Chapter 6

Purgatory





John expected to open the door into a hallway, or stairwell. Clearly he’d forgotten very few things follow paths of traditional logic here.

He should’ve expected to end up somewhere as sudden as a gigantic warehouse…although zoo might have been more accurate.

When he followed Sherlock beyond the flat door he was immediately thrown – involuntarily – down what felt very much like a slide, instinct caused John to reach out and try to stop his momentum, which inevitably failed. Barely a few seconds later he exited onto a hard surface in another undignified heap, at least his clothes remained on his body this time.

John groaned as pushed himself off the ground (maybe I should start keeping a tally here), hands scraping the cracked, and porous cement floor; through which John felt trickles of water, as a result when he stood his hands and knees came away wet.

“What the bloody hell was that…” John muttered to himself, a slide? Really? He hoped he hadn’t unintentionally taken a wrong turn somewhere and ended up into some obscure corner of Sherlock’s head, far from his goal and wherever Sherlock – the Sherlock he’d been talking with, went.

John supposed he could forgive the man his impatience in this scenario.

That was when John noticed he could hear what sounded like multiple voices speaking in the distance, it reminded him of a much milder version of the cacophony he’d heard before, but this time John not only heard people, the sounds of numerous animals assailed his ears.

Strange.

John’s brow furrowed. That was when he finally inspected his surroundings.

He gasped.

John was standing in the middle of a massive room; the kind of size with no visible end in sight, and ceilings that dwarfed John’s own height hundreds of time over. There was no sign of the…slide, or shoot maybe, that brought him here.

The room appeared industrial, housing dark wooden shelves upon shelves of boxes all in various stages of aging. John was standing the middle of a crossroad of shelf aisles. While most of them were ordered and stacked neatly, John noticed that several were laying strewn about as though they’d been tossed aside in a hurry.

Maybe Sherlock did end up here…

John started moving across the moist floor and turned down the nearest aisle, which seemed to hold the majority of the strewn about boxes.

It was when John inevitably got closer to the boxes (they looked like file boxes with open handles on either side) that he noted with some shock the sounds he was hearing become louder, and he realized they were coming from the boxes themselves.

All of them.

It wasn’t a painful volume like before, so John leant forward and picked up one of the loose pieces of paper that had fallen out of a box.

It was blank except for one word. Deleted.

John blinked. He quickly picked up several more pieces of paper. Deleted. Deleted. Deleted…

Deleted.

John began to have the suspicion that he was in Sherlock’s Mind Palace version of a Computer Recycling Bin.

This is more than bizarre.

“What-oi!”

Something black flew across his vision, ruffling up John’s hair and starling John into dropping the paper. He brushed it away and as it flew above his head and into some unseen direction, John saw it was a raven.

In fact, there was more than one. John watched in growing fascination – and perhaps a touch of wariness – as more ravens began flocking together, separating, and flying together again in a chaotic formation above the high point of the shelves.

It was almost a Hitchcock film. John just hoped those birds wouldn’t try to peck him to death.

John resumed walking, the trail of askew boxes now increasing in size and mess – maybe Sherlock came here looking for evidence of those memories?

John kept his eyes, and ears, peeled for the man. He reached the end of one aisle with still no sign of Sherlock – damn it! –and stopped for a moment debating which way to turn next.

A sudden, loud sound blasted his ears from behind him. And John became, very, very still – hoping dearly what he heard was an out of tune tuba. He turned slowly.

Nope.

It was an Elephant.

A full-sized, adult elephant zooming up the aisle (far faster than any Elephant should be able to), feet pounding, practically on John’s arse already.

Where the shit did that come from!

John didn’t think. He just ran.

He turned a left, then a right, then another left, all the while there was no end to the aisles of boxes, and dozens remained askew and more tumbled over into piles of paper that floated as the booming Elephant feet tossed them into the air.

The word ‘deleted’ was everywhere.

If by some bizarre turn of events John ended up being chased by an Elephant in a warehouse (and with the drastic turns his life and taken in recent times, he wouldn’t negate that happening all together) there would be no way he could out run it, even though he seemed to able to – and wasn’t feeling tired even though he was running harder than he had for a while, but he wasn’t actually running though was he? – in Sherlock’s mind.

John turned another corner as he looked behind him at the still approaching Elephant.

“Why do you have a bloody elephant in your mind palace why?” John mumbled with no small amount of annoyance.

Shit shit shit what do I do now-

John ran into something hard, and soft, and very much not a shelf of boxes.

“Ah, there you are. What took you so long?”

In front of John stood Sherlock, slightly bent over and tossing papers out of various boxes all around him; searching, eyes focused and not looking at all put out by the fact that John bumped into him because he was being chased by an elephant!

John glared at Sherlock and breathed heavily.

“What took me so long?!” John’s voice raised, huffing, he bent over and placed his hands briefly on his knees. “A bloody Elephant was chasing me!”

At that Sherlock paused in his ministrations and looked at John with a curiously blank expression.

“An…Elephant?”

“Yes!” John threw his hands in the air. “It was right-” John turned around. Nothing. He listened for the sound of feet and tuba like wailing. Nothing (in fact, now that John had found Sherlock all of the sounds and voices he heard before, though indistinguishable, were gone – and the crows he saw were nowhere to be seen either). He poked his head around the wide aisle corner. John saw nothing “-behind me.” John finished; feeling a bit confused.

“Mm.”

When John turned back around to Sherlock, he saw the man very much back into his activity of throwing paper around (these pages John saw contained far more words than ‘deleted’, and Sherlock was only giving most of them cursory glances before tossing them aside), clear he’d only be half paying attention to John – or not at all.

John shook off the bizarre last few minutes to focus on the much more important, and urgent matter at hand. (If he stopped to gawk at every weird, bizarre not normal thing he saw, John doubted he’d make any progress)

“I don’t exactly have a map of your…Mind Palace you know.” John gestured around them. “If you could try not to leave me behind like that again I’d really appreciate it.” And hopefully avoid any more wayward Elephants or crows.

John kneeled, mirroring Sherlock’s position, and watched him continue to sort through the many boxes.

“I knew you’d find your way here eventually.” Sherlock commented with a vague wave of his hand, focused on a yellowing piece of paper in his other.

John’s mouth twisted and made to respond but instead he just sighed, deciding to let this go for the moment.

The cold, moist, feeling had started to seep into his grey sweats again, and John was reminded of another question or two he wanted to ask Sherlock.

“Hey, so why did I show up bare arsed in your Mind Palace flat?”

Sherlock’s movements didn’t slow, he dropped the paper he had been examining and all but stuck his entire head in the box at his feet.

“221b.” His voice was muffled, but John heard him loud and clear.

Er…What?

“221b?”

John heard him mumble.

It was almost funny the way Sherlock whipped his head out of the box, hair flailing around his head. He didn’t look at John but instead stood up – more leapt up – and then proceeded to float above the ground to one of the top shelves; but still visible to John.

John unfolded out of his crouch.

Personal levitation wasn’t an uncommon sight, still John wondered if that was something Sherlock could do in real life or if it was mind specific.

It took all of a minute, when Sherlock came back he was holding a larger box and a large book hovered above his shoulder. His landing was completely smooth, not a stumble in sight.

“Two hundred and twenty B Baker Street. It is the flat in central London I rented approximately three months ago, from a former client of mine; Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock continued speaking as though there hadn’t been an interruption. He dropped the box and the box floated to settle itself into his open palms, without even the use of his fingers the pages began flicking below Sherlock’s eyes at an incredible speed. John was exceedingly curious about what the man was looking at, since all John could see were a mishmash of words that didn’t make sense, at least from where John was standing, or constant flashes of the word ‘deleted’. “In answer to your question, I am unaccustomed to nude men presenting themselves in my home, in any capacity, since you obviously weren’t unclothed before connecting to my mind I am…uncertain why you would arrive as such.” His eyes flitted up to John’s briefly before resuming his examination of the book. “It is not of import at any rate.”

Sherlock didn’t sound like he was lying, but John would be surprised if he was telling the entire truth.

John crossed his arms.

“You’re lying, why?” Furthermore, why was John feeling such a strong burning sensation of certainty in chest of the fact?

At this, Sherlock froze. He lifted his head, blinking slowly, and looked off at a point beyond John’s shoulder. His entire body twitched, once, and for a moment Sherlock looked entirely different (hair smoothed back, coat seemed bigger, suit a dark brown), but John barely had the time be confused or concerned before Sherlock twitched back to his previous appearance.

Once again, he resumed flicking through the massive book in his hands. He didn’t seem to have noticed what just happened.

“Her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida, I was able to assist. She gave me a lenient lease on the flat in gratitude.”

John blinked, arms falling to his sides. “Sorry, who?”

Sherlock looked at John. “Mrs. Hudson, John! Do keep up.” He tossed the book over his shoulder and threw the lid off the large box he dropped earlier; once again kneeling on the ground.

John looked at Sherlock carefully, holding onto the back of his neck with his hand. What just happened? Sherlock was acting like he’d skipped over and forgotten everything after that comment he made about 221b.

John had to remember this wasn’t quite a person he was talking to; this was a part of Sherlock’s mind. He had very little basis on which to go on except what his intuition could tell him. And to him, it said that Sherlock just acted like a damaged disc that skipped forward a few seconds.

Did John somehow touch a nerve? But why would asking about why he showed up bloody nude in his flat – 221b – do that? And why, did Sherlock look different for a moment?

John sighed and dropped his hand. Sherlock was once again absorbed in his task. John wanted to press, but at the moment it didn’t seem like the right thing to do. Instead, he took advantage of finding out something new about the man and picked up on Sherlock’s comment.

(But he filed Sherlock’s reaction away as something to look out for in the near future)

“You helped this woman’s husband get out of being executed?”

John crouched down to Sherlock’s level at the same time the man looked up at him with a somewhat devilish grin.

“Oh no, I ensured it.” His focus again went to the box, only this time he was practically digging through it, far too deeply for what a box that size could possible hold.

John frowned. Oh. “Huh.” Ok then. He nodded. Suddenly John found himself wanting to meet this Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock sounded like a Private Detective, but Mycroft had very specifically said the term ‘Consulting Detective’, there must be a difference – even if only to Sherlock. Given what Greg had said, and that Sherlock had mentioned him (albeit only once and in passing), Sherlock obviously spent a lot of time working with the police – which would be unusual for a Private Detective.

“So you’re a Detective?” John’s mouth twitched briefly in a smile at the sight of Sherlock Holmes half buried in a box, clearly not caring at all how it looked.

“Consulting Detective.” Sherlock called out from his rather ridiculous position of all but crawling to a box. “And my brother must’ve grown more talkative in my absence. I apologize to the world most sincerely.” Sherlock abruptly lifted his head out to look at John. “Is he fat?”

“What?” John blinked. What an odd question to ask.

Sherlock looked almost disappointed. “Mm, no then. Pity.” He all but dove back into the box; sounds of rustling paper filled the air. Ah, sibling rivalry.

John bit his lip to keep a bubble of laughter from escaping.

He sighed with a small smile. “You work with the police.”

Sherlock hummed. “But…?”

“Police don’t go to Private Detectives.”

Sherlock sighed, annoyed. “I’m a Consulting Detective, only one in the world, when the police are out of their depth – which is always – they consult me.”

Well, that makes some sense. John supposed. “And you’re no amateur.” Police wouldn’t consult one, and John had seen firsthand Sherlock’s ability – John couldn’t imagine how much of an indomitable force he would be in peak condition.

“Obviously.”

Humble too.

John looked around at the scattered mess surrounding them. He wondered if Sherlock was making any progress doing…whatever it was he was doing.

“What can I do to help with…this?” John gestured to a toppled over box. He reached over and grabbed a bunch of the papers inside it.

One appeared to be a list of…the planets? John was befuddled; before he could read past ‘Jupiter’ a hand yanked at the pages rather forcefully and threw them over his own shoulder.

John gave Sherlock an affronted look, the latter staring at the former.

“I am looking through facts and observations that weren’t – that I didn’t successfully delete, and you-”

Again, that word. “Delete? Can you actually delete things from your-”

Sherlock exhaled, resting back on the heels of his feet. He lifted a hand, dramatically point to his head and the surrounding environment. “My mind is a hard drive; I can’t not observe those details which idiots overlook because they insist on not using their brain. It only makes sense to keep that which is useful, really useful. I delete everything that doesn’t matter. This-” Sherlock gestured with his head to the room he and John were then in. “-is where everything that is useless to me goes. As I mentioned to you before, if there is any residual indication of the repressed memories keeping unconscious, they will most likely be here. Since you obviously need the clarification-” John felt a prickle of irritation at the haughty attitude. “-this is not actually a part of my Mind Palace. It is separate, entirely, the purgatory between my conscious and unconscious mind.”

John rubbed his hand across his face. “All this then, is what you deem useless?”

“Yes.”

John pointed to where Sherlock had thrown the papers he’d yanked away from him, on which he’d seen, a list of the Solar Systems planets.

“So you think the bloody solar system is useless?” John’s face morphed into an expression of disbelief.

Sherlock groaned and ruffled his hands frustratingly through his already disordered, curly hair.

“What does it matter? It doesn’t make any difference to me and the Work.”

“But it’s the solar system! Primary school level knowledge, how can you not know or care-”

“John for heaven’s sake, it is not my work; therefore it does not matter to me! And I do not have the time, or inclination, especially now to explain it to you.”

Sherlock stood up in an angry swirl of coat and strode off towards a shelf of boxes further down the aisle; his image flickered more obviously than it had before, a couple of times he seemed to have disappeared completely before settling.

A raven flew over John’s head, and he swore he heard a wolf howling.

John’s heart was pounding. He didn’t know what to think. That a man, clearly possessed with the desire to know, able to observe stories from the smallest of details, could see something as essential to life as being useless…it baffled John.

And he felt royally stupid for feeling a sense of disappointment and hurt by Sherlock’s words, that implicated nothing mattered to him but his work. Not an uncommon attitude for workaholics around the world, and one John could empathize with to a degree, but when it came to Sherlock Holmes, he took it to a whole other level.

Coniuncti Sumus or not, from what little he saw of the man, how could John expect anything different?

And more importantly, why?

It couldn’t be as straightforward as Sherlock simply being an arrogant, superior, stubborn, man who is spectacularly ignorant while being a Mensa level genius? Those things are obviously part of who he is, and John is as intrigued as he is mystified by him, but there’s more…there must be, otherwise, why would John be here? In the mind of a man whose mind and Magick has been torn apart by pain so severe a part of him would rather slowly, effectively kill himself than remember whatever it was that caused him so much grief?

John couldn’t retract himself now, just because he was thrown off base, yet again, by Sherlock Holmes, and not in a good way.

John took a series of deep, calming breathes; stealing himself for approaching Sherlock (who was then frantically moving from shelf to shelf several dozen feet away from where John was sitting).

He stood up; ignoring the cold wetness that had seeped through his trousers.

John took a step forward.

Ow! Something small, and hard, hit John on the shoulder. The sound of, whatever it was, then landing at John’s feet echoed in the gigantic room.

(in the not so far distance, Sherlock didn’t seem to notice)

Before John could mutter a proper curse or look at what just hit him, something else fell from…somewhere, thankfully not hitting him this time.

John rubbed his shoulder and looked down.

“What the…”

Below him, not inches in front of his feet were two objects; an apple that looked like it had been bitten into, and…a dog collar?

A confused frown on his face, John leaned down and picked up both objects in his hands.

The dog collar was bright red, on it hung a glittering green nametag with even darker, almost blood red, writing; Redbeard.

Redbeard? Is that the dog I’ve been seeing?

The apple soon caught his attention. It was an abnormally shiny red delicious, and what John initially thought was a bite was actually a crude carving; I O U.

John stared with bewilderment at the objects in his hands, wondering if they were important somehow, but not knowing how or why.

No. He knew, as confusing as their appearance was to him, John just knew they were important.

He looked up to find Sherlock was throwing papers out of a box like it had personally offended.

John ran towards him in a fast jog, holding onto the apple and collar tightly, feet pounding loudly – and wetly – on the floor.

This Sherlock heard. John saw as Sherlock abruptly raised his head to face John, eyebrows raised as he watched his fast approach.

“I think I found something.” John said, breathing heavily, once he stopped in front of Sherlock.

“Oh?” Sherlock seemed skeptical.

John wasn’t surprised by this.

Well, they found me more like.

“Yeah, I don’t know what they mean but here.” John held up the collar and the apple. “They both, literally fell on top of me. Not sure what it means, but I figured it probably wasn’t coinci – Sherlock?”

John looked up at Sherlock’s face for the first time since holding up what he found.

He was completely still, didn’t even appear to be breathing, his mouth parted. Sherlock’s eyes were wide, moving side to side at an abnormally fast rate, as he stared at John’s hands. His own - still gloved - were twitching oddly.

John, any residual irritation he had left towards him fell away in that instant, dropped the offending items and rushed forward.

“Sherlock? Are you ok?” John asked, urgent.

It was when he reached out to touch Sherlock that not only did the man finally move, but the entire room started to shake with earthquake like proportions.

“Christ!” John automatically reached out to steady himself on a shelf.

Sherlock had bent forward and was holding onto his head with both hands, miraculously, he wasn’t stumbling even with the room shaking as it was.

Any moment John expected tons of boxes to start falling on their heads. He was just debating running like mad to…somewhere, when suddenly Sherlock straightened to standing, eyes wide and alight, and the very picture of a man having an epiphany.

John hoped it was a way to get out of here.

Sherlock reached downwards with both hands. For what John didn’t know, all that was there was the fl…a trap door?

