Chapter Text
Sherlock was afraid of the dark.
John had noticed nearly straight away in their odd relationship that Sherlock didn’t care for dim enclosed spaces. He didn’t initially think it strange, because Sherlock was just a kid, high as his IQ may be, and kids were afraid of the dark, sometimes. So he didn’t mention it when there was always a lamp left on during their sleepovers, or blinds left open so streetlamps could be seen. By the time Sherlock was fourteen John realized perhaps Sherlock’s distaste was something more than a childish fear, but wasn’t sure how to broach to topic. So he didn’t.
The summer before Sherlock turned fifteen, John spent a week at Sherlock’s house. Sherlock’s parents were both out of country, and Mycroft, who had agreed to watch over the house until their mother returned, had been doing his best to ignore them.
The third night in, there was a thunderstorm.
John particularly liked spending thunderstorms with Sherlock, because Sherlock always became…softer. He would find a window and curl or sprawl in front of or against it, and his whole demeanor would change. The pointed fierceness would leave his expressions, he would be kinder, more tactile, and if John was careful about it, John could usually tuck himself next to Sherlock and read a book or do his homework with rare quiet companionship. He didn’t know what it was about lightning and thunder and the rush of water against glass that made Sherlock so compliant, but he certainly enjoyed it.
On that particular night, John, knowing the forecast, had pulled back all the drapes in Sherlock’s room and propped himself up against the headboard with some pillows. When the rain started, Sherlock, who had been composing in the other room, appeared and thrust himself onto the bed. He curled toward the window, head butting against John’s ribs until John shifted the book he was reading and Sherlock could drape himself more comfortably across John’s stomach.
John rolled his eyes and braced the book against Sherlock’s shoulder blades. Sherlock sighed, pleased, and settled into silence.
Three hours later John had finished the book and Sherlock was asleep. John carefully extracted himself from the bed and made his way downstairs to the kitchen in the hope of finding a snack. It was rare that Sherlock was asleep and he was awake, so he was rather lost as to what to do to occupy himself.
When he got downstairs, however, the light in the kitchen was already on.
Mycroft, in pajamas and a dressing grown, was standing by the sink, hip cocked to the counter, a quarter-full glass of whisky in his hand. The bottle was at the front of the open cabinet a few feet away.
“Oh,” John said, pausing awkwardly in the door. “Hello.”
Mycroft turned away from the window to look at him and John felt…sad. It was often difficult to remember that Mycroft was only in his twenties and not some far removed “adult” of the world. The suits and the power and the money and the careful way he did everything from speak to walk to answer the phone, were just as much an act as Sherlock’s wide-eyed feigned surprise when something of John’s went missing or turned up broken. Mycroft had been raised in the same dysfunctional environment as Sherlock, and doubtless was just as isolated. But Mycroft didn’t have any friends. Sherlock had John. Mycroft, John was beginning to realize, had no one.
“Couldn’t sleep?” John asked, moving to lean against the island.
“No.” Mycroft said, returning his attention to the window.
The storm had lightened to a soft pattering of rain on glass, a soothing rush occasionally interspersed with far-off rumbles of thunder.
“Sherlock has this…thing about storms.” Mycroft said, apropos of nothing.
“I—what?”
John was surprised enough to find Mycroft drinking. The fact that he initiated conversation, and used such a common word as “thing,” was downright concerning.
“A thing?” John repeated. “What do you mean?”
“He likes it,” Mycroft said, gesturing toward the window this his scotch. “The idea of it, I guess. When he was small every time it would rain he would go outside and stand in it, just—enthralled, I guess. Every time. Which, I suppose everything is magical when you’re a child, but even after he had science to explain them, storms never lost their enchantment for him.”
John grinned at the thought. “Well. At least he’s not out in it today.”
Mycroft didn’t smile. “When Sherlock was eight our father decided his obsession was too childish and locked him in the wine cellar for a three days as punishment after Sherlock left during the middle of a dinner party to play outside in a storm.”
John straitens, his throat gone suddenly tight. “What?”
“Wine cellar is Father’s go-to punishment,” Mycroft says, more to himself than John. “It’s underground, no way of turning on the lights from the inside so you’re stuck there in the dark. There’s a sink, so we could get water, but nothing else, beside the wine, and we knew better than to mess with that anyway. He’d let us out twice a day to go to the bathroom and eat something but that was almost worse than being stuck inside.”
John swallowed. “Why?”
“After being in the dark so long, light hurts. And then, just as you’re starting to get acclimated to the brightness, you’d be put back into the dark again.”
“That’s… psychological torture.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “It’s effective.”
