Drift United

by J_Baillier

Summary:

Trust is a fragile thing, especially when both your life and the fate of the Earth depend on it.

Notes:

[an index and guide to all my Sherlock stories]

If you haven't read Drift Compatible, you should do that first. Otherwise this story won't make a lick of sense.

Please note that I have employed a warning for graphic depictions of violence, but for the rest of the potentially dramatic/upsetting/triggering/disturbing etc content I have ticked the "Choose Not To Use Archive Warnings" box. The reason for this is that I wanted to avoid major spoilers. I will promise that our leading men will both be alive at the end of this but otherwise, be prepared for anything — or, if there is something that you're particularly concerned about, don't hesitate to contact me via tumblr or email (baillierj [8t] gmail).

On a more positive note, there is an accompanying wee little podcast by Elldotsee & I that goes behind the scenes of this story, highlights gems from the comments section and explores further this AU's key themes and characters. So, join us for some Ranger talk and nonsensical shenanigans! Episode 0 was published in February, and Episode 1 is out together with this first chapter.

Chapter 1: Trophy Hunting

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PART I: ON THE STORMFRONT
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Chapter 1. Trophy Hunting

 

"Though ambition itself be a vice, yet it is often the parent of virtues."
— Quintilian, Roman educator and rhetoric (35–100 CE)

Christmas arrives at the Pan-Pacific Defence Corps' Atlantic Chard's Rift base just as it arrives everywhere else in these perilous days, bringing with it the stresses of gifts yet unbought and of a holiday spirit so elusive in wartime that it appears unattainable. A looming, soul-stagnating dread is hard to shake that Christmas marks not a new hope but the arrival of yet another year during which human civilization teeters on the edge of extinction.

It should, however, come as no surprise to those who know the man that the mind of Ranger Sherlock Holmes is not occupied by such dark notions at four in the afternoon on Christmas Eve. Being a fervent believer in living in the here and now, what most catches Sherlock's fancy right now are the enticing physical attributes of the man who has just stepped out of the shower wearing nothing but a towel. John has been his husband for three years now, after a wedding ceremony they were finally able to have at the British Embassy in Lisbon. There was no honeymoon; they were only given the weekend off under the proviso that it be spent at Ponta Delgada back at the Azores so that they could be recalled back to base quickly due to near-constant Breach activity being observed that month.

Their time in Ponta Delgada had been a wonderful two-day sex holiday, as Sherlock had described it to anyone willing to listen or simply unlucky enough to cross paths with him in the week after. John had sat him down after that to explain, and not for the first time, that though honest discussion of gay sex might be one way to wear down homophobia in the PPDC, it was simply good manners not to share all the lurid details with their fellow officers. Why having sex in a dorm packed with their fellow Rangers is supposed to be less embarrassing than discussing it with said fellow Rangers still eludes Sherlock. Sex is far from taboo in a place where technologically assisted mental connections allow individuals to pick up on intense emotions from others, but John seems to struggle still with embarrassment over enjoying one another in bed while aware that someone walking past in the corridor might realise that's what going on in the privacy of an established couple's room.

Yes, John still cares about such things: reputation and identity and labels people assign to him and Sherlock. He seems to have made a begrudging peace with not being straight, but it's still a bit of a touchy subject when they meet new people. Sherlock had made it clear early into their relationship that he wasn't going to settle for less freedom and acceptance of his orientation than he had enjoyed in London. In contrast, John had never expected to be able to live as his true self within the PPDC and had been living in what had seemed like a self-punitive celibacy when they'd met. Sherlock wishes intensely that John would just give up the unnecessary self-flagellation and soul-searching. It can't be more than a remnant mental reflex at this point, a purposeless echo from his ultrareligious upbringing.

Sherlock would admit — at least under duress — that he has plenty of his own hangups, pressure points, sensitive topics and berserk buttons based on his family and personal history, and that's why he knows he needs to try to be empathetic to John's. They make it work, have for years now. Due to the Ghost Drifting that allows few, if any, secrets between them, both bring into this relationship their complete selves, warts and all.

Instead of admiring his spouse, Sherlock is supposed to be checking this week's mandatory physical conditioning training schedules for active-duty pilots since that's what he'd promised John he would sort out. It's compulsory for Rangers to attend combat training and basic physical conditioning sessions regularly as well as show up to assemblies. During those, the base's commanding brass convey news from higher in the organisation, relay what Rangers need to know about systems upgrades on the Jaegers and go through administrative issues and other pertinent things connected to the daily running of Chard's Rift. Such gatherings make Sherlock's teeth ache with tedium since nearly everything presented at those things could be turned into a message relayed to their personal IT accounts. At least then they'd be easier to ignore.

John likes those assemblies because he's a social creature. It also shows in his exercise preferences: he tends to choose the more social options offered for physical conditioning while Sherlock prefers to clock gym hours on his own, go off-base for a run or hike with just John for company, or at least limit social contact to a sparring partner at the dojo.

The holiday season allows for some breaks in their active duties, and mandatory training rules are temporarily laxer. There are many nationalities and religions represented in the Chard's Rift's civilian and military staff, and everyone is awarded four days off at a time of their choosing as long as the Jaeger Corps has enough officers on duty at all times to man all of its Jaegers. Since there is no relief crew available for the Ravager, their Jaeger, John and Sherlock are on standby until the end of Boxing day. If there are no kaiju incursions and the war clock consequently just ticks on, amassing hours, they can spend their time as they wish as long as they don't go too far off base or get too inebriated to pilot.

"The schedule?" John reminds him. He has finished drying himself off and hangs the towel on the back of a chair, then walks around looking for his deodorant while still delightfully naked.

Sherlock blinks out of his thoughts and crosses his arms. "I'm sure there won't be anything on today after the assembly. I'll get to it when… I get to it."

He lets his eyes drink in John's compact, muscular frame, takes it in from toes to top. The silvery grey strands of hair John has collected in the past few years accentuate his dark greyish blue eyes nicely. The shoulder scar he'd had when they'd first met is barely visible, and a penchant for bench-pressing has given John's chest very nice definition. During the years he'd spent out of duty John hadn't exercised much, and he'd only got his shoulder injury fixed at Med Bay after he and Sherlock had received their official pilot team designation. Sherlock has deduced that John had held that injury and the associated scar as some sort of a masochistic memorial for his twin sister.

When John notices him staring, he grabs Sherlock's wrist to pull him to his feet from where he'd been half-sitting on the kitchen counter, tugs him close to the doorway and pulls him into a long, exploratory kiss with a delectable peek of tongue at the end.

Sherlock is aware of how his cheeks have flushed; even after four years of being together his partner still has this effect on him. It's mortifying when others see it — hardly befitting Sherlock's reputation.

"Why are we doing this in such a draughty spot?" he enquires, once their lips and hips separate.

John cocks his jaw upwards with a mischievous smirk.

Sherlock's brows hitch up as he notices a piece of paper attached to a steel beam. "You drew a sprig of mistletoe. Badly. And taped it on the ceiling."

"Commissary doesn't sell the real stuff, so I had to make do," John laughs. "Beggars can't be choosers."

"Perhaps beggars can't, but Rangers ought to be given at least some sort of a proper decoration kit for the holidays. I wouldn't care, of course––"

"Of course not," John chuckles. "You and sentiment, oil and water."

Sherlock pretends to be able to retain his composure at the sight of John's cock, so familiar and advancing steadily towards fully erect even from just one snog. Having that effect on someone has not quite lost its novelty value. He never thought he'd have this, any of this. A partner, a purpose, sex… John.

"I never––" Sherlock clears his throat; his voice seems to have gone up a pitch, "––never understood why a parasitic plant that lacks an objectively decorative inflorescence should signify holiday romance."

John goes to dig a pair of boxers and a clean T-shirt out of a drawer. "I'm sure they told us why at school, but you deleted it," he teases with a smirk.

They'd once argued about Sherlock not remembering the names of civilian employees they see nearly every day. Sherlock had told him he deletes such useless information.

John checks his wrist console for time. "We have to be in the underdome in ten."

There is an assembly they are due for in ten minutes. Such a waste of a good hard-on. Sherlock's gaze is still trailing idly John's now uniform trouser-draped backside across the room.  He isn't worried about being able to deflate his own quickly before heading out of their room since Atlantic Marshal Mycroft Holmes will be there.

"We'll have a massive leech of resources hovering over us tonight. No need for mistletoe," Sherlock complains.

"I assume he'll want to see you during his visit."

"That's why he always imposes his presence on Chard's Rift at Christmastime. At home, he'd only have the housekeeper for company, unless he's feeling charitable and gives her a few days off. My theory is that he insists on darkening the door at Chard on Christmastime because people feel obliged to pretend to want to put up with him, based on some asinine notion of charitable holiday spirit. Having minions to provide attention and admiration is the closest thing he'll ever have to a family. Children, Go Where I Send Thee," Sherlock begins to hum sardonically.

His brother is not a fan of American carols, but Sherlock has always thought that the name of that particular African American Spiritual befits such a man who'd want nothing more for Christmas than to be able to order human toy soldiers around.

"He is that to you," John points out in a pragmatic tone, "the closest thing to family, I mean."

"No, he's not," Sherlock insists firmly. "I've chosen my own family, and it includes only you and maybe the Ranger Corps on a theoretical level. When they behave." Sherlock starts stripping off his service uniform since there's a rule of mess dress for the assembly. John, always a stickler for ceremonial etiquette, had showered for the occasion while Sherlock is hoping that he'd have reason to do so later once they'll get to enjoy some private time in their quarters after this dratted assembly.

"At least the food's always good at these things," John offers, adjusting his black bow tie.

"Quality has gone down this year," Sherlock counters.

At noon, they had attended a traditional massive Christmas lunch banquet at mess hall after the Marshal's Christmas Address on the main aviation deck. The lunch used to feature dishes from all the corners of the world that has sent their citizens to serve at this particular PPDC base: ham to honour those from Nordic countries, succulent turkey for Anglosaxons, panettone as a part of the pudding selection to acknowledge Italians, croquembouche to celebrate French staff and so on. Every year, that handsome spread has both soothed homesickness and offered a chance to explore the cultures of colleagues and friends. This year, though the traditional British Christmas fare with vegetarian, vegan, kosher and other specialty options had been good, it was a pale ghost of the cornucopias of Chard's Rift Christmases past.

Once kitted in their best, Sherlock and John prepare to leave their quarters. It is then that the lights they have just turned off suddenly flare up, their wrist consoles start to vibrate, and a familiar, ear-splitting siren begins wailing all through the Atlantic Shatterdome.

It's the kaiju incursion alarm going off.

They'd received an alert on their consoles earlier about potential Breach activity, but such a notice hasn't put the base's Rangers on edge this week since a Breach has been open for nearly a month now, and even before that they'd all got used to being constantly on alert in case one decided to open, and a kaiju climb out. Even some of these incursion alerts have been false positives — just the strange sea-bottom kaiju gateway readjusting itself without any oncoming traffic.

This time, it's not just what has become colloquially known as a Breach Belch. It's the real deal, as proven by the fact that the alert message now specifically orders them to man their Jaeger, and their consoles are beginning to receive information on the target. It doesn't have an official name yet, but the size and attributes look promising.

"Not the jingle bells I was hoping for," John mutters after flinging out a few select curses and hurrying to unbutton his jacket. Sherlock has already divested his mess dress and opened his battle armour locker.

Instead of spearing pieces of gravy-dripping steak, they'll be filleting a kaiju.

 

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

An hour later, Sherlock grits his teeth and blinks hard to fend off the searing pain creeping up his forearm. He's not really physically hurt, but the Pons system that connects the Jaeger to its pilots is feeding information to the pain pathways in his central nervous system to keep him aware of the damage the war machine is taking. He and John are well-protected in their pilot stations inside the Jaeger's head, also known as the Conn-Pod. As for how long is anyone's guess since this encounter is proving more challenging than Sherlock had anticipated.