What the hell? John was sure it wasn’t there before. None-the-less, Sherlock grasped the handle of a large, metal trap door and flipped it open; the large metal square landed away from him with a loud clang.

The shaking increased, and then boxes started to fall.

“Shit!”

John felt the shelf he was leaning against move and quickly pushed himself away.

A gloved hand reached out around John’s flailing hand and pulled.

John, without a thought, obeyed. Without even looking, he knew who that hand belong to. He moved quickly in the direction Sherlock was pulling him, realizing as he did that it was towards the trap door opening.

Just as the shelves on either side of the aisle collapsed, Sherlock and John jumped through the open maw and into darkness.



~



Where they appeared next was, for the first time, achingly familiar to John.

A lab room at St. Barts Hospital. Of course it looked different, every year medicine and technology change, but there was no mistaking the place John spent his interning years in.

John was grateful he didn’t land in a heap on the floor this time – and he still had his clothes.

His heart though was pounding, mind racing, all that just happened making him feel noticeably dizzy. John only had a sparing glance at his new surroundings – not able to notice where Sherlock was – before he stumbled, immediately reaching out to brace himself on a table covered in lab equipment.

John forced himself to breathe deeply, and slowly. It may not have felt like he’d fallen from a great height, and it seemed to John to literally only take an instant of time before he got from that warehouse like room to here through the trap door, but John felt like his entire body had been constricted and blood was just now returning to him, causing uncomfortable tingling sensations everywhere.

John couldn’t hear a thing besides a high-pitched buzzing, which thankfully began to dissipate. His body was tense in response to the remembered shakes of quaking in Sherlock’s mind.

It happened as soon I showed him the apple and…the dog collar.

The image of Sherlock’s face; pale, wide eyes in shock, not moving yet his hands oddly twitching, flashed across John’s vision.

What happened?

Hoping he wasn’t about to keel over, John forced himself to turn around – needing to see if Sherlock was here with him, and that he was ok.

Idiot, look around you. Of course he isn’t ok.

At the very least John hoped he hadn’t inadvertently made things worse.

John felt a split second of relief when he saw Sherlock standing in the middle of the lab barely a few feet away, but that changed when he noticed something was wrong.

He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face, as the man’s face was buried by the sleeves of his coat, gloved hands gripped the hair at both sides of his head so tightly John feared he may just tear it out. Sherlock’s entire body was shaking.

John tried to move closer, but by some unknown force he found himself stuck where he was.

“Sherlock!” John called out loudly.

Sherlock made no sign that he heard John at all.

Shit.

At that moment drawers in various cupboards and tables in the lab began opening of their own accord; paper, files and photographs of various sizes zoomed out of them.

John ducked as dozens of those whooshed over his head. All began whirling around Sherlock’s head, some burst into ash and fell around Sherlock’s feet, and the rest moved in faster and tighter circles around the increasingly distressed Sherlock.

John never hated being helpless as much as he did in that moment.

And then, Sherlock began to speak – or rather screamed, angrily and loud. “No! Not you, not you…”

John watched with a sense of growing horror as Sherlock’s coat disintegrated off his body, and any bare skin John could see began to model itself after what lay in the bed back in the Centre; mottled, grey, deathly pale.

“Sherlock!” John yelled, not sure what that could possibly accomplish – maybe he could distract him from whatever was happening.

It seemed to work this time, or maybe it was coincidence, either way Sherlock stopped screaming and shaking. And all but one of the drawer items, a photo, burst into flames before falling in light shaves of ash.

John watched, mouth parted – breathing heavily, with wide eyes as it moved away from Sherlock. As it did, Sherlock slowly rose his head; his expression scarily blank and unreadable.

For some reason, that worried John more than anything.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock turned to look at John, his expression didn’t change, but John recognized the tense line of shoulders, and overly tight bearing as the sight of a man holding back immense physical pain.

Just then, the single photograph halted its progress and rose above Sherlock and John’s heads. The two of them watched as it enlarged and turned around, enough that John could see what it was.

It was the face of a man; dark hair, eyes cold and unfeeling as the devil, the smile on that face was nothing like the adventurous light of Sherlock’s grin.

John could imagine it was meant to terrify, instead it made him boil with anger. Because, even before words in blaring, burning embers carved themselves into the face of the photograph, John knew in his gut who that man was.

Moriarty.

“James Moriarty. I remember, he left an apple at my flat mere weeks before…I O U. I both intrigued and infuriated him, the feelings were quite mutual. A level of genius that rivaled even my own.”

John whipped his head away – with pleasure – from the photo in surprise, at the sound of Sherlock’s voice, far too eerily calm for John’s comfort.

It made John’s neck tingle in a way that singled danger, and not the good kind. (if there was such a thing)

Sherlock was still staring at the photo, looking no worse or better – there was that at least.

“I was so sure, he had to be stopped, it was over, I knew it was…He was a spider who wove his webs into the darkest corners of society, I made a mistake. I failed.”

“It wasn’t your fault. You tried and did your best. You know you did. And you succeeded in the end. Moriarty’s dead.” It seemed Sherlock had started to remember, at least part of it. Mycroft didn’t tell John all the details, but to John it seemed that their dedication to ridding the world of Moriarty, an especially cruel, relentless criminal, was absolute. John knew better that anyone sometimes all a person can do is their best, and sometimes it isn’t enough.

Sherlock laughed, it was bitter and dark.

“Is he? No, he’ll always be here.” In a coldly smooth gesture, Sherlock deliberately indicated the room; white shirt stretching painfully tight against the dilapidated skin of his torso.

John tried to move again. He growled in frustration he found himself still stuck.

“No, he won’t. You are not alone in this. Do not give him power over you from beyond the grave.” John insisted, trying to break the spell of bitter defeat that had befallen the man in front of him.

When Sherlock faced John directly, and he saw the darkness creep over his eyes, John felt deeply chilled in a way he had yet to feel since arriving here.

“You, John Watson are a hypocrite. You tell me to not give Moriarty, the very epitome of force of evil, power over me when you, a former soldier and Doctor allow your own demons to plague you every day. You hate what your life has become, useless, without purpose, a life without the danger of adventure to keep you feeling alive, as fake as the smile you put on every day to fool the little brains around you – including your own. I’m not alone? I didn’t fail?” Sherlock stalked towards John, imposing and relentless. John was frozen speechless; he tried to tell himself that this wasn’t normal – he could feel it wasn’t – whatever this was, Sherlock lashing out or something more sinister, it wasn’t the entirety of the man, a man damaged and obviously in pain and trying to hide it. Still, John felt each of those words like a wound – it took all of his strength not to show it. “If I didn’t fail, what do you call what you did?”

Sherlock stopped just out of John’s reach, fierce and all but daring John to respond.

John felt like he’d just been drenched in cold water. His eyes turned fire. He knows. Of course he knows. Did the bastard just wait until he could use it against me like this?

No, no that wasn’t right. John knew it. Even without knowing the man well, John knew this wasn’t truly him, maybe Sherlock could be intentionally cruel – but for the sake of being cruel? John didn’t believe that.

That didn’t mean the words more than stung.

John suspected if he could’ve moved, he would’ve punched Sherlock the second those words and implication left his mouth.

As John continued to glare Sherlock down, unblinking, he was glad he didn’t – because as he stared at the man, he could sense that was exactly was Sherlock was expecting – negative retaliation on John’s part.

Instead, despite the furious beating of his heart, John took a cue from Dr. Thompson and tried to diffuse the situation.

“Even if you do have a point...” John admitted, reluctantly – the result of a little voice in the back of his mind whispering ‘touched a nerve did he?’. Sherlock blinked quickly and leaned away, clearly taken aback by John’s response. “This isn’t about me. What happened to you, Sherlock?” John was proud at how even his voice was, and how he’d managed to not let his anger get the better of him for once. Ironically, he always tended to work better at thinking things through under severe and dangerous situations – for the most part.

John meant what he asked, sincerely. Something backed Sherlock into this corner, and it wasn’t pleasant, and it wasn’t all Moriarty.

They have to be getting close to the blocked off memories now. John didn’t know how, but he felt sure of it.

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open slightly, his face falling in such a way that made him seem years younger, and nothing like the hard, angry man he’d been only seconds before.

“I got-” Sherlock shook his head. “He-” His mouth continued to move, but John couldn’t hear a word and he’d never been adept at reading lips. He wasn’t looking at John anymore; instead he continued to mutter silently.

When tried to move this time, he could.

He grabbed Sherlock’s shoulders and forced him to look at John.

“Sherlock. Talk to me.” John spoke in a tone he used to use with distressed patients. But this man was anything but John’s patient, he was…he was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock looked at John, but again when he spoke John couldn’t hear a thing. John could still hear the oddly accurate sounds of a working lab, so he doubted it was his hearing.

Suddenly, Sherlock’s eyes grew wide and he grasped his throat with both hands.

“Sherlock!”

John reached out and tried to pull Sherlock’s hands away. He couldn’t.

At that point the picture of Moriarty, which had become vaguely forgotten, morphed into something very familiar.

Not the apple, but the red dog collar.

John was still grasping Sherlock’s arms when it flew directly at frozen, wide-eyed Sherlock; hitting his partially exposed chest.

The second it did, bright lights caused John to clench his eyes shut and once again John felt the sensation of being constricted from the inside out.

He didn’t let go of Sherlock, his skin far too icy beneath John’s fingers.

Wind whirled around them; the ground dropped beneath their feet, air whooshed loudly past Johns ears, and –

Thud.

They landed on new ground.

The drop was hard, as a result John found himself torn away from Sherlock.

He opened his eyes instantly.

The ground beneath him was sandy, rough and bumpy with that felt like miniscule rocks. When John looked around he saw why.

They appeared to be in a desert; a twilight sky illuminated nothing but warm, taupe coloured sand…except for the glaring, hollow canyon barely any distance away from John’s right.

They’d landed on the edge of a canyon. What the – why?

John ogled at the bewildering scenery for barely a moment before he heard a sound. He pushed himself to his feet and saw it was Sherlock, far too close to the ledge for John’s comfort, trying to do the same. John rushed over the rough land surface towards him.

He noticed Sherlock’s shirt had fallen open completely; exposing scars and open wounds scattered across his torso.

Oh hell. John found himself wishing that his Magick capabilities were not only healed but indeed Sorcerer based, he would have no trouble then healing those wounds. In this situation though, it might not have even worked.

John quickly reached the struggling, huffing man, grasped his shoulders and pulled him to standing.

Sherlock still looked awful, but he seemed more aware than he had been – mostly he looked to be in shock, and a bit unsteady on his feet.

“Are you ok?” Stupid question.

Sherlock looked at John, then at the canyon, and back; all the while the emotion in his eyes remained confused, and guarded.

“I am…uncertain...” Sherlock began twitching oddly again, the appearance vaguely similar to a seizure.

“Shit.” John mumbled.

He tried to urge Sherlock to sit back down, not knowing what else to do. But before John could make any movement a single, loud sound echoed from within the canyon.

A dog, barking. It rang in John’s ears painfully.

Sherlock all of the sudden collapsed like dead weight beneath John’s hands. John retained his tight grip, and found himself staring at Sherlock in astonishment when the form he held began to change to that of…a child?

John tried to hold on, but when the dog barking grew louder, John found himself thrown by an invisible force away from the canyon, and Sherlock.

John hit the ground and pain exploded in his head.

All went black.



~

Chapter 8

Baker Street And Beyond





John walked the short distance towards the final door and grasped the handle. Swiftly, he opened it – in the process noting it was notably heavier than the others, and then…

Whack! A ball of hard, cold snow hit John full in the face; it began to melt near instantly in contrast to the warmth of his skin.

“Fucking-” John sputtered, quickly wiping the freezing wetness away from his eyes and mouth. “What the hell was that?”

John blinked away the water around his eyes clouding his vision.

He barely registered the thud of the door closing shut behind him.

A street in the height of winter surrounded John. Though he was certain he hadn’t seen this specific area before, there was no doubt in his mind that this was in London.

It was night; undisturbed snow covered the sidewalk, road and stairs leading up to the homes on either side. There were no visible stars, or moon, the only light came from the dozen or so streetlights positioned evenly apart along the street.

This is different.

John turned his head, there was no sign of the door he came through, behind him all he could see was the rest of the street; dimly lit.

In truth, the only abnormal thing was for being a street at London, even at night, it was exceptionally quiet and void of any life.

Given that this wasn’t London, and merely another facet of Sherlock’s mind, perhaps it wasn’t so odd.

Sherlock’s mind…John had an inkling about where he was. Sherlock mentioned he’d recently – before what happened to him – rented a flat.

John looked up, intent on finding a street sign…ah. There it was, right on the corner.



BAKER
STREET W1 .
CITY OF WESTMINSTER


So this was the outside of Baker St, which meant 221b had to be nearby.

When John took a step forward he’d expected, naturally, that it would be onto snow, but when it did all he felt was water. Given that all John had been wearing on his feet since this thing started was slippers, he was generally used to his feet being soaked with all the water he’d encountered.

That time felt different however. The water, was warm.

John looked down. His eyebrows rose in surprise.

A few centimeters out from his feet there was untouched snow, however within that circle it had melted around John and was lapping at his ankles much like a lukewarm bath. Strange.

The strange pool of melted snow stayed with him as he walked forward…Very strange.

Not unlike everything else he’d seen and experienced thus far.

John shrugged it off for the time being and moved forward, hoping that coming full circle like this would lead him to Sherlock. He kept a sharp eye peeled.

It was when John passed a café, with a somewhat faded sign that labelled it as ‘Speedys’, that John saw him.

He was standing beneath a short flight of snow covered steps; curly hair and long coat billowing in the gentle winter breeze, the collar of it was turned up; obscuring most of his face, but the visible profile identified that this was, most unmistakably, Sherlock.

John immediately sighed in relief.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock jumped a little, as though abruptly awoken from sleep or a trance of sorts, but when he turned at the sound of John’s voice; there was a small smile on his face, illuminated further by the glow of the streetlight.

It was a welcome sight. The warmth John felt could’ve been from the water surrounding his feet…

“Ah, John, there you are. Apologies if you got lost, my faculties are not exactly in order at the moment.” There was a dark, humorous edge to Sherlock’s words.

That’s an understatement.

“Too right.” John gave him a commiserating smile.

John closed the remaining space, which was small, between him and Sherlock and stood close enough to give him a thorough once over. The last time John saw the man he looked near deaths door and was barely even aware, not to mention he’d collapsed and turned into a child in John’s arms.

John was pleased to note that Sherlock, this part of Sherlock anyhow, seemed somewhat recovered from whatever happened and why. Though John doubted it was that simple, it was good to see he looked…mostly normal again.

It was a bit odd though that unlike John, Sherlock didn’t seem impervious to the snow; it seemed to have built around his feet, not melted.

“Something wrong, Doctor?”

John really, really didn’t like what his mind did to him when Sherlock said ‘Doctor’ like that. Bastard. (John wasn’t sure if that was directed at himself or Sherlock)

John inwardly shook himself when he realized he’d been staring perhaps a bit too long than what might be considered normal, doctor concern. When he looked up at Sherlock the man was watching John curiously, with perhaps a twinkle of amusement.

John tried to look as innocent as possible.

“Nothing new-” That was true at least. “So…” John casually looked around them, he noticed that yes, they were indeed standing in front of a door which was blazoned with the golden numbers ‘221B’. “What the hell happened back there? Are you alright?” John resisted the urge to reach out and nonchalantly pat the man’s shoulder.

Before that point John never thought an apple and a dog collar could trigger a meltdown like the one Sherlock seemed to have. It did cause him to remember Moriarty a bit – but the only sign of the dog (which from having seen the memory, had to have been Sherlock’s) was the bark at the edge of that out of the blue canyon.

And now they were back at 221B Baker St, outside of it anyhow. John wondered if the whole thing happened because those items were symbolic of whatever it was a part of Sherlock was trying to repress. He did say he went to that place because he believed that was where any residue of what his mind tried to fully delete might be, were the apple and the collar the residue? And John just happened to find them?

Well, they found him actually.

Sherlock raised a singular brow.

“Well John, it became apparent to me that there wasn’t any tangible evidence for me to theorize on in that Purgatory, and that I could spend all of whatever time I have left searching that mire. I should’ve realized that if I-” Sherlock hesitated a moment, his eyes flickered briefly to John before vaguely scrutinizing the surrounding, snowy area. “-We are to find genuine signs of what is keeping my mind, and Magick, this frustratingly splintered, I will have to go deep. Deeper than I have ever consciously been before, if all this was truly an act committed on part of my subconscious – it is still me imperfect or not, I doubt I would be truly stupid enough to hide these memories somewhere obvious, let alone leave evidence in plain sight. I’ve been merely waiting here, for you to show yourself.” Sherlock’s brow wrinkled. “Although I am not entirely sure why I did…” His voice trailed off, he looked straight ahead but his eyes were somewhere far away.

Ok, makes sense I suppose – if it is possible for anything to make sense here - but why isn’t he mentioning…John looked at Sherlock and tilted his head.

“What about the lab? And the canyon?” The apple? The dog collar?

John found it odd Sherlock completely bypassed over those experiences; it was almost as though –

Sherlock frowned. “I assumed when we went through the trap door that we would end up in the same area, evidently not. What happened when you followed me through the door?” Sherlock turned to face John fully, observing him with diligence.

- he didn’t remember.

Oh… well, John hadn’t been betting on that happening, perhaps he should’ve though. It just seemed to lend more credence to his theory that the apple and the collar hit a little too close to something. Either that, or they did end up in different places, and the Sherlock John watched remember Moriarty, and become twisted and withered by the edge of that canyon, wasn’t the one he’d been originally interacting with.

