Mycroft; wings fluttering. There is something else there too, wonder at the intenseness of Johns loyalty. John’s heart aches for a moment at the sight.

He gives Sherlock a reassuring smile and nods before turning his piercing gaze back to Mycroft.

Behind him he feels Sherlock edge closer.

Mycroft doesn’t appear ruffled for a moment, and then he runs a tired hand down his face and looks at John with what could be considered regret.

“You must understand it was never my intention to cause you or Sherlock harm.” Mycroft says slowly. John scoffs, and he can feel the tide of anger in Sherlock rise. “Neither one of us knew Sebastian Moran had a daughter.” Mycroft takes a deep breath. “As far as I was concerned, with Moran gone there were no longer any major threats, the few underlings left behind I could have easily dealt with my resources. I wanted Sherlock to return home rather than finish the remaining months it would’ve taken to...pick off – so to speak – the remaining loose threads. He was rather insistent on finishing what he started, wouldn’t listen to reason as usual-” John can practically feel Sherlock’s gaze darkening even though John is studiously facing Mycroft. “-I had no choice but to force his hand, so I made a calculated decision. I anonymously leaked Sherlock’s location and his real identity.”

“Up until that point the majority of Mycroft’s network weren’t even aware it was Sherlock dismantling it, being largely undercover for most if not all the time, and the very, very few that did went after Sherlock themselves rather than alert others.” Mycroft pauses and breathes deeply, he averts Johns increasingly dark stare by choosing to watch the fire. “I was careful to not put Sherlock in any actual danger, when two men cornered Sherlock in Milan a few of my operatives were there, although I give Sherlock applause for dealing with the men so swiftly before mine could intervene.” Mycroft looks back at John. “At that point it didn’t take Sherlock long to figure out what happened, needless to say he was not...happy.” Mycroft’s twists his lip unpleasantly. “With no small amount of ranting and protests, Sherlock agreed to come to one of our designated safe houses. We had a long discussion-” Sherlock scoffs. “-in which I explained my reasons, now that his cover was, for all intents and purposes, blown he was no longer needed and could return to England. He refused to leave, until...” Mycroft trails, eyes unyielding from Johns.

“Until Sophia.” John whispers, heart pounding.

Mycroft nods.

Abruptly all of Sherlock’s emotions seem to suddenly disappear, or at least are cut off. Feeling a bit panicked, John turns just in time to see Sherlock walking – more like running – out of the room; John has never seen his face look so...blank, though the shaking and sharpened edges of his wings betray the intensity of the emotions swirling within him. He doesn’t need a soul bond with Sherlock to tell that the man was just about ready to strangle Mycroft.

John’s first instinct is to follow him, but a nagging thought stops him and he turns to face Mycroft once more.

“Why did you insist on Sherlock coming home right then?”

John is fucking thrilled Sherlock is back, despite the circumstances. Knowing that he could’ve been gone even longer, John is so glad Sherlock came back when he did. No matter the frightful lack of tact. However John couldn’t help but notice that Mycroft didn’t mention exactly why he felt it was necessary, and that is before Sophia Moran was even a known threat.

Mycroft fixes John with a considering gaze.

“Sherlock may never admit it, at least not fully, but he wasn’t the only one suffering...separation anxiety.” Mycroft finally says. John frowns. “I knew, however long it took, taking down Moriarty’s network would take its toll on my brother. I was concerned, several times; that he would regress to the man he was before he met you. Long before, and he might’ve returned to cocaine and heroin, or worse he would lose any semblance of humanity he gained by having the pleasure of your acquaintance. Or past experiences would raise their ugly heads and Sherlock would have time to stew in their hold, and possibly make a choice that in the end would do more harm than good. I realize my attitude and actions leave much to be desired, however I do care a great deal about my brother and recognize the positive changes meeting you has had on him. Towards the latter end of those two years, after Sherlock made one of his infrequent reports back to me, I could tell something was off. He didn’t say anything, but I knew that he was getting to the point where he wouldn’t even want to go back.” Mycroft pauses at that point, letting John digest what he just told him.

John feels a bit sick to his stomach and his arms, stiff from having been firmly crossed for so long, fall away.

He was thinking about not coming back?

Mycroft must read Johns unease because he quickly starts speaking again.

“You must understand John; my brother was cold and maintained the persona of a sociopath before he met you. Whatever heart he had, he either denied or kept buried away. I used to think this was for the best, and I still believe caring to be a disadvantage, and recent events have only served to cement that belief. However, when I heard my brother’s voice that last time before all the commotion with Moran...I knew something had to change, I couldn’t risk him staying in exile any longer lest he confirm my worst fears. My brother is incredibly stubborn as you very well know; there was only one way to get him to go home. And that was to make it impossible for him to stay, if the remaining members of the network knew of his existence there would be no point to his remaining in Europe because essentially he would be useless. He knew there would no way I would let him out of my sight now that he had no further opportunity to play hide and seek. Of course, all this became somewhat moot when people essential to Sherlock’s defeat of Moran suddenly disappeared and Sophia Moran revealed herself. I was shocked to say the least, more so because we never knew of her existence. Sherlock of course was livid, and though I regret what it took, deeply, you being in danger did force Sherlock to return to England. You are his weakness Dr Watson.” Mycroft continues to keep that unnerving stare sharp on John.

John’s heart is pounding, and in the not so far distance he can feel Sherlock’s heart doing much the same.

He ignores the swoop of emotions Mycroft’s words are giving him and asks him another question.

“But why wouldn’t he want to come back? I don’t get it.” John paces a little, and Mycroft gives John an almost pitying look.

“I did say John that you weren’t the only one suffering from your separation.” Mycroft hums.

John frowns into the fire; thinking.

Sherlock didn’t want to come back because he was suffering?

Knowing what he knows now, John isn’t really all that shocked Sherlock felt his own manner of grief over being away from home. Believing Sherlock to be dead caused more thoughts and feelings to torture John every single damn day, even when he was busy. Sherlock’s mind is a supersonic machine that never turns itself off, but why would he...oh. John breathes in sharply.

“Indeed, you know my brother better than anyone; I knew you would get there.” Mycroft replies as though he heard John’s thoughts.

Suddenly John finds he no longer wants to be in Mycroft’s presence, no matter how well-intentioned his motivation, John still doesn’t believe what Mycroft did was right. More than any other people, the Holmes’s have an uncanny ability to ignite Johns temper.

John needs to be with Sherlock right now. They need to talk.

He sighs.

“I know we still to work out what to do about Moran, but Sherlock and I need to talk first.” John firmly says to Mycroft. The taller man doesn’t look surprised and merely nods. John turns to Greg, who had been silently watching this whole time. “Keep him entertained until we’re back.”

Greg looks like a cross between terrified and annoyed for brief moment, he nods with a sigh however.

John gives him a grateful smile before turning to exit the living room and follow Sherlock.

He finds him in the kitchen. Sherlock is sitting in one of the chairs at the table, hands clasped; chin resting on top of them, unwavering eyes stare out the window. He looks...resigned, and smaller than John has ever seen him.

John stops for a moment, heart aching as he takes in the sight of the younger man. Sherlock turns to give John a brief look, an expression of defeat and wariness in his eyes, before turning to resume his gaze out the window. His wings droop lower than John thought possible, and he rests his forehead on his hands so John can no longer see his face.

“I see Mycroft has finished speaking to you.” Sherlock’s voice rumbles out loud and clear.

John nods, slowly pulling out the chair beside Sherlock and taking a seat.

“He said you were considering not coming back.”

Sherlock turns to look at John, he seems surprised when he sees Johns face.

“You are not angry.” Sherlock’s voice comes out quiet.

John breathes deeply and shakes his head. He had been, for a moment, but when he realized the reason why...well, John still hates the possibility of Sherlock never returning, but he can understand Sherlock’s reasons. They are what everyone, at one time or another, would like to do when it comes to painful emotions; run away.