The kaiju they're now facing is a category five: while manageable in size, this individual has turned out to be a bit more cunning than the species average and its serrated, armoured tail has proven to be capable of delivering severe damage to the Ravager's appendages. The arm Sherlock controls is approaching functionless, which is becoming a bit of a drag because they need both to swing the Jaeger's sword with enough strength to have a significant effect on the intruder.

Need a higher dampening level? John suggests in his head.

Yes! Sherlock gasps.

"Colleen, can you max the pain filtering on Sherlock?" John asks.

When they need to communicate with their LOCCENT officer, they need to say things out loud since only the pilots are mentally connected through the Pons system. Colleen Dunne has been their assigned LOCCENT officer ever since they became a team. She controls all the systems forming the Jaeger-pilot interface, including the one feeding damage information from the battle machine's exoskeleton into their neural pathways. Without such feedback it would be much harder for the Rangers to protect themselves and their Jaeger; they'd risk too much damage due to assuming the war machine to be more durable than it is. The effect of raising the level of dampening from the system to the maximum is akin to people being capable of nearly superhuman feats under the effects of adrenaline and other stress hormones: they won't feel as much of the pain as they usually would.

Give me the handle and you can support the blade, John suggests.

John's tolerance for pain until it messes too much with concentration has always seemed higher than Sherlock's, and the arm he controls is still fully operational.

Colleen seems to have got the requested neural adjustments done since Sherlock can suddenly breathe easier and focus without that constant, searing ache in his arm. It's still there but merely a dull, distant sensation.

The kaiju sends it tail flying at the Jaeger's midsection again, and the impact knocks the wind out of Sherlock's lungs. It's too close to employ the missiles housed within the Ravager's thoracic cage — this is definitely a hand-to-hand combat situation.

This kaiju is as spry as it is powerful — it has already circled then and sunk his teeth into the side of the forearm Sherlock controls, and after a ripping tug it's left with cables hanging out from between its teeth.

Sherlock curses loudly, glad that Colleen had already cranked up the dampeners and he'd felt nothing but a pinch when the creature sunk its teeth into the Ravager. It's as if the kaiju knows which pilot's operative territory to go for in order to cause maximal confusion and disability to the war machine opposing its incursion.

Let's try a low sword sweep for the hind legs, John suggests.

It's a solid idea; with one arm nearly out of the game, they might still be able to pull such a move off with sufficient strength. Sherlock doesn't need to tell John in words that he's saying yes; John will know from sensing his determination and encouragement.

They shift the sword to the hand John controls and Sherlock is grateful for the distraction of needing to engage with moving the Jaeger as John begins taking them into a defensive stance, sword poised like a shield in front of them.

The kaiju is regrouping, too; it is circling the Jaeger, trying to find more weak spots. Sherlock tests the arm he controls as they pivot, hearing hydraulics groan and some more cables snap. He feels a tingling in the arm that might be from actual physical exertion or a sign that the Ravager's appendage is preparing to give up the ghost.

Sherlocks eyes narrow as he fixes his attention on the roaring kaiju. The uninvited Christmas guest has pissed him off properly now. Instead of enjoying the battle, he wants to finish that thing off as quickly and brutally as possible for having the gall to wreck his Jaeger like this. The Reichenbach Ravager is the base's flagship, and if it needs to be taken out of commission for major repairs, it's always a risk that a new, big incursion could overwhelm the PPDC's ability to keep kaiju from reaching the European or eastern American shorelines.

While John makes some system readjustments, Sherlock makes sure they keep dodging without turning their back on their opponent.

Their connection to Base Command comes to life in the voice of Colleen: "ETA for the backup Hammond's ordered is sixty-eight seconds. Just hold on, boys, we'll get this bastard finished right off once the Victory gets there. Your new orders are defensive action only until then."

The Greenwich Victory, one of the base's older Jaegers, had been dispatched from the Base some six minutes ago to lend them a hand. John had suggested calling for backup immediately when they saw what they were up against but Sherlock had put up a spirited resistance. John tends to think economically and practically, wants to build safety margins and contingencies into battle plans while Sherlock detests sharing his trophy hunts. 

"The Victory's cannons will be like trying to toss pieces of toast at this guy," Sherlock complains to Colleen. "Unless you want it to just be bait, it's pointless to deploy them. We've got this," he argues, but it's not the LOCCENT officer's decision.

Jaegers sent in for backup don't get recalled on the recommendation of a Ranger in battle. Only the Base Commander, Prentiss Hammond, or someone above him, can order or cancel a deployment.

They find an opening for the low sweep at the kaiju's legs they'd been planning. It opens a large gash on the equivalent of a knee joint, and the creature starts limping a bit.

That arm's about to give up the ghost, John reminds him needlessly. Let's retreat a bit before trying that sweep again, see what this arsehole does while we wait for Victory.

You think it'll get bored and take a nap? I'm not giving it a chance to spring for the coast. We're already close to the minimum acceptable distance to inhabited areas.

Sherlock knows his arguments are sound, but they're not his foremost reasons for wanting to act fast. He's not willing to offer this kill on a silver plate to their colleagues at the helm of the Greenwich Victory. That kaiju scalp is mine.

He watches John lob a thermal grenade at the kaiju; it ducks and roars, the sound waves reverberating up the Ravager's metal alloy hull.

Good job pissing it off more, Sherlock snarks. I have an idea.

Yeah? John's voice is hesitant. I sure as hell hope it is to just fend it off until we can finish this safely in a two-Jaeger team?

How endearing that he'd call any of this safe even if that old rust bucket of a Jaeger was already here. Sherlock is tempted to roll his eyes but that would be a waste of time: the kaiju charges at them again, and Sherlock manages to provide enough support to the sword by holding the Ravager's mangled arm under it while John gashes the creature's chest with a long, precise sweep. It retreats, then sends mucky seawater and bits of coral to pelt the Conn-Pod windows as it stomps its feet to telegraph its annoyance. Bipedal kaiju tend to always reach at least a category three on the classification scale used to predict their potential for destruction.

I need your authorisation to reprogram a part of the self-destruct system to work remotely. The arm, to be precise, Sherlock announces to John imperiously.

He's sharing his plan only with his co-pilot since Colleen would just repeat the order from higher up that they are to wait for backup.

Sherlock… There's a warning in John's tone. That arm can be fixed, but not if we lose the whole thing. Rebuilding an entire limb from parts would put us out to pasture for at least a week and it's going to cost––

Cost?! You're starting to sound like Mycroft. Do you want to win or count pennies? Just do it!

Alright, alright! John relents, tone urgent but exasperated.

They both bring up the pertinent menus; using any of the self-destruct functions on a Jaeger requires both pilots for activation unless one of them has perished and mission control has consequently overridden the fallen pilot's controls. Isolating the explosives in the arm from the rest of the system requires Sherlock to do some rather fancy reorganising of power coupling functions and relay directions which he knows will get him a lecture from Colleen since he may have to help the Jaeger engineers to reverse those steps later. Needs must, he tells himself, knowing John will probably pick up on that thought, too.

They could hold off the kaiju until the Victory arrives, but where's the fun in that?

Done! John announces.

The kaiju, codename Juggernaut, begins lowering itself to a crouch in preparation of another attack. It bellows furiously, and Sherlock is glad for the sound insulation of the Conn-pod and the standard level of auditory dampening provided for the PONS system. The anodised armoured plexiglass windows that form the Jaeger's eyes rattles from the sound wave.

The kaiju rounds its back to coil for a sprint. Though mostly standing and walking on its hind legs, it knows how to use its front ones for maximum strength. It tries to ram them, and the only thing that keeps them from getting knocked on their back is John sticking out the still-functional arm he controls strategically behind the Jaeger as they topple backwards. A quick half-rotation of the Jaeger's pelvis then plants its feet firmly on the sea bottom again, allowing them to straighten the Ravager's back. The fact that they're fighting in knee-deep water is both a hindrance and a perk: it slows the kaiju's movements when it's on all fours.

Sherlock grunts as he needs all his bicep strength to raise the injured arm into a position that will be enticing for the kaiju to bite into — akin to offering a padded arm to a police canine in training. If Sherlock's assessment is right, the kaiju will rip it off and concentrate on tearing its loot to pieces, allowing the Rangers in their Jaeger to retreat and watch the fireworks.

Things go just as Sherlock had planned and soon, the kaiju's jaws are crushing the hydraulic systems, steel beams and compressors forming the Jaeger's forearm before the creature rips it off completely and retreats a few steps to play with its prize. Electrics spark and the lights and displays inside the Conn-Pod flicker as the automatic failsafe systems redistribute power from the cut cables and couplings that have short-circuited to protect vital systems from malfunctioning. Arcs of blue electricity light the water below them as the massive cables dangling off the war machine's elbow hit the water, causing more flickering in the lighting and some glitches in their holographic battle displays.

Scoring such a big chunk of its prey has delighted the kaiju and it is now ripping the arm apart completely just as Sherlock had anticipated. John and Sherlock waste no time in striding backwards to safety, keeping an eye on the monster on their right flank. Soon, the moment Sherlock has been waiting for arrives: the part of the arm that sports the black hydraulics panels concealing encapsulated explosives disappear inside the kaiju's maw.

Sherlock uncovers a button — this one is analog tech to ensure that being hit with an EMP or losing power won't disable the self-destruct system — and jams it down with his forefinger. By his side, John's finger jabs an identical one.

Down! he bellows to John, who is paying rapt attention since they need to brace against the impact of an expanding pressure cloud of pulverised kaiju.

They managed to drop the Ravager down on one knee, head bowed to protect the windows just in time before the self-destruct system detonates in a blinding flash. It rips the kaiju's head and left shoulder off, and the rest of it collapses on its side.

Once they're done watching bits of metal and kaiju flesh pepper the waves, Sherlock reactivates their connection to Base Command.

"Best give the Victory an umbrella and send it back home — it's raining kaiju out here!" He can't keep glee out of his tone. "Confirmed kill," he boasts proudly.

They should install windscreen wipers on this thing, John chuckles as a large chunk of kaiju slides down a window.

It leaves a smear of what is known as kaiju blue — blood and extracellular fluid that is highly explosive and radioactive as well as toxic when it mixes with seawater. The Jaeger's Conn-pod windows are deliberately made small and reinforced with layers of special materials resistant to such damage.

"Roger that," Colleen responds, slightly baffled. "Was there a comms problem just now? I couldn't hear a word you two were saying."

"Oh, it was nothing important," Sherlock dismisses.

"I do like a heads-up when you're hatching your madcap plans," she chastises.

"Things got a bit busy at this end, sorry," John apologises.

Sherlock grits his teeth at such unnecessary supplication. They're Rangers — they shouldn't need to explain themselves to anyone over strategic decisions. "The Marshal better have a clingfilmed plate of turkey waiting for us."

"I don't know about that," Colleen says, "since as you two just disobeyed a direct order and literally cost us an arm but thankfully not a leg."

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Once airlifted back to Chard's Rift and back in the Drivesuit room, Sherlock and John discover an atmosphere in the base not as cheerily triumphant as is the norm after a victorious battle. While a successful kill is reason enough to celebrate, everyone posted at the Atlantic's only Shatterdome know how time-consuming and costly replacing a significant part a Jaeger is and how exposed they will be while even just one is benched. The fact that it's the Ravager adds a particular sense of dread to the situation.

John's spirits seem to deflate from the lukewarm reception, but Sherlock refuses to let others dictate his level of triumphancy. While his and John's track record with taking down kaiju has been flawless, the base's other Ravager teams have also been doing well, so he's not worried. The current Breach, assuming it hasn't closed after today's kill, has spat out mediocre monsters at best, ones that any Jaeger crew should be able to handle. Today had been the exception — or so Sherlock likes to believe.