But if that were true…Sherlock made it sound like what he just told John was something John should already know, like he just had another ‘aha!’ moment, opened the trap door and boom, landed right on Baker Street. No mention of the quakes, boxes of half-deleted memory falling everywhere, or of the objects John showed Sherlock that seemed to trigger all that.

Christ. Forget headaches, John felt like he was getting a migraine.

So would that just happen again if John said anything? What was he supposed to do, just sit there – metaphorically – and hope Sherlock will stumble into it and not have another mental breakdown that would inevitably erase any newfound knowledge and bits of recovered memory?

Yeah, that’ll work out great.

John looked at Sherlock, parted his mouth but quickly closed it. What should he tell him?

Sherlock watched John with narrowed eyes through all this. John wasn’t sure what he saw, or deduced, but his expression slowly changed in the blink of an eye to one of comprehension.

“I was there, of course, but as you see me right now. From your point of view we didn’t end up in separate places.” Sherlock stated. Not right away. “And…there is more.” John nodded, still unsure what exactly would be wise to say. “Tell me.”

Once again, John hesitated. “I…found something, and you reacted badly.”

Sherlock looked to be one second away from rolling his eyes. “There’s no need to be that specific John.”

John glared. “I’m not finished yet, smart arse.” John decided to try for as vague as possible, at first. Sherlock could snark at him for doing that if he wished, something told John that blurting out every detail of what happened – at least at this point – could potentially result in another break, which could lead to John yet again wandering aimlessly, a thing he would really like to avoid – for both their sakes. And as much as John would like to talk to Sherlock about every detail of what John saw, not just in the hallway rooms, but before that, with the little boy, he knew that would not be wise at this venture.

Maybe that would change.

An inappropriate giggle wanted to escape John when he noticed that Sherlock was practically dancing on his feet with impatience.

He breathed deeply. Here goes. “Alright, we had a...conversation.” Yeah, that’s one word for it. “You walked off, a couple objects fell on me, I showed them to you, and yes, you reacted badly. You then opened a trap door, pulled me through, we ended up in a St. Barts lab room, and then on a canyon, you collapsed and I was thrown...somewhere else. When I came to, I was in an abandoned series of rooms; I eventually happened across a hallway that lead to me here and, well...here I am.” John gestured around them.

That was pathetic, and not just because John said it too nonchalantly to make ‘that’s all there was to it’, sound believable. Even John knew that, he half-expected Sherlock to start an impatient tirade about John’s incompetence at reciting facts or some such.

Sherlock blinked quickly, and then straightened out of his slight bend towards John, all the while fixing John with a curious eye; stare unbroken.

“Hm…” Sherlock exhaled a breath smoky from the coolness of the air. He finally looked away from John, shivered and rubbed his now ungloved hands together. “Shall we?” He nodded to some indeterminate point towards the road, away from 221b, before moving towards that very spot without waiting for John’s reaction.

Er…what? That was it?

John didn’t move right away, too taken aback from Sherlock’s lack of response. He shook his head and quickly followed Sherlock, who was kneeled in the middle of the road; bare hands pressed into the snow. Yet another ‘why?’ popped into John’s head.

“Aren’t you…going to ask me questions? Call me an idiot or something?” John asked, staring at Sherlock in disbelief.

Sherlock didn’t look at him. Whatever he was doing, he was focused on it.

“No.” Sherlock goddamn shrugged.

“Again, what?”

“No?”

“No.” Sherlock reiterated. This time, he did look up at John. “It is obvious you are purposefully avoiding telling me everything for a reason, and given the nature of our brief rather unusual acquaintance so far, I don’t doubt you wouldn’t do that unless you had a good reason. You said I reacted badly.” Sherlock pointedly looked at John, John nodded. Sherlock seemed satisfied by the response. “Then, given the fact that you seemed inordinately pleased to see me just now, you must’ve eventually been separated from this me, the part actively trying to fix all this, and it seemed like a while to you. What you found in my purgatory was obviously significant enough to warrant such a strong reaction in myself that your first instinct when you saw me was to oversee my appearance for anything abnormal, and were relieved when you saw I didn’t have any wounds or appeared sick like you were clearly expecting.” Sherlock took a somewhat shaky breath here, and once again refocused his attention to the ground. “I do not know why, or how, but somehow your…presence is making it easier for me to focus and make progress. I can assume the general idea of what occurred, and that it means we are nearer to the goal, for now, as aggravating as it might be to myself, it is enough – very little about me is predictable in this state, if it means us not getting separated again, I’m sure I can survive not knowing the details.” Sherlock glanced at John briefly; his eyes were surprisingly open, before roughly brushing the snow away from in front of him.

“Well, um, ok then…” John shrugged, feeling a bit awkward. That was easier than he expected. Sherlock confirmed what John half-suspected, and was justly right about his intentions and reasons, and he thought there might’ve been a wayward compliment or something in there somewhere, even so John hadn’t been expecting that type of reply.

Unpredictable indeed. Honestly? It was another aspect of Sherlock John found himself enjoying, to a degree – he assumed that would probably change depending on the situation.

“Aha!” There was that noise of Sherlock-triumph again.

John bent over to look at what Sherlock was seeing, or had done.

All John could see was a square of exposed road.

“Am I…missing something?”

Sherlock looked up. John expected him to be smiling. He wasn’t. If anything, his expression was closed off.

“I have to go deeper, into myself, further than I have gone before.” His words were uttered with a far too even tone of voice.

John wasn’t certain what that meant, but he could guess.

He straightened and nodded firmly.

“Let’s do it then.” John tried to project an air of support, battle stations ready, something he sensed Sherlock needed even if the man would never admit it.

If Sherlock saw what John was doing, he didn’t say anything; but a tinge of gratefulness shone in his eyes.

Sherlock closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and placed his bare hands on the road.

Nothing happened for a few seconds, but then John felt familiar quakes build beneath them.

“Bugger.” John muttered, bending his knees and reaching out his arms to steady himself.

“I’m getting…I can’t, something is preventing me from-” Sherlock exhaled his shaky words through gritted teeth. He inhaled in shock when a particularly strong quake nearly threw him to the side, it didn’t and his focused remained resolute.

It caused John to fall into the snow though – the melting snow now around his body only made the feeling marginally less uncomfortable. He quickly righted himself and crawled over to Sherlock.

The man’s limbs were shaking with some immense effort, like a weight, or many of them, were pressing down on his back.

John heard deep, frustrated growls emanating from the man.

When another strong quake shook the ground, causing multiple street lamps nearby to fall over, Sherlock yelled.

He seemed beyond words now. John was amazing Sherlock was able to hold himself up at all, that would probably change soon.

The quaking got worse.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

“What the hell do I do?” John growled in frustration, staring powerlessly at the struggling man.

When a building began to crumble, so did Sherlock himself.

feck this. John was not allowing this to happen again, never mind that there was probably nothing he could do to prevent it.

John threw himself forward and took hold of Sherlock around his shoulders from behind, looping his arms around the front of Sherlock’s shoulders, and pulled; determined to hold him up.

It was the most contact John had had with this man.

John could feel it. He didn’t know what it was, or where it was coming from, but John could feel whatever Sherlock was straining against.

And God help him, John would use whatever strength he possessed to keep Sherlock from collapsing. Again.

“Come on Sherlock, you can do this. I know you can.”

The quakes continued.

“How…” Sherlock groaned under breath, his arms began to fold in earnest.

John only pulled up tighter.

“I just do alright?”

It wasn’t particularly inspirational, but Sherlock obviously heard it and something changed. There was a loud, groan from the road and cracks began to form beneath them.

Please, please let that be a good thing!

John instinctually tightened his hold on Sherlock, and he felt the man below him regain some strength in his limbs.

The cracks became wider and sure enough, the two of them fell through the Baker St road.

As they fell through darkness, John never let go.



~



They landed on hard, yet soft ground. Again, the strength of the impact forced them to roll apart once they reached ground zero.

“Uh…” John groaned. The ground beneath him crunched as he rolled onto his back.

Why is it always falling?

…Sherlock.

John’s eyes flashed open. “Sherlock?” John called out. He pushed himself to sitting and immediately cast his gaze over the area, hoping Sherlock was close.

And…there.

Sherlock lay, seemingly unconscious, on his side at the base of a large tree (?) covered in moss.

The shadow from the long branches obscured his face greatly, only faint slivers of skin were visible – and John didn’t like what he saw, he saw a red that looked an awful lot like…blood.

“Sherlock!” John shouted and quickly stood up.

Aforementioned man began to stir as soon as John made a move towards him.

“John.” His voice was deeply worn, barely audible.

John’s mouth tightened. He reached the side of a shaky limbed Sherlock; the man had pushed himself up to standing but was leaning heavily on the tree beside his weakened form.

John wanted to reach out and do…something. He clenched his hands.

“Are you alright?”

Sherlock lifted his hand to the side of his face, pressing lightly he barely restrained a wince.

Even draped in shadow as they were, it was easy to tell that Sherlock wasn’t looking at John.

“I’m fine.” Sherlock wiped his hand angrily across the sleeve of his coat then pushed away from the tree.

John barely had enough time to prevent himself from being crashed into. He watched carefully, but Sherlock hardly made a step before stumbling.

“Whoa!” John reached out and grabbed Sherlock’s arm to stop him from collapsing. “Maybe you should sit for-”

“I’m fine!” Sherlock aggressively yanked his hand away from John’s grasp. “There is no time for your concern, Doctor, we must press on.” His words held stubbornness to rival even John’s.

The movement of rapidly pulling his arm away caused Sherlock to stagger backwards a few steps, exposing his face properly to light and revealing a glaring, bloody, long cut across the arc of his cheek. John grimaced, automatically taking a step forward with the intention of examining the wound. When Sherlock actually backed away from John, he stopped in both surprise and – pathetically – hurt. The latter was a fleeting reaction, there were any number of reasons why Sherlock wouldn’t want John to touch him, this wasn’t exactly a normal situation.

John raised his hands in defeat and gave Sherlock a bit more space.

“Alright, alright.”

Other than the wound, Sherlock mostly appeared tired – more than tired. As seconds passed he seemed to grow steadier on his feet, John noted with relief.

Sherlock’s hard expression blinked away for a moment, surprised by John’s acquiescence.

Given what just happened, John imagined they must be in a deeper part of Sherlock’s mind, possibly closer to the source of Sherlock’s greatest pain. Who wouldn’t be extra sensitive?

Besides, the wound appeared to be superficial at least. And John would stick close to Sherlock in case he stumbled again, or something happened that forced him to the edge of breakdown. John didn’t know what he did, but when he physically pulled Sherlock up and towards him back on Baker St, when the man was near collapse, it seemed to have an effect. It gave Sherlock a moment of strength.

Coniuncti Sumus?

Sherlock straightened, completely negating the fact that he was showing signs of experiencing physical pain, proud despite the vulnerability John saw in him only moments before – perhaps even more so.

“Good.” Sherlock gave John a grateful nod before walking off, not bothering to wait for John.

Bugger. John jogged until he was in line with him again. Sherlock didn’t say anything, hands in his pockets, his eyes faced forward – pointedly not looking at John.

Why is he determined to not look at me?

John decided to wait him out - anticipating Sherlock would provide some manner of explanation for their current predicament, maybe even what they were looking for. That would be nice.

It was as a tense silence settled between them, whether that was because of where they were or something else John couldn’t name, that John finally noticed the environment in which they found themselves.

It was a forest.

John resisted the humourless laugh building in his body. So a literal forest of the mind? Fitting.

Trees, massive in size were dispersed all around them, the barest amount of leaves on the spindly, disfigured branches, peeling moss encrusted bark and low to the ground fog added to the unnerving, otherworldly quality of it all. This was accentuated by the few beams of light that managed to penetrate the canopy of them, obscuring whatever sky that may (or may not) exist. The colour and feel was wrong for sunlight, or moonlight, John didn’t know what it was, but it pierced the fog and John’s skin tingled whenever he passed underneath it.

The sounds of fallen twigs and dead leaves they stepped on as they walked were the only sound.

It felt old, incredibly old.

No one could mistake this for a natural forest.

As far as John could tell there was no path, yet Sherlock was moving forward a few steps ahead of John without hesitation like he knew where he was going – that or he was just as clueless as John and didn’t show it.

Neither man spoke for several minutes. The environment around them didn’t change – to the degree that John thought maybe they were going in circles. Or maybe every tree just looked the same.

John was contemplating breaking the silence when a familiar smell (smell?) assaulted his senses.

John frowned in confusion as he looked to the man walking purposefully ahead of him and, sure enough –

“Are you…smoking? Seriously?!” John exclaimed, waving away the offending smoke wafting towards him.

Sherlock didn’t turn around, but John swore he saw him roll his eyes anyway. He exhaled and, again, another puff of smoke hit John in the face. He quickly picked up his pace to be level with Sherlock, if only to avoid getting hit in the face by the nauseating smoke.

“No. In case you’ve forgotten, it is impossible for me to actually be smoking.” Sherlock sighed, pulling away a cigarette from his lips, John’s eyes barely twitched when he noticed the cylinder morph into an old pipe in his hands; the smoke emanating was the same. “Pity.” He mumbled as once again, he breathed the pipe/cigarette deeply.

John hated to admit it, but there was a certain beauty to the way the smoke curled around Sherlock’s face.

It was still immensely unhealthy, and it was only the fact that Sherlock was right – big surprise – and he wasn’t actually smoking that stopped John from yanking the death stick out of his mouth. But, when John thought about what he saw in that hallway room before, he supposed he shouldn’t be surprised that – apparently – Sherlock also smoked.

It was a vice, and a coping mechanism, and clearly at that moment Sherlock needed one.

“So you smoke too?” John cursed himself when he realized what he inadvertently implied.

For the first time Sherlock looked squarely at John’s face with a calculating eye, never breaking his stride.

“Hm. It seems you saw some interesting things Doctor, while you were gallivanting around my head. Have fun?” His eyes were icy as they stared John down.



John clenched his fists and bit down his immediate reaction to the allegation in Sherlock’s words; indignation and anger, which was clearly how Sherlock expected John to react.

He’s lashing out. In all honesty John couldn’t say he’d be all that pleased either if someone were in his head, witnessing his secrets.

“No, of course not. Are you still using?” John was careful to not let any judgement lace his tone. He was worried for sure about the implications, and reality of how deep Sherlock’s addictions ran and for how long, but he couldn’t exactly stand high up on a pedestal with his history.

Sherlock blinked, the iciness melting away into only a mild suspicion. He grunted, resuming his focus forward.

“No. My brother made sure of that. Opium alleviated the mind-numbing boredom; Cocaine did the same, while focusing my mind when it was necessary. Magick only got me so far, so the cases were – are the only other vice I can indulge in without anyone lecturing me on the dangers to my health.” Sherlock chuckled humorously. “As if I’d listen to them. If I really wanted to use again, I would.” He exhaled a new wave of smoke. “So, I smoke. Helps me think. Not quite the stigma as opioid drug use, still, it was growing impossible to maintain a smoking habit in London. Navigating law restrictions, annoying and tedious. More often than not it was necessary to resort to patches.” Sherlock near spat the word. He breathed in through the pipe, which rippled into the form of a cigarette in his fingers. Sherlock seemed to be mostly talking to himself then, but the way he would subtly – unconsciously – tense every time John accidently stepped closer, proved he wasn’t unaware of John’s presence at his side. “Bad news for brain work.”

John snorted. “Good news for breathing.”

Sherlock groaned. “Ugh breathing, breathing’s boring.”

John looked at Sherlock in disbelief. That makes no sense. John sighed; he doubted there was any point in responding to that.

If they got out of this, maybe John could work on convincing Sherlock he doesn’t need to compromise his health in order to work his best.

Somehow, John had a feeling that would be a near impossible challenge. Sherlock Holmes was nothing if not stubborn.

John exhaled heavily and rested a weary hand on his face for a moment.

This wasn’t an unimportant subject, but at the moment they had more immediate concerns.

“So, where are we headed to?” It would be really nice to know how much longer they would be walking in this forest for, the way every single tree looked alike was seriously creeping John the hell out.

Gathering by the slightly more relaxed pose, Sherlock was grateful for the change in topic. There was still a significant amount of tension emanating from him though, and it showed in his snappish attitude ever since they landed here.

To John, Sherlock was acting like an animal that had been backed into a corner. He had to tread very, very carefully.

“I have absolutely no idea.” Sherlock shrugged. The cigarette/pipe vanished in, ironically, a puff of smoke. His hands were bare as he stuffed them in the pockets of his long, dark coat.

That wasn’t quite what he expected.

John blinked. “Seriously?”

“I told you, deeper than I have ever been before. What we need to find, will find us. As much as I despise waiting, it is often a necessary evil to solving a mystery. Even, it seems, when inside my own mind.”

John groaned inwardly. Fantastic. So they were walking aimlessly, basically.

He didn’t know what it was, but the further they walked, the more unsettled John became. Maybe it meant they were getting close?

Perhaps John could use this time to get to know Sherlock a little better.

He felt he already knew more about Sherlock than many friends he’d known for years, but John just knew that it would take years beyond counting to truly know the full breadth of the man, how he works, the ins and outs of what drives him, and John would never fully know him.

John found he wasn’t bothered by a portion of the man forever remaining a mystery to him. It was a part of Sherlock Holmes’s confusing, inescapable charm.

“Tell me about some of your cases.” John quipped with a curious look in Sherlock’s direction. “If you want.” He quickly added, when Sherlock looked at him blankly in surprise.