“No, I’m not.” John doesn’t elaborate.

Sherlock’s brow creases for a moment, but then he resumes his earlier stance and hides his face away from John.

“You are an infinitely confusing man John Watson.” Sherlock mumbles. John can feel the sadness wafting from him, but there is a hint of pleased amazement there too.

John laughs briefly.

“Pot, kettle, black.” John moves himself a bit closer to Sherlock. Sherlock chuckles, though the sound is a void of emotion. “I know you like to pretend you are above such things, but Sherlock, you are more human than anyone I’ve ever known.” At this Sherlock whips up to face John, looking genuinely astonished. “You are, and whatever logical reason you came up with in that monster head of yours, you wanted to do what many humans do when confronted with something they don’t want to face. You wanted to run away, because...” John pauses, heart suddenly racing. Sherlock has yet to protest, watching John silently with an intense gaze. “I think you had begun to realize exactly how much I mean to you, and that scared you, which reminded you of what you lost...” This is the first time John has openly acknowledged what he realized before. The declaration has Sherlock squirming uncomfortably, facing away from John again. A stronger waft of sadness echoes from him though John can see he is desperately trying to hide it. “You didn’t want to open yourself up to that kind of pain.” John finally finishes.

John has the thought that maybe this bond with Sherlock is giving him more emotional insight than he ever had before.

He hesitates for moment, but finally John gives into the urge to wrap his arm around Sherlock’s shoulders (his arm brushes against Sherlock’s wings) and rest his forehead against the man he loves so deeply, more than he ever thought he would ever love anyone.

“Talk to me Sherlock.” John whispers.

A hollow sob echoes through Sherlock’s chest. The sound shocks John for a moment, though he doesn’t show it. He squeezes Sherlock tight.

“I’ve already made myself so weak to you. I hate this.” Sherlock grits.

John nods against Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I know.” That’s what love is, allowing yourself to be vulnerable, John echoes words his mother once spoke to him.

Sherlock huffs humourlessly.

“You have changed the very definition of what I deem to be acceptable.” Sherlock voices.

John chuckles.

“I think we’ve both done that.” John kisses the side of Sherlock’s neck, directly on a spot where a red, bruised hickey flares on his skin. He momentarily thinks maybe, in this moment, that gesture was a bit too far, but Sherlock doesn’t react negatively.

If anything, John feels a renewed sense of reassurance swirling through the miasma of sadness of anger in Sherlock.

“Genie was my grandmother.” Sherlock finally says after a few minutes of silence. John tenses for only a moment. Should he tell Sherlock now about his dreams? No, no yet, John finally decides. “I loved her, more than my own parents. As far as parents go, they were perfectly fine. I was never neglected, Mummy is an intelligent woman and Father still has an unfortunate love of bowties.” Sherlock pauses. “They never fully...understood me however. Oh they loved me well enough in their own way, but I think my extremely precocious and unruly behaviour caused them much stress, in a lot of ways I was closer to Mycroft when I was young rather than my own parents. Genie though, grandmother, she...” Sherlock’s voice breaks a little here, and he near growls at himself. John doesn’t say anything and patiently waits for Sherlock to continue. “She was my first soul mate, my Fathers mother, and the one person who never made me feel like an outcast or a freak. She understood me, made me feel special, and loved me the way my parents should have, she encouraged my interests and never scolded me when I didn’t respond to something the way a normal child would have. I loved her more than anything. In many ways, she was more a mother to me than my biological one ever was.” Sherlock takes in a shaky breath. John holds him tighter, muttering “it’s ok, it’s ok” under his breath when he feels barely restrained sadness threaten to spill over. Sherlock takes comfort in John’s presence and determination overrules his emotions for the time being.

“I often would stay with her, this was her house and I...I never felt more at home than I did when in this cottage. Because of that, it wasn’t long before I met Marcus. He was my idol; incredibly intelligent and shared my love of science, he tutored me and even though Grandmother would scold him for it he allowed me into the morgue. When I was older, he let me sit in on autopsies. It was quite fascinating.” A faint smile twists Sherlock’s mouth but it soon fades. “He became a surrogate father so to speak. He isn’t my biological grandfather; he died long before I was born. Marcus met my Grandmother shortly after I turned two; they bonded and became intimately involved almost immediately, though their relationship remained primarily one of friendship. They were happy. I have never seen happier people. They were my real parents in my eyes, still are even now.” Sherlock’s hands fall from his chin to rest on the table.

“Grandmother kept bees. That was how she made a living, making and selling honey. They are incredibly fascinating creatures; I always enjoyed watching and studying their singled minded symbiosis. For a while I fancied raising some of my own, and maybe doing experiments and studying criminology on the side. That changed when Grandmother was diagnosed with brain cancer.” Sherlock’s voice takes on a dark edge. John tenses. So that’s what was wrong with her...John remembers the utterly frail woman on the bed, on the verge of death. Oh Sherlock... “It was winter; she collapsed in the back yard. Marcus was there. When the ambulance came and took her away I didn’t understand why. It wasn’t long before a doctor diagnosed her. Of course I knew what cancer was, and the mortality rate of brain cancer, especially one as serious as hers. She was sick for so long, and even when she went into remission, her body never fully recovered from the trauma, though she tried to hide it there was memory of it on her face all the time. And the threat of re-emergence of the cancer was always high. I didn’t deal with it...well.” Sherlock speaks quickly.

“Rebellious became a mild term for how I was through much of my teenage years, I started doing drugs, they provided the relief my mind wouldn’t give me. I went to rehab twice, and finally my parents sent me to live with my grandmother. My doing drugs devastated her; she was more paranoid than Mycroft about keeping them away from me. For a while, our relationship was strained, I would fight her all the time. She never fought back, neither did Marcus. They let me work out my anger in my own time and then...then Grandmother’s cancer returned, and this time, it was everywhere and it was terminal.” Sherlock’s voice turns hollow and broken, pain breaking through years and years of repression.

John feels tears begin to well up in his eyes at the sight of Sherlock being in so much pain. He remembers what it was like to lose his mother; it is a wound that never fully heals.

John is careful not to say anything when silent tears fall down Sherlock’s face. He gently manoeuvres Sherlock’s head to rest against his own, wanting to provide some measure of comfort and reminder that he is loved.

“She died three months later. I...I foolishly thought I could find a cure, I studied and experimented, did whatever I could and still I found nothing that could save her. I hated my heart for daring to feel the pain of her loss, I couldn’t think, could barely breathe; I retreated after her death...in more ways than one. I returned to drugs, absorbed myself in my work, and vowed never to allow myself the debilitating pain of loss. Once was quite enough. My mind was all I had left. And then...you had to come along and destroy me all over again.” Sherlock’s voice is barely audible at the end, tears flowing freely now without shame. “She called me Billy.” Sherlock’s hollow laugh is choked with his tears. “You see, Sherlock is my middle name. I was born William Sherlock Scott Holmes-” John of course knows this already; he doesn’t say anything however and continues to hold Sherlock. “-and when she died I couldn’t bear to be called William or Billy, the name...reminded me too much of her. So, I started going by Sherlock.” He sniffles. “I really am weak John.”

John doesn’t need to hear more. He breathes in shakily and holds Sherlock as strongly as his arms will allow.

There is something so...wrong about Sherlock crying, it makes John feel sick and helpless. He wants to do more, wants to make the pain stop even though he knows there’s nothing he can do.

So he does the only thing he can do. He holds Sherlock in his arms and exudes as much love as he can, whether Sherlock wants to feel it or not. The man’s tears are silent, but John can feel the dampness forming on his shirt.

Large hands suddenly grip the material of Johns (Marcus’s) shirt with incredible tightness, as though if Sherlock were to let go, John would disappear also. Sherlock then rests his head in the middle of John’s chest.

It is as their wings move towards each other and caress that John steels himself to speak.