“It’s abuse,” John hissed.
Mycroft swirled the dregs of whiskey in his glass, ice cubes clicking. He shrugged before draining it. “What could we do? Our mother certainly won’t stand up to him and the only person who would was our nanny, but she was fired shortly after Sherlock entered primary school. I tried once. It didn’t end well.”
“What about now?” John asked. “Does your father still do that? Punish Sherlock by—“
“No. Not since Sherlock’s was ten or eleven. I think at this point he’s frightened enough by the combined forces of Sherlock’s intellect and mine that he won’t do anything quite so vitriolic. Besides, he’s hardly home a month out of the year with all the traveling he’s doing, now. He’d need to be around to enforce punishments.”
They both went silent and Mycroft moved to refill his glass.
“So that’s why Sherlock is afraid of the dark,” John realized.
“Yes.”
John watched as Mycroft took a sip, then rested the glass against his temple.
“What about you?” John asked
“What about me?
“You’re not afraid of the dark.”
Mycroft laughed without humor. “I have other issues.”
***
Q’s flat, picturesque as it is, becomes relatively boring after the fifth hour spent in it. James brings Q water and tea and pain pills at hourly intervals but mostly they do nothing. After the sixth hour, John is getting quite hungry and Sherlock is beginning to drive him mad. After seven hours, they take turns sneaking into Q’s office to use the restroom. When James finishes in the bathroom he steals the cat on his way out. She keeps them occupied until the eighth hour. By the ninth, James has called for take-out, cleared the delivery boy with the security team surrounding the building, and is making plates for everyone in the kitchen.
John knows James is a licensed killer, but the man is strangely domestic in Q’s home. James is careful to clean up any messes he makes in the transferring of food, wiping down the counters and tucking empty boxes into the trashcan under the sink. He pauses when getting out drinks glasses to fill a cup and water the cacti in the window.
John smiles to himself and pets the cat in his lap. Sherlock steals her a moment later, murmuring something about ‘testing reflexes’ and John has to go save poor Boffin from the clutches of a bored genius. He demands Sherlock sit down and eat something and is surprised when Sherlock acquiesces. James can be heard around the corner quietly cajoling Q into take a moment to eat and John wonders what it is about skinny, clever, dark-haired, Holmses that turn military men into mother hens.
Sherlock accepts the fork John hands him, blue eyes wide, expression thoughtful, as he listens to the conversation in the other room.
“Thank you, John,” he says quietly, shifting so their knees are touching.
John grins at the plate in his lap and presses into the contact.
“No problem.”
Q calls for James at hour eleven and emerges, wincing with pain, but wearing a pleased expression. James helps him to the rug and Q hands his most recently emptied tea mug to James, who carries it to the kitchen and starts the kettle for the umpteenth time.
“I found them,” Q says, folding himself into a cross-legged sitting position. “Or at least I narrowed it down to two places. They could both be at either, or each be at one, but there’s no way of knowing for sure unless we go. I’m assuming Moran is with Moriarty, though. No one else he would trust at this point, I think.”
Q holds out his hand and Boffin, who had been sprawled in Sherlock’s lap, lazily batting at his fingers, slips across the floor to climb Q’s arm and drape herself around his neck.
“Who is ‘them?’” John asks.
“Moriarty and Moran,” Sherlock says, before Q can answer. “Where are the locations?”
“Paris and Madrid. I’d wager Moriarty is in Madrid, though.”
“Why’s that?” James asks from the kitchen.
“Hospital,” Sherlock says, then glances at Q for confirmation.
Q is grinning at him. “Yes. The IP I traced to Madrid came from a wireless network two blocks from the largest hospital.”
“So what now?” John asks.
Q glances at James, then straightens his shoulders. “I contacted HQ. I’ve been reinstated full access and they want the two of us to come in and be outfitted at 0800 tomorrow. They’re going to let me run the mission on location.”
The mug in James hand is set rather violently onto the counter.
“What?” he says, at the same time that Sherlock exclaims, “Moriarty is mine.”
Q ignores Sherlock. “Moriarty, aka Richard Brooke, would be a high profile apprehension alone. With Moran, a supposedly dead agent, they are a priority capture. M wants them, badly, and I convinced M the best way to go about making that happen is if I’m on site.”
“Like hell you’re going to be,” James says, stalking toward the rug. “You are not an operative, and even if you were you’re not fit for—“
“I cleared it with M,” Q interrupts. “And he is your superior.”
“Then apparently I’m going to need to have a talk with M and remind him of some things.”
“Moriarty is mine,” Sherlock repeats, louder this time.
