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Sherlock Holmes is an idiot, unconscionably stupid, and John Watson is gone.
Tuesday, 7:04 pm
John is four minutes late to what is most definitely not a date, and there’s something off about the barman. He is, in fact, a real barman, but Sherlock is fairly certain he’s never worked at this particular establishment before. The drinks are good, strong but not too boozy, and his practiced hands hold all the telltale marks and calluses.
Yet, he's reached for ice on the wrong side three times now. None of the other workers talk to him, and while he’s not unsociable, he’s not making much of an effort to work the counter. His name tag is new, shinier than the rest.
John is never late, a holdover from his military days. The seed of worry planted four minutes ago has blossomed in Sherlock’s chest.
Tuesday, 8:15 am
John Watson throws back his head and yowls with amusement. It’s autumn in London and something Sherlock said has him in fits.
“You can’t be serious. You’re serious!” he exclaims, gesturing wildly with his coffee cup, the third of the day judging by the tremors in his hand, and Sherlock is allowing himself a rare cigarette on this finest of mornings.
“A man should know when the university he paid to attend doesn’t exist,” Sherlock says mildly. “I was being helpful.”
“Bullocks. You were showing off.”
“That, too,” he admits with a grin.
It’s the weather, surely, that’s warming his chest. Everyone knows Sherlock Holmes has a predilection for London, one might even call it a fondness if they didn’t know better. Or perhaps it’s that he’s eaten his first hot meal in almost a fortnight in quick bites from John’s plate at a small place 'round the corner from their flat. Or perhaps it’s the man walking beside him, carelessly bumping elbows, blissfully unaware that on this particular day, his eyes are the exact blue of the sky.
The man in crisp fatigues steps from a car in broad daylight and knocks them both to the cobblestones, splattering John’s coffee. The attacker seems most interested in kickboxing Sherlock’s torso, but only gets a few blows in before John scrambles to his feet and goes after him with a soldier’s precision, knocking him back into the door of the car.
John has the upper hand 'til the curb cuts off beneath his feet and he stumbles, just long enough to be whipped around and slammed into the car instead, shattering the window.
Sherlock’s hands tighten around the assailant’s neck. He looks oddly familiar, but there’s no context for him in Sherlock’s mind, so he can’t be that important. The uniform doesn’t fit well, either very new or very old. From his posture Sherlock thinks the attacker might have a broken rib, courtesy of a certain army doctor, and bad knees courtesy of what was probably a sports injury, but he’s no less persistent for the injuries.
With an elbow, the thug knocks the wind from Sherlock’s lungs, once, twice, and has time to bring a heel down onto Sherlock’s knee before John drags the guy off and sends him flying.
“Come on, let’s go,” he grunts, hauling Sherlock up and catching his arm. “Lean on me.”
Sherlock attempts to wave him away. “I’m fine.”
A scraping noise - the thug is barreling towards them and Sherlock braces but John doesn’t let go of his arm as he draws the pistol from his waistband.
“You will leave,” Watson says with the calm rage of a man who’s seen unimaginable danger. “Or I will make you.”
A gust of wind whips their coats, but doesn’t move Watson’s hand, and it’s clear that whatever the mission, it’s not worth the thug’s life. He dodges into the dented vehicle, and is gone quite as suddenly as he’d appeared.
“What was that about?” John mumbles, but he sounds far less perturbed than he should.
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Get off.” John acquiesces, letting go of his arm, and heading toward the flat. Sherlock stares forlornly at his crushed cigarette on the pavement.
“Absolutely not,” John says from a few paces in front and without looking back.
“Not what?”
“You do not get another cigarette.”
They stumble up and into 221B. Sherlock shucks his coat and scarf a little too quickly, breathing deep against the pain in his chest. “You broke his rib,” he rumbles.
John shrugs, tossing his jacket on the couch. “He broke one of yours.”
“Did he?”
“Bruised, at the very least. Let me take a look.”
“That’s not -”
“No, shut up.” John’s fingers are unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt and it’s suddenly impossible to form words. Sherlock knows these hands, every scrape and scar. He knows how those fingers look holding a teacup, or typing awkwardly with only the indexes. He knows how John holds a pen, how he folds his jumpers. But this...
Businesslike, John brushes Sherlock’s shirt open without ever touching his skin, stepping back to observe and briskly rubbing his palms together.
“Slight bruising already. Alright, breathe in.”
Sherlock’s on the inhale already, so the gasp when John touches him is barely noticeable. “Out now. Good.” He crouches to one knee, listening with his hands on Sherlock’s hips. “In again, now out. Pain?”
“A bit.” Less of the kind John’s worried about, but that’s there too.
“My best guess is they’re just bruised, nothing’s cracking, but make sure you move around a bit today. Pace furtively or whatever it is you do. Now, let me see that knee.”
“Oh, come off it, John -”
“Are we doing this again? Shall I knock you out and get it done in one go?”
“I’d like to see you try,” Sherlock mutters, rolling up the leg of his trousers.
“I’ll bet you would. Ouch, that looks painful. Here hold my shoulder, bend that knee, good. Pain from one to ten?”
“Negative four. Ow!” He scowls as John withdraws his hand smugly. “I don’t appreciate being prodded.”
“And I don’t appreciate being lied to, though it’s probably a moot point. Don’t suppose I could convince you to put some ice on these bruises?”
“I don’t have time for -”
“Ugh fine, it’s your life. I don’t think you can do too much damage unless we get jumped again. Or, you, really. He wasn't so interested in me. What’s that about?”
Sherlock claps his hands together. “I have no idea, but there’s no better palliative than a mystery.”
“Alright, you lunatic. Have fun, I have to get to work.”
“Wait. What about you?”
“Did you hit your head?” he teases. “I’m fine.”
Sherlock closes the space between them, noting John’s quick, shallow breaths left over from adrenaline. Frowning, he reaches forward and thumbs a drop of blood from John’s lower lip. A muscle in the doctor’s jaw twitches, but he holds his stance.
“You’re bleeding.”
“Oh, I hadn’t noticed.”
Sherlock brings his thumb to his mouth and sucks the droplet from the pad of his finger.
“Jesus, Sherlock! Don’t - why on earth?”
He shrugs, turning away. Even he knows it’s not acceptable to say, ‘I needed to know what you taste like.’ He goes with, “Research.”
John rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, well buy a bloke some dinner first,” he mutters.
Tuesday, 7:05 pm
He checks his phone again, again, again.
“Last drink sir, on the house.”
“I didn’t order anything.”
“On the house, sir,” the barman repeats, dropping the tumbler on top of a receipt, and when Sherlock looks up from his phone (again), the man is gone.
He scowls at the White Russian. Not remotely his taste, so he slides it to the woman sitting adjacent and plucks up the receipt on his way out.
Something is wrong.
The pub is walking distance from the flat, it’s why he’d chosen it. He’s on the front stoop when his phone buzzes. Unknown number, but there are only four saved in his cell so the odds are not all that unusual.
The message however, steals his breath more sharply than the bruised ribs.
It’s John. Not from John, of John, a photo, and Sherlock hates that he recognizes the look of a bomb vest on his best friend. John doesn’t look frightened. Of course not. He looks furious.
The accompanying text reads, “Someone’s got to finish the job. - M”
Sherlock turns soundlessly, and strides into the house.