The world has learned to expect that when the Atlantic Jaegers are dispatched, a kill is as good as guaranteed. And perhaps there is even a silver lining to the damage: evidence how not even the Ravager is indestructible might shake the parties of the recent political infighting among the funders of the Atlantic PPDC subdivision out of their pettiness. Perhaps it might even prompt the whole of the PPDC to stop inflicting frequent budget cuts on the Jaeger programme. The kaiju threat remains, and global statistics demonstrate that it keeps getting bigger and meaner. Within the safety of Chard's Rift's massive walls, it's easy to forget the recent devastation to many coastal cities along the South American Pacific coast: attacks there have become more frequent in number, often with several kaijus appearing at the same time. The Shatterdome off the coast of Peru used to get very little action, and its trio of Jaegers — Shatter Fang, Dread Mauler and Xia Spartan — are old and in dire need of upgrades. At least the PPDC had the good sense to move a newer Jaeger from Los Angeles to Lima to strengthen the South American defences. Resources are still stretched thin, and politicians caring more about re-election than defeating kaiju on the opposite side of the world from their constituencies isn't helping.

In the Atlantic, the Corps has been successful so far in this seemingly never-ending game of kaiju whack-a-mole. For how long they can continue winning, nobody knows. Sherlock's mindset of living firmly in the present seems to be the best way of keeping one's sanity.

After technicians have detached their spinal clamps and helped them remove the heavier parts of their battle armour, Sherlock and John shed the rest and ask that the Drivesuits be delivered cleaned to their dorm. Then, once John has changed into his service uniform and Sherlock pulled on a T-shit and black jeans, John messages Colleen to ask if she wants to join them for dinner.

The Christmas soiree held in the underdome has ended, but they are relieved to find clingfilmed trays laden with many dishes on offer in the mess hall. A battle engagement means an automatic 24 hours off to rest and recuperate, which means that they can even have a few more drinks than usual. The mess hall and smaller staff canteens don't usually offer alcohol for free, but it is Christmas, and it appears that the yearly offerings of Portuguese and local wine and cheap beer have not fallen prey to budget limitations just yet. John has two Cintra lagers while Sherlock and Colleen have a glass of Azorean Isabella-grape red each.

They have often had a coffee or a drink with Colleen after a deployment to discuss their experiences and celebrate their successes. Rangers tend to forge strong relationships with their LOCCENT officers since going into combat together requires trust even if the LOCCENT member of the threesome doesn't partake in Drifting. Colleen had been the first at Chard to find out that John and Sherlock's relationship had evolved into a romantic one.

Glancing around the room and listening to the tones of conversation, Sherlock receives further confirmation that something is different in the crew atmosphere today. Sherlock is irritated at his lacklustre skills at reading people; he cannot deduce what's wrong. Is it the fact that the Ravager needs repairs? Instead of bringing up details from their deployment, even Colleen is quieter than usual. Sherlock is irritated by this: they defeated a kaiju — a cunning and vicious one. Fiscal responsibility has never ruined their celebrations before, and it shouldn't do so now.

When he redirects his focus to John, he senses some contentment over their victory but also impending brooding. Reaching out through their bond, Sherlock senses a veil of resignation and dread that draws a distance between them. He's relieved when John glances at him briefly with a bland momentary smile. Does that signal that he's open to communication? Sherlock decides not to pry further; John is not as skilled in blocking their mental connection and Sherlock has learned through trial and error that sometimes his husband would prefer to sort his own thoughts before sharing all of them.

Sherlock can't help but wonder if John's mood is about the extra pressure he feels over his battle performance due to age and extended Jaeger service. Neither of them likes to talk about it but John is serving on borrowed time as an active-duty Ranger. Piloting takes a massive toll on one's physical health, but John has done well so far. Having had years off pilot duty has given him time to heal and reserves for taking additional damage even if he did let himself go a bit during those years. Physically, he can still give Sherlock — or any other Ranger — a run for their money, but Sherlock knows his husband worries about a great many things regarding the future. He keeps getting verbally nostalgic about the Ravager and their joint career, especially if he's had something to drink.

Colleen has finished her meal and with a wan smile, excuses herself from their company. John thanks her for today, and Sherlock echoes the sentiment with a curt nod. She is a solid, experienced performer of her duties, and Sherlock has grown to both trust and like her. John considers her a friend; Sherlock isn't sure where the line between that and just a colleague one appreciates for their skills sits.

When she has disappeared into the hallway and the kitchen staff have retreated momentarily out of the hall, Sherlock mentally clears his throat. He's better at expressing his feelings through Ghost Drifting than he is verbally, which is illogical. Shouldn't verbalising them help people gain some objective distance from touchy subjects? It's so much less intimate than the technologically enhanced telepathy they're privileged to experience.

What should he address first? The decision to sacrifice the Ravager's arm?

This is why we're a good team — you're the responsible one and I'm, well… Sherlock starts sheepishly.

A slight, carefully constructed and joyless smile rearranges John's features.

I know. I'm just tired, I guess.

Not too tired for dessert, I hope? Sherlock inquires.

He sends a suggestive image reverberating through their connection like a touch echoing along a thread of spiderweb. He wants John to know what, precisely, he intends to have in his mouth once they're alone, and it's not any of the pudding options on offer here at mess hall.

He's nearly holding his breath in anticipation of whether John will let him down gently or decide to make an effort to stop being maudlin. When John fails to get on board immediately, Sherlock decides to try to be even more persuasive.

We were off to such a good start before the alarm went off, Sherlock reminds him.

Finally, the evasive tension between them breaks.

I think I could rustle up some stamina, John replies with a wink.

Sherlock knows this will be different from their usual, spirited and imperious post-kill sex; he can sense John is more in need of companionship than adrenaline-fuelled orgasms. Sherlock is fine with either. Or both. Preferably both. He wants to shed this sense of gloom, wants to get back into what John idiotically calls their 'groove'.

If Sherlock is honest with himself, he's been feeling a similar sense of apathy, too, lingering at the edges of his existence every time more than a few days have passed from their latest deployment. The approach of Christmas has made it even worse. For him, holidays have never been a time of family and joy but a reminder of many disheartening and conflicted times. One of them he'd spent in a squatters' flat with only stolen candles and levoxycodone to keep him warm. An earlier one he remembers being mostly spent sweeping the endless corridors of that hellish boarding school at the mercy of which his brother had abandoned him. While the other boys travelled home for the holiday, the teaching staff had assigned Sherlock chores so that he could make himself useful.

He didn't want to be useful. He just wanted to get the hell out of that place or at least just hide in the dormitory, but insubordination would be met with swift and merciless corporeal punishment.

Holidays with John are so different. He shouldn't be complaining even if the festive spirit is being a bit elusive this year. We're alive, we're together, the Ravager will be fixed.

It's just that… Sherlock doesn't know how normal people even feel during these purpoted family holidays. What is the standard here — how should happy and content and calm and fulfilled even feel like, and do people actually achieve such a state or just pretend to do so? The results of Sherlock's best efforts seem rather bland, tinted with restlessness. His brain craves more stimulation than what watching footie with a beer in hand at the Rangers' lounge can offer. Such simple pleasures seem to suffice for John much of the time, especially now that he feels like a full member of the Jaeger Corps again after years of haunting the place in some consolation price special designation role. And if he laments the fact that it will end sooner rather than later, it might be all the more reason that John wants to relish such social situations.

It's probably good for John to spend time with their fellow officers, to cultivate friendships outside of marriage, but Sherlock feels no such need. It sometimes irritates him that John does.

I need to stop getting maudlin, Sherlock grimaces. Sex always helps. John always helps.

As if on cue, John downs the last of his second beer and they rise from their seats and leave their glasses and bottles in a designated collection area. Sherlock rolls his eyes when John gets caught up in conversation with one of their fellow Rangers in the hallway connecting mess hall to the main lift foyer.

Sherlock tunes out the witless, polite babble John has somehow deemed necessary to engage in and stands by the lifts with his hands shoved into his pockets. Finally, the smalltalk concludes and he gets his husband's attention back. In the lift, John's hand snakes around his waist and the world shifts back towards the way it's supposed to be. Sherlock closes his eyes, opening his default level of blocking to allow John's calm to lap the shores of his still-restive consciousness.

Once back in their quarters, Sherlock pulls off his T-shirt and sweaty Drivesuit undershirt and stuffs his jeans into a haphazard heap in his side of the wardrobe. John removes his uniform, taking care in putting it back in the cupboard.

Sherlock fills his gym bottle from the tap and slumps down onto the desk chair, luxuriating in taking large gulps of cold water. He's probably dehydrated from piloting and, thanks to the red wine, can expect a headache soon if he doesn't fix his water balance. A headache wouldn't be conducive for the treat he's promised John.

Sex has always been one of the least complicated parts of their relationship. The Ghost Drifting allows instant feedback on what the other person likes and what doesn't work. The flood of pleasant hormones afterwards seems to always strengthen their bond and slice through Sherlock's constantly lingering sense of solitude and not being understood by others. John sees him, feels him, especially when they're making love.

Sherlock wipes droplets of water from his lips with the side of his palm, shivering a bit in the draught in the room since he's got nothing but underwear on. Just as he's about to go kiss John who's now finished putting away his uniform boots, the wall screen comes to life with an impending internal network video call.

Sherlock curses when the name of the caller appears: Marshal Holmes, M.

The system doesn't allow Rangers to reject calls from high brass, and his brother is irritatingly tenacious, so he'll just have to endure this conversation. Otherwise, the git will just let it ring until kingdom come and there is no way anyone is having sex with that incessant pinging as background music.

Sherlock drops into the chair facing the screen and leans against the backrest to roll back his shoulders. John sits down on the bed, out of sight from the computer system's camera.

"Accept call," Sherlock says resignedly, and his brother's disgruntled face appears on the screen.

Sherlock rather thinks the man looks like someone's just stepped on his toe. Or ripped out a proverbial arm and fed it to a kaiju.

"Explain yourself," Atlantic Marshal Mycroft Holmes demands.

"Why hello, brother mine," Sherlock snarks in a cloying tone. "And how are you doing this fine evening? Your cheeks are a bit red; stuffed yourself with even more turkey than usual? Sorry to have missed the dinner, had to go see a kaiju about a Breach, you know how it is."

"You look undeservedly smug for someone who's just cost the PPDC a colossal amount of funds. Why did you disobey a direct and unambiguous order to wait for backup?"

Sherlock tries to look nonchalant but his brother retains — even through just a video link the ability to make him feel like he's a child who's done something naughty and is being sent to the naughty step. We saved humanity once again while he sat on his arse, Sherlock reminds himself. The arm muscles he'd exhausted trying to lift that broken Jaeger arm are beginning to ache. Probably a sprain. If John wants a hand job, he'll have to settle for Sherlock's left.

He regards his brother tiredly. "Semantically, it hardly constituted an order; they merely informed us of the availability of the Victory, should we need its services. As it turns out, we really didn't."

"I quote, verbatim, from your conversation with LOCCENT officer Dunne: 'your orders are defensive action only'."

"Comms get scrambled all the time. I didn't hear that bit, nor do I care. We won, Mycroft, has that part completely escaped your notice?"

"Is Watson there? What does he have to say for himself?"

"John agreed with my assessment of the situation, and it was a joint decision. Activating any of the self-destruct mechanisms requires both pilots, as you must be well aware. If you didn't want such a function used, you shouldn't have had it installed."

"I don't make such strategic decisions on Jaeger upgrades."

"But I bet you sign the requisition orders."

John opens his mouth, but Sherlock juts out a hand with his forefinger up to discourage wasting his breath. He wants to spare John from his brother's ire since his dear husband deserves none of it.

Sherlock knows it was his decision, what happened to the arm. His responsibility. But he's not about to admit that to Mycroft.