“You’re coming with us, Sherlock” Q says, placating. “I had you hired as a consultant.”
“A consultant?” Sherlock hisses. “It’s my case!”
“James and I are better equipped to handle this than you are.”
“You aren’t equipped at all,” James exclaims.
“I’m coming too,” John says.
“John,” James starts, exasperated.
“No,” Sherlock interrupts. “You’re still injured, John.”
“Fuck that.” John curls one hand around Sherlock’s wrist, thumb to his pulse, waiting until Sherlock is looking at him to continue. “Anywhere you go,” he says, voice firm. “I’m coming too, is that understood?”
Sherlock swallows as James lets out an aggrieved noise.
“John is coming too,” Sherlock says.
***
They arrive back at Mycroft’s house just past 10pm.
Mrs. Hudson is asleep. Sam and Victor are playing videogames loudly in the living room. Lestrade and Mycroft are in kitchen drinking scotch.
Q sets the cat carrier down on the kitchen floor, daring Mycroft to say anything as he opens the wire door.
Boffin takes a tentative step out, considers her surroundings with interest, then leaps onto the table to examine the tumblers making condensation rings on the wood.
“I hope you’ve brought a litter box as well or the maid is going to be quite cross.” Mycroft murmurs, extending a hand for the cat to rub against.
“I have. James is setting it up in our room. I was hoping she could stay here with you while we’re gone.”
“Of course,” Mycroft murmurs, the beginnings of what might actually be a smile tugging at his mouth. He drags his hand down the cat’s spine, looking pleased when she starts to purr. “Where is it you’ll be going? And will you be needing assistance?”
John sighs as Q begins to explain what he’s found.
“I’m going to bed,” he tells the room at large, and retreats to Sherlock’s room.
After a quick shower and change into t-shirt and pants, John starts to turn down the bed, but is interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Come in,” he says, using the towel around his neck to dry his hair.
He’s expecting Lestrade, or possibly even Mycroft, but is surprised to find Victor standing awkwardly in the doorway.
He’s holding two mugs and looking very uncomfortable.
“Made this for you,” he says, extending one of them. “Actually I didn’t. Sam did. And it’s awful herbal stuff because Sam won’t let us have caffeine after 10pm. But. Uh. Here.”
John takes the cup.
“Well. Thanks. I guess.”
They continue to stand, several feet separating them, without saying anything.
“Was there something you needed?” John asks finally.
“I was special,” Victor says, and winces, clearing his throat. “I mean. Everyone who’s worked with Sherlock—even Sam and Lestrade who consider themselves his friends—everyone knows he doesn’t connect with people. Doesn’t let anyone in. And he did. With me. When we were in New York. Which, it was out of necessity and proximity more than any actual affection for me, but it lasted, afterward. And it was nice. To be special, to him.”
Victor shrugs, looking somewhat defeated. “I liked it. That I was only one he’d smile for occasionally. That I was the only one he wasn’t intentionally cruel to. I mean, he treated Mrs. Hudson and Sam similarly, but it was different, with them, and when you showed up…I was jealous. Am. Jealous. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, though.”
He swallows, seems to brace himself, and then says quickly. “I apologize.”
John’s eyebrows have traveled a good portion of the way up his forehead by the time Victor goes silent.
“I—thank you, for apologizing. I appreciate that.”
Victor nods stiffly. “You’re going with him, right? To Madrid?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
It’s silent for a solid thirty seconds before John shifts, uncomfortable, and Victor takes a step back toward the hall.
“Well. I just wanted to say—that. So. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight.”
The door has nearly closed when Victor pushes it open again. He doesn’t speak anything for several seconds, frowning at John in a way that keeps John silent, waiting for Victor to formulate whatever it is he wants to say.
“When we were in New York we were working a human trafficking case,” he says finally. “But there was a mole in our operation and Sherlock and I were taken hostage. It took eight days for my superiors to secure our release.”
John isn’t sure how to respond to that.
“Sherlock hadn’t been in a situation like that before and he wasn’t handling it well. The torture didn’t seem to bother him so much as the fact that they would leave us alone in the dark for hours afterward. By the second day he was pretty deep in his own head and starting to panic so I got him talking. Asked him questions about positive things. Happy memories, you know? To distract him.”
Victor rubs one hand on the inside of his forearm, as if remembering an injury.
“He talked about you. For six days straight. I probably know more about you than I do about my own family.”
“Me?” John says. “He talked about me?”
“Yes,” Victor says. “You. Every happy memory he has past the age of twelve has you in it.”
John’s throat goes tight.