John had only seen small examples of Sherlock on a case; most in that hallway room, but he was fascinated and amazed by this man’s ability and how he chooses to use it. He had no doubt that Sherlock would be a formidable criminal if his talents were turned against the law.

John was exceedingly curious to say the least. Not to mention distracting Sherlock from whatever gloom was plaguing him – understandably so – might ease his way in all this, he seemed to gather strength by the physical support John gave him earlier, somehow.

“Oh. You really want to know?” John thought he saw a brief smile grace Sherlock’s face, but it was there and gone before John could be sure.

This was a pattern, whenever John expressed genuine curiosity and fascination with his Work and abilities Sherlock always, even if only for a second, looked not just pleased – but surprised. He’d probably gotten ridiculed for them more often than not, John thought, which was a shame. It didn’t help that Sherlock was not only stubborn, but unerringly blunt and adept at inappropriately observing and thus exposing a person’s life based on clues in their appearance and behaviour, seeming not to care if he exposed a sore spot – to him, it was simply the truth.

The unchanging forest continued to move with them as they walked a directionless path through the woods, their footsteps and sounds of their synchronized breathing the only noises.

Sherlock was looking at John out of the corner of his eye, waiting.

John nodded. “Of course.”

Sherlock blinked quickly. And just like that, his entire being transformed; gone was the reserved misery in his eyes, expressionless mask, tense line of his shoulders and John no longer had the feeling that Sherlock would bite his hand off if he miss-stepped in anyway.

“Hmm, where should all I start…” Sherlock placed his palms together in familiar pose, resting his hands in front of his chin. He began to walk faster, so John had to pick up his own pace.

In short, what John was seeing was Sherlock alive with enthusiasm. John in no way had to force a smile; the warmth he felt at seeing this sight fuelled it.

“Oh! Shortly after I turned thirty one, this would’ve been 1885, many years before I established myself as a Consulting Detective and became fully committed to the Work, although I did on occasion solve many a mystery that crossed my path, as a result I already had a reputation of sorts. At the time I was studying at Oxford after completing my undergraduate degree at Cambridge, a fellow classmate; John Openshaw - a Warlock with unusual elemental Magick, approached me after his uncle was found murdered and the only clue at was a page from his diary dating 1869 regarding incidents in which three sets of five orange pips were sent to three different men, all of whom were Illusionists…”

And so Sherlock talked.

He didn’t stop. John listened with a keen and interested ear; his fascination with Sherlock only grew the longer he shared and spoke about his numerous experiences.

John couldn’t – or wouldn’t – name it, but something in him changed in those moments.

It felt a lot like flying, or swimming in deep water and miraculously not drowning.

Something else changed as Sherlock talked, not just his energy and mannerisms growing more animated.

The trees and forest around them changed. That light John couldn’t pin point a name for grew more intense, and though the fog and actual appearance of the trees was largely the same, they became…more alive. John didn’t know how else to describe it.

He just continued to watch and listen to Sherlock. John allowed himself a moment to acknowledge how beautiful Sherlock was – and it wasn’t just physically. This person beside him, everything around John, was all a part of Sherlock’s mind. His mind was beautiful; a never-ending maze of knowledge and possibility, a battlefield.

It was when John realized that not even being a Soldier or Doctor gave him the same feeling of life as being around Sherlock did, that John openly acknowledged to himself that yes – perhaps he was a little besotted.

More than a little…

Shut up, mind.

Needless to say, walking was a lot more pleasant after that.

This was of course when it all changed. Again.

 

Chapter 10

Admon





That time, they both landed with unexpectedly steady feet.

Darkness surrounded them, this wasn’t a surprise. What was though was the thick, heavy fog, rising to their waists that seemed to glow entirely on its own.

At least, that’s how it seemed to John.

When the fog thinned out ahead of them, he noticed the light was actually coming from a single, aqua coloured candle; small, but it shone with light not even a room full of candles could produce, and yet it was still soft, and warm. It made the darkness around him feel not quite so oppressive.

The candle wasn’t the only thing in the circle of cleared fog.

A red dog with long, deep auburn fur glistened in the light of the candle at its side; casting a shadow long and far to the very tips of Sherlock and John’s feet.

There was no noise, and the dog was staring very intently at Sherlock. In a way that seemed very…human.

John had the sense that the dog was waiting for something.

John looked to Sherlock standing very close at his side.

The man was breathing heavily; his eyes clenched shut against the soft glare of the candle…and the dog.

Of which John had no doubt Sherlock saw.

“…Sherlock?” John whispered with slight hesitance and lightly touched Sherlock on the shoulder. The fog seemed to pulsate when John spoke.

Sherlock’s eyes flashed open at John’s words and his touch; staring with red-rimmed, almost angry eyes at the shadow rippling at their feet.

“Sota rua, Irish Red Setter, a canine breed bred primarily for use as hunting dogs with first potential instances of the breed showing as early as 1570. A unique predisposition of the breed made them exceedingly common companions to soldiers, for a time, in war to support those wounded by physically harmful offensive Magick by either slowing down the progression of potentially fatal wounds by remaining close to those affected, or having a strong emotional bond to a person akin to a familiar bond that exists between siblings or…very close friends.” Sherlock rattled off facts like he was trying to distance himself from the situation by being objective, but his voice grew breathless and…sad, by the time he got to the end.

Sherlock clenched his eyes painfully shut before fluttering them open again; trying to stop the tears John could see building.

John remained quiet and steadfast beside the torn individual struggling so hard with himself.

It hurt John to see, he could scarcely imagine how Sherlock must feel – visibly trying so hard to hold in the waves of emotion John saw wracking his body.

“This is where it ends. I don’t…I don’t remember completely, but I got certain – pieces, up there on the cliff. If emotions could bring a man like I to such…broken desperation, do I truly want to remember?” Sherlock breathed deep and turned to face the dog bathed in candlelight.

The dark, rich brown eyes of the furry creature were watching the two of them silently, much less urgent than John had encountered previously.

Sherlock was obviously talking to himself, but John wouldn’t know how to answer that question even if he weren’t. If you had the option to forget your greatest pain, even if you are at risk of dying, would you do it? A part of John wanted to say yes, there are many things he wouldn’t be sorry to forget, but…

As John looked at Sherlock with tender eyes, observed the scene of the fog, candle and dog around him, he realized that if he were to forget his greatest pain he would no longer be who he was. Pain, just as much as passion, love and experience, made a person who they were.

The army. Losing friends, his parents, the once close relationship he had with his sister in childhood, attempting suicide…it all hurt. John’s reflective side may not see much past his own head, but if there was one thing John learned from years of being not just a soldier, but a Doctor too, that pain was just as much a precursor to an end as it was a beginning.

It was always there, but it wasn’t all there was.

It seemed a part of John had forgotten that.

“I know what I must do.”

John’s train of thought was broken when Sherlock spoke again. He watched as Sherlock began to walk, determinedly, yet tentatively, forward.

Sherlock looked afraid. John wanted to follow him, but everything inside and around him screamed he wasn’t supposed to.

John only hoped this wouldn’t end badly.

The fog slowly began to dissipate as Sherlock got closer to the dog, but the light only grew in its brightness.

John’s heart pounded with apprehension, hands clenched at his sides.

Sherlock kneeled in front of the dog, the dog then stood on all fours; tongue lolling out of its mouth, head titled at Sherlock.

John couldn’t see Sherlock’s face from this position.

Be ok. Just…be ok.

He watched as Sherlock slowly reached out a trembling hand and stroked the dog’s head, its tail began to wag happily.

As Sherlock’s fingers came into deeper contact with the dog’s fur, his clothes rippled to a drier version of the 19th century clothing John saw him in on the cliff; his hair slicked back, and old coat splayed like a fan around his stooped form.

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s utterance to the dog was quiet, but John heard it, and the deep, tragic sadness that accompanied them.

What happened to him? John’s heart ached.

To John’s slight shock, the dog shook its head and walked forward. Sherlock froze as the dog tucked his head into Sherlock’s neck.

The sob that escaped Sherlock had John wanting to cry, even more so when Sherlock threw his arms around the dog; clutching it close.

And then…it happened.

The luminosity of the candle grew, nearly blinding John in its strength; he held his hand up to block some of the light.

John’s mouth parted in shock as he observed the physical transformation of the two figures in front of him.

Sherlock’s adult, 19th century form, morphed, pulled and twisted into the vision of the little boy that talked with John in the room filled with water. He was still kneeling, with his arms enfolded around –

Another little boy. He looked to be approximately the same age, perhaps a little taller with skin more tanned and olive toned in comparison to Sherlock’s pale hue.

What hit John to his core though was the boy’s hair.

It was the same shade of red as the dog’s fur.

John fell to his knees as emotions, too many to name, overwhelmed him to the degree that he could barely breathe.

His forehead touched the unseen ground and he rolled onto his back, cursing, clutching his throat and stomach.

Then, just as quickly as the feeling came, it disappeared.

And John laid on his back, unable to move, as he watched the darkness swirl and transform around him to very real, crystal clear vibrant memories…



~



“Mr. Holmes! Greg! Are you alright?” Molly Hooper rushed forward as the two aforementioned men were thrown backwards off their chairs.

The two men groaned as they fumbled their way onto their feet.

“Yes, Molly, thanks.” Greg patted her gently on the shoulder.

Mr. Holmes straightened his suit jacket and nodded.

Molly sighed in relief. She then looked between the two in confusion, before she glanced at Sherlock and John in their respective beds.

Her eyes widened.

Mr. Holmes and Greg turned to look at the men lying prostrate before them.

The restraint which had been fashioned for this attempt was no longer there – the leather had dissolved and the crystal was singeing all the cloth surrounding it.

That wasn’t what had her staring at the two wounded men with tears in her eyes.

They were glowing.

And Sherlock was transforming before their very eyes; already his skin was less sallow, and he was breathing a bit faster.

“What happened?” She gasped, hope alight in her chest.

Greg glanced at Mr. Holmes with intense relief in his eyes before pulling up one of the fallen chairs and collapsing in it.

Mr. Holmes walked forward and rested his fingers on the edge of the bed containing his brother.

The outside observer would’ve called him collected and calm, but he was anything but.

“Progress.”



~



John was looking on at a scene that felt right out of a movie depicting winter during the Victorian era.

Only this wasn’t a movie, it was a memory.

And it belonged to Sherlock.

“Hey, Ratbag!”

A young boy, head to toe in winter wear indicative of the wealthy English of the time, slammed into the body of a younger child, maybe eight years old, knocking him over into a pile of snow.

They were on a well-worn footpath stretching along the edge of a snow-covered field. In the distance, houses and buildings with smoke rising from stone chimneys could be seen. Nearby, many groups of children were exiting onto the path from a neighbouring road frequented by horses and carriages. The closest building was a school, a large, dark and oppressive brick two-tiered place, with windows so high up the edges nearly reached the rim of the roof.

Children of the privileged were exiting there after the school day. For those who lived near they typically walked home; the path, and field, must be crossed in order to reach the homes of most of the boys, including the one struggling to dig himself out of the pile of snow that he sunk into when he’d been cruelly pushed over. His bag, large and made out of thick cloth trimmed with leather, had split open when he fell; its contents, including a slate, a set of used chalk stubs, paper, a small microscope and multiple slide,s were scattered all over the wet snow.

All of the boys at the school were too young to have presented with their Magick just yet. The little boy fighting back angry tears was the only one who possessed any power – even if it was minute due to his age, at this point he could only effect himself and small, inanimate objects, not other people.

Many children took advantage of that fact.

He tumbled out of the snow and landed roughly on his hands and knees. When he sat back on his heels, and furiously brushed away the cold snow obscuring his face; a young Sherlock Holmes was exposed.

“Fools, the lot of you!” Sherlock glared at the group of boys standing over him, headed by the one who pushed him over; Jonathan Abbot, his primary tormenter.

“I’d watch that mouth of yours if I were you. Freak.” Abbot scowled with angry eyes and kicked Sherlock over when he tried to pick up his fallen items. The other boys surrounding them laughed.

Sherlock got angrier when he realized there were tears welling in his eyes, but not at them. At himself for letting their cruel treatment of him hurt so much. Sherlock would never admit to anyone but himself how much the word of idiots made him want to cry as a young child.

Laughter continued when Sherlock stumbled his way to standing, trying to appear unaffected and strong, ignoring the pain in his side that flared as a result of the kick Abbot aimed at him.

He tried to pretend he wasn’t being stared at, wasn’t a source of amusement for these foolish boys. Sherlock walked a few steps towards his scattered items, intent on gathering them and getting out of here as soon as it allowed.

However, one of Abbot’s friends saw what he was doing and with mocking, baby faces and noises, starting to steal Sherlock’s various equipment from the ground before Sherlock could reach it.

The boy barely had his slate and bag in hand before Sherlock clenched an angry fist and glared, the items the offending boy was holding flew out of his hands and into Sherlock’s waiting ones.

This wasn’t the first time other children tried to steal his things, his incrementally increasing Magick power came in handy. At this time he wasn’t able to do a lot without draining himself.

Still, the laughter stopped and all watched Sherlock with mixtures of fascination and jealously as Sherlock focused on drawing his personal items to him; holding his bag open so they all settled in neatly.

Sherlock knew he wouldn’t be able to do that again for at least several hours.

He buttoned the bag closed, was about to drape it over his shoulder when Abbot quickly reached out and took it from him.

“That’s mine! Give it back!” Sherlock shouted and leaped at Abbot. He managed to grab onto one of the bag straps, but Abbot was physically stronger and their grappling lasted only a short time before he was pulling the bag away from Sherlock’s small hands, and that same friend from before forcefully pulled Sherlock away and pushed him over onto the dirty, snow path. Spitting ‘Freak’ as he left Sherlock trembling on the ground.

“Hm, is it? It’s in my hands not yours so, therefore, I declare ownership.” Abbot gleamed an unpleasant smile and stood over Sherlock, while his entourage snickered. “Sure you don’t want to steal this back from me with your…Magick, freak?” Abbot taunted as he hung the bag barely out of reach of the Sherlock lying prostrate on the ground. “Oh that’s right, you can’t can you?”

The snickering continued. Sherlock clenched his gloved hands into fists and deathly glowered at the boy.

“Your brother recently returned from overseas in America, while your parents are exceedingly pleased about this you aren’t, your life has been spent lived in his greater, confident shadow while you stood ignored by your mother, father and the rest of your family. You are unimportant, ordinary, and indulge your inadequacy by cowardly torturing children younger than you thinking it makes you appear strong to your idiotic peers, when really you’re weaker than them all.” Sherlock recited his spiteful soliloquy at surprising lighting speed for a boy his age.

In the not too far distance, the last group of boys were exiting the school; half of them going towards waiting carriages, while the other half made their way over to the path, and subsequently the commotion had drawn more of a crowd.

The young boy above him was shaking in anger, and Sherlock noted with sick satisfaction that his eyes were rimming red with tears.

His followers were stock still behind him, unsure what to do next.

Abbot suddenly wailed in anger and began beating Sherlock with his own bag.

Sherlock felt bruises and small bloody wounds begin sprouting all over his body and face. He automatically curled into a fetal position to protect himself. Still he found he wasn’t sorry for what he said. The idiot deserved it.

His friends soon joined in. While the bystanders either cheered on, walked away or stared in horror unsure what to do.

“Ratbag freak!” Abbot screamed and aimed a particular hard kick to Sherlock’s shin.

Sherlock couldn’t contain his cry of pain and reached down to his leg. Unfortunately, this exposed his face and another of Abbot’s friends punched him in the nose.

The new group of boys arrived.

“Hey!” A new voice shouted and a young boy pushed through the group of children.

The new arrival temporarily halted the abuse Sherlock was taking. Abbot and his friends turned to stare at this new boy.

And he was, quite literally new; younger than Abbot yet nearly as tall, his bright red hair made him stand out. Sherlock hadn’t met him before, but he knew that this boy and his family, the Burds, moved to the area a mere fortnight ago a few houses down from Sherlock’s, unconventional and Jewish they were met with scorn by many of the bustling town. Sherlock couldn’t have cared less about that last, all he cared about at the moment was whether this boy was going to be yet another tormenter in his life.

“What do you want ginger?” Abbot glared, the tears in his eyes countered the imposing figure he was trying to portray.

The young boy seemed to hesitate and gulp nervously at the sight of four, obviously strong group of boys staring him down. But he bravely straightened his posture, and adjusting his bag over the camel colour of his coat, he walked right over and barrelled into the group of boys, pushing them away from the bleeding Sherlock.

The shock of the action delayed the reaction of the group of boys who stumbled back at the surprising force this other boy exuded.

He stood protectively in front of Sherlock.

“Leave him alone!” The young boy shouted, his knees bent and hands held in fists in front of his face.

Sherlock deduced he knew boxing, likely taught by an older family member – probably a brother. Mostly though, Sherlock was staring at this strange boy; too shocked to deduce anything further.

No one, no one had ever protected him like this before.

Sherlock was torn between not trusting the action and feeling grateful for the bravery of an unknown child. Even at eight this wasn’t his first broken nose, the world had been beating on him from practically the moment he could talk.

Abbot laughed, he still held Sherlock’s bag tightly in his hand.

“Why? You think I’m scared of an imp like you?” He looked around the defensive stance of the young Burd, and smiled sickly at Sherlock as he waved the bag high.

Sherlock was clutching his nose and staring at Abbot with narrowed eyes.

“You’re beating him! It’s not right.” The young Burd insisted, moving to stand closer to Sherlock himself.

Abbot snorted. “You don’t know him, he’s a freak!”