“You are the strongest man I have ever known. This...this...” John says, struggling not to lose it, squeezing Sherlock and reaching out to wipe a lone tear away from Sherlock’s cheek. “This only makes me more certain of that than ever before. You are not weak Sherlock Holmes, you lost someone very dear to you, and it wasn’t your fault or your responsibility to save her-” Sherlock chokes out another sob and John holds him tighter, voice growing steadier and strong. It feels as though Sherlock is finally letting out years of pent up pain he never fully allowed himself to feel. “-she sounded like such a wonderful woman and I am so happy you had her in your life, she obviously loved you nearly as much as I do-” Sherlock flings his arms around John, breathing hotly into his t-shirt, trying to calm himself down. “-and if there is one thing I know, it is that feeling pain, not just bearing it, is the surest sign of strength.”

Sherlock chuckles.

“You got that from your mother.” Sherlock mumbles.

John blushes. He’s never been one to give out particularly helpful wisdom, which was his mothers department. The chaos of the last few days has had John thinking about her a lot, wishing she were alive.

“No I didn’t.” John responds, indignant, though only teasing. “I can be wise you know.”

Sherlock chuckles again and rolls his eyes.

“On occasion.”

“Arse.”

The heavy emotion is lightened somewhat, which was Johns intention. The wake of sadness is still present though, and John knows there isn’t really anything he can do about that.

Suddenly, Sherlock speaks.

“She would’ve loved you.” Sherlock utters solemnly. He pulls himself away from John and stands up.

John feels a pang at Sherlock no longer being close and in his arms, but he recognizes that Sherlock obviously needs some space.

John finds himself smiling at Sherlock’s words.

“And I would have been honoured to know her.” John says with strong conviction.

Sherlock’s mouth twitches into a sad smile.

He wants to tell Sherlock about the dreams, but Sherlock is already retreating from the conversation and John doesn’t want to push him. Later, John tells himself, later.

“Well, enough of that.” Sherlock waves a hand and casually wipes the drying tear tracks from his face. “We have a serial killer to catch.”

John isn’t surprised at Sherlock’s abrupt change of tone. He nods and stands up too. Sherlock moves away from John and towards the kitchen doorway.

“Sherlock.” Sherlock stops and turns to face John, not quite meeting his eyes.

John moves towards him and places a gentle hand on his shoulder. “I’m glad you told me.”

Sherlock blinks for a moment, and then nods sharply. John wishes he would say...something, but isn’t surprised when he doesn’t.

Sherlock moves to exit the kitchen. John turns around, wanting to take a moment to himself to digest it all. He rests his hands on the table top and hangs his head.

No wonder Sherlock is so distant from his emotions...everything John has found out, the way Sherlock is now, his behaviour, his tentative caring... it is like stretching muscles he hasn’t used in years. John is sure, more than ever, that Sherlock has a heart of such huge proportions that it simply hurts so much to feel. And John will fight tooth and nail with anyone who attempts to argue otherwise. It figures Sherlock’s depth of feeling is just as wide as the enormity of his intellect, though it doesn’t seem so to others. John doesn’t doubt that Sherlock still has problems relating to or showing consideration towards the feelings of strangers, and still has a penchant foot in mouth syndrome and not really caring about it, but for the people he does care about...John, Greg, Mrs Hudson, even Molly, his loyalty and love is endless. He just doesn’t show it the way ordinary people do. Sherlock has never been ordinary.

John isn’t sure how all these new revelations will affect their maybe relationship, Sherlock might decide that no matter how he feels, he might not want to take that final leap and John wouldn’t blame him. He’ll be sad, incredibly so, but he’ll understand and having Sherlock as his friend will be infinitely better than not having him at all.

John’s thoughts are suddenly interrupted when he feels a large hand stroke the outer edge of his left wing. The pleasure zings through John’s body.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Sherlock says, much calmer than before.

John smiles faintly.

“Of course you do.” John hadn’t realized Sherlock was even still here.

John feels a wave of disappointment when that hand disappears from his wings. He doesn’t feel it for long.

“John. Look at me.”

John turns, surprised at the conviction in Sherlock’s voice. When he faces Sherlock he finds the man smiling, and even though there are twinges of sadness lingering in his eyes there is tentative hope there also.

Those wide stormy eyes stare at John in a way he has never seen before. John can feel his heart picking up speed as Sherlock slowly stalks toward him and only stops when he is chest to chest with John.

John doesn’t move.

Sherlock is pinning John with such sensual focus, a hand rises and lightly touches Johns face.

John shivers.

“I never took much stock in the last words my Grandmother said to me, because they were her last words. I didn’t want to think about them.” Sherlock utters quietly, more to himself than to John, hand coming to rest within Johns soft, slightly grey dirty blond hair. “You need...you need to know that I...”

John shakes his head.

“You don’t need to say it.”

Sherlock suddenly grips John’s hair almost painfully.

“No.” Sherlock near growls out. “I do. It’s a truth that is becoming tiring to deny.” Sherlock’s lips are suddenly lightly grazing against Johns in a painfully tender kiss, so at odds with the tight desperate way Sherlock’s hand is gripping his hair. Before John can even reciprocate Sherlock pulls away. “I love you, John Watson.”

feck, now I’m crying.

John smiles a watery smile and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock staggers backwards a little with the force of Johns embrace. John never thought he would ever actually hear those words, and hearing them now...is more beautiful than John ever thought it would be.

Strong arms come up and wrap around Johns middle.

“I love you too.” John whispers into Sherlock’s neck.

He feels Sherlock shiver.

“I don’t want you dating anyone else.” Sherlock suddenly says, fierce and possessive.

John laughs, and if the way Sherlock pushes him away and fixes John with a stare of unease, he doesn’t appreciate it.

“I’m sorry Sherlock, there’s just...there is no way I’d even consider dating anyone else when I am so hopelessly in love with you. Idiot.” John punches Sherlock playfully and moves away from him, whether it’s adrenaline from the release of emotions or something else, John is still laughing.

“I don’t see how this is in anyway hilarious.” Sherlock mutters, following John as he moves back towards the living room.

John stops right outside the doorway and turns to face an irritated looking Sherlock.

“Alright, I’m going to ask you three questions and please answer them honestly.” John places his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock straightens up and nods. “Do you want to commit to a romantic relationship with me and are you interested in sex?”

The last isn’t really a breaking point for John, he loves that kind of intimacy and the idea of possibly sharing it with Sherlock has fire coursing through his blood. However, he knows that if Sherlock doesn’t want to go that route, John can learn to live with it.

Sherlock looks considering for a moment.

He nods. “Yes...”

“You still need some time before we make it official?” John finishes for him. Sherlock looks at John a bit uncertain, but he does confirm Johns thought with another nod. “That’s alright, really.” John adds when Sherlock looks almost worried that he is somehow letting John down. “Ok, question two, are you still alright with me touching and kissing you on occasion?”

Sherlock nods quickly. “Yes, I will let you know when I am uncomfortable.”

“Good.” John squeezes his shoulders. “Question three, are you ready to go back in there and find a way to catch Moran?”

A dark edge tints Sherlock’s eyes.

“Absolutely.”

John lets his hands fall. “Mycroft said he has a plan doesn’t he?”

Sherlock tenses.

“Yes.” Sherlock bites out.

John raises an eyebrow.

“And you don’t like it?” John has been wondering what it could be.

“That is a profound understatement.” Sherlock mutters.

“Whatever it takes, alright?” John replies, reaching out to grab his hand. Sherlock doesn’t respond. He looks at John, fear lingering behind his eyes, but John is pleased to see a newfound joy there as well. “We’ll be alright, we will.” John says with as much of a commanding tone as he can muster.

Sherlock looks doubtful, regardless he does nod.

With a final squeeze to his hand, Sherlock lets go of John and enters the living room. John breathes deeply and follows.

Whatever it takes.