"I'll expect a full report regarding the decision-making during your mission," Mycroft demands.

"I'm sure John can rustle something up. He rather likes creating pointless fiction," Sherlock dismisses.

John had once brought up the idea of writing a blog or a book about their career as Ravager pilots. Sherlock suspects Ranger groupies would probably pounce at such material even if it was badly written poppycock.

"Sherlock. The Jaeger program is not your personal entertainment system. You'd do well to remember that we're operating on limited resources provided by the very people we're trying to protect from seeing what it is truly like on the frontlines."

"That's be people like you, then," Sherlock points out. "The only time you wear a full military uniform is when you're cutting giant ribbons with giant scissors."

"You have to take more responsibility for the resources entrusted to your care. We are at war, for heaven's sakes!"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "At war? I'd never have realised. I'm surprised you've noticed, though, seeing as you are watching this whole spectacle from the safety of the expensive box seats. What's the panem for your circenses today, Mycroft? Chateaubriand with a fine Beaujolais for the brass while those who do the dirty work have to make do with Swedish meatballs? And you dare lecture me about being expensive. The repair time estimate for the Ravager can't be more than two weeks. If we never broke off bits, how would the engineers keep their skills up?"

"You're incorrigible."

"Thankfully I have you to deliver lectures on my shortcomings every time I don't return the Ravager into the stable spit-polished."

"The Ravager is not yours, Sherlock."

"I'll be happy to cheer from the audience when you start piloting it. You should thank us, really, for all that sexy footage of an exploding kaiju. It'll do wonders for PR."

There had been a long-distance armoured drone hovering by during much of the battle; the PPDC tries to record all deployments for training purposes as well as for recruitment and funding drives.

Mycroft gives him a stern glare, then shuts off the connection.

"Merry bloody Christmas to you, too," Sherlock huffs at the blackened screen and lets his head loll back. He takes another swig of water and then pushes the bottle away to the opposite side of the table. Tap water at the base has a slightly metallic taste with iodine undertones.

He's disappointed to realise the conversation with Mycroft has banished his libido for now.

"He's kind of right, you know," John comments. He's stretched out on the bed, hair all mussed up and his Drivesuit underlayer top clinging to his sweaty chest. He hadn't changed out of it before putting his uniform on, either.

"What do you mean?" Sherlock demands. How dare his partner agree with that travesty of a brother?

John cocks an eyebrow and leans up on his elbows. "We could have waited. You just didn't want to give away the kill." He makes a mock-disapproving face.

"We did the work. Why should I be willing to donate a decisive blow to the Victory team? Backup is what they're best at, everyone knows that." The other two Jaegers haven't been dispatched first to any Breaches lately.

"Which is why those guys have to be thirsting for a proper kaiju takedown. Put yourself into their shoes. You'd have gone 'round the bend in a week having to just be the backup."

"I'm not in their shoes, am I? Christ. Would be nice to get some recognition around here."

John peels himself off the bed and goes to a shelf on the opposite wall. He picks up one of the action figures released a month earlier from a wall shelf; they had both been sent a personal copy by the manufacturer since these toys were modelled after their likenesses. Chuckling, he drops the Ranger Holmes one into Sherlock lap. "Yeah, absolutely no appreciation whatsoever. Nobody knows who you are, and half the world isn't fawning over you."

Sherlock dangles the figure from its leg and abandons it on the desk. They got his hair right, but the paint job on his facial features leaves a lot to be desired.

"I don't need people to fawn over me — you being the exception, of course. I just often feel like we are treated like hired help who only waste money. On a regular basis, we save the arses of those who can't fight for themselves. And those very people keep punishing us by making us hold back, by demanding we play it safe, by limiting the ways in which we can use the abilities they recruited us for. How long do you think Mycroft would last against a kaiju? Good thing he loves hors d'oeuvres; he would get to end his days as one."

"I do love it when you speak French," John replies and leans in for a kiss. "You're not really in the mood, now, are you?"

"Mycroft is more effective than a bucket of kaiju innards in making sure I'm not."

John's lip quirks up into a crooked grin. "I don't know about that. If it's a kaiju you gutted… Nothing gets you going like a bit of post-battle adrenaline."

"Pot, kettle." John's gentle, suggestive teasing is making Sherlock rethink whether he wants to grab hold of some Watson arse, after all.

The wall screen activates again. "What in the ever-loving hell––" Sherlock starts when his brother's name appears in the caller ID slot again.

"Wait!" John says when Sherlock is about to accept the communique and quickly grabs his uniform jacket off the back of a chair to put it on. Sherlock shakes his head in disbelief. John is being his typical self, adhering to protocol. Regulations say that they shouldn't be speaking with their superior in casual clothing, but Sherlock has already spoken to the man is just his boxers and they've just walked out of the Conn-Pod so who in their right mind would expect them to bother with sartorial rules.

Sherlock wouldn't care even if John was stark naked when speaking to his brother. It would be amusing to watch.

John has now buttoned up his jacket, so Sherlock clicks accept call.

"The estimated time for replacing the starboard upper appendage––" Mycroft starts rattling off, once again without even saying hello first.

"You can call it an arm. It's a Jaeger, not a rowboat," Sherlock says tiredly.

"––is eight days," Mycroft concludes. "Ah, Ranger Watson. Good of you to join us."

"Eight days isn't too bad," John says, much more politely than Sherlock could have.

"I'm sure the kaiju agree," Sherlock scoffs.

"Consider it your second Christmas present than the repairs will be expedited with some additional funds," Mycroft says.

"As you have made very clear, the Ravager is not mine," Sherlock says, before his brother's words register fully. "What the hell do you mean by second present?"

"The first one I would like you to choose. Anything that is in my power to give."

Sherlock blinks. Has someone replaced his brother with a doppelganger? What nonsense is this?

Mycroft's attention shifts to John. "Seeing as my brother has developed acute mutism, perhaps you might help him choose, Ranger Watson."

He rarely calls John by his first name even though they are related by marriage.

"But––" Sherlock interjects, a thousand opportunities shifting through his head along with the near-irresistible urge to ask his brother to go shove his head up his own arse and to take a picture afterwards as the perfect gift.

This has to be some sort of a scheme. Mycroft doesn't do nice things like this. Not without quid pro quo." And what do you demand in return?" Sherlock asks, crossing his arms.

It's Mycroft's turn to blink. "There are not many things I would want that you could grant, and this isn't about being even. I merely wish to give my brother a Christmas gift."

"That's, um… nice?" John suggests.

"I've done some reorganising at my residence, and that involved going through our parents' archives so that they could be donated to the PPDC museum in Tokyo. It was… I realised that there are many Christmases when I may have neglected to deliver a gift to you. That there were a great many Christmases that could have been… should have been spent together as a family. We both made choices a long time ago that continue to govern the directions of our lives," Mycroft says, averting his eyes, "and we have made our peace with the consequences, but that does not make said consequences disappear."

"How much port wine have you had?" Sherlock asks, crossing his arms. He's hanging onto his anger because his brother's words are stirring up emotions best avoided.

"I've made it clear on several occasions that being your brother has been… challenging, but it ought to be said that the opposite is likely to also be true," Mycroft muses.

Sherlock rises to his feet. He's furious and doesn't quite understand why. "I don't need you to start suddenly playing at being the Ghosts of Christmases past. I don't need you for anything! You made damned sure to teach me that lesson!"

He must be tired from battle, worn out from being yelled at after doing his job the best he can. They're all chronically emotionally fatigued from living on the knife's edge out here. He doesn't want or know how to deal with his cruel, vicious, idiotic brother suddenly almost apologising for the way their lives have gone. It's a sum total of choices everyone else has made while leaving Sherlock without any grip on the helm of his own life.

It's too much, too late.

"I've a suggestion," John suddenly says.

"Do tell," Mycroft replies.

"I'd… I don't know about Sherlock, but I'd like to visit home. To see London. Maybe travel a bit around England, hire a cottage in the Lake District or Wales. To get properly away from here for a bit. I know the realities of needing to be at the base's beck and call, and I know we'd jump on a chopper at a moment's notice if we were needed so I don't know if a proper holiday will ever be in the cards before, well, before I, we, retire."

"I know what to ask for instead of just a holiday," Sherlock snaps. "When one of us retires, we both retire. I won't pilot with anyone else. Nor will John. That promise will be my Christmas gift."

"But if they still need us––" John starts.

"You may have been able to swap from your sister to me because obviously, you traded up, but I won't do that. Not ever."

Mycroft takes a deep, solemn breath. "There are things that are not within my power to grant. Corps officers' assignments and retirement are solely under the Base Commander's authority."

"And you're his boss."

"A Marshal needs to recognise the limits of their own expertise. The war effort requires that the best strategists are allowed to make the most important calls regarding assets," Mycroft excuses, sounding apologetic in a detachedly polite manner.

Sherlock gives him his finest glare. "Ten seconds ago, I was your brother. Now, I've gone back to being nothing but a PPDC asset."

"I think John's idea sounds splendid. We'll look into that once the current Breach shuts down or at least shows signs of long-term decreased activity."

"Whenever that is," John mutters.

"Just send us a box of cheap chocolates so you can feel good about yourself," Sherlock scoffs. "Or better yet, fix the Christmas food. Lunch was a sad sight and less than the employees deserve, and I bet dinner wasn't much better."

"'The less a man is acquainted with the sweets of life, the less reason he has to be afraid of death,'" Mycroft quotes.

"So, we're all just pigs being fattened with slop for slaughter. Thank you for the clarification."

Mycroft splutters. "Not what I meant. By tradition, the Spartan settings of a military life have been a way to refine character and prepare troops for wartime conditions."

"Which is why you wouldn't last a day living like this."

"We didn't get you anything for Christmas, did we?" John asks Mycroft, glancing sideways at Sherlock to direct the question at him as well. "Though you must get an awful lot of presents."

"I do, yes. But they are not very personal."

Sherlock knows his brother is a very private person; nobody really knows much about his likes and dislikes, hobbies and habits.

"I do wonder if I might make a wish myself," the Marshal says, "but the cooperation required from Sherlock may be too much to ask."

"You can ask," Sherlock snarks, "and I'll enjoy saying no." His anger is dissipating, leaving in its wake a confused exhaustion. This is nothing new. Mycroft's purpose has always been to disappoint me.

"I would ask for… a truce." Mycroft says. "You're always so resentful, and I accept that, but occasionally it would be nice to have a conversation that wasn't the semantic equivalent of throwing daggers."

Sherlock shakes his head. "You started it today. And there's too much history."

"Uneasy ceasefire, then?"

Is that a slight tang of carefully concealed embarrassment Sherlock is picking up on his brother's tone? Could it be that this really matters to the man?

He shakes his head. Christmas makes fools of men. "An armistice I can do. Just don't expect me to like it."

"It'll do. Merry Christmas?" his brother offers.

After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock nods. "Merry Christmas."

The screen goes black as the call is ended.

"Should we get him checked for early-onset dementia? He seems to be going soft in his old age," Sherlock scoffs and goes to put the kettle on.

"We're all in this together even if it doesn't always feel like it," John points out. "And we can't pick our blood relations even if we can adopt ourselves a better family."

"He has his role to play in the grander scheme of things, perhaps, but he forfeited his part in my life a long time ago."

"Looks like a part of him might be regretting that. That was a big olive branch, wasn't it?"

"He gave us nothing, John. I'm pretty sure he could wring some arms to make sure we retire together, but no. What he's putting first is his own career. And winning."

"That last part sounds like someone I know," John smiles. "We've all done stuff we're not proud of, and many people do bad stuff to ensure their survival or success at the expense of others."

"It's not my job to offer him redemption."

"No, and I know you don't want to be disappointed again, which is why you don't want to try to patch things up with him. If you can give that truce a go, it would be great. He's a useful guy to know. But enough about him," John says and pulls something out from behind training manuals on the bookshelf. It's a bottle of port John must have smuggled in from the mess hall. "The Marshal shouldn't be the only one having a bit of a slosh this Christmas. Who knows, maybe it'll get us back in a more festive spirit."