“Why?” The boy asked, his defensive stance didn’t lessen.

“Because – Because he knows things! Things he shouldn’t!”

“And I have Magick you wish you had, idiot!” Sherlock yelled through his pain.

The young Burd turned to glare at Sherlock. “You’re. Not. Helping.” He mouthed out of the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock rolled his eyes but remained silent.

“You-” Abbot’s face twisted in anger and he charged.

Sherlock’s jaw dropped open in shock and he watched with wide eyes as the little boy defending him against the greater force in front of him, vanished into a pale, yellow smoke.

There was a collective gasp. The smoke took advantage of their distraction and weaved around the group of boys, knocking them over and finally zoomed at Abbot. The latter screamed, dropped the bag and started running before the sun-like smoke could reach him.

In fact, even those who were merely watching began quickly leaving in fear. Soon, Sherlock was alone with the swirling smoke – more like steam actually.

The innocent fascination of his child mind was spellbound by what he just witnessed. No traces of fear were present.

The Burd family must be Warlocks, except this boy’s mother – she must be fully human, it would explain his uniquely human appearance.

Only when the last boy was running away did the smoke-steam ripple into the appearance of the red-headed boy once more.

“You better run!” He yelled with a shaking fist.

He then huffed and turned to Sherlock, who had pushed himself to a half-sitting position, too in pain to go all the way.

The young boy picked up Sherlock’s bag and fell to his knees in front of him.

“Here.” The young boy handed Sherlock the bag.

Sherlock stared at him in confusion, trying to search for a deception. Maybe he wanted him alone before torturing him?

“I’m not going to hurt you.” Burd insisted, shaking the bag at Sherlock.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “People lie.” He muttered, spitting a clot of blood onto the white snow.

The other boy didn’t say anything, but he did nod. Sherlock took the risk and quickly grabbed the bag.

“Does that…happen a lot?”

Sherlock frowned at the new scuffs on his bag – it was his favourite. He shrugged in response to this boys query.

“It’s not right!”

“They don’t like me.” Sherlock muttered, perhaps more troubled than he let on.

“Well, I don’t like them.” The young boy huffed and crossed his arms.

“Me neither.” He re-buttoned the opening straps of his bag and draped it over his shoulder.

It hurts, a lot, but it wasn’t his first time, so Sherlock stood up on shaky feet. He just wanted to get home.

“Let’s like each other then!”

Sherlock blinked at the wide smile on the boy’s face.

He seemed…genuine. It made Sherlock unsure. This child…did he want to be his friend? Sherlock never had a friend before. Mycroft didn’t count.

“You don’t know me.” Sherlock mumbled incredulously, one hand still cradling his nose.

This has to be a trick.

The young boy didn’t answer for a moment, he reached into his pocket with a frown and pulled out a blue handkerchief and handed it to Sherlock.

Sherlock didn’t take it at first, again, not trusting just yet. The young boy rolled his eyes, stepped closer and pressed the cloth to Sherlock’s nose.

Sherlock flinched and backed away, holding the cloth to his nose himself.

The other boy was still standing in front of him.

“You’re Sherlock Holmes, my Mum and your Mum go the same club or something.”

Sherlock knew that. “That doesn’t mean you know me.”

The other boy jumped a bit on his feet with an even bigger smile.

Seriously, why did he smile so much?

“I’d like to. I’m Admon Alexander Burd.” He held a hand towards Sherlock, very much the proper gentleman.

Sherlock glanced down at his hand. He tried not to feel hopeful that this boy meant what he said. Mycroft would call it a weakness to want the approval of others, but Sherlock found he wanted to know what it felt like to have a friend – and not be ridiculed for once. Maybe it would be an exercise in futility, but Sherlock did like to experiment.

Sherlock reached out his free hand and grasped the boy’s hand with a proper shake. Admon seemed inordinately pleased.

Sherlock realized that, for different reasons, they were both outcasts.

“William Sherlock Scott Holmes.”

Admon nodded. “Pleasure to meet you. May I call you Billy?”

“No.” Sherlock yanked his hand away.

Admon frowned, but shrugged it off. “My house is on the way to yours. I’ll walk with you.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He started walking, if a little slower than normal, and just like he said he would, Admon followed at his side.

Sherlock’s life changed that day.



~ 20 yrs later, 1882.



Both 28, Sherlock and Admon had remained best-friends for the past 20 years, though each went to different universities for their undergraduate degrees; Sherlock went to Cambridge and Admon went to Oxford. They both decided to pursue further education, Sherlock – sciences, and Admon – Politics. Admon once again was going to his alma mater and Sherlock with him. Although technically it was the other way around, since Sherlock started a year before Admon did.

They were visiting home for the latter half of the summer, and hadn’t seen each for some months; Admon touring Europe with his family before going back to Oxford, and Sherlock visiting his grandmother in France before he returned to Oxford for a second year.

In many ways, they were still children in their behaviour towards each other – from knowing each other as young as they did. Mycroft sighed and called them ridiculous, both sets of parents found them adorable. Sherlock called them ridiculous too; being more reserved and dedicated to intellectual pursuits more so than anything else, but inside he was always more pleased with the attention Admon gave them than he let on.

Which was why, Sherlock tolerated the following action.

When Admon exited the carriage in front of Sherlock’s home wearing a long, flared caramel coloured coat and hat, ginger beard gleaming in the sun, and saw Sherlock inspecting the wounded bark of a nearby tree (taking samples and placing them in secure containers) he ran and embraced Sherlock tightly. To the outside observer, Sherlock appeared exasperated and merely tolerant of the overt display of affection, but Mycroft – who was sitting primly on a chair in the middle of their garden, also home for a few weeks from his work in London – saw right through his brother’s façade.

Mycroft was uncertain whether his brother realized it himself, but whatever feelings he held towards his friend had begun to change over the years into something Mycroft was genuinely worried would cause them all much trouble, most of all to Sherlock, who Mycroft knew held little interest in the fairer sex.

The abruptness of Admon’s laughing embrace caused Sherlock to drop his samples, thankfully the instinctive reaction of his Magick allowed them to float gently in the air.

“Sherlock, my friend! It’s been too long, discovered all the intimate secrets of the universe yet?” Admon leaned back, grasping Sherlock tightly by the shoulders.

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. “No.”

Admon sighed dramatically and cuffed Sherlock teasingly around the ear. “Oh Sherlock, don’t overwhelm me with that much information at once, it’s not like I haven’t seen you for half a year.”

Sherlock glared at his friend and waved a hand, which caused Admon’s hat to rise several feet above his head.

“Hey!” Admon tried jumping up to reach it. Sherlock smirked and only caused it to float higher.

Admon could easily get it, they both knew it, but this byplay was part of their game.

Sherlock sighed and allowed the horrendous hat to fall into his friends waiting hands.

“Thanks.” Admon smiled a small smile down at the hat, brushing off the dirt that the road had dusted onto it on the long journey here. “I have missed you, you know.” He replaced the hat on top his head with a smile and looked at Sherlock.

Admon had grown taller than Sherlock in their teens, his ginger beard a permanent fixture on his face as soon as he could grow one.

It was only the furthest corners of Sherlock’s unending mind that Sherlock could admit that his friend had grown into an exceedingly attractive man.

Sherlock couldn’t care less what narrow society believed, but such thoughts were dangerous. And…he cared what Admon thought, which was why he would never share that part of himself with his best-friend.

Sherlock nodded a bit off to the side.

“Likewise.” Sherlock admitted a bit quiet. He reached into midair and caught the samples of diseased tree bark he’d collected. “I see you met a new lady friend in your travels.” He observed offhandedly.

Admon grinned and leaned against the fence surrounding Sherlock’s family home.

“Oh really? Tell me, Genius, how you know that.” He crossed his arms and legs casually.

Unlike practically everyone, Admon was always amused by Sherlock’s scarily accurate deductions – but not in a dismissive or mean way.

Sherlock snorted and gave him a look that said ‘do I really need to?’ before gathering his materials together that were resting at his feet. He didn’t look at Admon as he spoke.

“Not only are you exceedingly more buoyant than your usual, annoyingly cheerful self, the powder you used to obscure the bruise on your neck made by lip suction has begun to fade away onto the silk of your scarf, the discolouration indicates it happened recently, perhaps on the boat during the crossing to England. This was not one of your usual dalliances-”

“Hey!”

“-You felt a genuine connection with this lady, and were pleased to discover that she must live in London close to Oxford where we will be residing, gathering by the card bordered by violet flowers sticking out of your coat pocket on which her name and address are likely written. Obviously really.”

Sherlock shrugged, uncaring and sounding nothing other than bored. The way he avoided Admon’s eyes though told those watching, namely Mycroft, that he was more affected by his observations than he appeared to be.

Admon didn’t notice. He laughed and clapped his hands.

“Absolutely brilliant. You are correct of course; with luck I’ll introduce you to her in a few weeks. Her name is Sophia. I told her all about you.”

Sherlock was walking down the long, wide path to the large house, Admon at his side.

“Did you?”

Admon nodded. “Mhm, she’s very curious.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock sincerely hoped he would stop talking, soon.

“She’s very intelligent, I think you’ll approve.”

Sherlock adjusted the strap of his sample bag as they reached the double doors leading into the house.

“We’ll see.”

“Hey.” Admon reached out to stop Sherlock from opening the door. When Sherlock looked at him, his eyes were gentle and serious. “Try and be kind, alright?”

Sherlock groaned inwardly.

“I’m not a kind person.”

Admon raised an eyebrow.

“You’re kind to me.”

Sherlock looked affronted.

“No I’m not.”

Admon pinched the base of nose before staring at Sherlock. “Why you try to perpetuate the persona of an unfeeling monster when I’ve known you since you were eight and clearly know you better than you know yourself is beyond me, but alright – fine, hypothetically you’re a mean cruel individual, just try not to send Sophia screaming in the other direction when you meet her.”

“I’ll try.” The words tasted bitter on his tongue, but he meant them. Admon was his friend, Sherlock may fail in that department but the man had yet to abandon him and his unusual personality yet despite many opportunities to do so.

Admon grinned. “That’s all I ask. You know I’ll always be your friend, right? No matter what lady I am with.” Admon clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

Right. Friend. Ladies.

Sherlock tried not to let that bitterness inside him grow.

Because the truth was, he didn’t know. How could he? Even with a friend as dedicated as Admon maintaining relationships was something Sherlock was still very much a novice in. He just knew he would make a mistake eventually that would push Admon away forever; Sherlock’s character was not exactly conducive to being personable.

Not like Admon, who was a charming, friendly man to the extreme.

The stark difference in their personalities had Sherlock feeling afraid, and wishing his heart was just a little bid colder.

So Sherlock forced a smile, and patted Admon’s hand on his shoulder. “I know. Now move you imbecile, I wish to show you what I’ve been working on the past several weeks.”

Sherlock could tell Admon didn’t buy his carefree attitude, but he didn’t call Sherlock on it. For which Sherlock was grateful.

He was feeling genuinely proud at sharing with Admon his new project, categorizing the various types of tobacco ash.

“Lead the way my friend.” Admon gestured dramatically towards the door.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pushed open the door.

The butler standing directly by the inside of the door took the coats and hats of both men, before replacing them on the gilded hooks at his side.

In a few minutes, Admon and Sherlock were in the room of the latter; a chaotic, yet organized mess of science equipment and many, many books.

Sherlock put his sample bag off to the side for now and moved to retrieve his intended box and notebook from one of his many sets of cupboards. Behind Admon roamed the room, taking in what was new, and what wasn’t.

“You really have been working haven’t you? I tell you, you need to relax on occasion.” Admon sighed with fond exasperation and started flipping through a pile of dictionaries, encyclopaedias and several books on apiology atop Sherlock’s desk.

“I find my work very relaxing.” Sherlock countered, half buried in the messy cupboard. He knew it was here somewhere…

“I know you do, but it wouldn’t do any harm to get yourself a lady friend.”

Sherlock tensed. Admon didn’t notice.

“I beg to differ. They are a distraction, and not my milieu.” Not the full truth, but Admon couldn’t ever know that.

Admon sighed. “Whatever makes you happy. I worry about you being as isolated as you are.”

He may be pushy and wanting to be overly involved in Sherlock’s personal life, but in the end, unlike Mycroft and his parents, Admon held no expectations of Sherlock having to be anything other than himself.

Even if Sherlock could never be himself completely, he appreciated that of Admon none-the-less. Maybe he’ll tell him some day.

“I am happy.” Sherlock muttered, and he was…for the most part.

“Then I’ll speak no more on the matter.”

Sherlock knew this was a lie, but still well-meaning.

…aha! Sherlock found the box he was looking for; containing the sample boxes of ash he’d collected the many genres of tobacco ash in. Considering Sherlock’s penchant for pipe smoking, he felt it ridiculous he hadn’t pursued this potential avenue of knowledge before.

“Found it!” He turned around, needed items in hand, and saw Admon standing by Sherlock’s bed; staring wide-eyed at on open book on his nightstand.

Oh no.

Panic and something very much like fear flooded Sherlock’s body. The box and papers fell from Sherlock’s frozen fingers. He was still as a statue, but inside he was cursing and chastising himself for forgetting to hide the book like he had been every time he read it for the past year. Even his Magick was whirring in panic, causing various objects around him to shake.

It was a dangerous book for him to have.

“Ad-Admon…” Sherlock attempted to speak, but instead of sounding in control and calm, he sounded every bit the panicky fool he felt.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. He should be above all this!

Admon reached out, as though to touch the book, but changed his mind at the last second. He turned around to face Sherlock with an unreadable expression.

“What is this?”

It bothered Sherlock more than he could express that he couldn’t gauge Admon’s tone and meaning, was he judging? Hating him? Asking out of curiosity?

Sherlock didn’t know! And that made this so much worse. He couldn’t look at Admon, and see the disgust in his eyes, what he must be thinking of Sherlock now; sick, immoral, not human.

“The Sins of the Cities of the Plain is the first exclusively homoerotic novel to be published in English-”

“I gathered that. I mean, what are you doing with it?”

He heard Admon step closer, slowly. Sherlock found himself frozen, barely breathing. He could try and explain it away, and maybe even succeed, but…he couldn’t, he just, he couldn’t.

“I am reading it.” Sherlock’s voice was shaky at best. He held his head high, clasped his hands tightly behind his back and stared at faded red wallpaper across the room, away from Admon.

Admon inhaled sharply. “Sherlock, are you…a sodomite?”

Was he disgusted? Sherlock couldn’t tell.

Sherlock flinched. “Homosexual is the term, and-” Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. “Yes, I am.”

There it was, the hammer on his coffin – perhaps literally. Twenty years of friendship whirled down the proverbial drain because of Sherlock’s perceived abnormality –

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

…What?

Sherlock’s eyes flashed open in surprise and for the first time in several minutes he looked at his friend.

He didn’t look disgusted, or judgemental. Confused maybe, but if anything he looked…sad? Deep brown eyes implored Sherlock.

He couldn’t look.

Sherlock laughed bitterly and began pacing on the spot, running his hands roughly through his hair; dislodging the smoothness of it, released his natural curl.

“I am a man sexually attracted to other men in a country where it is illegal and viewed as a sickness by masses of idiots in the name of religious doctrine, why would I tell anyone?” Sherlock walked up to Admon and roared the words in his face. “Tell me. How could I tell the only friend I’ve ever had, that I am what so many people hate.”

Admon didn’t flinch. He stared Sherlock down.

“I thought you didn’t care what people think.”

Sherlock huffed and resting one hand on his face; covering his eyes. “I care what you think.” It was perhaps the most vulnerable Sherlock had ever allowed himself to feel, let alone express. And it was acid on top of many wounds this entire thing gave him.

“Sherlock-”

Sherlock backed away quickly from the hand that reached out, pitying, to touch him. Much like he did with the handkerchief moment at their first meeting.

“I…do not want your pity.” Sherlock spat, breathing heavily, hand still firm on his face. “If you valued any part of our friendship, please, I beg you to leave and not say anything.”

“No.”

Sherlock dropped his hand. “What?”

Admon was still standing there, his arms crossed, utterly determined. Again, it reminded Sherlock of the first day they met.

Sherlock’s heart ached.

Why did this have to happen to him? Why?

“I said, no. You listen to me Sherlock Holmes, and for once do not interrupt.”

Admon strode forward, and grasped Sherlock’s hands in his own. To Sherlock’s utter astonishment, Admon leaned forward and rested his forehead against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to move even if he tried.

What was happening?

“I can’t say this is something I expected or that I understand, but, you are my best-friend, if this is who you are, I have no choice but to continue loving you for it. You can help make me understand. And I promise, I won’t tell anyone.” There was something shaky in Admon’s voice, despite his obvious determination, something he wasn’t saying.

However, Sherlock could feel this was no lie.

As he had learned over the years, Admon was a terrible liar.

He gasped in relief and did something he hadn’t done since they were children. He threw his arms around his friend, the only person who now truly knows him, and doesn’t hate him for it.

Admon grabbed him tightly back, the skin of his thumb brushed gently against the back of Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock allowed himself this one indulgence, he knew he would never get anything more, and squeezed that little bit tighter.

It was simultaneously the best and most agonizing moment of his life thus far.

Sherlock fell a little bit more in love that day.


 

Chapter 12

“It seemed too much like a miracle”





John felt like he’d been drawn, quartered, tied to a roller-coaster and run over by screaming children.

Not only was he a witness to the most private of Sherlock’s memories, he felt and saw them from his point of view.

And John knew he only saw a few of them.