Chapter 19



John collapses onto the ground, peripherally he notices other people enter the room, but they don’t matter. Nothing else does. All that matters was John heard a shot, heard and felt Sherlock’s shout of pain, John cried out Sherlock’s name – much like he did when he saw Sherlock fall two years ago – and watched in horror as Sherlock went down.

John tries to get to Sherlock (he lies face down on the ground unmoving, a blur of people drag a now unconscious Sophia away from him) but something is holding him back...arms.

“Let me go!” John screams.

Whoever is holding him back moves away. They must have cut through his bonds, because suddenly John is crawling frantically towards the unmoving detective. Everything else in John’s world narrows to that point. He is barely aware of the chaos going on around him.

Fear pulsates through John as he sees blood leaching from underneath his body, he can still feel Sherlock’s heartbeat so he knows he isn’t dead...but that doesn’t make seeing Sherlock sprawled awkwardly on the floor, blood oozing from him, staining the beautiful sheen of his wings, any easier.

“No, no you don’t get to do this to me. Not now.”

He reaches the detective in what John maintains to be too long a time and very carefully turns him over, ignoring his own physical pain all the while, it pales in comparison to seeing Sherlock unconscious and bleeding.

Until that point, John assumed Sherlock was unconscious. Once John turns him over however, he sees Sherlock’s lashes flutter.

The sound that erupts from John’s mouth can only be described as the sound one makes when sucker punched in the gut.

John quickly pulls apart his coat and suit jacket, looking for the wound...the blood primarily pools around the right area of his chest, ripping apart his shirt reveals that Sherlock has been shot in his right shoulder at an awkward angle, the bullet went through just below his armpit and exited near his neck, too near, but it could’ve been a lot worse.

It is a serious wound; the fact that it could’ve been a lot worse isn’t that much of a comfort to John. He finds it difficult to maintain a doctor’s calm detachment when Sherlock is the one laying below him, bloody with a gaping bullet wound, red staining the ivory pallor of his skin.

Sherlock groans in pain.

“I-I think I may be b-bleeding John.” His voice comes out sounding broken and hoarse from pain and blood loss.

John laughs a hollow breath.

“Oh really? I didn’t notice, I thought you just spilled jam on yourself again.” John is fighting to keep his voice steady. He is failing.

It suddenly occurs to John that he doesn’t have any supplies and that Sherlock could die from this wound if he isn’t treated soon, but that thought is quickly suppressed when he sees Sherlock’s wings twitching on the cold cement floor and he remembers...they can heal each other’s wounds.

John has never been so grateful for their soul bond.

“That was-that was one time.” Sherlock speaks, his voice an echo, fighting to keep his eyes open and trained on John. John ignores the comment and quickly places shaking hands on the wound, the heat of flesh and blood soaks into his palms and John gathers all his energy – all this love for this infuriating man and focuses it on the wound. “Are you-are you alright? She didn’t...”

John keeps his hands tight against Sherlock and looks at him with disbelief.

“No, I’m fine. You on the other hand got yourself shot you bloody lunatic. I thought we promised each other not to do anything stupid? You’re going to be the death of me.” John speaks with a combination of anger and fondness, anger because he hates seeing Sherlock throw himself into the line of fire for John and fondness...well, that goes without saying.

“Don’t be ludicrous; saving your life is not stupid.”

John exhales in relief when Sherlock sounds stronger as he speaks. John focuses his attention on that beautiful face. He sees colour returning to those slightly hollow cheeks and a bright sort of glee in those crystalline eyes; likely just as relieved that John is alright as John is that Sherlock is healing.

“I would’ve gotten out of the way. You didn’t have to sacrifice yourself for me.” John insists.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

“Of course I did.”

The casual air with which Sherlock speaks, as though it were a fact as plain and obvious as the sky being blue, makes John ache, both with the overwhelming feeling that Sherlock Holmes really does care for him in a way he never would’ve thought possible two years ago and with a sense of frustration.

“You listen to me Sherlock Holmes.” John leans down, nearly nose to nose with Sherlock. Those sharp eyes return Johns intense stare tenfold. “I can take care of myself-”

“She was going to-”

“Shut up Sherlock.” Sherlock promptly closes his jaw, though the anxious twitching of his wings indicates he really wants to keep speaking. “The point is that seeing you hurt, it pains me a lot more than getting hurt myself. So, unless absolutely necessary, don’t you dare get yourself shot and treat it as though it’s no big deal! I may not...may not be able to get to you next-”

John stops speaking when long cool fingers press firmly against his lips. The fact that John feels tears pooling in his eyes matters little compared to Sherlock’s delicate touch.

“John.” The way Sherlock says that, so calm, so forceful, as though he knows precisely where John is coming from; neither of them can stand to lose the other. “There is nothing I would not do to keep you safe, and there is nothing you can say to prevent me from fulfilling that promise whenever possible. I know you are fully capable of taking care of yourself, you are the most sufficient and capable human being I know and I would rather become a simpleton than undervalue you in any way. Emotions, as illogical as they are, prevent me from seeing sense however when it comes to you.”

John gasps lightly and his mouth twitches into a smile.

“And you’re ok with that?” John asks, moving one of his hands (noting with pounding love and relief that the wound is gone) to rest against Sherlock’s naked neck. He doesn’t doubt that Sherlock loves him, but what he isn’t sure of is whether Sherlock has truly accepted the volatile nature of his emotions and embraced them. He’s acknowledged them, but that’s different.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything for a moment. The frown that creases his brow is almost sad, his breath has returned to a more normal pace and his eyes gaze at John softly.

“I am now.”

Their wings reach for each other and the edges of their feathers graze against the other, renewing love-filled energy zinging through their bond.

Despite the circumstances, it is a perfect moment.


Sherlock’s eyes blink open. In the wake of new and incredible knowledge whirling around his brain, he feels breathless.

That was a dream...no, a memory. Sharp, more vivid than any dream Sherlock has ever dreamt.

Sherlock remembers that moment well; the pain of being shot, the feeling of being crushed from the inside out at seeing John facing the barrels end of a gun and the sheer weight of emotion coasting along his body as John healed his wound.

Sherlock never thought he would willingly be in such a position. Until John Watson that is. How one person could so irrevocably alter how Sherlock views himself and the world is a mystery Sherlock doubts he’ll ever solve, he isn’t even sure if he wants to.

He becomes aware of his surroundings rather quickly.

He’s in John’s bedroom, in Johns bed (if Sherlock turns his head into Johns pillow and deeply breathes in his scent, well, no one will find out) that much is obvious. The curtains have been pulled across the windows and there is an empty cup of tea on the bedside table. The time is 8:00am according to the clock. How long have I been asleep?[i] Sherlock is unclear on that. Given that he hasn’t slept since arriving on John’s doorstep, has obtained a wound (now healed) and likely experienced an adrenaline crash, Sherlock thinks it possible he’s been asleep for at least day if not more.

[i]John. Where is he?

Sherlock sits up abruptly, a wave of pain pounds in his head and he falls back onto the soft, bouncy surface with a groan.

Stupid, infernal transport.

Oversleep has obviously made Sherlock groggy, because he doesn’t even notice until just then the sound of the shower running from the bathroom adjoining Johns bedroom, and the corresponding echo of Johns heart beat within his chest.

This was her bedroom. Sherlock thinks to himself. The same wallpaper, tasteful and blue, adorns the walls like it did when he was a boy. The thought causes Sherlock’s heart to ache, he is equal parts surprised and relieved when he finds that the ache isn’t as strong as it once was. Time heals all wounds they say, a horribly incorrect colloquialism, time soothes some wounds on occasion would be more accurate.

Perhaps in embracing his love for John, he is soothing the wound of his grandmother’s death? Sherlock has never been able to completely explain the mechanics of soul bonds and love, recently he has realized that is because there are no mechanics, very few at least, it is a reality that can never be fully explained only fully felt.

Sherlock didn’t lie to John, when he said ‘I am now’ in response to Johns query referring to Sherlock’s statement of his emotions often blinding him from sense, he meant it. Sherlock had been worried, for a long time that if he were to embrace love he would lose all he had gained.