It makes him mindlessly rageful that Moriarty would dare try this again, as if he doesn’t know Sherlock will flay him open and leave him to die. The rage heating his throat is useless to John though, so he breathes it out.
John’s jumper is tossed over the back of his chair. He’d been here, on the way to drinks. Sherlock grabs it. It smells of him, antiseptic and soap and the world comes into focus.
This was premeditated, and it’s always a game, so who’s playing?
The bartender with the shining name tag. “Theo.” He digs the receipt from his pocket and scans it again.
White Russian. Twelve pounds nineteen. Expensive for a drink, even in London.
Theo. White Russian. Twelve pounds nineteen.
Theo. Russian. Dostoevsky. Too easy. Maybe not Moriarty after all, but John's still gone so he persists.
White… White Nights…Twelve pounds nineteen…Page Twelve. Line 19.
He yanks the book from the shelf with such vigor something falls from the lintel and shatters. Page 12. There’s a note tucked in the seam, but first, Line 19.
“But how could you live and have no story to tell?”
He unfolds the note. It’s stupid stationary, a cartoon bird, red-breasted and mocking.
“A little birdy told me: X marks the spot.”
Sherlock hurls the book across the room. Jim does love a good fairy tale. Stories, birds, treasure maps…
Maybe the currency is stories, maybe Moriarty is torturing words from John as Sherlock sits there - “Wasting time!” He slams his fist into the mirror above the fireplace, shattering it, and Mrs. Hudson is already up the stairs. With a dramatic sigh he throws himself onto the couch.
“Sherlock, what is the matter?” She picks up the book from the floor and folds John’s jumper.
“Not now.”
“Well, it’d be nice if we went a week without property damage. Where’s John?”
Where indeed, Mrs. Hudson?
“Where’d you get this little robin stationary?” She plucks the note from the floor. “Bit colorful for you, isn’t it?”
Robin. Ex marks the spot.
Watson in a rare blue shirt with no jumper, eyes dancing in the low light of the pub. An army buddy, spending the night trying to embarrass him in front of Sherlock and unknowingly endearing him to the detective even more.
“But that was back when you were with Robin? How long were you two together?”
“Less than a year, bugger off and let me drink in peace! That was ages ago!”
His phone buzzes. Another photo of John, somewhere rocky, perhaps underground. Still in the vest, hair strangely mussed, not from a fight (though someone had reopened the cut on his lip), but as if a person ran their fingers through it a good few times, and that thought makes Sherlock somehow angrier.
“Hands. Off,” he replies, gritting his teeth.
“Make me.”
Tuesday, 7:48 pm
Robin Sharp lives alone in a flat across town. Sherlock rings the bell without ceasing until he hears a rustling behind the door. He plans on telling her he’s been mugged, phone stolen -- “Please can I use yours?”-- the same old bit, when a man opens the door.
Sherlock coughs. Perhaps she has a boyfriend? “I’m … I’m looking for Robin Sharp?”
“That's me,” he says, tucking a hand in his pocket. “Can I help you?”
“I’m…” Dire situations call for dire measures, so he aims for some approximation of the truth. “Sherlock Holmes, at your service. I presume you’ve heard of me?”
“Sorry, no.”
“I’m the world’s only consulting detective. Surely you’ve - never mind. Your previous partner John Watson is my assistant. He’s gone missing. Have you heard from him lately?”
“Assistant, eh?” Mr. Sharp eyes Sherlock with some suspicion, then opens the door wider. “Come in.”
It’s a small flat but not uncomfortable. He’s an ex-smoker, sports enthusiast. A professor of some sort; Sherlock would put money on the Sciences. No pets. Amateur musician. A tendency towards disorganization. Normal. Boring.
Robin leads him into the sitting room. “You’re not the first person come looking for him today. Tea?”
“No, thank you. Not the first?”
“Guy came round this afternoon asking after him.”
“What did he look like?”
“I dunno, nondescript sort of fellow.”
Sherlock sighs. That’s what he wants you to think. “What did he say?”
Robin shakes his head. “Not much, said he was an old friend of John’s from school. They were in a few music classes together.”
“Music? But John’s not musical.”
“The hell he’s not. That’s his guitar.” Robin gestures to the instrument leaning in the corner, then blushes. “He...left it behind… after we - anyway. Other fellow was quite keen on it, even asked to play a few bars.”
“Might I?”
“Be my guest.”
It’s a fairly standard instrument, a few scrapes and marks. Well-loved. “John was...good at this?”
“Quite. He’s got a lovely singing voice too, honestly--not that I’d ever tell ‘im that.”
At least that wasn’t news.
“Guitar. I...I didn’t know.”
John can’t have played regularly since they’ve been colleagues, no calluses on his fingers or creases in his jeans. A whole facet of the gem that is John Watson that he had no clue about. Why?
In his head, John answers for him. “You never asked.”
There’s an envelope peeking out from the tone hole of the guitar and Sherlock rescues it with delicate fingers. His own name is scrawled across it.
Robin watches with bright eyes. “Well I’ll be damned. Look at that. Sherlock Holmes. Maybe you are as good as they say.”
“You do know who I am,” he states, placing the guitar back with more care than he’d retrieved it, and heads back toward the front door.
“I do, yeah.”
“Why did you lie?”
“You seem like the arrogant sort.”
Sherlock scoffs. “I can see why you and John got on so well. So why let me in?”
“Because I think you care for him. Seen it in the papers. You’re friends. Maybe more. And he looks at you like you hung the moon, so…”
“Some friend I am. I didn’t know...” He shrugs a bit helplessly. “He’s always carrying on about how he’s not gay.”
Robin holds the front door open with a chuckle. “Yeah. O’ course, he’s not straight either then, is he?”
“Why did the two of you fall out? You still love him.”
There’s pain in Robin’s eyes, and Sherlock recognizes it intimately.
“Well, he went off to war for one thing. And for another…” He sighs. “I think the life I wanted was a bit...slower than what he had in mind.”
“I’m sorry.” He’s surprised to find he means it. “If it makes any difference, he cared for you deeply.”
“How do you know?”
“He loved that guitar, got it when he was young enough to do silly things like put stickers on an antique. But he left it with you. He trusted you’d care for it as he did.”
Robin is staring, then blinks hard, shaking his head. “You find him, eh?”
“I will.”
“I know.”
Sherlock steps into the night wondering what other facets of his most prized possession are still hidden from view, and swears to find them all.
The envelope is standard, flimsy, unassuming.
“All work and no play makes John a dead boy.”
Christ. A very different kind of story.
Next stop, the hospital.
Tuesday 10:45 am
Sherlock bursts through the door then leans against it heavily as it closes, saying, “Someone stole a space rock. A space rock, John, who would even -”
The doctor doesn’t even look up, opting instead for smiling at the patient before him on the table. “Everything looks clear Gemma, it’s just a cold.”
“Who is that?” the little girl asks, eyes wide but notably unafraid of the man who barged into the office in the middle of her examination.
“That is…” John sighs. “A friend of mine.”
“Oh, has he got an appointment too?”
“He absolutely does not.”
She squints at Sherlock. “Perhaps you’d better check him out anyway? Or does he always look so peaky?”
John laughs, color in his cheeks. Sherlock rolls his eyes.
“I’ll take that under advisement. Now get. I’ll have Nurse Amy tell your mother you’re fine.”
“I could be a bit not fine, don't you think?”