John ached, tears were running down his face – he didn’t know if they were his or Sherlock’s. John felt shattered, sad, devastated by the experience but Sherlock…the loss, Sherlock’s greatest pain…John knew it had to be horrible, but seeing it, feeling it first hand – John was torn between wanting to forget and holding Sherlock tight.

John had lost people he loved, but not like that, nothing, nothing quite like that.

Admon was everything to Sherlock.

The knowledge added a new level of reality to Sherlock’s reaction up on the cliff, when John kissed him.

Had he remembered Admon then? Coldly reminded of what he never had?

Oh Sherlock…

John knew he was still in Sherlock’s head, which meant Sherlock had to be close by and he needed to see if he was alright…alright? How could he be alright after what just happened? John had no idea what he was going to say to him, but all that had been rushed on John was hard enough for him to feel, he couldn’t even imagine what it must’ve been like for Sherlock.

Would he still wish he’d never remembered? Or would he be grateful for having those memories back in his conscious mind, as painful as they were?

John had no time to think on what all this may or may not implicate in regards to his bond with Sherlock, or even what Sherlock would be like now that he had all of himself in relative one piece again.

John hadn’t moved since he fell and rolled onto his back in the fog-cleared, candlelit darkness, still he felt like he’d been tossed around in a washing machine for a good few hours.

So it was with slow, but steady, progress that John sat up, groaned and pushed himself to his feet; twin feelings of apprehension and unease in his chest.

It was when John looked around that he noticed something integral had changed.

It was pitch black.

There was no candle, no light of any kind and no fog.

Not only that, everything felt, different.

His Magick was pulsing, even stronger than it was before, and yet, John felt…alone.

He must’ve been in Sherlock’s mind, but then, where was Sherlock?

That’s what was missing, Sherlock’s presence.

John started to feel scared that something had gone wrong.

He tried walking forward, but all he heard was his widely echoing footsteps, nothing around him changed.

“Shit.” John swore. Something wasn’t right. He was right on the verge of potentially making an arse of himself by yelling Sherlock’s name, when he heard it.

“John.”

John whipped around. There was Sherlock. “Oh thank God.” John breathed heavily and rested his hands on his knees for a moment before straightening and looking at Sherlock standing directly in front of him.

He looked shaken, and John found he couldn’t read his face, but most significant was that Sherlock wasn’t just wearing very, very familiar clothes; they were an exact copy of the BMC patient garb, he looked like a slightly healthier version of the man John saw in that hospital-like bed.

Did this…actually work?

“Sherlock, are you…alright?” John felt a bit stupid asking that.

Sherlock’s face shuttered and he looked off to the side. John watched him carefully. He seemed like the man he’d been interacting with, and getting to know in the most bizarre and unusual of ways, but he felt different – not doubt about it.

“Yes.”

John blinked. Sherlock sounded like he was telling the truth, mostly he just sounded tired. Regardless, John wasn’t sure if he entirely believed him.

“Are you sure?”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and took a deep, full-bodied breath. He nodded, and then looked at John.

That same, indefinable look from before was back.

Only this time, Sherlock regarded John with immeasurably torn eyes.

John wasn’t sure what to make of it.

Sherlock walked forward toward John, and John forced himself to remain still. As he got closer, flashes of Sherlock and Admon as young men flashed across his eyes; John tried to restrain the pained expression on his face, but gathering by the way Sherlock abruptly stopped and stared at John with something almost like insecurity, and distress, Sherlock saw and likely deduced what John had just been remembering.

John parted his mouth to say something, but ultimately decided against it; sighing into his palm instead.

I am woefully unqualified to deal with this.

Suddenly John felt a hand pull the one he’d been using to cover his face away.

Sherlock was staring at John with a considering, largely unreadable expression. He dropped John’s hand and touched a single finger to John’s cheek.

John’s mouth parted in a quiet gasp at the contact that felt so different from before, and it didn’t escape John’s notice it was exactly what Admon did to Sherlock.

What is he doing? John didn’t know, but whatever Sherlock was thinking John remained quiet and let him continue.

John watched him; unblinking.

Sherlock seemed to sway a little towards John, before he inhaled sharply and pulled his finger away; stumbling backward as he did so, sudden immense distress widening his eyes.

“Sherlock?” John, with a pounding heart, furrowed his brow in concern.

Before John could take a step towards him, Sherlock fixed him with a determined, if repentant, gaze that had John freezing midstep.

“I apologize for this, John.”

“What-”

Sherlock reached out a hand palm out in John’s direction, and unexpectedly John was hit with a wave of Magick that knocked him out instantaneously.

John collapsed in a heap and Sherlock rippled out of view, leaving John alone in the darkness.





~



John groaned, fingers and toes twitching underneath the fresh blanket covering him, and slowly opened his eyes, his body felt tense and stiff like he’d been sleeping for far too long.

He felt an odd disconnect, a sense of not quite right. The light shining on his face was coming from the wrong direction.

Why am I not in my room?

“Welcome back to the real world, Doctor Watson.”

John’s eyes flashed open fully.

The real world…Sherlock’s mind.

Wait, so that must mean –

John was awake.

He felt an overwhelming swoop of sensations as all he experienced, all he felt gushed into his waking mind in waves. There was an odd miasma, not quite dream not quite quality to the memories, but they were still as clear to John as any other.

John gasped. Sherlock. John rushed to sit up, and paid for it with blood pounding in his head in the form of a dense, painful headache. He hunched over his tingling legs, moving for the first time in – who knows. feck. John rested his elbows on his knees and began kneading his temples with the balls of his hands.

“Sherlock-”

“Is conscious, and well enough given the fact that he’s just awoken from a five year Magick coma, obstinate as ever of course.” It was Mycroft who spoke (once again standing at the foot of John’s bed), obviously. John’s relief at hearing that Sherlock was miraculously conscious was massive, that wasn’t his only feeling though. “A reality I have you to thank for. I will never be able to fully express my-”

“You knew.” John declared with dangerously quiet ire, he let his hands slowly fall from his head and onto his blanket covered legs.

John lifted his head and glowered at Mycroft.

Mycroft blinked quickly in surprise. “I’m sorry?”

With the memories fresh in his mind, and Mycroft’s voice as the first thing he heard upon waking, John realized without a shred of doubt that not only did Mycroft suspect what the red dog likely represented and knew what Sherlock’s greatest pain was – something he ardently said he didn’t know, or at the very least implied he didn’t, which John knew then was absolute bollocks – he lied about his knowledge and didn’t say a word.

John couldn’t help thinking that having particular knowledge, at least some of it, would’ve been most helpful.

Instead, he and Sherlock probably stumbled around a lot longer than they needed to.

So why, why did Mycroft lie?

“Admon.” John did not relent in his stare down of the older Holmes brother.

The moment the name passed John’s lips, the expression on Mycroft’s face changed completely.

“Ah, yes.” Mycroft sighed, a timeworn sadness drawing the lines of his face.

John snorted in disbelief.

“Yes, ah-” John emphasized this with quotations. I really haven’t punched anyone in a very long time. “Is that all you have to say? Seriously?”

“No, and before you do something you’ll come to regret John-”

“Dr. Watson, and I doubt I’d regret anything.”

Mycroft sighed, obviously irritated. John couldn’t give rats arse. (John supposed it was possible he was experiencing some emotional overlap by what just happened…)

“Fine, Dr. Watson. I will explain myself but first, I will need you to calm down.”

John blinked at him in disbelief. “Calm down-” John abruptly stopped when he noticed Mycroft was covering his eyes.

That was also when John noticed the lights in the room were glowing abnormally bright in response to his own anger.

Oh.

Oh.

John remembered feeling his Magick again towards the end there, the way it felt unbroken – a tingling companion like healthy Magick should feel, but he never dreamed it would actually carry over – what the hell happened?

His anger rapidly deflated and he collapsed back onto the bed, covering his face with both hands.

Christ.

Is there such a thing as an emotional hangover?

John felt more than saw the lights return to their natural state.

He heard Mycroft moving, until he was obviously sitting on the edge of what previously had been Sherlock’s bed.

Previously…Mycroft did say Sherlock was conscious, yes?

John dropped his hands and quickly glanced at the bed. It was empty, and had been neatly made to near military precision.

John couldn’t believe it. It actually worked.

Sherlock was ok. Maybe. He was going to be ok. John would rather see the man for himself.

John felt a funny jump in his heart and lump in his throat at the thought.

He would get to meet Sherlock, in person.

They had shared an experience few life-long friends ever do, let alone strangers…were they still strangers? Their unique bond made it a difficult line to define, at the moment at least. And by the quiet murmured words after they, they kissed – or rather John kissed Sherlock, Sherlock had deduced the nature of their bond.

It was all very confusing, and John was positive it was going to be awkward as hell. At least at first. It certainly wouldn’t be boring.

He hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t resent him for the intrusion, no matter how necessary it was, but John would understand if he did, he could deal. It’s not like John would be pleased either if some stranger took a waltz through his most private and vulnerable memories.

“Dr. Watson?” Mycroft smoothly interrupted John’s wandering mind. “Do you still wish me explain my actions?

John looked up at Mycroft and was reminded of just that – which he’d temporarily forgotten in the wake of…everything else.

Christ, I really am out of it.

John groaned at the tight feeling in his muscles as he sat up, and swung his legs off the side of the bed so he was sitting level with Mycroft. He fixed the man with a determined ‘this better be good’ stare. John’s headache was still raging fierce, but compartmentalizing physical pain was something John was thoroughly practised in. “Yes.”

Mycroft nodded as if that was what he expected, even though it was clear by the uncharacteristically reluctant nature of his demeanour that he held no particular wish to do so, but recognized he would have to.

“I’ll come straight to the point; I didn’t want to cause my brother any more pain. I was powerless to help him all those years ago and I had the foolish hope I would not be quite so helpless now. Coniuncti Sumus has shown to be capable of extraordinary Magick. I thought that perhaps, maybe, this bond you and my brother possess would find a miraculous way of bringing my brother back to this world without reviving the entirety of his memory. He is a far more emotional man than I by nature, despite how he may seem at times. The close relationship he held with Admon proves that. Unfortunately, this comes with the inevitable side effect of pain, and loss. I had hoped to protect my brother from that reality. It was not my intention to make this more difficult, rather the exact opposite. Yet another way in which sentimentally got the better of me and I failed, twice.” Mycroft sighed, slightly hunched over and no longer so irritatingly composed. “I never expected my brothers first time entering this facility would be as a patient. In truth, he hardly acknowledged at all. I was one of the few who knew the full breadth of Sherlock’s past, and the real depth of his capability of feeling. I suspect he believed that coming here at all would be admitting a weakness. A trait of his I now regret encouraging in him, thinking it would protect him from further heartbreak. However, looking back – I believe it would’ve made the ensuing years after losing Admon easier if he looked to his feelings as a source of strength, and not a weakness. Age does not always equate wisdom.” Mycroft restrained his posture and a found, if regretful smile graced his face for the briefest of moments before vanishing behind his stoic façade. “Sherlock would be far too pleased to hear me admit to how wrong I have been.”

And it was a façade. Clearly, the iceman persona Mycroft exuded wasn’t all there was to the man. He was allowing John to see him with this exposure and John did. Quite honestly, John felt sorry for him – and not quite as angry as he felt before. John wasn’t happy, but he could understand. He wouldn’t wish Harriet to go through what Sherlock did and would do everything in his power to help her if he could.

John could imagine it would be even more difficult for someone like Mycroft; for whom intense emotions were a far more foreign territory than to Sherlock, except, apparently, where his little brother was concerned.

Something in what Mycroft said hit John. Hold on a minute –

“Admons last name was Burd.”

Mycroft raised a brow and nodded.

“And this facility was founded in 1895.” John couldn’t exactly blame himself for not putting it together just yet – he had just spent who knows how long fumbling his way through the mind of an emotionally distraught man.

Still, what Mycroft said made a lot more sense.

Mycroft breathed deeply. “You have a decent memory Dr. Watson. I erected the ‘Burd Memorial Centre for the Restoration, Rehabilitation and Treatment of the Magickally Impaired and Damaged’ a few short months after Admon died. It was my way of…atoning, I suppose.”

John leaned forward, elbows rested on his knees. “Atoning?”

“Even in those years I held a significant position in the British government, with access to the most confidential of resources. I am not of the same Magick class level as my brother, but even so my power was – is – substantial, and it did not help the man my brother loved. I told my brother that the reason Admon wouldn’t, couldn’t heal, was because he didn’t want to; the grief of losing one’s wife and child too great. But the truth is I didn’t know for certain. It was a component for sure, however there has always been a part of me that wondered if only we had more time, if there had been somewhere dedicated solely to study the afflictions damaged Magick can cause, and thus create regimes to assist in the healing process, Admon might have been saved. I still do not know what would have become of their relationship, but at least my brother would’ve been spared the pain of his death on top of those of Sophia and his godson.” Mycroft stood up, grabbed the umbrella which had been leaning against the rail of bed John was in, and went in front of the singular window; his back to John. “When I told Sherlock what I intended on founding here, he didn’t say a word to me. Although his expression I believe told me something along the lines of ‘too little, too late’. I never expected anything more.”

John sighed and hung his head. “It sounds to me that you did all you could’ve possibly done. You can’t do more than that.” He couldn’t believe he was comforting Mycroft, but after listening to him…the man blamed himself for something that was, ultimately, not his fault.

Mycroft hummed. “Perhaps. In any event I assume you want to meet my brother in the flesh.” He turned around, the very picture of composure once more.

John inwardly kicked himself when a part him screamed ‘yes!’, and not just for reasons relating to want to ascertain Sherlock’s mental and physical health for himself.

He nodded and moved to get up.

Mycroft held out a hand to stop him. “Before you go Dr. Watson, there a couple of things you should know, not the least of which is why you’re feeling the return of your Magick’s control.”

How Mycroft could know that John didn’t know. The light thing could just as easily been the result of unrestrained, out of control Magick. John only knew it wasn’t because the light didn’t harm him, like it did Mycroft that resulted in the man covering his eyes.

Still, it was something John wanted to know – although he was half-tempted to say to hell with it, and go find Sherlock instead.

The man had to have more than a lot on his mind, John wouldn’t take up much of his time– he knew Sherlock would need space, but he just…John just wanted to make sure he was ok, wanted to see him. Hopefully he wouldn’t make a complete arse of himself.

John did sit back down though. Mycroft strode back over, keeping a reasonable distance.

“I will let my brother fill you in on the details, but suffice to say something happened, more likely a series of events occurred that led to a breaking point which resulted in a brief amalgamation of your Magicks. I told you Coniuncti Sumus is capable of remarkable feats of Magick, this wasn’t an exaggeration on my part. It seems that when your Magick connected temporarily with Sherlock’s own which was mostly healed, together they fed off each other and created a force which ended up healing each of your Magicks of damage – practically speaking. You will still have some mental adjustment, as will Sherlock – for many reasons, but whatever happened, it saved you many months if not at least a year in the Centre. As it stands, you should be able to leave in a few weeks.”

Holy shit.

Holy. [b]Shite[b].

John’s mouth parted as he let what Mycroft just said settle in his mind.

He couldn’t believe it. It seemed too much like a miracle, yet the evidence was there in how he felt, the familiar tingle in his hands when he focused.

It seemed he had more than one thing to thank Sherlock for, no matter how unintentional the action.

John could cry. He wouldn’t, but the emotion was there; overwhelming, unquantifiable, relief.

He couldn’t say he was sorry for going to the Centre, not when it led to the experience he shared with and meeting Sherlock, but John wasn’t exactly eager to stay either.

John closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep, liberating breath.

“I imagine this must come as shock.”

John snorted. No kidding.

It was a shock he was immensely grateful for.

“I am sure you are eager to see Sherlock. I will delay the medical staff in their examination of you and discussion of what the next few weeks will entail and make sure you have access to leave Paget Wing, my only request is that once you and my brother are finished speaking you return here. Dr. Hooper and Dr. Thompson will be waiting for you in the main Paget Wing lobby.” Mycroft pulled out a pocket watch with a long chain attached and glanced at the clock face briefly. “With that I must be off, there is a country to run after all. I believe you will find Sherlock outside in the rock garden with a stolen pack of cigarettes. Perhaps you could dissuade him of the habit, since you are obviously a man capable of miracles Dr. Watson.”

“John.”

Mycroft looked surprised at John’s utterance. He gave John a nod. “John, then. I bid you good day.”

They both moved to leave at the same time. John was grateful that despite the initial shakiness of his footing, he seemed able to walk decently enough.

It was as Mycroft was opening the door and exiting, and John was giving the room a brief look over, that he was reminded of something else he wanted to know.

“When did we wake up?” John gesture towards the two beds.

Mycroft paused with his hand on the doorknob and looked back towards John.

“Sherlock woke up after twenty-six hours, you ten hours later.”

John was unconscious for thirty-six hours? Honestly, he had been expecting longer, but wait –

“Hold on. Why did I wake up that long after Sherlock?

John was abruptly reminded of the last event in Sherlock’s mind. When John was surrounded in darkness, Sherlock showed up and then – John was well and truly unconscious. He seemed to remember Sherlock touching him, backing away and then apologizing? Before he reached out a hand and that was where John’s memory blanked.

Did Sherlock do something to him?

“I will leave that particular explanation to my brother.”

John frowned, but nodded reluctantly; standing there silently for a moment. John sighed and continued around the slight corner to the door exit. He was distracted, and lost in thought with how he would approach his first physical conversation with Sherlock, and so barely caught himself from bumping into Mycroft.

John thought the man had left. Clearly not, when John looked up Mycroft was staring at him.

John returned the unblinking, calculating nature of Mycroft’s gaze. “What?”

