Chapter Text
Five months later
It had been a complete waste of his time. There had been rumours of someone in Oxford who claimed to have actually survived the Event but with minimal burns, supposedly by being in a tunnel where the natural light was reflected, not direct. Sherlock had been sent to examine the woman’s burns and extract her story.
It was nonsense, of course, and a complete fabrication. Although it raised interesting questions that had him dwelling on the possibilities of the effect of reflection on the Event and the potential for someone to have been able to witness the Event unharmed if they were out of range of the light but able to view someone exposed to natural light in lieu of electrical lights. He was sat in the jeep, being driven back to London, thinking about whether there would be any record of any survivors in tunnels especially Dartford, when the snow started to fall.
Well that derailed those plans then.
The winter, along with the cold and starvation it had brought with it, had made London more treacherous to cross than ever. It wasn’t unknown for their convoys to be attacked by desperate survivors. They certainly couldn’t afford to be stopped by heavy snow. It was decided that since they were much closer to Windsor than they were to London they should stop over there.
The castle had changed a great deal since it had come under new management, although not that anyone could see that from the outside. Fear of what it had once been was still their greatest defence. Although if they wanted to keep that up then they should probably stop the children from having a snowball fight just outside the gatehouse. That was unlikely ever to happen, Sherlock noted, when he spotted that at least two of the combatants were soldiers in full uniform.
Their wristbands were checked at the gate which at least saved the bother of contacting Mycroft to say where they were going. Most of the glitches in the system had been smoothed out and there was continuous communication between the castle and the main Enclave. When the power wasn’t down.
To be fair they were assured by the site manager – Mycroft’s carefully chosen lieutenant – that the generators were fixed and coping much better with the increase of demands that had been pressed on them lately. But the scorched metal bins scattered throughout the main building showed evidence of the residents’ recent need to make their own heating rather than rely on the electric system.
The guest bedrooms were far and above anything the Enclave could offer. That, the fresh air and the open land that twinkled quite beautifully under the crisp snow made it easy to see why so many had chosen to brave the glitches and make this their home. Including the chief medical officer, Doctor John Watson.
He caught his first glance of John in the dining room – the old state dining room in all its glory where royalty and important dignitaries had once dined on the finest of dishes, now filled with soldiers, scientists, farm workers and their families dining on beef stew. Rather nice beef stew, in all honesty, but hardly the full royal experience.
John didn’t appear to notice him as he came in with a group of friends that included Harry and doctor-in-training Alice Baker, who had been very wisely separated from Helen Webber before the two killed each other. As the group sat down further up the table they all seemed too caught up laughing at some private joke that it was no wonder he went unnoticed.
John looked good. Much better than last time he had seen him, although given that had been shortly after the doctor had been imprisoned and shot that was really to be expected. Still, even taking that into account, John looked happier, healthier, better rested and more relaxed than he had ever seen him. The country air must have agreed with him. He didn’t want to spoil the effect with his presence so he finished his meal as quickly as possible and went back to his room.
He hoped to leave early the next morning but was horrified to discover when he woke up the next day a blizzard going on outside. He tried to persuade his escort to have a go at it but was told quite firmly that while the jeep would be able to make it across settled snow there was no chance in hell they were going out when visibility was so low and snow was falling that quickly.
So it was with great reluctance he found himself in one of the rec rooms, staring out the window as John Watson entered. This time, however, the doctor headed straight for him.
“Here,” John said.
He took the mug which was offered automatically but examined it warily as John dropped into a nearby armchair. It was brown and murky.
“Gertie has been experimenting with making chocolate,” John said conversationally. “This lot wouldn’t solidify properly but add a shot of whisky and it will warm your cockles like nobody’s business.”
“Do I need to warm my cockles?” he asked.
“Sherlock,” said John, as if he was giving a fatal diagnosis, “if anyone needs their cockles warming, it’s you. Drink up.”
As if to demonstrate he took a sip out of his mug. Sherlock followed suit and my that had a bit of a kick to it. Nice though. He took another sip because the intoxicating effects of alcohol could only make this conversation better.
John held his own mug between his hands as if to warm them and asked,
“So what are you doing in my part of the country?”
The tone was friendly enough, almost like the old days, but the possessive didn’t bode well.
He explained about the con artist in Oxford and was surprised when John made encouraging noises and asked questions about his theory relating to the tunnel. Soon he was explaining about his current avenues of research and describing his theories on reflection by using a dart board and a snooker ball. John talked and laughed and called him brilliant in all the right places. The whole morning seemed to fly by with their discussions.
Over lunch, John asked for updates on Lestrade, Helen Webber and Wearing and their football team. In exchange the doctor offered stories about day to day life at Windsor including the time he had walked in on three burly lifetime soldiers cooing excitedly about the dainty china in Queen Anne’s dollhouse before noticing him, coughing embarrassingly and sidling away.
After their meal John had to do rounds and Sherlock was about to offer to come with him when he was approached by the head of his escort. The weather had cleared up and the forecast looked good so they could leave now if he was ready. He looked back towards John who was smiling fondly.
“I guess I’ll see you next time you’re in the area.”
His heart leapt at the thought that John was willing to, even wanted to, see him again.
“Would that be okay?” he checked.
“Yeah. I,” John looked embarrassed. “I missed you actually. I wondered if I would and I did. I’d like us to be friends. I missed you as a friend.”
A friend. His heart sank until it felt like it was at the bottom of his chest. But still, some John was better than no John.
“That would be good.”
“Email me.”
“I will.”
John nodded then turned to walk away. He hesitated and a second later he was in Sherlock’s personal space planting a soft kiss on his cheek.
“For now,” John said, before hurrying away.
Sherlock’s hand touched the spot on his cheek where John had kissed him as if drawn by gravity. There were flutterings in his stomach and his heart was beating out a drum roll.
“Sir?”
Damn that man and his jeep that was taking him away from John again. Except he needed to get away from John before he mucked it up again. Before John changed his mind. He nodded and let himself be led away, already trying to think of something to put in his first email.
Friends. They could be friends for a while. They had all the time in the world after all. Friends would do. For now.
THE END