John eyeballs her for a moment and Sherlock is entranced by this unfamiliar medicine.
“Test tomorrow?”
“We have to give a speech,” she whispers to her shoes.
“Alright you get one day, one, and then you get back at it, understood?”
She throws her arms around his neck and he pats her gently on the head before she peels out of the room. John follows with a soft smile and an eye roll. Sherlock can hear him talking to the nurse, something about a day off and they both chuckle.
“What kind of space rock?” John asks upon returning, as if there was never a patient at all.
Sherlock waves a hand. “From the moon.”
“Money, Sherlock,” John mutters, peeling off his gloves. “That has to be worth millions of pounds.”
“Perhaps. Was there anything wrong with that child?”
“Allergies. She’ll have a sore throat for a few days but the weather’s getting colder, whatever’s triggering it will die off soon.”
“How do you know it’s seasonal? She had cat hair on her clothes.”
“Her family’s had Mr. Fitz longer than they’ve had her. Plus, no dermal or optical irritation.”
“A cold?”
He rattles off answers like Sherlock at a crime scene. “Lymph nodes aren’t swollen. Mucus is clear. No fever. She has a slight runny nose that’s causing a scratchy throat, and a speech tomorrow, which is the most important symptom, really. I’m not a complete idiot you know.”
“Just performing a frequent and exemplary impression?”
“Christ, not everyone knows the type of wool in a Burberry coat or the weather patterns over Cornwall, you sod. Some of us just know normal things.”
Sherlock is feeling generous, and to be honest, a little taken with the man kicked back in the chair, stethoscope tossed lazily about his throat. Sun filters between vertical blinds and paints gold into John’s hair, and despite his tone, he’s smiling.
“Well that’s not you either then is it?” Sherlock observes.
“Come again?” John murmurs.
Please.
“Normal things. Kill shot at 30 yards for example?”
“Wasn’t me.”
“Stitching wounds, diagnosing time of death, saving little girls from distressing assignments?”
“Any good doctor would -”
“And you tolerate me.”
“You’re right, that is extraordinary.”
“I’m trying to give you a compliment, John.”
“Yes, I know.” He frowns. “Why?”
“When are you off?”
“Two more hours, Sherlock - why?”
“Yes, I’d love to stay, thank you.”
John blinks, incredulous. “You can’t. Privileged information.”
“I’m a student then, tell them that. Observing for my foundation training programme.”
John sighs, and Sherlock begins buttoning his jacket when he hears, “Yeah, alright, but you will wait outside if anyone asks.”
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why on earth would you want to stay? This is a public clinic. The most interesting thing you’ll see today will be a bad case of thrush. Maybe.”
“And?”
“It’s boring Sherlock. You hate boring.”
“I do. What can you deduce from that?” It’s risky, even for him.
“You don’t think you’ll be bored,” John decides. “Do you need to sort arbitrary facts in my general direction? Or you’re worried about something. You expecting any more madmen leaping from cars?”
“None other than you, John Watson.” It’s too fond, the way he says it, but what’s done is done.
John examines him, eyes crinkling at the corners and for a moment Sherlock chances a conclusion he’s sure he’s wrong about. Hope is a painful thing.
There’s a knock. “Your eleven o’clock is here. Who on earth…?”
John gives her a grin and barely attempts to explain. “This is … um… my … Sherlock Holmes.” How right he is. “It’s fine, Amy,” he continues. “Send in Mr. Cage will you?”
Sherlock settles at John’s desk and fiddles with the prescription pad there for barely a second before it’s swiped from his fingers.
“Oh no you don’t. Fidget with this instead,” John mutters, and stands over him to drag something off a shelf above the desk. He’s close enough that when his shirt pulls up from his jeans, Sherlock can see a bruise on his hip, purple and horrid and somehow his fault.
The detective reaches out to brush a fingertip against the discolored flesh but John catches his wrist roughly before he can make contact, pressing last week's copy of the BMJ into his palm. “Here. Ah, Mr. Cage, do come in.” He tucks the shirt tail back behind denim, unconscious of the brand he’d left behind on Sherlock’s skin. “This is Dr. Holmes, he’s in training. Mind if he observes?”
With no objection, John ushers the patient into the room and opens his file.
“Technically, that’s true,” Sherlock murmurs as the older man situates himself on the examination table.
“What? You’re in training?”
“I’m a doctor, though not medical, mind you.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Twice, technically, but who’s counting.”
John stares, then mutters,“You.” It’s accusation and amazement, and Sherlock turns brusquely back to the desk, flipping a page in the medical journal, letting John do the boring work of diagnosing the patient.
Sherlock has someone more intriguing to examine.
Tuesday 8:37 pm
It’s easy enough to sneak past security. He checks the A and E first, finding it blessedly void of John Watsons. Using the fire stairs, he sneaks up to the floor with John’s office. The hospital is quiet; The lights are dim as he emerges into the corridor. It makes sense, these offices are used for appointments, it's not the ICU.
Almost two hours have elapsed, and he's feels no closer. Far too much time underground. Sherlock is an expert at taking people apart. Two hours is enough time to ruin a man's life while still letting him keep it. He has to hurry.
"What are you doing?"
He whirls around to face the nurse from earlier in the day. Thank god for name badges. "Amy. Long shift for you today."
"You're that arse that keeps getting John in trouble."
He considers denying it, but frankly, he's emphatically of the same mind. "One and the same."
"Why are you here?"
"I need to get into his office."
"You must be more mad than I thought if you think I'll let you do that."
"For once, I'm trying to get him out of trouble instead."
"Change of heart?" She's mocking him, but something in his face makes her pause. "Is he in trouble?"
"Yes."
"Can you help him?"
It's a good question, a better question than most he'd asked today, and still without an answer.
"I'm trying."
She scowls and tilts her head towards John's office door. “You have five minutes,” she warns and he thanks her as genuinely as he can with a low grade fever of nerves jangling in his veins.
The room is shadow, and he’s washed by the icy deficit of John’s glow. He rummages through the desk drawers. Notepads, files, pens, random medical supplies - useless. The shelves of books and medical journals offer nothing but the memory of John’s hand circling his wrist.
What an inane scavenger hunt. He has no doubt that even if he made the call, John would remain prisoner until Sherlock has danced through every step of this asinine choreography - and for what? To languish in the knowledge that the best man he knows will be nearby but never close, familiar but never intimate, for the rest of his days (which are surely numbered when John finds a woman to contend with Sherlock’s madcap pantomime of a life)?
It doesn’t matter. Emotion, once more a stumbling block. He glances back to the photos in his phone and sobers up.
All work and no play. No play. Play what? Another thing he should probably know and never asked. A game? Another instrument?
He scans the walls. Certificates, a few photos. An army buddy. Harry. An old photo of a rugby team.
John beams from the center, arms around the shoulders of his teammates, and it twists in Sherlock’s chest how rarely he sees John like that - all lit up from the inside out.
He takes the photo down from the wall, and the envelope falls to the ground.
Four corners of your winged horse.
Such a shame you’ll be too late.
Winged horse. Valkyrie? Haizum? Pegasus perhaps, another tale in a dark book? Four corners? Of Britain? A bloody square? Into his phone he types, “Valkyrie Four Corners.” Aston Martin. Seems unlikely. He tries “Pegasus Four Corners” instead.
The results populate quickly, better service here than at Baker Street.