Sherlock decides not to let the kaiju and his brother ruin Christmas. Sitting on their bunk, swigging from a bottle of dove-blood red vintage port with John sounds like the perfect plan. Maybe the evening will even end with that proverbial dessert.

Notes:

 

There's an "inspired by Drift Compatible" oneshot called Best Served Cold by Anyawen and yours truly that speculates on exactly what kind of arm-twisting our cunning Rangers may have resorted to in order to make that wedding happen.

Chapter 2: International Man of Mystery

"You can get dressed now, John."

John nods, not waiting for the occupational physician to lower the exam table with her remote before he hops off it. His lower back complains a little like it has on occasion but it's just a twinge, nothing he thinks is necessary to bring up.

Nothing to worry about, John tells himself. Aches and pains, sprains and bruises are all in a day's work for an active-duty Ranger.

That reminds me: I should nag at Sherlock again to get his shoulder looked at by the Med Bay physical therapist. Some mobility exercises would probably do wonders.

The strain that piloting puts on Rangers is asymmetrical: the side they control bears the brunt and can develop strain injuries while the other one doesn't get as strong and can get stiff because due to the uneven use. It's one reason why weight training at the gym is mandatory.

Once John is wearing his dress shirt, trousers and boots again, Dr Tripathi indicates the chair in front of her desk. This is their first meeting as doctor and patient; she'd joined the Chard's Rift's medical staff only three months ago. He'd spoken to her at lunch once after noticing her Med Bay nametag and learned that she'd been recruited after a long career in the Indian military where she'd done neurological research on myelopathies and other spinal issues in ex-prisoners of war. Considering the effects of piloting Jaegers on Rangers long-term, her expertise must've been very attractive to the PPDC. Though Oxford-educated, she retains a strong accent due to having spent most of her career in her home country.

He likes that their lunch meeting had established a first-name basis. All the occupational physicians he's seen before had called him Ranger Watson and not really taken into account that he was also a physician before he'd brought it up during the appointments.

"No degenerative changes around the connection points of the implant," she appraises John's neural imaging results on her computer. "Your model is of sufficiently late generation design that we rarely have to really worry about that anymore unless a pilot has been in active duty for over fifteen years."

"That's not what people usually say — that my implant is new enough," John jokes.

He knows his is an older model than anyone else's in active pilot duty at Chard's Rift. Maybe it's even the oldest of any active-duty pilot in the Corps. Not a record he'd boast about.

"Motor cortex plasticity is within the normal range for your age," she continues.

"This old dog can still learn new tricks, then?" John continues, trying to lighten the mood. She'd said that ominous magic word again, 'age', which he tries to avoid. Forty-four is not old by human standards, but like ballet dancers and fighter pilots, it's ancient by Ranger standards. I'm fine. They should look at combat results, not scans and blood tests.

Truth is, he's started dreading these biannual compulsory physicals. Not only are they uncomfortable — the only time John enjoys a finger up the arse and on his prostate is when Sherlock does it — but they are a regular reminder of the clock ticking in his brain and the rest of his body.

"You had your last PET scan two years ago?" she asks, clicking through something on her computer.

"I think so."

"The one you had last week used an acetylcholine-targeted tracer to see whether nerve conduction has slowed in your spinal nerves." She looks up and gives him a smile. "Results are barely below normal."

John's brow hitches up. "Nothing to worry about?" he suggests hopefully.

"We'll reschedule the next scan six months from now. No reason to worry or limit your activities until then."

She catches his expression, and her smile becomes less courteously polite and more open and empathetic. "It would be unreasonable to expect no wear and tear at all after all this time, John. All this monitoring is for protecting you, to make you get to enjoy your retirement."

"I know. And I know I'm lucky compared to the first Rangers."

Many first- and second-generation Jaeger pilots lost their lives to radiation sickness after a relatively short service career. All Jaegers were powered by nuclear reactors back then, and radiation shielding was not a high priority at a time when humanity was scrambling desperately to keep up with the kaiju threat. Thankfully, shielding materials and protective Conn-Pod engineering improved a lot within the next few years, solving the radiation exposure issue along with new, magnetic field -contained, plasma-powered nuclear fusion Jaeger power cores. It didn't solve all the early pilot health problems: the rate of early-onset dementia continued to be sky-high in pilots since the first implant models caused a bit of brain damage every time they were activated for piloting. They were frying up synaptic connections and pushing the brain beyond its normal processing capacity even after the decision had been made to divide cognitive work between two pilots.

Thankfully, there were several generations of implants between those early ones and the type installed in John and Harry's brain, and John spent two decades out of active pilot duty. There's no reason to assume he won't enjoy his retirement in relatively good health, but that's not what he worries about. He wants to be a Ravager pilot as long as he can and is willing to sacrifice a few brain cells for it.

That's why he can't help feeling like the Med Bay professionals conducting all these exams are an enemy rather than colleagues looking out for his well-being.

And he and Sherlock might not even see retirement. Many Rangers never get there simply due to the very reason they serve the PPDC: the kaiju. As Jaegers get bigger and better and their pilots better equipped for enduring intense battles, the kaiju get bigger and meaner. So far, humanity has stayed a step ahead, but it's been a close call many times, costing the lives of Rangers immortalised at Shatterdome memorial bases and an annual day of remembrance.

"Was that all?" John asks, antsy to end the review.

"I'm afraid not," Dr Tripathi grimaces.

As she brings up some more results on her screen, John pushes away the thoughts of Harry that are an inevitable uninvited guest whenever he thinks of retirement or the possibility of expiring in battle. His sister is one of those whose faces adorn Chard's Rift's Gallery of Heroes.

"Your NSE levels are unmeasurable," Dr Tripathi tells him.

John nods. This means his brain isn't emitting a chemical similar to what dying heart muscle cells bleed out during and after an infarction.

She frowns at what her eyes are scanning on the screen next. "But I do not like what I see on the spinal myelin sheet metabolism in the lumbar area. I had one of the Hong Kong base neurologists have a look, too, to verify it's something we should focus on. Has your back been giving you trouble?"

"It's just a twinge. I thought it was the old stress fracture."

"The one diagnosed last year? I see my predecessor recommended a month away from active duty," she chides half-heartedly. "His notes said you attended physical therapy and returned to piloting a week earlier than planned."

John purses his lips. "Me getting benched means Sherlock is benched, too, and he…" He'd have started shooting at the walls out of boredom if we didn't get back to work.

He remembers the stern words of the orthopaedist Dr Tripathi has replaced. John had nearly got into an argument with the man. The pain wasn't that bad, there was no instability, so he's insisted on as short a sick leave as possible. Corps occupational physicians have the authority to bench a Ranger, but after John had flaunted his proverbial 'I'm a doctor, too' card, Dr Maartens had yielded.

John just couldn't do it to Sherlock to keep them both from the Ravager for a whole month. The pain was quite distracting at first, but it's a lot better now. Just a twinge.

"Since it appears the stress fracture has not fully healed, I ordered the DEXA."

Bone thickness scan. "Yeah?" John asks, reluctant to hear the results. He had wondered why a message had appeared a few days after the bulk of the testing that ordered him to report for yet another exam.

"Your L3 vertebra has been slow to fuse because you're near-osteoporotic in the lumbar area. It's common with the clamp, since that's where most of its weight and the heaviest motor workload is centred. There's mild osteopenia in other areas I looked at, but it's the lumbar numbers that make an intervention necessary."

"Let's fix it, then," John prompts. "What options have we got?"

"We'll start you on bisphosphonates — ibandronate as an infusion once a month. It's recommended you stay on it long-term, and we can swap to pill form once active duty ends. To address the local issue, I've been authorised to refer you to the Science Division for something they've been working on and that's now been tested to work and be safe," she assures him. "It's a technique to repair microdamage by using the Pons system to direct modified osteoblasts, the precursors of which will be harvested from your blood, to the damage site to promote accelerated healing. It might make the bone less trabeculated, but according to the testing documentation I've seen, the risk of fracture from direct impact is increased only fifteen percent."

"You can grow and modify my osteoblasts and send them where you want to?" John verifies.

"The treatment be administered by the Science Division physicians but yet, that is correct. They'll collect your stem cells, control their maturation and specialisation, add a honing system based on your implants. It tricks your immune system into thinking the damage is worse than it actually is."

"It's a bit like… nanobots, isn't it?"

Hordes of such microscopic devices are injected into the blood to assemble the brain implants of new pilots, eliminating the need for the open brain surgery John and Harry had undergone. The only time that is still needed is if a Ranger's old implant is removed in preparation of giving them an upgraded model.

"In a way, it is the biological equivalent of nanobots, yes," she confirms.

"Fuck me, that's fancy," John grins.

He should stop worrying so much — the Corps takes care of its own. While the PPDC Science Division is extremely secretive and the target of many playful and ridiculous conspiracy theories among staff, it employs a veritable army of cutting-edge researchers and clinicians to invent and implement medical care and military technology the likes of what no one else in the world has. The PPDC's purpose is to defend humanity against a foe too formidable for any one nation to defeat on their own, and Rangers are at the very front line of the battle. It's logical no expense would be spared to keep them in shipshape.

They can fix whatever problems I might get. I'll be fine, John tells himself.

"We'll schedule your first bisphosphonate infusion for tomorrow. You'll want to hold off on heavy exercise for a couple of days after. Might give you a fever, some bone aches."

"That's assuming the kaiju decide to kick back for a few days, too," John points out.

"I'll let you know when the representatives from Hong Kong are coming in," she says. That's where many of the Science Division's massive research units are located.

"Sure, I'll be their lab rat," John promises. "That's all, then?"

"Nothing else to report, John," she promises with a smile. "Once we get that stress fracture addressed, you will be in good health. Just don't overdo it at the gym; I know what you Rangers are like," she laughs.

She gives her a nod as he rises to his feet. He retrieves his dark blue service uniform jacket from the back of the chair and puts it back on, not bothering to button it up. He's supposed to wear full service garb when attending duties not related to combat or official ceremonies, but Rangers are allowed a lot of wiggling room in their habits. Sherlock rarely bothers with his service uniform, complaining that the quality of the wool used for the jacket and trousers must be designed specifically to drive him insane by being so itchy. He's sensitive in so many ways, many of them making daily life a challenge, but they are also connected to the genius and neurodiversity that have elevated him to the best-known current Jaeger pilot on a global scale. He's a force of nature, a formidable talent, a quick-thinking strategist and John would die for him without hesitation.

He decides to go to the mess hall to see if Sherlock is there. It seems likely, since Sherlock's official business of this morning is to meet with the base commander to discuss their latest battle deployment. John is certain that the encounter has left Sherlock in a sour mood so he's probably having a sulk over too many cups of coffee.

He can feel Sherlock's presence before he's even through the sliding door at the mess hall entryway. The familiar, prickly and churning acute sense of annoyance is one of Sherlock's many and constantly changing signature moods that John is privy to through their connection, deep and intense even by Ranger standards. All pilots can feel each other's emotions when connected through the Pons system controlling their Jaeger, but he and Sherlock happen to they enjoy a rare side effect, a phenomenon known as Ghost Drifting, where such telepathy continues somehow beyond the connection to the technology that has created it. There is a constant emotional radio hum going on between them akin to a thin thread of spiderweb transferring vibrations and reflections back and forth. Its intensity is dependent on physical distance, but particularly intense emotions can enhance it fleetingly. Ghost Drifting requires an openness they'd both struggled with at first, and it can be blocked if one doesn't want the other one privy to everything they're thinking and feeling. Sherlock has much more talent at blocking that connection.