So he maintained a facade of thinking love to be too dangerous to attempt or even admit to. It was naive of him to think that love is a choice.

He may be more vulnerable now, but ultimately, when he reflects on the matter Sherlock realizes he hasn’t actually lost anything, his knowledge, abilities, they’re all still there. The only difference is that John has caused him to regain something he had long ago repressed within the endless rooms of his mind palace; his grandmother insisting that Sherlock possesses a great gift, not just in mind but in heart, a deep and endless ability to love.

It must be true, at least where John Watson is concerned. In fact, he considers loving John and being loved by him to be one of his greatest accomplishments.

Sherlock’s thoughts turn back to his aforementioned “dream”, there is only one logical explanation for it. If it is true, then John may have –

His thoughts are interrupted when the sounds of the shower running ends.

Sherlock has many questions for John.


...


John exits the shower, the hot water has done its job in refreshing Johns still aching muscles.

His wings trail along the floor behind him as he walks over to the towel rod. John shakes them dry, the metallic sheen covering the vibrant feathers allows the water to roll right off, and then rubs his body down with a towel.

John wraps the towel around his waist and wonders if Sherlock is awake yet.

The poor man has been asleep for the past two days, he has woken up a few times, but it was so brief and he’d nodded back off so quickly John doubts he’ll remember once he wakes up for good. When Sherlock Holmes does sleep, he usually sleeps for very long periods of time. John never thought he’d see even Sherlock asleep for quite that long. He obviously needed it, and John is grateful that the man has finally gotten some much needed rest. At one point he needed to practically stand guard when Mycroft wanted to talk to him, Greg backed him up and the two of them formed a makeshift barricade by standing in front of the door until Mycroft left (though not without a strongly worded reminder to contact him once Sherlock is awake).

With Sherlock asleep, the past two days have been uneventful. The most activity happened when they were exiting the house – which John noticed with shock was the very same house they found the second victim in. The lead detective of the area had gotten quite the earful from Sherlock when he found out that the man apparently removed the watch from the former crime scene, believing it to be no longer needed. At that point, Greg (who apparently had been the one to hold John back and remove the binding from his hands) made the point that even though he wasn’t happy about the man’s stupidity either, they were lucky it was somewhere relatively close rather than far away. Sherlock couldn’t argue with that, but he did give Greg a narrowed glare before walking away and expressing a few choice words to one of Mycroft’s men, he’d been the one to make a noise earlier which alerted Sophia Moran to their presence. Surprisingly, Mycroft didn’t interfere and let Sherlock berate the man.

John found out shortly after exiting the house into the cool air that there was a reason why Sophia Moran’s henchman (Jack) didn’t react to the commotion at all, as far as John could tell. At first he thought maybe they managed to take him out without him noticing. Sherlock and Greg informed John that this wasn’t the case.

Jack apparently had noticed the commotion. Sherlock descended the stairs first, prepared to fend off the guard thanks to Johns warning, but when he arrived he found the man – Jack – walking towards him with a key in his outstretched hand. He never fought, and allowed himself to be taken away, since it wasn’t like he could attempt escape and get away with it. His brother had been upstairs, still recovering from his wound. Mostly Jack seemed relieved that his brother was being taken to hospital to get proper medical care.

John was honestly surprised, and thought that maybe his words did manage to get through to him at least a little.

It had been a long night before they were able to go back home. Mycroft handled Sophia Moran, taking her away in handcuffs with a security detail into one of the vehicles parked in front of the house. John still felt the vestiges of the whole experience lingering, and he just wanted to get home and pass out for a year or two, and maybe if he were lucky he could get Sherlock to join him.

She didn’t even bat an eye when she was lead right past Sherlock. If John didn’t know better, he might have mistaken her for something undead.

John said he didn’t need treatment he couldn’t do himself, but Sherlock insisted on helping anyway. When they finally arrived at the cottage, John was feeling exhausted from the stress and pain. Sherlock was near dead on his feet the minute they walked into the house and his body finally gave into the urge to rest now that John was safe.

In the end, Sherlock passed out on John’s bed; John stripped him down to his pants and covered him with his duvet. Greg gave John a gentle hug (uncharacteristic for the DI), obviously happy that they all ended up out of relatively unscathed and went to bed himself, and John ended up having to take care of his bruised wing and shoulder himself.

It was a hard day, a hard few days actually, and even though John will always be sad and upset with himself that they couldn’t save any of Sherlock’s people, he’s glad it’s finally over, with Sophia Moran at least. There’s still the ever looming ‘what’s going to happen now’ question, Mycroft insisted that Sherlock is no longer needed in dealing with the vestiges of Moriarty’s network and Sherlock himself said not long ago that he wouldn’t be leaving John. With that in mind, the question makes itself known again.

What now?

John had been avoiding that question, not wanting to confront it until Sherlock awoke. When John to sleep, woke up, and discovered Sherlock had wrapped himself like a sleepy koala around John’s body, he watched the beautiful younger man, happy in seeing the expression of utter peace on his face. Sherlock had never been so gorgeous as he was in that moment.

The first day comprised of the makeshift stand-off between John, Greg and Mycroft in front of Johns bedroom door, a discussion between the three men regarding what happened, though they were reluctant to delve to deeply into ‘what now’, mainly how to present Sherlock’s return, until Sherlock himself awoke. Mycroft then left, promising to remain close by for now. Greg decided to stay, worried about Sherlock as well. After that, it was quiet. He spent the rest of the day alternating between naps and tea. John reflected on the past several days, his mind often drifting to the sleeping man upstairs. Whatever happened, John decided he would remain by Sherlock’s side. It is where he is meant to be.

John did manage to call Marcus, informing him of all that had happened. To say Marcus was relieved would be an understatement, he wanted to come directly over but John said that Sherlock needed his rest, Marcus, being a father figure to Sherlock readily understood and made John promise to let him know when Sherlock was awake.

The second day, Sherlock still sleeping, John called into the clinic he works at and explained he would be taking a longer leave of absence (though John felt in his gut that he would be making that absence permanent soon) due to a family emergency, he then considered calling Mrs. Hudson...but decided that it is Sherlock’s place to tell her about his return, and he would be reminding him of it too.

John ended up reading a book or working on his laptop for most of the day, on his bed alongside the sleeping Sherlock. John had to quiet himself multiple times when he wanted to laugh after discovering exactly how cuddly a sleeper Sherlock is. Many times Sherlock would move to lay his head on John’s thigh or wrap his arms around his waist or simply spread himself like a starfish with one leg hanging off the bed. He moved around a lot. It really was very sweet. John is thinking about telling Sherlock that when he wakes up just to see the look of indignation on his face.

And now, on the third morning, John is ready to exit the bathroom in search of clean clothes. Hopefully today will be the day Sherlock wakes.

In case Sherlock is still asleep, John opens the bathroom door slowly and quietly. He glances towards the bed. The detective is laying precisely where John left him, beneath the covers, the upper half of his chest exposed (John may have had swallow saliva that threatened to drool over at the sight earlier before John took a shower), head facing towards the ceiling with his eyes closed.

John is half-tempted to take a picture. He shakes his head with a fond smile and walks over to his dresser. With a final glance at the sleeping Sherlock, John faces the drawers and pulls out pants, a pair of trousers, a t-shirt and a navy blue jumper with a bright green circle on the front. That’s another thing John needs to do, other than the underwear, the only clothes he can physically wear now are the ones that used to belong to Marcus. There is a major shopping trip in his near future.

Since Sherlock is asleep, John feels very little concern in dropping his towel and getting dressed. He could go back to the bathroom, but neither John nor Sherlock have ever been exactly modest when it comes to nudity. Modesty wasn’t always an option in the army. And Sherlock...well, Sherlock is the least modest between the two of them, John did have to draw the line once when Sherlock strode through 221b’s living room stark naked to retrieve a book from the shelf and return to his bedroom. That had been awkward, at least on John’s part.