Electricity sweeps his skin as he clicks the phone closed, gathers his jacket about his throat, and leaves.
Monday 7:55 am
The shower’s running and Sherlock is trying to research historical Indian art but it’s increasingly more difficult as John is bellowing some song at the top of his lungs. “We walk together, we're walking down the street, and I just can't get enough, and I just can't get enough. Every time I think of you, I know we have to meet, and I just can't get enough, and I just can't get enough…”
Sherlock hammers on the door. “Pipe down! I’m researching!”
The water turns off, but the singing continues, “It's getting hotter, it's a burning love, And I just can't seem to get enough of -”
“Christ, John, shut up!”
The door bursts open and John barges out in a cloud of steam, towel ‘round his waist and hair a mess.
“You shut it. The blog’s been nominated for Best Blog UK!” He’s doing a stupid dance around the kitchen table, and in spite of the interruption, Sherlock can’t deny it’s terribly amusing.
“And what world renowned scholars, pray tell, are voting for this award?”
Whirling around, John points an accusatory finger. “Oi! You let me be pleased about this! I work bloody hard on that blog and you know it.”
The scar on his shoulder sticks a cramp in Sherlock’s chest, so he turns away and flips the kettle on, and John takes back up with his dancing. John is more filled out than he’d have thought, all those pushups Sherlock hears in the too late and too early hours, perhaps. A drop of water winds down his back, tracing over a smattering of freckles to the left of the base of his spine, almost a perfect square, and it’s the exact shape and orientation of a constellation Sherlock remembers from a book as a boy. Without thinking he walks over and traces the invisible lines of the galaxy onto John’s skin murmuring, “Pegasus.”
John’s movement halts, but he’s not moving away from Sherlock’s hand.
“Pardon?” he whispers.
“This, a birthmark maybe. The exact shape of the Great Square of Pegasus. It’s a constellation - a combination of them really.”
He can hear John swallow, and for some reason, the doctor’s breath is shaky. “Andromeda.”
“What?” The word is audible but he can’t process it.
“The other galaxy. In The Square. It’s Andromeda.”
“Perhaps you aren’t such an idiot after all.”
John snorts and turns around, heat radiating off him, and an inconvenient riot of emotions floods Sherlock, affection, frustration, anger at the scarred-over bullet hole, and intrigue at this man and his body, a man who holds very still when Sherlock touches him lightly. He wonders how John would react to something a bit more personal.
“It’s magic,” John says softly. “Billions of worlds… we’re looking into the past. The same stars the ancient Egyptians tracked, Babylon worshiped, Inca told stories about. History beyond history. It’s the thread that connects us all, Sherlock; We look up at the night sky and wonder. In Afghanistan we’d try to come up with new constellations, but they all ended up being so rude we couldn’t really repeat them once we got home.” His eyes sparkle with humor and Sherlock sees stars. “Anyway. I’ll shut up now.”
“You really are a writer, aren’t you? Listen to that prose.”
“Don’t tease.”
He wasn’t.
“You were the one that didn’t know about the solar system,” John points out, peering more closely at Sherlock. “Are you alright? You look a bit…”
Sherlock shakes himself and steps away more quickly than he means to. “Fine. Now go away, you’re dripping on the floor.”
“There’s a human hand in our refrigerator, I refuse to believe a little water is going to contaminate this room further.” But he’s heading to the door up to his room when Sherlock manages, “Congratulations, by the way. On the nomination.”
John shrugs but Sherlock can tell he’s pleased. “Thanks. We’ll see.”
“They’d be fools not to vote for you.”
Startled, the doctor’s eyes dart back to him, and Sherlock is unnerved to find that he can’t read the look there. “Thank you.” And then he’s gone.
Tuesday 9:22 pm
The planetarium is lively for so late in the evening. There’s an event, which seems foolish after such a large theft, but Sherlock has no delusions about the stupidity of capitalism and finds himself not at all surprised.
It's a beautiful building. Sherlock thinks that if this doesn't all go to shit, he should take John here someday, listen to him wax poetic about the nature of the galaxy. It's a hard version of John to resist (aren't they all) when his eyes light up like that, like he's watching something fascinating no one else can see. Maybe they'll find the ridiculous moon rock together. Or maybe he'll find John's body in a cave.
Bile crawls up his throat.
On a normal night Sherlock would have figured out some way to deduce the location of the exhibit he’s looking for, but John isn’t there to be impressed by him and time is of the essence, so he prods a docent for the location of any information about the Great Square of Pegasus.
“Sorry, there aren't any,” she says, checking the screen of her tablet.
His stomach lurches. “There must be.”
“Sorry sir, you can watch one of the shows if you like. Perhaps they mention it?”
It's entirely not enough. He's missing something.
The rounded dome above him floods with color and he leans back in his seat. The show is about the constellations of London, with a little basic physics thrown in, but he knows John would’ve loved it. And still, not enough. He listens absently for any keywords and ruminates over the rest. The clues - too random, too simple. Someone's obsessed with John. More so even than he, which is a disturbing thought.
A man trips over Sherlock’s outstretched feet and stumbles, righting himself with a hand on the row of chairs in front of them. He’s gone into the dark when Sherlock realizes the man dropped his phone in his stumble. Plucking it from the floor, it lights.
John is the background, unconscious, but based on the state of the clothing and his lip, this photo was taken before all the others. Why on earth would Moriarty, or his copycat, send them out of order?
The text banner slides across John’s face.
He’s enchanting, your king.
The castle with the three man path.
Don’t be late.
Tuesday 9: 50 pm
For all his reliance on fact in adulthood, Sherlock Holmes was raised in a world of magic. Bouncing from town to town, school to school with Mycroft as his only companion, it’s no wonder he took solace in books.
And though he’d never admit it, most of that information has served a purpose over the years, be it cultural information or facts too recherché for the layperson. He’d done his research as a child, found all the historical landmarks from his fairy tales, so he knows about Tintagel Castle - King Arthur’s castle in Cornwall - and it’s bridge across the sea, not more than three men wide.
It’s four hours by car to Cornwall, and another two dozen or so minutes to the structure, little more than a stone skeleton of a stronghold from the past. Fewer rooms to search when there are no remaining interior walls, Sherlock muses darkly, though it will still be hours before sunrise when he arrives. A problem for the future. For now, he stews in the back of the most expensive cab he’s ever paid for.
Sherlock is now quite positive the “M” in the first signature was never meant to stand for Moriarty at all. The clues were too easy by far, and there was no countdown, no endgame, just a tousled John and a series of envelopes. Even the most threatening of the clues left behind referenced no more than a hobby from John’s past. It was all John - the ex-boyfriend and the guitar, the birthmark and the obsession with the stars, brushstrokes of the most beautiful art he could never afford and doesn’t deserve to possess.
“But how could you live and have no story to tell?”
Not his story. John’s.
Someone wanted him to look more closely at John’s life, as if Sherlock didn’t spend every waking moment collecting details about the man. Even with his considerable intellect it had taken him over a year to realize the habit and by then it was too late. He knows every line on John’s face, every scar on his hands. Every stupid movie. Every favored takeaway restaurant. The difference between John’s laugh when he’s tickled and when he's nervous.
He knows when John needs to eat (his pulse drops slightly, he articulates less clearly, and he’s more irritable). He knows when John’s tired (dark circles, mild mania, a penchant for melancholy). If he really thinks about it, he knows what John does when he’s devastated (those sea-sky eyes shutter, his brow stays quite still, and he speaks in short sentences without sentiment) which is just wrong.