John isn't surprised to spot his partner in a secluded corner table, wearing just jeans and a Corps-issue white T-shirt even though he's been all the way up to the top floor to see Prentis Hammond, Chard's Rift's current Base Commander.

Any other Ranger would have worn their Sunday best, John grins as he goes to run himself a glass of water from a tap by the sales counter before joining Sherlock.

It's sweltering in the mess hall today; the air conditioning must be acting up again. A similar issue had plagued their dorm floor last week, and when the repairs took several days it put Sherlock in an even fouler mood than he looks to be in now. It's the Azorean summer, and while its location in the middle of the Atlantic usually guarantees pleasant and breezy July conditions, a heatwave has turned Chard's Rift into an oven and forced the closures of museums and public beaches elsewhere in the islands.

Instead of coffee, Sherlock is nursing a sweating can of orange-flavoured soda.

"Done getting chewed up by Hammond, then?" John asks.

Sherlock huffs with disinterest. "He's not quite as devoted to fiscal thinking as Mycroft, who would probably fight a kaiju by tossing utility bills at it." He cracks open his drink and laves off the foam from the top of the can before it spills over the edges. The can must've been shaken around in transport to the base. The Atlantic can get stormy and most of the supplies are delivered by cargo ships.

"Someone's got to keep track of the money," John points out and drinks half of his water.

"Hammond told me that if I fill out all this incident paperwork, they'll drop the issue," Sherlock says, grabbing a stack of forms from the table and slamming it in front of where John is seated. "We never used to have to justify our decisions like this. We won, end of story. Why the hell would they make us waste time writing down every detail? They have the radio comms tapes, all the Ravager data and video feeds from the drones."

"They want you to explain your, um, our decision-making so that they can analyse it and improve overall deployment strategies."

John wonders why he's trying defending such bureaucracy. Perhaps he's just feeling a tiny bit grateful to the Corps for the no-doubt astronomically expensive experimental treatment he's just been promised for his spine. John is aware that what remains of public healthcare back home in England is unlikely to see such tech for decades, if ever, and the thought makes him feel guilty. He knows that he's special by default as a Ranger, but many civilians would benefit from what the Science Division can do. It's such a waste, having to use all these resources for war when they could be used to make life better for so many humans. And there is very little John can do about that beyond helping make sure that humanity survives the kaiju incursion.

"How was your checkup, then? Still creaky and old?" Sherlock's lip quirks up.

"I still bench-press more than you," John reminds him. "And you sure didn't have a single complaint about my physique last night." He settles his back against the backrest of the sofa and grabs the topmost form from the pile. "If you have two pens, I'm sure I can help rustle up some of that pointless fiction of mine you advertised to Mycroft."

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Two days later, Sherlock arranges the sunglasses on his nose on that sweet spot that won't tickle his brows or threaten to let in too much light. He drags the deck chair he keeps hidden behind a large, square air vent at the edge of the main aviation deck, adjusts the angle and drops into it. Just like everything else at the base, it's getting worn by the elements, the fabric faded from salty seawater and sun.

He scrolls through the music collection accessible through his wrist console and settles on Britten's War Requiem. He rarely listens to such combined choral and orchestral works, but today he could use such a dramatic soundscape as an outlet for his frustrations.

His boredom is approaching intolerable levels, yet he can't even complain to John because he'd just tell Sherlock they fought a kaiju only last week so he should calm the fuck down — that's precisely how John would phrase it — and enjoy the sunshine.

Which is exactly what he's aspiring to do.

It's a dilemma he's yet to solve: no one wants to be in battle every day because it's exhausting mentally and physically, but what the hell is he supposed to do with the rest of his time? Laundry? Sex? (He needs John for the latter, and they had some as recently as yesterday.)

Should he be spending time with their colleagues like John does, engaging in inane small talk at the Rangers' lounge or over dinner at the mess hall?

He prefers to eat his meals with John and John only.

Adjusting the volume of the Requiem louder on his wrist console to match his mood, he closes his eyes. The sound quality is excellent since the music is fed directly into his auditory cortex by his implant instead of having to be processed first the tympanic membrane, tiny bones and the auditory nerve. Turning the volume up loud doesn't harm his inner ear, and it's one of the only things that can silence his brain when it's working as if overclocked.

Sherlock does appreciate the intelligence, battle prowess and other skills of his fellow Rangers, but intelligent people he's willing to tolerate, people who are peculiar in similar ways, have always been a rarity. Though they are global celebrities, many of Sherlock's fellow Rangers are surprisingly ordinary. Dull, even.

John is the exception. On the surface, he might look like a friendly old-timer, but there are layers to the man unknown to those who have not breached the thick mental walls he keeps up. Those walls John had constructed high and sturdy even before he'd even joined the PPDC, and they'd been reinforced in the years after his sister died. Still, in comparison to Sherlock's brain, John's mind is relatively placid and straightforward and not prone to disintegration when left idling. Sherlock's is like an engine, racing out of control when left unstimulated for too long. It's a rocket, tearing itself to pieces, trapped on the launch pad.

He's not good with people, so he's still not quite sure how he had managed to break down John's defences without even really trying.

Trust is a two-way street. Perhaps in him, John had sensed a kindred spirit in some respects: they both appreciate privacy and possess a reflex to push others away in order to fend off further hurt. When it came a time to meet Sherlock half-way, John was willing to take the leap, even if it meant risking his nightmare scenario: everyone finding out about which way he swung when it came to love and sex.

Sherlock has never cared about labels and, cornered into choosing between servitude at the PPDC or prison, he was going to do what was expected of him, but not deny himself in the process. If he was such a promising Ranger candidate, the Corps was going to have to accept who and what he was: gay and neurodivergent.

John is right: he should complain less. He has a roof over his head, free food and clothes and, most importantly: he has John and the Ravager — the biggest, baddest and best-equipped specimen of the Jaeger fleet. He couldn't have hoped for better stress relief. A bit of tedium between battles shouldn't be such a hardship.

A vexing thought lingers: though John loves and understands him, sometimes it would be nice if Sherlock knew someone similar to himself. John is always harping on about how they should try to build better relationships, even friendships, with their fellow Rangers and other staff. John seems so convinced that Sherlock possesses the necessary skills. Sherlock is not so sure.

Footsteps and sounds of conversation begin approaching, and Sherlock cracks open an eyelid. It's a gaggle of ground crew members, probably on their way to maintenance duty on the deck. Used for landing fighter jets and helicopters, the main aviation deck requires meticulous cleaning since seaweed and other detritus being flung onto it by the roiling afternoon seas can create a safety hazard.

The three young men give a salute upon passing Sherlock, and he replies with a weary nod. As a Ranger, he ranks higher than such servicemen. The admiration from staff and the global fanbase of Jaeger pilots is flattering, but being near the top of the strict pecking order of a military organisation sometimes bothers Sherlock. He never planned on joining such an operation, and he decided long ago he doesn't have to like many things about it, just tolerate them. Unnecessary, stiff commanding structure is very much included.

Lately, the number of annoyances he has to tolerate seems to be growing, including the quality of food going down. The cause is budget cuts due to an eternally ongoing debate in among the countries funding the PPDC regarding who should pay and how much, and what amount of GDP should be retained to make things better for civilians at home.

The kaiju keep getting bigger, so the Jaegers must be upgraded reciprocally. It's a never-ending cycle, and a very expensive one. Sherlock wonders, once again, why the PPDC brass can't just accept that reality and to come to terms with the importance of letting Rangers focus on combat instead of money.

He sits up, strips off his T-shirt and turns to his side to give his back a bit of sun.

His peace is soon disturbed once again, this time by an approaching black helicopter. He recognises it as one of the Caracal Super Cougars supplied by France a few years back to replace the rickety, old Chinooks the PPDC had been using for years. Such heavy-duty choppers are used to haul staff between the international and military airports on the main Azores island of São Miguel and the base. With their extended range, the Caracals sometimes even fly as far as Lisbon to pick up dignitaries.

Helicopter landings tend to happen in the mornings and in the afternoons, not before lunch like this. It's probably new recruits, Sherlock realises. It's that time of the year.

The number of prospective Ranger candidates dwindles every year. Tom Wallis, in charge of training new recruits in his duty as the base's Head Fightmaster, says that the global pot of highly eligible candidates has been drained, so the Corps has been forced to lax their entry criteria. They're still getting in good people, but the people with highest aptitude test results for being Jaeger pilots are already serving the Corps.

Or dead.

Sherlock grabs hold of his rolled-up T-shirt to keep it from flying away in the fierce draft the landing transport will soon create. He needs to content with the fact that his sunbathing peace has been ruined.

It's just as well — he realises that John is looking for him from a familiar, tentative touch at the edge of his awareness. It means his partner's thoughts are focussed on him and that he's physically close enough to project them. Closing his eyes, he can pinpoint John to be most likely in the main lifts, not yet on deck. They can track each other's locations on their wrist consoles just as the base can track their whereabouts at all times through their implants, but he and John don't need such contraptions. All they need is that strange frequency that is constantly open between them, save for when one chooses to block the connection.

It always calms Sherlock down to feel that familiar presence. In battle, things John notices Sherlock will be aware of before seeing them himself, which decreases their joint reaction delay and keeps them safer. In bed, Sherlock sometimes seems to know when John is nearing orgasm before the man himself does, which must be a testament to Sherlock's skills of distracting his partner. And John is his most welcome distraction, always.

The lifts open and John heads straight towards him. He knows this spot of Sherlock's just as everyone else knows to leave this deck chair be unless they want to face the wrath of Ranger Holmes, the menace of the Corps when he's not being their greatest battle asset.

"Thought I'd find you here," John comments upbeat.

"You and everyone else," Sherlock grimaces, cocking his head up at the helicopter, its rotor wind already whipping up dust off the deck and messing with his Sherlock's hair.

John shields his eyes from the bright sunlight as he looks up to keep an eye on the approaching transport. "LJ said there are transfers coming in. Thought I'd come say hello."

LJ refers to Louise-Josephine Marais, a French Ranger in charge of neural handshake training. She had been in charge of Sherlock's Drift training and asked John to help when Sherlock had struggled with trusting any of the other co-pilot candidates.

"How collegial of you," Sherlock comments tiredly.

Wanting to get to know new arrivals is hallmark John. Sherlock has a theory that it was those long years serving his fellow Rangers in a medical, sidelined capacity that endeared John so deeply to his fellow officers and created this tedious tendency of people-pleasing. "Did LJ say if it's transferring Rangers or just random staff?"

"Three Rangers. Statistically, there have been more breaches here than at the Pacific lately, so they're moving people around." Both John's tone and what Sherlock senses of his mood are excited by the prospect of new colleagues.

"They're always moving people around."

The Corps is chronically notorious for it. Regardless of what relationships a Ranger had forged and how thoroughly they'd settled into a shatterdome somewhere, they could be moved out at any time if the Corps deemed them more useful elsewhere. Sometimes they even separated married couples; Sherlock knows of at least one Chard's Rift Ranger whose spouse had been transferred away despite her protests. She had been trial-paired with John after Harry's death but that had been an exercise in futility. Even John had been moved several times: he and Harry had served briefly at Chard's Rift after training, then transferred to Hawaii where she'd died. When the Base Commander there had asked whether John wanted to stay or move out to avoid bad memories, he'd asked for Chard since he was already familiar with the place.

"Makes sense if there's a Jaeger somewhere without a pilot and a pilot somewhere else without a Jaeger," John makes conversation.

"Re-positioning their pawns." Sherlock is forced to shout; the helicopter is now hovering in place close to the deck, tipping up its nose to make a controlled touchdown onto its sleds.

A small reception committee including the Base Commander, Wallis and six ground staff members has arrived and is waiting well away from the landing zone. Sherlock and John are well clear of it, too, halfway between the reception party and the lifts that will soon swallow those arriving for their first tour of the inner workings of the Chard's Rift Shatterdome.