Now, with the still new declarations of their feelings hanging in the air and the undefined nature of the relationship, there is a whole new layer of meaning being naked in Sherlock’s presence. John shivers, warmth filling him from his core. Lack of modesty or not, this is Sherlock Holmes, and he can’t deny there are nerves present as John becomes very, very aware of his nakedness. Briefly John wonders if it would be better to change in the bathroom.

Don’t be barmy John, the man is asleep and besides, you know you have a nice arse.

John suppresses a snort at his own inner commentary. He rolls his eyes and reaches for his underwear.

“And your very flesh shall be a great poem...”

John jumps at the sudden, clear sound of Sherlock’s voice coming from the bed. He narrowly avoids stubbing his toe. John sighs. Of course the bugger was awake

John quickly pulls up his pants. “You scared the shit out of me.” He doesn’t turn to look at Sherlock, waiting for the blush on his cheeks to fade away.

He hears Sherlock chuckle.

John smirks a little.

“Feigning sleep to watch my naked arse getting dressed...if it were anyone else, I might be tempted to point out how blatantly inappropriate that is, but then again, you’re...you, so I don’t expect anything less.” John keeps a teasing smile alight on his face as he continues to dress.

“Come now John, we both know if you really didn’t mind me observing your...impressive physique, you could have easily changed in the bathroom. I was simply taking advantage of the opportunity for study, seeing you in this new light is...interesting.”

John doesn’t think he has ever heard Sherlock speak with such softness before, though there is plenty of his usual light-hearted teasing indicative of Sherlock being in a good mood.

“Interesting in a good way I hope.” John responds while pulling on the navy jumper, carefully manoeuvring his wings through the slits in the back.

John hears the faint sounds of sheets moving.

“Very, very good.” Sherlock’s voice is more than little husky.

John finally turns with a raised brow, face bright with amusement.

“And I’ll take the Whitman quote as a compliment.” He leans back against the dresser and casually crosses his arms; observing with delight the sight of Sherlock leaning against the headboard of his bed, duvet pooled around his waist, his hands clasped gently in his lap. “I’m actually surprised you know Leaves of Grass, I figured you wouldn’t find much use in poetry.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches in a grin. “It does come up during the work on occasion, but perhaps you don’t know me as well as you think you do.”

“Oh I do.” John teases. “Come on, where did you pull that line from really?”

Sherlock puts on a facade of mock affront and John snorts.

“I would have you know I engaged in plenty of-”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock sighs. “I solved a murder case when I was twenty two involving a rather fascinating English Professor; he assisted me in return for translating Leaves of Grass into German, it was a gift for his niece who had been studying in Germany at the time and he trusted me to make the most accurate translation possible. She loved Walt Whitman apparently.” Sherlock shrugs.

Smart arse.

“Of course you did.”

Sherlock looks smug for a moment.

Silence follows for a moment or two. Neither man sure what to say next. Sherlock starts to shift uncomfortably, glancing down at his chest and carefully avoiding looking at John. Hm...Perhaps Sherlock is more affected by the newness of the situation than John thought.

When it seems that Sherlock isn’t intending on speaking first, John pushes himself off the dresser and back towards the bed. Sherlock’s head swivels around to face him.

“May I?” John asks with a reassuring smile, gesturing towards the empty half of the bed.

Sherlock looks confused for a moment. “It’s your bed.”

John simply nods. He crawls onto the wide bed and seats himself directly beside Sherlock, closer than he would have before. John’s right wing and Sherlock’s left are gently layered over each other in this position; the pleasant tingle has John feeling happier than he has in a while.

John notices Sherlock’s left hand has fallen away from his right and is resting on his thigh, twitching nervously. John is unsure where this sudden nervousness of Sherlock’s is coming from, but eager to calm him John reaches out and places a gentle hand on top of the large one belonging to the violinist.

Sherlock’s hand immediately stills, as does the rest of his body. He looks up at John in something akin to wonder, like a child discovering a new world.

John smiles.

“This is nice, isn’t it?” John asks, squeezing Sherlock’s hand.

“Yes...it is.” Sherlock eventually says with a quiet tone of voice.

“Good.” John follows a sudden urge to be completely silly and leans over to peck Sherlock on the nose.

Sherlock’s nervous ice is broken and he looks at John with narrowed eyes.

Mission accomplished. John grins evilly.

“I would rather not be the cause of your demise, so do not tempt me.”

John leans back.

“Or what?” He challenges.

Suddenly, John’s evil grin seems to have transferred to Sherlock. He barely has time to register Sherlock’s sudden leap of movement (greatly emphasised by the whoosh of his wings) and within seconds he is straddling John on all fours, pinning him to the bed and hovering a threatening hand over the sliver of Johns belly skin that is exposed.

John could get out of this he knows, but to be honest, he is enjoying this carefree moment far too much. Even when vaguely wondering at what a relationship with Sherlock Holmes would be like, he never anticipated anything like this.

So John allows himself to be pinned and eyes Sherlock’s hand curiously, the gleam of mischief in Sherlock’s eyes is growing brighter...oh no.

“Sherlock Holmes, don’t you dare!” John growls out, trying not to let the reality of a nearly naked Sherlock hovering over him threaten his composure...he should’ve known it would be fruitless.

John tries to squirm away but he finds himself transfixed by Sherlock’s eyes, in the path of a stray ray of sunlight, he is beautiful, the languid curves of his body are even more appealing and John feels himself weakening, mouth watering.

John doesn’t think it’s possible for Sherlock to look any more pleased with himself.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything; he flutters his fingertips lightly against John’s abdomen.

John laughs, painfully. How the fucking hell did he even...

“You are not tickling me Sherlock Holmes.” John protests.

Sherlock tightens his grip on John when he tries to move away.

“The simplest observation would prove that to be incorrect.”

He does it again, seemingly delighted at Johns response.

This time, John retaliates. He knocks out Sherlock’s legs with his knees and wraps his own around the man’s waist (Sherlock falls on top of him in a rush of breath). He really really tries hard to focus on the closeness of their position as he takes advantage of it in a different way. He quickly turns Sherlock over so that he is now on his back and John is sitting atop him.

Sherlock only looks the slightest bit surprised before resting his hands on Johns denim clad thighs. John can see a shiver dot his skin with goose pimples as John’s silky feathers rest against the detective’s long, naked legs.

“I win.” John bounces slightly and Sherlock grunts.

“You are a ridiculous man.” Sherlock pins John with amused eyes.

“You bring it out in me.” John shrugs with a smile. He becomes startlingly aware of their position and the slow progression of Sherlock’s hands stroking his thighs. Now is probably not the best time to explore...this. Albeit reluctantly, John moves off of Sherlock, the man doesn’t protest but he doesn’t look exactly happy either. Sherlock doesn’t move from his prone position on the bed, feet now resting flat against the headboard.

“Knowing you, you probably mean that as a compliment.” Sherlock raises an eyebrow in John’s direction.

“I do.”

Sherlock hums with a sigh, a faint smile tweaking his features.

That silence is back again, this time, John senses that Sherlock is ready to speak. So John remains quiet, listening and feeling Sherlock’s heart beat within his chest.

Sherlock’s eyes turn abruptly curious as he focuses a scrutinizing gaze on John.

John cocks him a questioning look.

“You’ve been dreaming of my past, or more accurately, dreaming my memories.”

John blinks. Wow...well, John certainly wasn’t expecting that to come out of Sherlock’s mouth.

John suddenly feels guilty for not saying anything sooner, even though he couldn’t control it, seeing something so personal from Sherlock’s life without permissions feels invasive.

Sherlock doesn’t look upset, merely curious. John will take that as a good sign.

“Um, yeah, three times. How did you-?”

“I dreamt the memory of you falling to my side after I was shot in Sophia Moran’s basement; it was from your perspective.” Sherlock states.