John Watson is sentiment.
So why all this? Who would care to force Sherlock through these memories? Who could know about them to begin with? Who could steal John out from underneath him? Who could know astronomy, and sports clubs, and the details of a hidden birthmark, who could hide envelopes like breadcrumbs through John’s precious world?
By the time the car arrives in Cornwall, Sherlock Holmes is ready to commit fratricide.
“Hundred quid if you wait thirty minutes,” he snaps to the young cabbie.
“Plus the fare back, sir?”
“Of course.”
“Alright. Nothin’ fishy though. I see any ghosts, I’m off.”
Sherlock is already striding up the stone path, coat billowing behind him.
The world is hung in ghostly fog, and the waves echoing harshly off jagged cliffs below. There wouldn’t be many places to hide John in the ruins, and the photos were taken in a cave, most likely at the waterline, so Sherlock makes his way silently to the wooden stairs into the darkness when he hears a sound behind him.
Sherlock turns on his heel, pulse jumping in his throat. “John?”
The doctor is strolling from the shadows of the cliffs, brushing dust from his coat and shaking his head incredulously, as if he'd heard a bad joke, not bound and gagged for hours. Blood from his lip has caked onto his chin, and Sherlock sees the dark bruises around his wrists before John tugs damp sleeves down over them, but the doctor doesn’t look disturbed in the least.
“I think that brother of yours is a sadist,” John observes nonchalantly. “Does that run in the family? Christ, are you alright?”
Sherlock sputters and John looks up from kicking dirt off his boots.
“Yes, clearly, I’m fine. I’m not the one who’s been tied up in the cliffs all day.”
“Nice to see you too, you sod.” John is smiling as he says it and Sherlock closes the space between them without thinking, taking the doctor’s face in his hands. With the light of his phone he checks John’s pupils (no concussion), and brushes his thumb over the split lip (still quite painful judging by the quick inhale). Then he moves to John’s wrists, frowning at the angry welts there.
John’s hand comes up to cover Sherlock’s. “I’m fine, alright? They drugged me, knocked me about, and left me for a few hours. I’m hungry, I’d kill for a cuppa, but the worst thing about today was unbelievable boredom. And,” he admits, stepping back. “I was a bit worried about you.”
“Me? Why on earth?”
There’s silence while John studies him, and Sherlock wonders how much he knows. Too much, if he’s being consistent, but John shakes his head and lets the subject fall.
“Let’s just go, shall we? I’m guessing that’s our ride?”
“Of course. Go ahead, I’ll be there in a moment.” Sherlock’s eyes are fixed on something over John’s shoulder. “I have to murder Mycroft first.”
Now that they’re closer he can see the faint industrial glow coming from behind one of the ancient stone walls and Sherlock follows it, feeling the helpless stress of the day turn to rage as he steps through the tousled lawn.
A series of makeshift rooms, shipping containers, hidden perfectly behind the ruins, and Sherlock knows exactly where to go. The guards at the door of the cube closest to the sea don’t even try to stop him.
Mycroft is sitting in one of several comfortable looking chairs behind a table, looking at something on his computer while typing into his phone.
“Ah, little brother. You’ve made good time. Better even than I expected.”
Stalking toward him Sherlock growls, “What the hell are you doing, Mycroft?”
“Fighting entropy,” he states blandly without looking up.
“You’re an arrogant bastard.”
Mycroft sighs. “Sherlock, it’s time. I’m afraid I can’t let you two keep dancing around this. Not if you're going to keep so narrowly avoiding death and dismemberment. Mortality is not infinite, you know.”
Sherlock doesn’t ask what he’s talking about, addressing more the important point. “You hurt him.”
“No more than was necessary.”
“This was ridiculously excessive. A bloody scavenger hunt?”
“I needed your undivided attention.”
“You had us attacked!
“Sorry no, that was a fanatic, a potential client you’d turned away a few weeks ago. I am not, in fact, everything that’s wrong in the world.”
Too furious to think, Sherlock slams his fist into corrugated steel, with the hope that the pain might steady him and it works perhaps too well. Everything heightened slides away as he let’s the truth flood him, bright and unbearable.“You miscalculated, Mycroft. This was a cruel waste of time.”
“Oh did I, little brother? How so?”
“I didn’t need a litany of the many gifts of John Watson.” He flexes his fist, feeling blood begin to seep from his knuckles. “I’m quite aware that I have loved him every moment I have known him.”
Mycroft is silent, staring, disbelief flooding his tired eyes. “Then why on earth? Surely you can’t be that deluded. You…” he realizes. “You think he won’t have you.”
“He shouldn’t.”
The older Holmes scoffs, but it’s gentle. “What, have you, or want to?”
Sherlock flushes. “I am not a kind man, Mycroft, nor a particularly safe one.”
“So? John’s addicted to you.”
“Excellent metaphor - proves my point perfectly.” It hurts, behind his chest, wounds or withdrawal. “No one wants to need their drug of choice. And drugs have a nasty habit of getting people killed.”
“More like Methadone, I’d say.” The voice carries calm but sure across the room, and both the Holmes boys turn quickly toward the soldier leaning in the door.
“John -” Sherlock starts.
“Home,” John interrupts. “Let’s go home.”
“To Baker Street?”
“Have we got another flat I’m not aware of? Of course, Baker Street. I’ve got a roast marinating in the fridge.”
A roast. As if a lunatic with too much power and a warped sense of duty hadn’t stolen him from his life, tortured him, and then casually admitted to it. As if he didn’t realize, or worse, didn’t care, that Mycroft had him captured because he was trying to bring Sherlock to his senses.
“You will pay for our cab, Mycroft,” John states blandly.
“Of course. Apologies about the lip.”
John shrugs. “Sorry about your boys.”
“Boys?” Sherlock inquires.
“Yes,” Mycroft sighs. “It’s so difficult to find competent help these days.”
“Oh please,” John says. “You weren’t even trying. The rocks on the floor were like knives and those men -”
“Special forces, I’m afraid,” Mycroft admits, looking pained. “You are just as much trouble as my little brother.”
“Ta,” John says but his casual lean has turned to stone and it cracks in his voice as he adds, “But if you ever do this again, it’s your nose I’m breaking.” Mycroft nods. “If Sherlock doesn’t get to it first.”
“I’m aware.”
“Say good night,” John grunts at Sherlock. “I’m going to sleep for a year and then we can plot his murder.”
The brothers watch incredulously as John heads back toward the cab. “How unexpected,” Mycroft mutters.
Sherlock makes sure John’s out of earshot before he grabs Mycroft by the throat, disregarding the clicks of three firearms being drawn. “If you ever touch him again -”
“I know,” he croaks, and Sherlock releases him with force. “For what it’s worth, I did it for your own good.
"Fuck off. You did this for your own amusement.”
"A bit of that, too, yes."
Sherlock doesn’t bother responding, pausing only to unplug the operation’s generator on his way back to the cab, plunging the ruins into darkness.
John’s leaned back in his seat, half asleep. “Did you just kill their power?”
“Foolish to leave a generator so exposed.” Over the doctor’s sleepy chuckle, Sherlock adds to the cabbie, “Closest food shop.”