“I have no doubt we will meet again soon John, in the meantime I feel I should warn you – I will not stand by and watch my brother’s heart become broken again, I assure you the consequences will be – deathly severe.” Mycroft wore a subtle smirk, yet John knew there was nothing understated in what was a very obvious, warning directed at him.

John was confused in that he didn’t know why Mycroft seemed sure that John and Sherlock would be embarking on a relationship – for one thing, they hardly knew each other enough for that, and with what John saw in Sherlock’s mind…He wouldn’t be surprised if Sherlock wasn’t at all interested in a romantic relationship period.

John wouldn’t – couldn’t – allow himself to feel either hope or disappointment about what may or may not happen, either way John knew that in some way Sherlock would be in his life. Even if it wasn’t in the way John wished, his only real fears were that Sherlock wouldn’t want to see him again at all, and that if John’s attraction and newly forming feelings towards Sherlock were already this intense now, John didn’t want to imagine how he may feel upon knowing the man longer.

And with what John saw, he knew Sherlock deserved happiness – whatever form that may take.

“Understood.” Was all John said in response, but his accepting, open posture spoke volumes to Mycroft.

If John ever broke Sherlock’s heart, it would not be by choice.

“Excellent.” Mycroft appeared genuinely pleased. “I thank-you John, for all you have done.”

“I was glad to help.” More than glad.

“Until later then.” Mycroft gave John a brief nod before smoothly exiting the room.

Well, ok then.

John took a deep breath, making a note to stop in his actual room before heading outside to grab his boots, coat, hat and gloves, and walked out of the room – shutting the door behind him.

It was a bit surreal walking down the familiar hallway, a bit like seeing it through a fresh pair of eyes.

So much had changed.

When John entered his room for the first time in over day, unsurprisingly it was unchanged, save for; someone had made the bed after his hasty exit, and leaning against the wall, directly beside the table holding a lamp and novel John had been reading, was his cane.

…His cane. He had completely forgotten about it, he didn’t have it or apparently need it in Sherlock’s mind, and when after that whirlwind experience was finished and John walked, without a limp – no support needed, without a thought to his cane.

Until he saw it, a silent symbol showing exactly how much everything could change in mere days.

John exhaled a breathless smile. It was another thing to be grateful for.

He then approached his dresser, coat and other outside garments, laying neatly on top and donned his outerwear. John left his room and made to go outside. He would need to exit Paget Wing to reach the Rock garden he knew, but otherwise John had no idea how to get there. He’d have to get someone to show him.

After that, John would talk with Sherlock.

In person. For the first time.

John wondered if it was normal that he felt more apprehension at that, than entering an active warzone.

Probably not, but since when had John been normal anyway?



~

Chapter 14

A Meeting Of Hearts II





It seemed the more time that passed, the awkward feeling of the tension surrounding them lessened. There was still the heavy presence of all that happened looming, but overall it definitely felt more comfortable than before.

It was a nice feeling, being that content with someone – let alone a practical stranger in many respects.

John sighed and breathed in deeply; the contrast of the cool, snow air, and warmth flooding his body a welcome tonic to the emotions whirring around his heart and mind.

It was when, again, Sherlock finished a cigarette and reached for another one (Christ, how is that man not shaking? Must have something to do with his Enchanter physiology, they’re not immune to the effects of nicotine, but are more resilient in general) that John said something.

“Do you seriously intend on smoking the entire pack?” John eyed the offending pack disdainfully.

“Yes.” Sherlock lit it up with the lighter and inhaled with a grateful sigh. “I have five years of smoking to catch up on, after all.”

John scowled and crossed his arms. “Where did you even get those? Mycroft said you stole them.” Even if he hadn’t told John, he knew there was no way anyone here would willingly give him cigarettes, or any unhealthy vice for that matter.

Sherlock nodded, looking far too pleased with himself. “From the pockets of a few distracted, unsuspecting Nurses and one security guard.”

John blinked. “Plural?”

Sherlock lifted three more packs of cigarettes from a pocket out of John’s immediate view.

Christ. John groaned.

When he replaced them, John was resting his head in his hands. He’s determined I’ll give him that.

How he managed to steal those, not once but several times, without getting caught (except obviously by Mycroft) John could not figure out.

He was impressed despite himself.

“How did you even manage that?” John lifted his head and looked at Sherlock, waving at the pocket containing the multiple cigarette packs.

“Distraction and Deductive reasoning. It wasn’t all that difficult.” Sherlock shrugged.

Of course not. John forced himself not to roll his eyes and straightened out of his hunched position.

John sighed. “Ok, I’ll bite. Tell me.”

“Staff are not allowed to smoke during their shift, even on designated breaks. No matter the supposedly superior knowledge of health, the medical profession has its own fair share of smokers. It was simply a matter of a conveniently well-timed exploration of the facility, considering I’d never been here before and have all but healed from my ordeal, no one questioned it. No one was willingly going to give me cigarettes, idiots, as if being told no has ever stopped me.” Sherlock snorted and paused to inhale and exhale some smoke. John could imagine Sherlock was probably an absolute horror as a child. “Dedicated cigarette smokers will always have yellow staining not just on their teeth, but on their fingertips and nails as well. I timed my “exploration” towards the end of a shift so I could spot those with the tell-tale tremors associated with going for too long without time to smoke. After that it was simply a matter of taking a staff outfit from an unsuspecting laundry cart, putting it on which would deter all but the most observant of individuals – like I said, they are idiots – long enough for me to sneak into the staff locker room, one of the benefits of having my unique set abilities is being impervious to most if not all Magick barriers, and locate the lockers of those I’d deduce were smokers. If I actually used Magick, that would’ve drawn attention to myself. Lucky for me I mastered lock picking years ago, and used a paperclip I found on the lobby desk to pick the locks. Easy.”

John gawped. “Easy? You’re bloody mad.” John exhaled in disbelief. “Amazing, but utterly mad.”

Sherlock grinned. “Of course.”

John shook his head, a laughing smile on his face despite himself. “So you stole all their cigarettes? Seriously?”

Sherlock looked at John; affronted.

“Of course not-” John wrinkled his brow in confusion, about to speak when Sherlock continued. “-I left behind half a pack each, I’m not cruel.”

John chortled. “How considerate of you.”

“I am capable on occasion.” Sherlock hummed with a nod.

John again shook his head, slowly, with barely restrained amusement. Bloody mad.

“You’re unbelievable.”

Sherlock glanced at John before resuming his gaze forward with a slight smile. “Ta.”

Still humble as ever – but of course the man knew John meant it more as compliment than anything else.

It bothered John surprisingly little that Sherlock essentially committed a crime. Maybe that said something about him, but honestly, John didn’t care if it did. The only thing that truly bothered him was Sherlock smoking period.

John breathed and took in the changing scenery. The slow moving snow gave everything an ethereal sensation, a group of bright red birds and rays of sun piercing through the dusky clouds only added to the feeling that the bubble that existed around them, right then, was a whole world unto itself.

John missed London, but this was beautiful.

John had to consciously stop himself from leaning across that last tiny bit of space between him and Sherlock and rest against his side.

“I’d forgotten what it felt like.” Sherlock murmured; quiet, and soft.

“Hm?” John watched Sherlock curiously, and waited for him to clarify what he meant.

Sherlock’s mouth parted slightly, streams of smoke came out as he did so, but then he closed it again. He didn’t speak for a moment, and John continued to wait patiently. Sherlock inhaled and exhaled from the cigarette a few more times before he spoke again.

“Companionship.” Sherlock finally finished, pointedly not looking at John.

He seemed almost…nervous?

It was a complete divergence from the easy, almost confident nature of his humour barely minutes before.

Sherlock was a man of many contrasts it seemed.

It perhaps should’ve hit John immediately, but it took a few seconds to realize that Sherlock was referring to him.

Whatever the full breadth was of what Sherlock intended to express, John knew it was an important and vulnerable declaration on the man’s part, given the situation. John knew if he brought attention to that fact Sherlock would shut him down.

So John didn’t say anything. Instead, he took a risk and scooted the tiniest bit closer, finally resting his arm against the long line of Sherlock’s.

John was worried he’d misinterpreted, or overstepped somehow when Sherlock tensed for a moment, but his worries were soon banished when Sherlock relaxed into John’s side.

John’s mouth turned up in a small, yet happy smile.

“I’m leaving tomorrow.”

John’s smile disappeared and he looked up at Sherlock with a scowl. “How are you even well enough to go?”

Quite frankly, despite how much better Sherlock looked, he still seemed like he was barely three steps away from keeling over – and that’s not even taking into account the amount of cigarettes the idiot man had smoked.

“Technically, I’m not.” Sherlock breathed out deeply, not looking at John. “However, since my Magick has all but fully healed to the point where I don’t even need a restraint anymore, I could theoretically convalesce, physically and mentally, anywhere. I would rather do so in my home. I called in a favour and will have assistance in breaking out tomorrow evening.”

John looked at him doubtfully and crossed his arms. “Really? You’re going to break out?”

Sherlock sighed. “No. The truth is much less interesting, when I woke up Mycroft asked me what I wanted – I told him I wanted to go home. As much as I hate admitting it, having a brother with as much political clout as he has comes in handy on occasion. He agreed to my premature release from the Centre, on the condition that I receive daily in house treatment from some of his medical staff for the next several weeks – much to my annoyance.” Sherlock sounded enormously put out by this. “At least I’ll be suffering in home.”

John’s mouth twitched. “You’re not a hundred percent yet; they will be there to help you get better. That’s not a bad thing.”

While John couldn’t say he was happy about Sherlock leaving so soon, he was glad to hear he wouldn’t be leaving care altogether – something he still needed, whatever he may believe – and that he would be receiving it at home. After what Sherlock had been through, a familiar environment could only be a benefit.

Sherlock harrumphed. “They work for my brother.” He said, as if that was answer enough for his ire. John sighed. “In all likelihood they’ll be more a hindrance than help, maybe if I experiment with Hydrogen sulfide they’ll leave.”

John blinked. “You experiment with Hydrogen sulfide?”

Sherlock waved away his concern, as if he wasn’t experimenting with something that was extremely deadly.

“I am a trained chemist with decades of experience, John. I know what I’m doing. Besides, I’m not saying I’d actually do it, far too complicated.” Sherlock shrugged. “Probably just put some fiber glass in their shoes.” John eyed Sherlock sharply. As if feeling his stare, Sherlock turned and saw the unblinking way John was staring at him with disapproval. Sherlock squirmed and twisted his mouth unhappily. “Fine.” He sighed and looked away, breathing on his cigarette. “You’re no fun.”

John snorted. “Yeah, I’m no fun at all because I don’t like the idea of you experimenting with deadly gas because it smells bad or putting fiberglass in people shoes.” John crossed his arms.

He is completely ridiculous. Why am I attracted to him again?

“I’m glad we agree.” Sherlock side-glanced John with a teasing glint to his eye.

John exhaled an exasperated sigh.

Sherlock, goddamn smiled, a sight John found himself momentarily caught in.

Oh, that’s why.

“Apparently I’ll be able to leave in a few weeks myself.” John interjected, in an effort to control the wayward nature of his thoughts.

John was still processing that. It seemed too good to be true, but John wasn’t about to shoot that gift horse in the mouth. John still had very little idea about what he was going to do afterwards, both immediately and in the future, but John was filled with a sense of renewed hope that whatever happened, he would figure it out. And probably, hopefully, Sherlock would be a part of his life from that point on.

Sherlock hummed. “I thought as much.” A strong gust of wind blew around the halo of his dark, curly hair. Sherlock tapped the dead ash off the end of his cigarette and gazed at the ground for a moment as he inhaled warm smoke. “So, where are you headed once you leave this place?”

John wasn’t certain if the question coming from Sherlock was out of genuine curiosity, or a sense of reciprocity, mostly he sounded a tad awkward for some reason.

Regardless, John gave it honest thought. Might as well start.

He breathed in. “I don’t know, probably find another bachelor flat in London, stay there for a few months; I can’t afford to stay longer than that. Probably not even that long, my army pension isn’t exactly a lot of money. Maybe I’ll get a job, go from there.” John shrugged and didn’t look at Sherlock while he answered.

On the surface it was awfully mundane and not that impressive a plan, but it was what he had and John had no choice but to make the most of it. Without the limp and tremor impeding his way, he could feasibly try finding a job at a clinic -

“You’ll move in with me.” Sherlock declared.

- Huh?

John whipped around to face Sherlock. He phrased it like a statement; no asking first, the man was just sitting there, smoking, entirely unconcerned like what he said was assumed.

John felt a bit thrown. He shook his head and blinked quickly. “Sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I’m thinking, sometimes I don’t talk for days on end, when I’m in deep thought on a case I have a habit of levitating off the ground – some people find it disconcerting, would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.” Sherlock looked at John quickly enough to give him a small, impish smile.

“Flatmates?” John knew he was parroting, but at that moment he was justifiably too taken aback to do much more.

“Yes. I have been informed Mrs. Hudson hasn’t let out 221b since the start of my coma, I know I have a room, and I’m sure Mrs. Hudson will be grateful for another tenant to inflict her tea and biscuits on. Financially speaking it would be easier for both of us, and you’ve seen the place, even at that time I noticed that you found it appealing – it’s not all that different in reality.” Sherlock paused and brought his cigarette in for another drag, but hesitated as a carefully veiled expression came over his face. Sherlock breathed in deeply, and settled his faintly trembling hand on his knee. He didn’t look at John. “But not only that, the nature of Coniuncti Sumus is a unique one and would require, in the long run, a certain degree of closeness…cohabitating is really the only viable choice.”

In spite of the confident way in which Sherlock simply declared John would be living with him, regardless of John not having said anything yet, the mention of their bond seemed to nip that confidence at its root and Sherlock became almost demure, uncertain of himself.

Clearly the subject made Sherlock uncomfortable, and while John could think of several reasons why – he didn’t know for sure.

Otherwise, John had to admit Sherlock was right. And just the thought of not wallowing in a dingy flat on his own, again, was fantastic – not to mention the fact that he would be living with Sherlock, which would no doubt drive him to madness sometimes but John sure as hell would never be bored.

Before John said anything on that though, since Sherlock brought it up, he was curious about something.

Sherlock had resumed smoking, but one of his feet had begun bouncing up and down and he still was very obviously not looking at John.

Since he wasn’t really sure exactly how Sherlock felt about the fact that they were Magickally bonded, John tried to approach his question as cautiously as possible.

“How did you…figure out-”

“If I had been in my right mind, I would’ve figured it out the moment you arrived in my Mind Palace. As it was, the picture didn’t coalesce until…” Sherlock coughed and gestured between himself and John. John felt a blush on his cheeks, but said nothing and merely nodded. Right, when we kissed – when I kissed you. “At which point I felt-” Sherlock’s eyes darted briefly towards John. “-your emotions in a way that would only be possible through such a bond.”

John inhaled sharply. …Shit. Sherlock had felt his emotions?

“Oh, erm, what do you mean-”

“I couldn’t tell what you were thinking, if that’s what you’re worried about. I only got a, very strong sense of your primary emotion at the time. Since I am not an empath, and we’re not otherwise bonded in any way that would affect how my Magick functions, it was the only conclusion I could come to. Mycroft confirmed it when I woke.”

“Ah, of course.” John fidgeted a bit on the spot; torn between asking Sherlock what emotion he felt from John, and not wanting to know at all.

John figured he could guess the general vein of what he’d been feeling anyway. If that was the case, then how Sherlock had reacted since was interesting – he didn’t seem disgusted or put off in any way, in fact John hadn’t really seen or felt anything negative at all coming from Sherlock.

What did that mean?

Sherlock broke the somewhat awkward silence before John could.

“Your skills as an Army Doctor would be useful as well-” The complete about face in the conversation had John reeling for a few seconds, but they were at a stalemate and since clearly neither of them knew what to say at that point, John was grateful for change. “-I could use an assistant to work with me on cases, and interact with the idiotic police force – Lestrade, whom you met, is the only one tolerable. Should you desire,” Sherlock once again hugged his middle as he fiddled with the lit cigarette in his hand. “Could be dangerous; a lot of injuries, violent deaths, no shortage of adrenaline, much like a battlefield I would imagine. More fulfilling than any clinic job you would get.” That time when Sherlock looked at John there was definite sparkle in his eyes as he watched John closely.

John raised an eyebrow and leaned back with crossed arms. “I’ve seen more than enough of my fair share of that to last a life time.”

Sherlock’s expression didn’t change. “Interested?”

John didn’t even hesitate.

“Oh god yes.” John didn’t just mean in regards to the rather bizarre “job” offer either.

Gathering by the way Sherlock’s face lit up, he knew it too – and was obviously more than pleased.

“Excellent.” Sherlock nodded at John with a satisfied grin and gazed forward.

Well, ok then.

It took a moment for what just happened to fully hit John, but when it did…John felt anticipation for what was to come in a way he hadn’t for a long time. John felt alive again.

He let out a sigh of such deep, happy relief that right afterwards he felt a gentle pressure in his side.

John’s confused brow wrinkle smoothed out when he saw that Sherlock was leaning more heavily against him. The man didn’t look any different otherwise.

John bit his lip to keep from smiling.

The silence that followed lasted for several minutes, both men content to be quiet, the only sounds being the twitter of birds, the snow-filled wind and deep breathing of the chilled duo who had no particular desire to move.

Eventually though, John honestly couldn’t think of anything more he had to say. And when he looked at Sherlock for the first time in several, quiet minutes, the man had returned to a more statuesque posture on the rock, no longer leaning quite so heavily against John; and his eyes had a faraway look to them that vaguely reminded John of how he saw Sherlock a couple of times inside the man’s head.