"Want to put your shirt on?" John asks with a smirk. He probably knows some bit of regulation saying uniforms should be worn when outside and cares about sticking to said rules. Sherlock cannot fathom why. How is it going to affect the war effort whether I wear a uniform, a T-shirt, a bloody clown suit or nothing at all?

Sherlock gives his conformist husband a dirty look but does slip the T-shirt back on since the blasting breeze from the helicopter feels uncomfortable on his bare skin. Besides, the last time he was enjoying downtime sunbathing on the deck when a transport arrived, some kitchen staff member in the batch pouring out the helicopter snapped a topless photo of him and posted it on some online Jaeger fan forum. Sherlock couldn't care less but wants to avoid having to deal with whatever disciplinary action high command might try to dole out to the next fan pulling such a stunt. He'd been ordered to produce a written statement even after he'd told the brass they should let the whole incident go the last time.

The chopper rotors slow down, and aviation deck ground staff now approach it, putting down cones to mark a safe path away from the transport. Sherlock spots the pilot taking off his headset just as the engine noise dies down. The transport team will probably have a rest and a meal before heading back to mainland, unless this was their last flight of the day. That might be the case since two flight engineers rush now in, crouching their heads for safety as they take up positions by the sleds to attach cables that will keep the helicopter on the deck firmly even in a storm.

It's time for the new arrivals to step onto the deck. It's no hardship recognising the three transferring Rangers; the others spilling out of the helicopter are wearing uniforms recognisable as not belonging to the Jaeger Corps and, out of the three remaining, one is in worn battle coveralls and two others in civilian garb. Even if the clothing didn't provide such easy clues, Sherlock thinks he could recognise Rangers from their behaviour: they step onto the deck as if they own it.

The last to climb down from the passenger compartment of the Caracal is a dark-haired man in aviator shades and a leather jacket. It's an odd choice for such warm weather, but then again it may have been chilly on their flight in, and the new helicopters have efficient, even frigid air conditioning.

Under the leather jacket the man wears a black, tight-fitting T-shirt, the dog tags hung on top it rather than tucked underneath reflecting the sunlight. The outfit is completed by black, form-fitting jeans and expensive-looking tennis shoes.

The man's form is compact, lethal, moving with a strange, almost serpentine grace. It's obvious there is muscle underneath that lovingly selected outfit, and firm control over how he wants to present himself. The man, who must be close to Sherlock's age, rolls back his shoulders after receiving his bag from an attendant inside the chopper.

Then, the man removes his glasses. He takes his time surveying the scene, scanning the deck and the people on it with a gaze unnervingly piercing even from such a distance. Sherlock decides he's objectively handsome, pleasant in the proportions of his facial features, but the half-smile he's wearing looks cold, ready to shift at any moment to a snarl that could curdle the will of its target.

The man shades his eyes with his hand just as his line of sight shifts to Sherlock and John. Something is his demeanour seems to shift — there is curiosity there, now, as well as determination.

Sherlock rises from his seat, pats off the dust with which the chopper had caked his trousers without taking his eyes off this new person.

It takes the man mere minutes to stride to the official welcoming committee, to shake hands and exchange salutes and a few words before shoving his gear at one of the attendant ground grew and pivoting on his heel.

He then heads straight for Sherlock and John. The calculated and somewhat impatient smile he's plastered on during his introductions to the welcoming committee has become more unadulterated and open. He looks… excited?

Something makes Sherlock swallow and straighten his back. Next to him, John instinctively does the same, snapping straight his posture, face shifting into a polite expression.

Sherlock doesn't feel like greeting their new colleague with a smile. He can sense an odd, contagious tension in John that is raising his heckles.

The new Ranger crosses the rest of the distance between them. He's shorter than Sherlock, which offers some mild satisfaction. The man's expression has now finished changing from that imperious, laser-like focus to an almost goofy, disarming and easy grin. And when he speaks, it is with a lilting drawl flirting between playful and almost… mocking?

"Ah, I was hopin' I'd catch a glimpse of the great Holmes-Watson pair! Well, look at that, lucky me!"

Sherlock can sense how this statement, open in adoration but with something else churning underneath, makes John instantly feel wrong-footed. John, who always at least pretends to like everyone.

Sherlock extends his hand. "Welcome." His tone is not quite icy; he likes to think it's calm and composed.

"James," the newcomer announces, shaking his hand with eager vigour. "Pleasure."

"I suppose there's no need for introductions on our part," Sherlock comments after he gets his hand back. The man is staring at him without reserve, and he feels both awkward and intrigued by such scrutiny. It's not often he receives such vocal admiration from a fellow Ranger. They tend to treat him as one of them, not something to be put on a pedestal. Sometimes they even tease him and John gently about their public roles.

"John Watson," says John and offers his hand.

Sherlock doesn't think his husband is being very helpful as introductions go; saying just John would have established a first-name base.

Something truly has raised John's hackles. Sherlock's lip quirks up. Interesting.

"An honour," drawls the new Ranger, scrutinising John's features carefully. "James Moriarty, formerly of the Hong Kong base."

Once the handshake is over, John sticks his hands in his uniform pockets, and James' attention is quickly snapped back to Sherlock. He gives Sherlock a quick, almost polite once over from top to toe, shaking his head with theatrical, flummoxed and admiring disbelief that seems more rehearsed than spontaneous.

A performance, Sherlock realises. For whose benefit?

"I'd better head down with the others before all the best bunks are taken," James grimaces. "You know how it is."

He lingers for the briefest moment before heading towards the lifts, locking eyes with Sherlock once more. He may have just pretended to be a harmless, friendly chap, but in those eyes lies a fierce, restlessly electric energy. Sherlock finds it hard to look away — as though this is a contest he doesn't want to lose. It's as if James is studying him, cataloguing what he finds, trying to pierce through the polite, dismissive front Sherlock usually finds sufficient to keep people at bay.

"Be seeing you, Ranger Holmes," James remarks loudly just as the lift doors close and conceal him from view.

Sherlock stares at the closed door. He is only shaken out of his reverie by John's snort.

"Faith and begorrah!" John mocks, raising the note of his voice in an unsuccessful parody of James' Irish speech pattern. "Wallis says they're scraping the bottom of the barrel with these new Rangers. I believe him. Bit old to be a new recruit, isn't he?"

"What makes you think he's new at this? Besides, I enlisted not three years ago." Sherlock had been recruited at a relatively mature are due to his brother using his influence to keep his aptitude test results secret — until Sherlock exploded half of a block of flats with an illegal sample of kaiju blood in a fit a boredom. He was also off his tits at the time. A bit awkward, that.

"I wonder why they sent him away from Hong Kong," John muses.

"Or why Chard's Rift requested for him," Sherlock counters.

It's obvious that this James Moriarty isn't quite what he has just wanted them to think, but that doesn't mean the Hong Kong Shatterdome has sent him here to cull a weed.

"Unless this is about continuing their forever project of manning the rest of the Ravager rota, we have enough Rangers here. Why would they bring in more? No, whatever's wrong with that guy, it's Chard's problem now," John sighs.

"That's uncharacteristically prejudiced of you," Sherlock points out.

John bursts out laughing. "I'm prejudiced against people? Clearly, you've been out here too long and your brain's overheating. No wonder you weren't annoyed by all that fawning over you."

"Over us."

John is still amused. "Whatever you say. Come on, I signed us up for a dojo session. Might fix that boredom of yours, and it should leave us with enough time to shower and change before the welcome reception."

"What welcome reception?"

"Do you ever read your messages? There are so many new staff arriving that they're holding a thing tonight. Attendance is mandatory."

"What nonsense in this place isn't?" Sherlock complains, and folds away his deck chair.

 

 

Chapter 3: Arcana Imperii

The festivities are in full swing at the administrative wing's banquet hall. The arrival of new Rangers coincides with Founding Charter Day, as John had reminded Sherlock as they were getting ready, and this isn't the first time a reception has been held for Rangers to mark the occasion. Sherlock had reminded him that he'd skipped last year's.

Founding Charter Day may well mean that it's not just higher-ranking officials and brass from the Atlantic headquarters coming it — some attendees might have come all the way from the Global Command in Hong Kong, as signalled by the fact that mess dress was declared as the sartorial code instead of standard dress uniforms. Sherlock will have even more reason to complain than he usually does about social occasions. He loathes mess dress, insisting they were created to make pompous idiots with large bellies look good rather than serve as purposeful attire for officers. It's a particular red flag for Sherlock to see his brother in an official uniform rather than his standard work outfit of a suit with a PPDC lapel pin.

As expected, John spots The Atlantic Marshal in full blue-and-black mess dress, leaning back as he guffaws at something Base Commander Hammond has just said. John makes sure to steer Sherlock well clear of that corner. As a distraction, John grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and shoves the other in Sherlock's hand. "Here. Before that vein on your forehead pops proper."

John is trying to sound light and humorous, but a sliver of tension creeps into his voice these days when it comes to their never-ending disagreement about social life at the Base. He's fine with Sherlock wanting to spend time only with him and perhaps Colleen, but the snidely superior disdain with which the man comments on John trying to maintain the working relationships he'd built before Sherlock had even arrived at the Base remains as grating as ever. John wouldn't describe his husband as clingy, but it feels like a lot of responsibility being Sherlock's only connection to the rest of humanity.

They are both now appraising the crowd gathered in the banquet hall.

"I've not seen this many Hong Kong reps before. Must be because of the Ranger reshuffling," Sherlock comments before swallowing half of his glass in one go.

A small, low podium has been erected on the opposite end of the space, and it now draws their attention since a string quartet begins playing there.

"They've got money for that but not for fixing the leaks," John scoffs. Last night, a large chunk of ceiling panels had come down in the laundry room when a pipe burst, injuring two civilian employees.

"You know Mycroft," Sherlock comments, directing a joyless rictus of a smile at a passing officer who greets them. "No expenses spared when celebrating the day they invented his job even if it's dancing on quite a lot of graves."

John nods in agreement as he sips his drink. Celebrating Founding Charter Day with champagne and parties is a tad morbid since it also marks the aftermath of the first time kaiju had devastated Europe.

As the name states, the Pan Pacific Defence Corps had been founded to protect the countries lining the Pacific Ocean from kaiju attacks. For a long time, it was assumed that the only breach in existence sat at the bottom of that ocean. Then came the day when a kaiju — one of the largest to date — rose out of the depths and decimated several coastal cities and a great number of villages on the coastline of the Bay of Biscay. A devastated France, a most frightened Portugal and a very shaken Great Britain wasted no time in contacting other countries who had reason to fear it would happen again, and the Atlantic Subsection was created before the sun had even set on the ruins of Bilbao. It was decided on that same day that a base would be founded on land but as close to the mid-Atlantic ridge — and the breach — as possible. In the empty bulk of the vast Atlantic there sat only one place suitable and logical for those parameters: the Azores. An island paradise long-ago discovered by nature enthusiast tourists and scuba divers, it was conveniently a part of Portugal who needed to protect its Atlantic side. The United States had a similar need due to their long east coast, but their resources and concerns had been long tied to the Pacific. It was decided that, while the US would provide some funding, they would leave the administration and monitoring of the Atlantic to the Europeans. Each participating country was to tithe according to their abilities, and yearly payments could be lowered by providing military equipment and scientific resources through contracts with universities to study the kaiju and to develop ways to enhance the Jaeger program. Through some flashy diplomatic moves and a mountain of money raked in, The Union of Former British States got to name the first and so-far-only Atlantic base. The name chosen pays homage to the underwater topology of the region as well as Colonel John Rouse Merriott Chard, who commanded successfully a British garrison of only 139 soldiers against an assault of up to 4000 Zulu warriors.