The kid nods with the enthusiasm of someone who’s just come into an unfamiliar sum of money and Sherlock rolls his eyes at the knowledge that Mycroft has already taken care of it.
“Let’s go home,” John slurs again, and Sherlock’s chest warms at the word.
“Water first. You’re dehydrated, and probably malnourished.”
“You’re one to talk,” John mumbles, before sliding sideways to fall asleep with his head on Sherlock’s shoulder. When they arrive at the shop the kid gets an extra tenner to run in and grab provisions so no one in the back seat has to move. Sherlock wants this to last as long as possible. He’s certain John won’t be as keen on closeness after their imminent conversation.
John rouses only long enough to down a bottle of water, some painkillers, and a handful of nuts (“You too, you git, I know you haven’t eaten since breakfast,”) and then he’s out again, sleeping through the long hours home. Sherlock memorizes the feel of him tucked into his side, breathing deep all the scents that make up John Watson, leather and soap and wind and warmth, committing all of it to memory - but he keeps his hands to himself.
By dawn they’re traipsing back up the stairs of a silent 221B. Instead of continuing up to his room though, John heads straight toward the shared bathroom, pausing to observe the chaos Sherlock had left in his wake.
He gestures to the shards on the floor. “Did the mirror insult you?”
“It looked at me funny,” Sherlock replies and John grins approvingly.
“Ah well. Polite decor is hard to come by these days.”
It’s so mundane as to be jarring. “Are you… do you need…” One stammer is suspicious enough coming from Sherlock Holmes. Two is positively damning.
John blinks with a fond twist of his mouth. “I’ll call if I need you.”
Need you.
When the door closes, Sherlock sinks into a chair at their table, head in his hands, breathing deep against his bruised ribs. God, he’s in trouble. All the knowledge in the world can’t help him decide whether the feeling there is an old fracture or a new optimism, only that they are equally dangerous.
He stands roughly and sets the kettle to boil. Breathing seems too tiresome to be bothered with and the exhaustion of the day is getting to him. He’s grateful to hear the water shut off, but then, “Damn it. Clothes.”
John had gone into the bathroom with nothing but what he was wearing.
“I’ve got it,” he shouts, procuring knickers and a bathrobe from his closet in the time it takes John to peek his head ‘round the door. It would’ve been easy enough, Sherlock realizes, to pop upstairs and retrieve John’s own clothing for him, but the doctor doesn’t argue and the thought of John in his clothing heats him like a fire.
“Thanks. I’ll be right out.”
He emerges from the bathroom just as the tea is done, looking considerably more lively than a few hours earlier, and Sherlock hands him a scone he’d pilfered from Mrs. Hudson. “Here. Eat. Are you...alright?”
“A bit sore, but I’ve had worse. Are you?”
Sherlock ignores him, pacing. “I’m sorry. Mycroft should never have - ”
“No, he shouldn’t. But you’re not your brother, Sherlock, thank god. It’s not - you can’t possibly think this was your fault.”
“He did this because of me, John, even you must realize that.”
When he turns back to gauge John’s reaction he’s startled to find the man directly in front of him, blocking his path. Close enough to see the tawny light dust across his cheeks and gild his lashes, to shade the lines of laughter around his mouth. Sherlock’s fingers twitch, but he stills the movement as John speaks.
“The men told me about the goose chase Mycroft sent you on.”
“Apologies it took me so long,” he replies stiffly.
“Learn anything useful?” John asks with something akin to amusement, but there’s a layer of nervousness beneath it.
A hesitant breath. “You play guitar.”
“I did. Haven’t in years.”
“You were on a rugby team.”
“Again, old hat.”
“You’re… not gay.”
John chuckles wryly. There it is. “No. But?”
“But you’re not straight either.”
“Is that really news to you?”
“Hope is weakness, John.”
Disbelief and fondness and rage and longing chase across the doctor’s face like a storm, and he shoves Sherlock hard enough to send him stumbling. “Tosser. I heard you! You said...”
“Don’t be stupid, this is dangerous!”
“You mean you are dangerous.”
The cracks spread like spider webs in Sherlock’s chest and the words burst forth, too harsh. “How many times will you let me put you in danger, risk your precious life for some stupid clue, some asinine detail? I’m awful to you, to everyone! I’m obsessive and antagonistic, an addict of the worst ilk. You’re a fool to think this is wise.”
It’s biting, a desperate attempt to keep John safe, but the doctor doesn’t appear to be listening as he backs Sherlock toward the wall beside his bedroom door, every bit the man who survived a war, broke free from Britain’s second most powerful man, and thrives under the same roof as the world’s grumpiest consulting detective.
“Listen to me, Sherlock Holmes,” he says, soft and crystal clear, holding the detective together with a battered hand pressed to his sternum. “You are the greatest man I have ever known and you would break your own heart if it meant keeping me safe, so I won’t ask you the question you’re so afraid of. But you should know, you made a critical error in calculation. A theme in the Holmes family today, I think.”
“Oh really?” He's not breathing, couldn't dream of it against the heat in his lungs.
“You didn’t choose me, you sod,” John explains softly into the stillness. “I chose you.” Sherlock shakes his head, but John doesn’t move his hand, saying, “We met in that lab, you threw out a million arrogant deductions -”
“Nine.”
“But you're not the only person who can read a room. Or a man.”
“Oh really.” He knows that. It’s one of the things he admires most in his friend, but now he’s wondering, in a shadowy place he dares not yet name, if John might take apart his defenses just as efficiently as he holds them all together. “And what were your brilliant deductions?”
Withdrawing, John perches on the edge of the table, eyes never leaving Sherlock.
“Molly was mad for you, had been for years, and subtleties weren’t working so you’d begun to push her away in more obvious ways, but nothing that would really wound her - never calling her dull, or oafish, or careless, for example.
“You knew Mike’s name though he didn’t work in that department, and he called you a friend but we both know he was a fan. He can’t have known you for more than a few days because he transferred to that building from cardiology the week before, but you knew him to be a good man, and shared with him the vulnerability that no one would have you as a flatmate." The delivery is pure Sherlock, and John is merciless.
“Despite needing said flatmate rather badly, you made sure I knew you’d be trouble from the start, and though you really wanted to show off to the army surgeon who was already awed by you, you took less than a minute grandstanding because an innocent man was in trouble and only you could save him.”
“You didn’t - couldn’t possibly have known all that the day we met.”
“True,” John admits with a rueful grin. “It took me a week to put it all together. But by then none of it surprised me, and by then I was already gone on you. Surely you see my point though,” he adds, and his voice takes on a more serious tone. “I knew what I was getting into. I chose this life with you knowing full well it could get me killed, because I knew just as clearly that before you, John Watson might as well have been dead.”
The very sound of the words are unacceptable and Sherlock jerks forward to grasp the front of John’s robe in reflex. “Don’t. John,” he says, their eyes locking, the storm and the sea.
“Are you really going to tell me ‘no’, knowing that you and I together are every good thing I’ve ever wanted? Unless you don’t really -”
It’s reflex, self-preservation when Sherlock gasps, “I cannot lose you.”