There’s footsteps down the hall, and before John can respond, Sherlock is in the doorway, looking with concern between John’s bitten lip and Victors serious expression.
“Victor,” Sherlock says sharply.
“No, its fine,” John interrupts, “He was actually just apologizing, about before.”
“Oh.”
“Yes,” Victor agrees, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. “And now I’m going to bed. Goodnight John, Sherlock.”
“Goodnight,” Sherlock says, eyebrows furrowed as Victor eases past him and out of sight.
John sets the mug he’s still holding onto the nightstand.
“Can you come help me with the bed?” he asks, knowing his voice is all wrong.
Sherlock moves to assist in pulling back the duvet, studying John with annoyance and something that may be worry.
“Is everything alright?” he asks, watching as John arranges pillows with the express purpose of not looking at him.
“Yes.”
“Lie,” Sherlock says, and John glances up on instinct.
Sherlock’s fingers are curled together, expression nervous, but hopeful, and John has to smile. Or at least attempt to smile. That’s when he realizes that there’s a chain sitting just at the line of Sherlock’s collar.
John moves forward before he can think of reasons not to, pulls the necklace out from beneath Sherlock’s shirt, holds the disk with John’s name and the faded remains of a phone number in his palm.
Sherlock swallows and John watches the skin of his throat flex with the movement.
“I had Mycroft pick it up for me today,” Sherlock says, voice low. “I’m sorry I haven’t been wearing it. I know I promised.”
Neither of them says anything for several seconds and Sherlock’s face is so earnest, so far removed from what it was that first day in the hospital, so close to what it had been six years before that John feels physically winded.
“I love you,” John says, because timing has never been his forte and it’s true and he may as well admit it.
Sherlock goes completely and utterly still.
“What?”
“I love you,” he repeats. “Have. Loved you. For a while, I think.”
Sherlock backs away and the necklace slips between John’s fingers. “No.”
“What?”
“No. You can’t. I would have noticed.”
“Sherlock, have you not been paying attention for the last decade? Either I’m a glutton for punishment or I’m completely mad for you.”
“You can’t,” Sherlock says, nearly pleading.
“I can. Do… Am. And I don’t know if you’re even interested in that sort of thing, I know you used to say relationships were messy and pedestrian, and even if you are interested you might not be in me, but I though—well. You should know. So. There we are.”
“Are you completely mental?” Sherlock says, stalking back into John’s space. “I thought you were heterosexual.”
“I did too,” John mutters, “apparently I was wrong.”
Sherlock ignores him.
“I have been pining for you since I was fourteen years old. Of course I’m interested in—that. With you.”
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“I—pining? Really?”
“Shut up.”
John feels like he should kiss Sherlock. Now. But the logistics of it are something he hadn’t considered. What he’d like to do is just grab a handful of Sherlock’s stupid hair and pull him down to his level, but Sherlock is looking skittish enough, he doesn’t want to scare him away. It’s as he’s considering this that Sherlock takes a step back, eyes slipping from John’s to some point over his shoulder.
Shit.
“What’s wrong?” John asks.
“I don’t know how. To be in an ordinary relationship. I’ve never even tried. I’m going to ruin it. I—“
“Sherlock, it’s fine. No relationship between the two of us ever had the hope of being ordinary anyway.”
Sherlock is still backing away, though.
“Why can’t I just be normal?” he says, more to himself than John. “I wish I were normal.”
“I don’t.” John says fiercely.
And he does kiss Sherlock then. Because he isn’t really sure what else to do.
One moment Sherlock is talking, and then he’s talking against John’s mouth, and then there isn’t any talking at all anymore.
They end up pressed against the door, Sherlock’s head ducked, held in place by John’s hand knotted in his hair. Sherlock’s palms are moving restlessly from John’s collarbone to hips, pausing at different muscle groups, fingers lingering over the scar tissue at his shoulder, and John realizes he has absolutely no idea what to do next, but more of this would be rather nice.
He makes an effort to gentle the kiss, nips at Sherlock’s bottom lip when he doesn’t seem inclined to follow his lead. Sherlock jumps, then grins. Bites back. Their breathing slows, movements less urgent as John releases Sherlock’s hair, lets his hands move down his neck, to trace his shoulder blades, sharp, like aborted wings beneath the soft fabric of his t-shirt.
“So,” John says, making a bit of space between them. “Do we understand each other, then?”
“I—yes.” Sherlock’s hair is positively a riot, his mouth pink, a bit of stubble burn on his jawline, and John finds the whole look really, really appealing.
He presses another kiss to the lips in question simply because he can now.
“Good.”