What the hell...Johns face twists in confusion. How is that...Variations of the same broken question flit around John’s mind, what is going on? John is about to voice that thought when Sherlock leaps from the bed and begins pacing, not anxiously, but in thought; his hands pressed palms together and resting against his chin.

John feels an ache in his chest when he once again notices the scars marring Sherlock’s back.

“It appears we have another soul ability. One I have never heard of, which probably means it’s new, or at the very least incredibly rare.” Sherlock posits, he turns to John, face bright. John may be greatly confused as to what’s going on, but seeing Sherlock with that look on his face, much like he gets when he is particularly enthused about a new experiment or an especially intriguing case, is wonderful. “What memories of mine have you dreamt?” Sherlock asks, clearly forcing himself to be patient in waiting for Johns answer.

“Ok, well, three I think. The first was of here, at the cottage. It was spring, and there was a little boy playing in the backyard, near a collection of beehives. He got stung, and then an older woman appeared and helped treat him.” John says, watching Sherlock carefully. He’s stopped pacing and is focusing on John intently, but something in gaze shuttered closed as John spoke, and the earlier expression of enthusiasm has dimmed slightly. “That was you and your grandmother, right?” John adds softly. Sherlock glances away from John, a vulnerability evident in the line of his mouth and crease between his eyebrows. He nods. “She was beautiful.” John speaks with a sad smile.

Sherlock’s smile, though small, mirrors Johns own; tinged with sadness. However, John notices sorrow isn’t quite as...all encompassing as it was before.

Sherlock closes his eyes briefly before shaking his head in a quick, jerky movement. He looks back at John, his face no longer expressing the emotions John can still feel roiling and just beginning to settle within Sherlock, though John is pleased to see Sherlock’s is expression is less guarded and more open.

And though there is a slight wariness around his eyes, the genuine sparkles of curiosity are back; just not as predominant as before.

“Continue.” Sherlock utters the word sharply, motioning for John to keep talking. The detective, clad only in his pants, resumes his thoughtful pacing.

John breathes deeply.

“The second one was also at the cottage, it was winter this time. You were a bit older, playing in the snow-” Though John knows this memory doesn’t end in a happy place, in began in one and he can’t help but smile at the memory of a young Sherlock doing something as joyful and mundane as playing in the snow. “-and she was there again, your grandmother, I remember she was wearing a turquoise coat-” Sherlock is nodding along at this point; his body has regained some of its earlier tension though, since this is a memory, he probably knows where this is heading. “-Marcus was there too, younger obviously, and he picked you up, you weren’t happy at first but then you laughed. And then...” John hesitates. Sherlock pauses near the end of the bed; he looks at John with mild confusion and frantically waves him to continue. “Then she collapsed, Marcus told you to call an ambulance...Yeah, that’s pretty much it.” John doesn’t mention the shock on young Sherlock’s face, watching as the person he loves most collapse for no reason, and seeing Marcus so obviously distressed.

John waits for some sign of anguish from Sherlock; however, other than a feeling of lingering and resigned grief, Sherlock appears to have gathered his senses and is keeping his emotions in check. He continues to pace, a bit slower than before.

John resumes without further indication from Sherlock.

“The third one was in a hospital room.” John eyes Sherlock. The man stops pacing at that point, a penetrating gaze fixating on the wall in front of him; those nimble hands still rest against the curve of his lips. Cautiously, John continues, deciding to keep the exact details to a minimum. “You were much older there. Your grandmother was lying on the bed, asleep, you and Marcus were there. She was...dying. She told you to love yourself, love what you do and hold onto the people you love and who love you for as long as you can-” John remembers that part very clearly. He stops when he sees Sherlock close his eyes in memory; there is an intense frown on his face. John stands up and moves closer to Sherlock. “She also mentioned bees.”

This gets a smile out of Sherlock. Those magnificent eyes open and he turns to face John, there is a faint shine to his eyes but other than that...he doesn’t look particularly sad, even though the droop of his wings and barely there smile indicate he is not unaffected by the memory John just recounted.

I hope you realize that you will have me for the rest of your life. John had pondered the extreme sentimentality of saying that to Sherlock Holmes. However in this instance, John decided to take the risk of being a lovesick fool. It is nothing but the truth after all.

Sherlock looks momentarily surprised at hearing Johns voice inside his head instead of out loud.

I hope so. Sherlock parrots softly.

John nods with understanding.

“Until she died, I had seriously considered raising my own bees, pursuing science and performing experiments on the side. I didn’t find my niche in crime-solving until later.” Sherlock speaks as though their brief telepathic exchanged didn’t happen, eyes cast downward for a moment before returning to Johns. “She did leave me the cottage in her will.”

“Oh?” John takes a risk and places a hand on Sherlock’s arm. The detective doesn’t throw it off.

Sherlock hums. “Until recently, I had never been back ever since...well, it’s irrelevant now.”

John shakes his head. “No it isn’t.” John utters softly, stroking his palm down Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock gives a noncommittal shrug and walks away, Johns hand falls back down to his side. “Perhaps not.” Sherlock’s eyes gain a faraway look. “My knowledge in melittology remained ashamedly basic after her death.”

John recognizes that glint in Sherlock’s eye and he smiles.

“Is it something you would like to pursue now?” John asks. If you were to have asked John two years ago if he thought Sherlock Holmes, of all people, would have an interest in studying bees, he probably would’ve laughed his arse off. Now...now anything is possible. Although, imagining Sherlock in the garb of a beekeeper...John has to try very hard not to laugh.

Sherlock grunts. “Maybe.” He shakes himself out of his thoughtful trance and returns his intense gaze back towards John. “Back on topic, I believe I know why you dreamt those specific memories, why I recounted your memory of...?”

John understands the pause and responds in kind.

“Two days ago.”

Sherlock nods. “And why I assume you haven’t dreamt any more of my memories correct?”

John had wondered why he suddenly hadn’t been dreaming those vivid times from Sherlock’s life, but of course Sherlock would figure that out.

“I admit I have been curious about-”

“It’s because I’ve been asleep for two days, and you haven’t come into close contact with me before you yourself went to sleep while I was pondering a particular memory. I had a lot on my mind before I essentially went to sleep for two days, but nothing so specific while I was touching you.”

...erm, what?

“You lost me.”

Sherlock sighs in exasperation. John isn’t sure whether to feel relieved or irked at the ‘I’m surrounded by idiots’ look on Sherlock’s face.

“Oh come now John, I’m sure even you are smarter than the average idiot to figure it out. It is quite obvious actually.” Sherlock shrugs and waves offhandedly.

Johns mouth twists and he glares – though half-heartedly – at Sherlock.

“Well I’m certainly glad to see your newfound emotional awareness hasn’t altered your personality in any way.” He sounds sarcastic, but John finds he actually means it.

He did fall in love with the often abrasive, inconsiderate madman after all.

“If you must know however, I’ll explain it to you.” Sherlock continues as though he didn’t hear John, but the amused lilt to his mouth indicates otherwise. “It’s rather fascinating actually, I regret underestimating the many possibilities a bond such as ours presents. Perhaps this warrants further study...” Sherlock is getting that fast pace excitement in his voice, that hitch in his breath when he discovers something entirely new; his brain ever hungry to absorb fresh knowledge and what he deems interesting information. Even his wings are fluttering happily in a way you wouldn’t expect the floor length limbs capable of doing.

John really has missed this.

“For now though, I’ll give you an example. If I were to put much, if not all, my focus and emotion, I suspect intense emotion is key here, onto one memory while I was touching you-” Sherlock demonstrates by placing his large hand alongside John’s neck. John shivers. “-and you were to fall asleep within the next few hours, the exact time frame is unclear to me at this point, you would then experience the memory as though it were a dream. Memories of my grandmother have been persistently on my mind ever since I arrived here. And when you were treating the scars on my back, I was thinking about that moment with the bee sting. The second time at the second crime scene, when we had that...moment, I had been thinking about the moment my grandmother’s illness started. Trying to remind myself what loving someone brings. The third one was after your injury in the forest; I think that one is fairly self-explanatory.” Sherlock’s voice grows quieter during that last part.