The army doctor is staring up at him, clearly seeing things others have missed, and Sherlock can feel the hairs on his arms stand on end, and the lab seems less stuffy, less oppressive, and before he can even worry about parting ways he realizes Dr. Watson will definitely be taking the room at Baker Street and--
Sherlock is pacing the boards of 221B and ranting and John is sprawled back in his chair with a hand over his face, so he misses the stumble of his friend, eyeing the exposed stretch of his throat with barefaced hunger and --
Lestrade will find them in a moment, but they’ve got time, crouched behind the statue in the center of the park. They’re giggling, and Sherlock feels light behind his ribs, humor and something brighter and John loses his balance and sways into Sherlock’s chest and for a breath the detective thinks he might be able to guess what John’s mouth might taste like and --
John picks him up from the ground and brushes stones from his palms and --
Sherlock rips a vest of explosives from the doctor’s shoulders and --
John’s voice yanks him back into his body, into the sunlit room where he’s still grasping the robe--his robe--on a sunlit man who says quite simply, “Then don’t.”
Instead of pieces Sherlock finds he can see the whole, London--and within it, 221, and within it, this truest truth--and he leans forward to brush their mouths together.
It’s soft, like the sweet rain starting to pat at the windows. Like the sweep of John’s collarbone. Like milk in tea. The memory of every moment they’ve frozen when they should’ve collided, every ache he’s carried on his own when John was inches away with his palms outstretched, crashes over him in waves.
He doesn’t analyze, just slides his tongue along the seam of John’s mouth, and groans when the gesture is returned in kind. It feels different than he’d imagined, that strong body pressed to his front, callused hands gripping him back, and he wants all of it and more.
The lines of this story.
The line of John’s collar bone beneath terry cloth. Sherlock breaks from the kiss to nuzzle along the rough angle of his jaw. He slides his hands to the cuffs of the robe and rolls them back, then traces his mouth along the rings of red round John’s wrists.
John makes a strangled noise, too loud in the quiet.“Sherlock, please.”
“Come here,” he says, leading him to the bedroom.
It’s still more night than morning in Sherlock’s room, window facing away from the sun, but it’s too warm when John reaches up. His fingers linger at Sherlock’s throat before sliding down to unbutton his shirt with reverent hands.
Surgery. Prayer.
John brushes Sherlock’s shirt open and lets his fingers travel, feather light across bruised ribs and Sherlock is reminded that he’s not the only one to be knocked around today. He needs to see John, all of him, feel him whole beneath his hands, so he pulls the loose knot of his robe apart. John’s collected his fair share of bruises, and Sherlock hates it, the stain of spilt blood beneath lightly tanned skin. It should never have happened like this; John should never be punished for his loyalty.
“You’re torn to pieces.” John shrugs but Sherlock feels the uncertainty beneath his soldier’s posture. “I’m going to kill Mycroft.” He’s distracted by John sliding calloused palms under silk to push Sherlock’s shirt off his shoulders.
“Let’s not discuss your brother while we’re -”
“You’re right. Best not.”
“Christ.” John traces the early light over Sherlock’s biceps. “It's unfair. How can you be brilliant and look like this?”
“What, malnourished?”
John tilts his chin, forcing their eyes to meet.
“Delicious.”
A little rougher, Sherlock slides his hands around John’s ribs, pressing their bodies together. “You can’t imagine the ways I’ve dreamed of taking you apart.” John coughs and Sherlock doesn’t miss the slight disbelief in the doctor’s face. “Do you think I’m lying?”
Rolling their hips together, John shakes his head. “I can feel that you’re not. But I must admit, I think I’m getting the better end of the deal.”
Sherlock is good with words, but John reads faces, bodies, hearts.
“Turn around.”
“Bit presumptuous don’t you think?” John teases, something between nerves and anticipation shaking his voice.
“Oh, you have no idea,” Sherlock chuckles darkly. “Turn.”
He obeys (for once).
“Did you know I have nightmares?" Sherlock asks. "Not always, but often. I dream that my life is a cocaine fabrication or a medical coma, and when I wake, I’ve lost everything.”
“That’s terrible,” he says, and glances back with the softness of understanding in his eyes.
Sherlock pulls the robe from John’s frame, replacing it quickly with his hands sweeping across broad shoulders.
“In my nightmares, you never came back to London. In some, you’ve been killed in the war." He stutters over a breath, grounding himself against the man beneath his fingers, still here, still his. "But in most you just … never were. I go through each case we’ve had without you.” He runs his palms down John’s back, relishing the soft sighs, then continues down, gliding over hips, strong thighs, crouching run reverent fingers ‘round the bones of his ankles.
He takes his time, memorizing and adoring the man before him for long enough that his voice scratches back to life when he begins again.
“I don’t solve any of them, John. I guess wrong and lose Russian roulette to the cabbie. I can’t figure out the cyphers, the Black Lotus gets away with everything.” He leans forward and presses a gentle kiss to the back of John’s right knee and it buckles, but Sherlock’s expecting it, and steadies him before he moves to the other side. “Moriarty, Irene Adler, I can’t stop any of them. I can’t see. No patterns emerge, it’s just - darkness.”
“But it’s just a dream, Sherlock. You’re brilliant, you solved them, defeated them all.”
“Because when I wake in the morning,” he says, moving up to the dimples at the base of John’s spine. “There is you.”
“Me? Jesus, Sherlock,” he chokes at the mouth laving up his spine.
Sherlock has been one step behind him every step of the way, so now he takes the risk, regains the lead once more. He whirls John around and crowds him against the wall.
“What are you -”
“Emphasizing the point.”
John's ready for him when he crushes their mouths together. He winds their legs together and grins wickedly into the kiss when Sherlock grinds down and they lose time to the sensation. All the worry and fear from the day, from the work, from the nightmares is poured into lips and teeth and tongue.
"God. Wanted you for so long," John murmurs."
Sherlock takes it in, the face of this man, flushed, mouth swollen, his bruised body arched in pleasure. "I've never wanted anyone as desperately as I want you."
He sinks to his knees, and braces John back with an arm across his hips. The man - his man - stands above, gold skin and compact muscles, and chest heaving, and the lancing pink fingers of the scar from a bullet that almost got his heart. Both their hearts.
He presses a kiss into John’s hip, then runs his mouth across the band of the boxers. He murmurs, “You’ll tell me if something doesn’t feel right,” and only when John nods does he begin. Delicately, he runs both hands up John’s legs, under his knickers, and on the return, he pulls them down.
John’s breath catches in disbelief, like perhaps he hadn’t known Sherlock to be capable of something like unclothing a lover. “Look at you,” the doctor whispers, slamming his eyes shut when Sherlock begins to trace the delicate skin where John’s hip meets his thigh, silk beneath his fingers.
“No John, you need to look.”
And then he takes John’s cock into his mouth and takes him apart. He’s not rough or frantic, though he can tell by the minute twitches of John’s hips that perhaps that would be encouraged. But there’s been enough roughness today. Beneath Sherlock’s fingers, John’s chest heaves, his legs tremble. Sherlock should be cataloguing the places that make his doctor gasp, but the world is suddenly so clear - it’s just the weight on his tongue, and the look on John’s face. Nothing else matters.
John has given in and is staring helplessly down, awed and unbearably aroused, and Sherlock feels more powerful knelt there on the floor before this man, than he’s ever felt in his life.
The doctor reaches down and reverently brushes his thumb at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth where it’s stretched around him, and Sherlock groans. He slides off, working John with one hand. “You are above all others to me, John. Surely you must understand that.” John keens forward, panting. “You’re the perfect answer, and the next intriguing question. You are -” and here he has to pause and palm his own cock through his trousers. “You are my greatest challenge, and the only thing I’ve ever been certain of. Do you see?”