There was a slight frown to his brow, and John wondered what he was thinking about now.

When he didn’t say anything for another few minutes, John thought that maybe Sherlock was done talking for now.

He wasn’t leaving until tomorrow, plus John should probably check back in with the staff inside before it got too late. Already the sun’s light had gotten significantly dimmer compared to what it had been when John first came out here.

John thought about saying something to excuse himself, but didn’t feel particularly inclined to disturb him – not when there was something so entrancing about Sherlock’s face suffused with deep thought.

John pushed himself off the rock and stood; shaking some life back into his stiff, chilled legs.

He’d barely taken one step before a hand tugged firmly on Johns coat sleeve; pulling John back, rather ungracefully, onto the stone. Sherlock’s hand let go the minute John righted himself.

If Sherlock wanted him to stay, John didn’t understand why he couldn’t have just asked instead of nearly causing him to fall over by pulling on him.

John turned to glare at Sherlock.

“What the h-” John’s jaw shut with a snap when he saw him.

Sherlock had pulled his knees back up against his chest, one arm casually draped over them as the other fiddled with an unlit cigarette, dexterous fingers, indicative of a violinist’s, distractedly twirling the cylinder between his fingers.

He no longer seemed so far away in his thoughts, but all the lines in his face were accentuated by the deep creases between his eyebrows, sad twist to his mouth and glistening sheer to his eyes.

John noticed Sherlock’s other hand, that didn’t hold the cigarette, was gripping his other knee very tightly, mostly out of John’s line of sight.

In fact, Sherlock’s entire body was tense.

John turned more fully to face him, suddenly feeling concerned that something was wrong.

“Sherlock? What is it?” John clenched his hands to keep from reaching out, Sherlock practically screamed don’t touch me right now.

“You are…different, than him.” Sherlock’s words were barely audible, so quiet John almost didn’t hear them.

But hear them he did. Sherlock seemed confounded by his own words for some reason, but John could guess with near certainty who he was talking about.

Passed that though, John halted – not sure how to take the comparison Sherlock just made. Why? He sounds like…like he’s lost[b].

John remained silent, heart pounding in his chest.

“You are more emotionally intelligent than I John, and a Doctor, tell me,” Sherlock was staring outward to some distant beyond, he spoke louder – though not by much; soft melancholy filled his voice. “, what is the protocol if, allegorically speaking, a broken heart starts beating again?”

John couldn’t tell if the question was rhetorical or not, and if it wasn’t John was reluctant to think too much on what Sherlock could be implying, so for his own sanity he didn’t at that time.

Nevertheless, if John didn’t know the context of the question, he would’ve found it a strange question for Sherlock to ask. It still was, but Sherlock had had a broken heart before, he had to have been referring to himself.

John’s mouth parted, but he closed it again. Christ, how can I bloody answer that? And why is he asking me? I’m not [b]that emotionally intelligent.

He heard, and saw, Sherlock light yet another cigarette.

“Those things will kill you, you know.” John eyed the billowing smoke with distaste.

“I think I deserve a cigarette or two.”

John snorted and nodded at the growing pile of butts at his side.

“Only a few huh-”

“You’re avoiding the question.” Sherlock cut John off.

John sighed. Yeah, I am, because I have no idea how to answer it.

“I don’t know.” It was the truth, because what Sherlock asked…it was so subjective.

“John.” Sherlock looked at him them, his voice was stern – but the way he said John’s name was a barely concealed plea.

“It’s different for everyone Sherlock, I don’t know if I can-”

“Try.” The ‘please’ didn’t need to be spoken.

Sherlock turned away from John, his mouth pressed into a thin line.

John could hardly say no to that, he had to try, and hope he wouldn’t feck up in some way.

“I suppose I would decide if the potential reward was worth the risk of having my heart broken, again.” John leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees, refusing to look at Sherlock as he spoke, instead focusing on his clasped hands.

There was something new building there, and to John it felt dangerous in a way he couldn’t quite place. Why is Sherlock asking me this?

Beyond a considering hum, Sherlock was silent at John’s side for a moment.

“How does…one decide it’s worth?” Sherlock finally asked in earnest.

John sighed and casually clapped his hands together. “I think, that’s likewise different for everyone.”

“Have you ever been cursed with being in love, John?”

Christ. John clenched his eyes shut. Why did you have to ask me that?

John supposed, that for Sherlock, his love – unfulfilled, though not entirely unrequited – would’ve felt more like a curse than anything, given what happened and society at the time; which was, though better, still wasn’t perfect..

The image of Sherlock crying over Admon’s body flashed with pain in the forefront of John’s mind. “No.” John whispered. Not like that.

Another reason I am grossly unqualified to be having this conversation.

John had of course been in relationships before, and loved them, but…from his side; he didn’t really feel anything beyond infatuation, lust or deep friendship for his partners.

Heartbreak, to the degree Sherlock felt, was an experience John had yet to feel.

All John could hear at that moment was the pounding beat of his heart in his ears, and more so than ever he was suddenly very much aware of how close Sherlock was beside him.

John gulped. Another image, this time of the kiss Sherlock and he shared on the cliff, inundated his body, shadows of the sensation he felt then – more powerful than anything he’d ever felt before, was sharp electricity to John’s system.

And he knew then, for sure, where this – this thing between him and Sherlock was inevitably going to lead. John wasn’t there, but to use a metaphor, the train had already pulled away from the station on a one-way track with one destination.

Perhaps John would get to experience heartbreak for himself in the not too far distant future after all.

“Not yet.” John murmured to himself on a cracked exhale.

John hadn’t really meant to say that out loud.

He really, really didn’t.

Shit.

When John realized he did his pulse spiked in something akin to panic and his hands clenched together.

Maybe Sherlock hadn’t heard, and if he did, maybe he wouldn’t suspect I was thinking of-

John steeled himself to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock…was staring at him; eyes wide, lips slightly parted, lit cigarette abandoned between his fingers, he looked like he’d been flash frozen, Sherlock was completely rigid.

Double shit.

feck, what should I say?

Master of deduction idiot, of course he could read between the lines, it wasn’t like you were trying very hard to disguise it.

John clenched his hands into tight fists atop his thighs and, trying very, very hard to remain calm – even with his insides screaming - John pushed himself up to sitting.

Sherlock didn’t move, his eyes were stuck on where John had just been.

Bugger goddamnit. Should I just…go?

Again, this shouldn’t feel more terrifying than entering a bloody warzone for Christ’s sake!

John opened his mouth, but couldn’t think of a single thing to say.

This was going to make living together enormously awkward, if Sherlock even still wanted-

“I don’t know if I could go through it again.”

The abruptness of Sherlock’s words, and the way he uttered them, had John still entirely.

Sherlock was distancing himself with how he phrased it; but there was a barely controlled shakiness to his breathing and faint tremble in his hands, and shadows of pain over his face that betrayed him.

Sherlock looked at John with watery eyes, mouth parted. The man blinked and shook himself angrily, tightening the lines of his mouth; looking away from John completely.

That time, John read between the lines.

‘I don’t think I can go through it again.’

John inhaled sharply, pulse racing.

“Sherlock-”

“I can’t. Not again.” Sherlock was muttering angrily to himself, all pretense of distance gone. The cigarette fell from Sherlock’s shaky fingers and singed with a final puff of smoke onto the white, undisturbed snow.

John pushed away his own blundering feelings for the moment.

He couldn’t turn his gaze away from the visage of Sherlock, torn, in pain, fighting with himself, trying so hard to control himself. At that moment he reminded John all too painfully of the broken-hearted Sherlock he saw before in those memories.

Only this time, John sensed the reason for this was less straightforward than it appeared.

Sherlock looked like he’d walked into a trap without having noticed, and it was too late to turn back.

It hurt.

“You don’t have to.” John tried reassuring him. “You do have a choice.”

He wanted to reach out, hold Sherlock, comfort him in some way, but John was torn about what would be welcome, especially then.

John forced himself to remain still – it was exceptionally difficult.

Sherlock snorted a bitter laugh. “Do I?” He became eerily motionless then. His only movement was the fingers of his hand, which he’d place between him and John, clenching and unclenching – like he wasn’t the only one trying to control himself.

John felt a pang in his heart.

Oh Sherlock…

He considered Sherlock’s response, and closed his parted mouth with a sigh.

John allowed himself to scoot a little closer to Sherlock, he flattened out his hand and slid it towards Sherlock’s own on the stone between them, but John stopped himself from touching him just in time.

Sherlock frowned and turned to look, his gaze became glued to the sight of their hands; fingertips nearly touching.

John couldn’t read the expression on his face.

“You can choose what you do.” John finally said, inadvertently using his Captain voice; steady, no trace of doubt. He patted the stone firmly between them.

It was true.

John didn’t choose to feel this way about Sherlock, but what he did – that John had control over.

Whatever the end result, ignoring how it might affect himself, John knew this was an important distinction John needed Sherlock to see, for both their sake.

A part of John was still reeling and in shock by what all this implied; that Sherlock somehow, miraculously, felt something – whatever it was – towards John that surpassed friendship. John doubted Sherlock would be reacting this strongly, let alone would’ve brought up the subject in the first place, if he didn’t.

“You…may have a point.” Sherlock conceded with a nod, his voice quiet, and tone thoughtful.

John had no doubt Sherlock could hide his feelings quite well, if he so chose, and maybe he was – but at that moment, John thought Sherlock seemed less distressed than before. It was still there, but to John, Sherlock now seemed to be considering something, distant in thought more than anything else.

Relief.

John closed his eyes briefly and exhaled.

“Of course I do.” John found himself saying with an almost Sherlock-like tone of voice, in effort to deflate some of the tension that was honestly starting to make John feel nauseas with unease and the sheer amount of emotion roiling through him.

John saw Sherlock’s mouth twitch and something in him relaxed.

There was silence. Sherlock didn’t move, just continued to stare at their hands with an unreadable expression.

After a moment however, Sherlock did move; pulling his hand back and turning to look back out towards the garden.

It didn’t take long before John got the feeling that Sherlock had gone into a world of his own, and that John had been effectively shut out.

John curled his fingers inward and replaced them in his own lap.

John breathed in deeply, trying to calm his racing heart, and looked around at the surrounding area; more practical thoughts settling themselves in his head.

The snow was falling harder, daylight vastly shrinking.

And there was no sign of Sherlock talking any time soon.

John sighed. I should probably go.

He hoped they would be able to talk again soon, if not in depth than at least to…clear the air somewhat, ideally he wanted to hear Sherlock say something along the lines of ‘we’re ok’, but for now John clearly needed to exercise his patience. And besides, John could use a few moments to be alone and think too, after he dealt with the medical staff of course. Joy. John felt a lot more ok with that though, maybe it was because he genuinely believed now that come what may, things would turn out alright; broken heart or not. John would deal.

So John lifted himself up with a quiet groan, once again shaking out his stiff limbs, and pushed his hands deeply into the pockets of the Centre issued winter coat.

Yeah, it would be fine. John nodded to himself, and with a final, guilty, glance at Sherlock – still staring forward, hair billowing around his face – John sighed and began making his way out of the rock garden.

Once again, John barely got a few steps away before he was stopped.

“I think I need…time, to think, to be certain.”

John’s heart skipped a beat. Or two.

He ceased walking, but John stayed where he was (a few feet behind the rock) as he turned around to face Sherlock.

The man was still facing forward, back to John, but clearly he hadn’t been as unaware as John thought.

“Alright.” John breathed out.

When Sherlock didn’t say anything further, John was about to turn around and leave again, when he saw him – still not facing John – make a ‘come hither’ gesture with his hand.

What does he want?

John fortified himself and agreed to the request by returning to Sherlock. He stood beside him in front of the rock this time, it was had grown far too cold to sit. Not only that, John had no idea what Sherlock wanted to say, he needed the security of standing.

Sherlock was no longer gazing forward, but at John this time.

The look on his face reminded John of how Sherlock looked at him in his mind. And John was no closer to knowing exactly what it indicated.

Sherlock didn’t say anything.

Just…stared.

John tried to meet his gaze, but having those eyes so mysteriously fixated on him had John wanting to squirm.

He coughed, glanced around with forced casualness that had John feeling like an awkward teenager again, and clenched his hands within the pockets of his coat.

“What?” John finally asked, he didn’t mean it to sound at all harsh, but something in Sherlock’s expression was unsettling him.

It might’ve been the simple fact that John couldn’t tell what Sherlock was thinking or feeling.

Also it wasn’t fair having that beautiful face scrutinizing at him like that.

Christ, control yourself John! The man is in the middle of emotional crisis for goodness sake!

John was inspecting an utterly uninteresting dead leaf that had somehow blown itself close to his foot when he thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock stand.

John whipped around to look at him in surprise. Sherlock was indeed standing; directly in front of him, that same unreadable expression stark on his face, except that time his eyes were shining with quiet intensity.

John shifted on his feet and raised an eyebrow. “What-”

John was struck speechless, eyes frozen open, when Sherlock reached out and grabbed his shoulders with both his hands.

He didn’t have time to say anything, not that he could’ve if he wanted to, before Sherlock was leaning down.

At first John thought he was going to kiss him, and he did. Just not on the lips.

Sherlock rested his lips gently against John’s forehead.

John gasped.

The moment Sherlock touched him; John felt his Magick surge – sending tingles like low level, humming electricity through his body.

John thought Sherlock was going to pull away when his lips released contact with John, inwardly John whimpered a tad pathetically.

It was a forehead kiss, it’s not like he bent you over backwards in a dip.

Thanks for that brain.

It was so much more than that; this was Sherlock willingly, openly sharing this with John, of his own accord. John half-wondered if this was Sherlock’s way of thanking him, letting him down easy, which John would’ve understand no matter how other parts of himself would feel about it.

However, Sherlock didn’t pull away. He rested his forehead against John’s and his entire body melted of tension. Sherlock released his breath in a sigh that coated John’s face.

Oh…

John shivered and involuntarily closed his eyes.

Beside him he heard a small crack, and his Magick tickled with awareness as John felt something rise and settle beside him and Sherlock – in the air.

John frowned and opened his eyes, reluctantly pulling his head away from Sherlock’s (who didn’t let go of John otherwise) and he looked off to his right.

John blinked in confusion for a moment.

Floating in the air, level with John’s eyes was a small stone. It was purple, it looked like the stone (amethyst?) John noticed earlier imbedded in the ground.

Odd.

Something had torn it from its place in the buried mosaic, pulled it up through the snow and levitated it several feet in the air.

…Sherlock?

He looked back at Sherlock, about to ask him if he did that and why – but John shut his mouth abruptly when Sherlock dropped one of his hands and, without physically, touching it, moved the small, smooth stone gently over to John with a wave of his hand.

Is he…giving it to me?

John blinked quickly, eyeing Sherlock and then the stone, waiting for some explanation. He was about to reach up and grab it, but before he could John watched with curiosity as a flap on the front of his coat, on the left side, opened and the stone dropped cleanly as though of its own accord. The flap then buttoned itself securely closed.

John looked at Sherlock, feeling a bit bewildered.

Sherlock dropped his other hand, looking a bit uncomfortable, and gestured nonchalantly towards the ground where the stone had come from.

“You were looking at it, before.” Sherlock said, watching John’s reaction with a deceptively smooth expression.

John’s brow smoothed out, and he bit his lip to keep the smile there from blooming. “Yeah, I was. Ta.” John patted the small lump in the front of his coat.

Sherlock waved off the gratitude, but he was pointedly not looking at John but at some point beyond his shoulder.

If that wasn’t one of the sweetest, most bizarre out of the blue gestures John had ever seen he would eat his own shoe.

Sherlock could really be that adorable.

“You’ll be at 221b in a few weeks?” Sherlock asked with a definite questioning lilt. He looked vastly more uncertain than he had before, which had John wondering if the man thought John wouldn’t want to live with him after all that just happened. As though, because John didn’t get the fairy tale response a part of him wanted (not that he actually expected or wanted to, not like this, Sherlock was right – they needed time) John might not desire to share a flat.

John found that utterly inexplicable, and oddly reassuring – since John had been worrying about the same thing, albeit for different reasons.

Inevitably, John had no doubts when he responded. “I’ll be there.” He nodded firmly with a fixed smile.

This time, he didn’t hold back the gesture he wanted to make. John reached out and patted Sherlock on the shoulder, perhaps lingering a bit before letting his hand fall.

There was still something vaguely melancholy in Sherlock’s face, but the pleased smile he gave John was genuine.

“Thank-you, John.”

The full meaning in those words was vibrant and heavy enough for even John to notice, Sherlock wasn’t thanking him just for that moment –

- but for everything.

John’s smile faded into something a little more serious, the weight of everything not so much looming anymore, but an accepted companion.

“No thanks needed.”

Sherlock shook his head, but didn’t say anything as he showed John a small, startlingly tender smile.

“You are a surprising man, John Watson.” Sherlock professed before turning around and resuming his sitting position on the rock, but continued looking at John.

You too. John didn’t respond outwardly, but gathering from the small nod of acknowledgment, Sherlock caught the unspoken words just the same.

Still smiling softly, John walked forward; reached out and squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder once.

Sherlock breathed in deeply.

“He would’ve liked you.”

John didn’t need to ask who ‘he’ was.

John smiled sadly. “I’m sure I would’ve liked him.” No doubt.

Sherlock didn’t respond other than gracing John with one last, shining look before once again, staring forward towards the snow covered scenery.

It seemed he had much more to think about.

John let his hand drop and walked away.

The future looked very bright indeed.





~