John’s eyes widen.

“Oh...”

Sherlock looks pleased.

“See? Not that difficult to comprehend.” Sherlock doesn’t remove his hand from John’s neck.

“I don’t know about that...” John mutters. “So you’re saying one of our many soul bond abilities is to telepathically communicate an emotionally intense memory to the other and they will experience it via dream.” John pauses. Sherlock nods. “Right, so I’ve dreamt your memories by accident because you had been in close contact with me at some point while thinking about those moments with your grandmother?” John asks. A bit more solemn, Sherlock nods again. John feels that hand begin to slip away. Without thinking John reaches up and holds that hand to his face. Sherlock doesn’t argue. “You dreamt my memory of seeing you shot because I was thinking about it a lot, how it made me feel, while obviously touching you.” John pauses. Even while you were sleeping, John adds inwardly.

“Precisely.”

Sherlock’s palm feels warm and pleasant against John’s cheek.

“Do you really think this...ability is new?” That baffles John, and he wonders why he and Sherlock would somehow spark something like being able to dream each other’s memories. It just seems so...odd, and yet wonderful in a weird way.

Sherlock grunts in consideration.

“A new soul ability hasn’t been discovered in over fifty years, I say it’s about time for that to change.” Sherlock’s index finger begins to lightly scratch the stubble on John’s cheek. John opens his mouth to ask another question. “You’re wondering why now, why this ability, why us.” Sherlock states when he reads Johns questions plain on his face.

John nods. “I am. Aren’t you?”

Sherlock merely smiles. He leans down. John is careful not to move when he feels soft, still tentative lips brush his own.

The touch sends such a strong, gloriously electrifying feeling that has John seriously considering his lifespan. Is death by kisses even possible?

Sherlock pulls back.

“What was-” John begins to ask, but is interrupted by Sherlock’s hand moving from his cheek to press gently against his mouth.

“If there is one thing recent experiences have taught me, it is that some questions cannot be answered, mostly when it comes to matters of the heart and soul. I do not know why and right now...I don’t care to find the answers, maybe I will attempt to in the future.”

John smirks and removes Sherlock’s hand from his mouth, keeping a firm grasp on it.

“Maybe?” He teases.

“Mm, most definitely.”

John laughs. Overcome, he throws his arms around Sherlock’s naked torso and embraces him tightly. It only takes a moment, but eventually Sherlock returns the embrace with equal strength; their wings enveloping in each other in such a way that can only be describe as home.

They are quiet as they continue to hold each other.

In the distance they can both hear the beginnings of Greg doing something in the kitchen, and soon afterwards there is a rather loud crash and subsequent curse.

“I may have to exact revenge if Greg broke my grandmother’s china.”

John gives loud bark of laughter.

“I don’t know which is more difficult to believe, that you remembered his name or that you give a fib about china.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I always remember his name.”

John leans back at that, giving Sherlock a dubious look; the taller man is very obviously smirking.

“Then why do you-”

“It annoys him. Tit for tat, so they say, much like when I pickpocket him.”

John blinks. “You are such a child.” John tries to sound scolding but he ends up laughing again, hiding his face in Sherlock’s shoulder.

He can feel Sherlock laughing too.

“I couldn’t care less about my grandmother’s ancient dishes; I do however find myself immensely enjoying the sound of your laughter.” Sherlock chuckles with a squeeze around the shorter man.

John’s laughter dies down into a watery smile, at the moment glad Sherlock cannot see his face.

“I can’t believe how much I love you.” John murmurs into Sherlock’s neck. He feels a shiver run through the detective.

Sherlock doesn’t answer for a moment.

“The feeling is mutual.”

After a few more breaths, John steps back but keeps his hands on Sherlock’s biceps. The taller man, curly hair in adorable disarray, looks at John with a faint look of confusion, trying to pull John back into his arms.

John shakes his head and places his palms on Sherlock’s chest. The contact is invigorating.

Sherlock stops trying to pull John back and fixes him with those impatient eyes.

John wants to ask the question, is it too soon? Maybe he should let Sherlock ask it on its own; he did say he needed time to...think on their relationship.

Sherlock’s behaviour this morning, the emotions emanating to John through their bond and everything they’ve talked about indicate something has changed, other than Sophia Moran’s demise.

John has the question on the tip of tongue when Sherlock speaks.

“I only ever truly needed time to acclimatize myself to the idea of being in an...intimate relationship with you, I never considered myself romantic partner material nor desired to be one for a long time. You are a remarkable man John Watson, and as far as I’m concerned we’ve been partners, in every sense, for a long time. And I hope we will continue to be.” Sherlock is firm and steady, reciting those words to John with unwavering focus. The only sign that Sherlock is at all nervous about John’s reaction is the increased beating of his heart and faint traces of fear in his eyes. “If you’ll have me.”

Johns mouth parts. He’s speechless.

How did I ever doubt... Johns thoughts come to an abrupt halt as he desperately tries to get a hold of the overwhelming wave of emotion he feels at Sherlock’s words.

John slides his hands up to Sherlock’s face.

“Of course I’ll have you, idiot.”

The exchange feels too much like a marriage proposal. In the face of their soul bond and connection...for once John will agree with Sherlock that marriage seems trivial in comparison.

Who knows what will happen though?

Sherlock smiles. John doesn’t say anything when he notices the brightness of tears in Sherlock’s eyes.

“What happens now?” John asks after a moment.

“Now my dear Watson, I will shower, you will proceed downstairs and make the both of us tea. Then you will tell me what I’ve missed these past two days.” Sherlock leans down to peck John on the top of his head before darting away and into the bathroom. He closes the door behind him with a final, soft glance in John’s direction.

John laughs happily and follows Sherlock’s instructions; tea would be awfully good right about now.

He casts a final look around his bedroom, lingering on the messed up bed, before exiting; a smile on his face he doubts will ever go away.

It’s a new beginning.

And here is the big revelation!

(If you spot mistakes, like spelling user names the wrong way, please PM me. Thanks.)

December 1 “Lost and found” for gently69 was written by

Kerkerian

December 2 The pics were edited by

nakahara

December 3 “The taste of Cornish wines” for stoertebeker was written by

mrshouse

December 4 the photo was taken by

Tobe

December 5 “Bump in the Night” for NotYourHousekeeperDear was written by

BreathingIsBoring

December 6 The photo was taken by

Mattlocked

December 7 “Nothing’s going to change?” for mrshouse was written by

gently69

December 8 The pics were edited by

nakahara

December 9 “Guardian” for SherlockHolmes was written by

silverblaze

December10 The photo was taken by

Tobe

December 11 “Something Precious” for Schmiezi was written by

SusiGo

December 12 The photo was taken by

Mattlocked

December 13 “How Sherlock Holmes met Greg Lestrade” for LaJolie was written by

SherlockHolmes

December 14 The link was found by

nakahara

December 15 The photo was taken by

Tobe

December 16 “All they needed” for SolarSystem was written by

Schmiezi

December 17 The pics were edited by

nakahara

December 18 “Billy, psychopaths and stupid idiots” for SusiGo was written by

NotYourHousekeeperDear

December 19 The photo was taken by

Mattlocked

December 20 The link was found by

nakahara

December 21 “Play it again, Sherlock“ for SilverMoonDragonB was written by

SolarSystem

December 22 The pics were edited by

nakahara

December 23 The pics were edited by

nakahara

December 24 “From Dusk Till Dawn” for Kerkerian was written by

stoertebeker

December 25 “Variations on a Classic Theme” for silverblaze was written by

LaJolie

December 26 “My head's under water, but I'm breathing fine” for BreathingIsBoring was written by

SilverMoonDragonB

Last edited by Schmiezi (December 29, 2014 7:39 pm)