John nods, eyes wide and fixed. “Sherlock, please.”
“Please what?”
“Show me. Show me how you want me.”
Sherlock fumbles his free hand to undo the button, the zip, push his knickers down and away, and John groans at the sight, sliding down the wall a bit to brace himself.
“Fucking exquisite,” he pants, and grabs Sherlock’s hand. He sucks two fingers into his mouth, laving his tongue around them, then pressing sloppy kisses into the palm, more lubrication. Something about jacking off with John easing the way is painfully sexy, arousal curling low and wild in his gut.
“Fuck.” He strokes himself, then sinks his mouth over John’s cock, getting a bellowed curse in response. One of John’s hands clambers against the wallpaper and the other winds through Sherlock’s hair and they’re both too close to be doing anymore talking. From far away Sherlock knows he’s groaning, and John makes a noise that’s clearly a warning he’s about to come but the man on his knees does nothing but lean in a bit. The knowledge that Sherlock’s not going to pull off tips him over the edge, and as he goes, John’s fingers tighten on those dark curls. The zing of pleasure that starts in Sherlock’s scalp floods his system, then overloads it. He comes with a shout and when he opens his eyes again John is kneeling in front of him.
Breathing hard, Sherlock wants to ask ‘do you understand?’ but he can’t. John reaches out to take his face in hand, pressing the softest kisses to Sherlock’s nose, his eyelids, the highest point of his cheekbone. It's too sweet for him, a man who's done so much damage. But he cannot for the life of him turn away.
Sherlock wraps long fingers around John’s thighs and stares, his mind floating up and away. He sees the years stretching back, the hours with John, golden and whole. The years before that yawn, a vastness of untethered searching. And on the other side he sees a future, a glimpse of a version that might be. Another. And another. Varied and wild and free and every one of them filled with John.
He opens his eyes, and feels the smile spread across his face, mirrored with some amusement by John. “That good, huh?”
“Better,” Sherlock murmurs. “Come on.” They gather themselves from the floor, cleaning up as best they can, and curl into bed, boneless with pleasure and spent nerves.
To have John tucked in his arms, the man’s face pressed sleepily into his neck, feels like an impossibility, so improbable that for a breath he wonders if he’s dreaming. John shifts, pulling back a bit to examine Sherlock’s face.
“I was a little worried you’d deny me just to spite Mycroft.”
Sherlock barks a laugh. “There is almost nothing I wouldn’t do to spite my brother, but you are, as always, the exception.”
“Ah,” John murmurs, flushing beautifully. “I see. I suppose it was worth it in the end, eh?”
“I’m going to enjoy making you do that more often.”
“What? Come?”
“Christ, John.” He squeezes his eyes shut briefly, trying to control his breathing. “That too. But I meant this.” He reaches out and brushes a finger along John’s warm cheekbone. “I could count the number of times I’ve seen you blush on one hand.”
John rolls his eyes. “Sod off.” He snuggles closer and adds, “I’ve wanted this since the day we met, but I must admit, some things are even better.”
Sherlock tightens his arms and hums contentedly. “Like what?”
“Like, the way you smell. You made me tea. The way you look on your knees - God I’m never going to get over that. You want to hold me. That you’re going to make us breakfast in the morning.”
“Oh am I really?” he chuckles.
John yawns, and Sherlock can tell he’s about to slip asleep. “A man can dream.”
Sherlock knows this to be true; He’s spent years honing the skills of dreaming life and denying want. Now he thinks he might spend the next few days perfecting breakfast recipes. And beyond that?
Now there’s an intriguing mystery.
Friday 7 pm
John’s home. It’s a good time of day, this- when the doctor comes home. It’s choreography Sherlock can see without peeking, click of the lock, the boots on the stairs, the shush of a scarf removed, and the -
“Did you tell Lestrade I’m on drugs?” John demands from the doorway.
“Whatever gave you that impression?” Sherlock muses.
“Well, he asked me, for one thing.”
“I can’t imagine -”
“Sherlock! I’m a doctor! I could lose my license.”
“Calm down, you won’t. Unless, in fact, you have been doing cocaine behind my back in which case I’d like to have a conversation about the things couples are expected to share with one another -”
“You’re impossible!”
“And you’re overreacting. I just needed -” But he stops because John has seen it, and gone still.
“What is that?” the doctor asks.
“I should think it would be quite obvious.”
“Alright, why is it here?”
Sherlock abandons the experiment in the kitchen and meets John at the door. “I should think that would be obvious as well.” The doctor’s face is uncharacteristically shuttered, so different from the vibrant novel Sherlock reads there most days. “I thought you might like to try again,” he offers simply.
In a trance John moves through the sitting room, and slides into his chair. There’s a tremble in his fingers as he pulls the guitar from the stand.
“What is this?” John asks, running a reverent palm over the grain. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not spruce, or mahogany…”
“Koa,” Sherlock says softly.
“Hawaiian, right?” He traces tawny and deep red dancing together then slides his left hand up and down the strings, making the metal whine.
“Yes. Do you know what Koa means?”
“Haven’t the foggiest. Dashingly handsome?” He turns, eyes flashing bright and Sherlock finds his voice catch in his throat a moment before he can spit it out.
“Brave.”
“Sherlock Holmes,” the doctor whispers. “Did you buy me a guitar made of a rare imported tonewood so that you could tell me you think I’m brave?” He chuckles, finding his voice again. “You could have just -”
“No. I searched for months for this perfectly resonant, strikingly beautiful instrument to remind you that I love you. And because,” he adds, as an afterthought but especially true. “If you want it, you should always have music.”
John makes a rough sound, then - “Come here.” Sergeant’s orders, and Sherlock obeys, sinking to his knees in front of him.
“Too much?”
Shaking his head John leans forward, pulling Sherlock to him with one hand in those dark curls, and kisses him fiercely. “I love you, too, you absolute lunatic. This is - I mean - I can’t -”
“John, shut up and play me something.”
He smiles against Sherlock’s mouth, then returns his attention to the guitar. It takes less than a minute for him to check the intonation, then he sets his fingers, weaving chords from a sea of notes. Sherlock can tell by the look on John’s face when he finds what he’s looking for.
He starts with something soft, sweet, like frost on leaves. It’s an old folk ballad Sherlock recognizes only in handfuls of phrases, from far enough back that it’s not even stored in his mind palace, just good old fashion memories of lying on the floor and watching the fire as his mother knitted and listened to old records.
John’s hands are calloused grace, more than soldier or surgeon.
Then the melody changes, and this one’s an old English tune turned drinking song. He huffs at John’s roguish grin then finds himself mirroring it, tapping along. “You’re quite good,” he says, when John’s let’s the song fade.
“Thanks. Learned as a kid. It stuck.”
“Why did you stop?”
John leans back, firelight licking his collarbone.
“It’s hard when you don’t have any place to put your instrument. Even before the army I was never in one place for long, and after a bit, the movement felt more like peace than the stillness. No point in hauling something along.”
Sherlock's heart jerks. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”
“Shut up, you absolute prat. This is the most perfect gift anyone has given me, and even better now that I have a home to keep it in.”
“Ah,” Sherlock manages weakly, and John rolls his eyes.
“Any requests for the next song?”
Sherlock Holmes is an idiot, unconscionably stupid, and John Watson is home.