At first, it was assumed that life at Chard's Rift would be quieter than at the PPDC hub area of the Pacific Ocean. This assumption turned out to be based on nothing: for several years now, breaches at the Atlantic have numbered higher than those in any other ocean. That's why the flagship of not just the Atlantic command but one of the two most advanced Jaegers in the whole of the PPDC was placed there: the Reichenbach Ravager. It also helped the decision that it was a German military engineer who managed to overcome several design challenges that had long slowed down the program. Germany made it loud and clear that, since it was their man whose name would be immortalised in the title of the Jaeger, that Jaeger should guard the Atlantic. A slightly smaller Jaeger utilising Reichenbach's designs was later built for the Pacific, but to the great annoyance of China who had funded much of it, it was placed in the Hawaii Shatterdome governed by the Pacific North subsection instead of Hong Kong where China had been assuming it would go. Hawaii's Jaegers were old — patched-up leftovers from other bases since that shatterdome was among the newer ones — and the base in great need for reinforcements. The internal turmoil within the PPDC after the installation of the Aumākua Nui — The Great Guardian Spirit — was a typical example of the constant infighting that seems to take up much of Sherlock's older brother's working hours as the Atlantic Marshal. For a few years after the first attack in the Pacific, countries joined forces in solidarity against the new foe, but parochial politics kicked in eventually. Especially those countries who like to think of themselves as the greatest military powers and the driving forces in world economy did not enjoy having to negotiate and consider the needs of countries they saw as marginal players on the gameboard.

The quartet has now finished their first set after a cheery piece Sherlock had told John was a Strauss polka, and a rather flourishing version of the Atlantic Subsection anthem. Sherlock has described it as 'an insipid little number' when he'd heard it for the first time shortly after enlisting. John remembers the kerfuffle its introduction had caused some fifteen years ago: composed by some Frenchman, it had contained saccharine and so Europe-centrically patriotic lyrics that it had pissed off Morocco and Western Sahara. They'd staged quite a protest at the Atlantic Subsection General Assembly where the piece had its maiden performance.

The microphone squeals when Mycroft Holmes steps onto the stage and turns it on. He does not introduce himself; it is a fair assumption that everyone knows who he is. 'And if they don't, shame on them,' he had told Sherlock when he'd commented on this habit of omission once, wanting to heckle his brother.

Mycroft delivers an updated version of his usual spiel on how this day came to be, then asks for a minute of silence for those who lost their lives in that first Atlantic attack. He also names the Rangers and other staff who have given their lives in the past year for the cause before reporting some of the Atlantic subsection's recent victories. John wonders if it annoys the Marshal to have to mention him and Sherlock several times in that context. At least Mycroft's rehearsed, triumphant grin does not sour when he looks at his younger brother during those acknowledgements.

His speech provokes a polite applause from the attendees. Many Rangers in attendance have gathered in the right side of the podium while the middle of the crowd holds a gaggle of LOCCENT officers. Colleen is absent; she'd caught a respiratory bug a few days earlier and had thought it best to keep to her quarters to avoid infecting others. She had still messaged 'her boys', as she playfully calls the two of them some three hours ago to assure them that she'd be fit for duty if the alarm sounded today.

"This is a most fitting occasion to share with you some upcoming developments in the program," Mycroft continues enthusiastically. "As always, we are striving to upgrade our Chard's Rift assets––"

"How about upgrading the air conditioning so that it would actually work?" Hollers someone from the audience.

John thinks he might have recognised the voice of Wallis, the base's Fightmaster. He and the recruits must be suffering greatly in these summer months from the dojo and the gym not having a functioning cooling system much of the time.

"That is on our list," Mycroft promises without missing a beat, "but I'm afraid that list is rather long. Now, let me share the most exciting news in a long time: the reimplantation program. We've reached a point where the current and older generations of implants have lagged too far behind in the context of what we could do with the Pons system that software upgrades are no longer sufficient. A brand-new implant model has been thoroughly tested, including a clinical trial: ten installations were done late last year among Hong Kong's Rangers. I can now share with you the results of a six-month follow-up: the implants work well and are safe. The program will now be launched fully within all Shatterdomes, starting here. The Science Division will be assuming full control of the Medical Unit on the first of April and will remain in charge of it until a two-month monitoring period for all reimplanted Rangers has passed."

This causes a stir in the crowd, the tone of which is hard to summarise. The murmurs are not entirely enthusiastic, though some voices do rise above to announce immediate willingness for the procedure.

Mycroft continues: "Detailed information will be delivered this week; eligibility reviews including consent negotiations shall be undertaken in the two weeks preceding the first of April. I must urge you not to share this news with those outside this room until a public announcement has been made sometime next week. As Rangers and serving officials, you will have signed the appropriate statutes of secrecy. This is to ensure that the advances the PPDC has made in military technology continue to be used for the protection of all of humanity and to prevent them from falling into the hands of organisations seeking to advance only their own goals."

Mycroft concludes his speech with some trite, predictable statements of unity and service, then steps off the podium. Sherlock grabs another glass of champagne from a tray sailing by.

Not that it is actual champagne, though. Even John who is no expert, can tell it is likely a mediocre, generic bubbly from Portugal.

He blows his nose on a tissue he's dug out of his trouser pockets.

Sherlock gives him a once-over and through their connection, John can tell he's wondering if John has caught the bug Colleen has. He feels fine — just a mildly stuffy nose.

Perhaps no kissing today, just to be on the safe side, John suggests.

This suggestion doesn't seem to go down well; Sherlock crosses his arms.

I'm not worried about catching it. I just don't like the idea that two out of our team of three might be under the weather if there's an attack.

Are you still angry about the temporary repair?

Mycroft's "expedited" fix to the Ravager had turned out to be replacing the Jaeger's arm with that of Greenwich Victory, one of the base's oldest Jaeger. It takes the Victory out of service temporarily, but that is still better than the Ravager lumbering around one-armed. A proper replacement copy of the flagship Jaeger's proper arm will take weeks to finish since none exist in full form, just components. Losing the whole thing in one go was not a scenario the PPDC had much prepared for, apparently.

Sherlock huffs mentally.

Do I like the fact that the Ravager looks like a rag doll — no. But that's not––

Sherlock's eyes are sweeping the thickening crowd with increasing trepidation. John can tell he's concentrating hard, mentally preparing himself for the impending human encounters he'll have tonight.

John rests his palm on Sherlock's arm. "Can we just relax tonight? Try to have a bit of fun?"

He has shifted deliberately to talking out loud to bring them both back into the moment. As much as he loves their private connection, it isolates them from everyone else.

"You know that's not up to me," Sherlock says in a gloomy tone. "I've a strange feeling I can't shake."

"About what?"

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "That Breach is still open."

"But it's been quiet this week." John bursts out laughing. "Don't tell me you've started Ghost Drifting with the kaiju, too."

Sherlock looks deeply unimpressed with such a joke. He's tempted to tell Sherlock again to try to push his worries aside for tonight — it's not as if they don't have to deal daily with this looming sense that a kaiju attack could happen at any time.

But before John opens his mouth, he senses that someone else has stolen Sherlock's attention.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Sherlock is trying to divide his thoughts between conversing with John about the Breach and the fact that, after having to put up with the second part of this torturous evening — a dinner party likely with pre-assigned seating — he might want to clear the brain soot caused by socialising with some vigorous fucking. John might insist that they refrain from kissing during it since he might've caught Colleen's infection, and that would be––

"Evening."

This singular word, spoken in a slicing, half-suggestive and half-demanding tone, tears Sherlock out of his planning and makes him twist his torso to face the speaker.

"James," Sherlock acknowledges. "Didn't spot you in the crowd before."

He should have bitten his tongue. Why is he revealing the fact that he'd been looking?

James Moriarty shakes his head. Sherlock can see past the easy smile, spot the fact that every bit of what is being projected at him is carefully controlled.

"Only arrived now," James excuses himself. "The laundry and uniform services are in shambles after the accident; they finished my outfit with minutes to spare."

Indeed, his uniform looks crisp and clean, and perhaps even more form-fittingly tailored than mess dress usually is. Did he sweet-talk them into alterations? Sherlock wonders. He now spots the other two transfer Rangers wearing Hong Kong's distinct, Mandarin-collared mess dress while James had made an effort to acquire the Chard's Rift version immediately. Its even more proof that this James Moriarty cares deeply about the impression he gives.

James catches him giving the man a thorough once-over. "I did have some special requests," he drawls with a suggestive smile. "I can tell you're a man who appreciates sartorial skill."

"Hard to indulge when in active service. I envy my brother for very few things, save for access to Savile Row."

"The uniform materials leave a lot to be desired," Moriarty agrees, taking an artful sip from his glass. "They shouldn't allow Rangers to be distracted by prickly materials," he tuts conspiratorialle — as if signalling he suffers from the same hardships Sherlock does in this regard. "That's one thing I'll miss from Hong Kong; you're allowed to use local tailors for mess dress and full service uniforms, and they can get their hands on good-quality wool and silk for pennies compared to European prices."

John clears his throat next to them. He's resting an arm on a high, round cocktail table while standing pointedly close to Sherlock.

"How'd you end up there? You're… Irish, aren't you?" John asks their new colleague.

"How astute!" James proclaims, and Sherlock can hear more than a smidgen of sarcasm.

James then snatches a glass from a passing waiter without thanking them. "Oh, I served a bit back in the day when they weren't taking in new recruits for the Atlantic subsection. Everyone who came in was shipped off to the Pacific."

Sherlock remembers reading something about that period — or perhaps he'd heard of it during the compulsory PPDC history lectures during his basic training. A string of kaiju attacks had inspired a lot of young people to sign up within a short time period, and Chard's Rift's positions filled up quickly. For the next few years, recruitment from Britain was limited to the candidates with exceptionally high aptitude results, and they were sent all to other subsections, mostly the Hong Kong Shatterdome

"You served a bit? What happened then?" John asks, his tone approaching interrogatory.

Moriarty grimaces. "Back injury. Could barely walk for a year. Medical discharge."

"And now you've re-enlisted," Sherlock concludes politely.

"Time did the trick just as the doctors told me. Time, and a bit of patience."

Sherlock hums, scanning the crowd. Their fellow Rangers and the officials are now shifting towards the white-clothed tables, seeking their names on seating cards.

"I believe we are seated together," Moriarty offers. "Though I must powder my nose first. Do excuse me, gentlemen," he tells John in particular before retreating into the throng of people looking for their seats.

"Never heard of anyone bowing out because of an injury like that and making it back into the Corps," John comments.

"There's all kinds of back injuries," Sherlock points out. "Wallis' slipped disc didn't keep him out of service for long." The Fightmaster had gained the injury during a spirited sparring match with John and bounced back in little less than two months.

"Yeah, all kinds of back injuries, but the Science Division can usually do something about them. Must've been pretty bad if there was nothing they could do for Moriarty besides honourable discharge."

John sounds bored with the topic, but he keeps glancing towards the men's room as if wanting to keep an eye on when James might reappear.

"You seem to have decided not to like him," Sherlock points out, lip quirking up. John's attitude towards James is a fascinating approach in how unusual it is. John tends to want to give everyone the benefit of the doubt, and he is highly loyal by default to all other Rangers.

"After harping on for years that I should play nice with other Rangers and get to know them, you're taking the opposite approach with very little evidence," Sherlock analyses.

"He keeps checking you out, staring at you."

Sherlock is amused at such garden-variety jealousy from his partner. "Everyone does that. It's a burden I have to bear. And especially older women do that all the time to you when we're outside the base. There is definitely a daydream market for distinguished silver fox Rangers––"

"Oi!" John slaps his arse gently, then glances around to see if anyone had noticed.

One person has — James Moriarty, purposefully striding through the crowd back towards them. His raises a knowing brow at John but comments nothing as he rejoins them.

"Shall we?" John suggests, nodding towards the tables, and makes a beeline for them.

James waits until Sherlock has begun moving, then trails a step behind, briefly raising a hand close to the small of Sherlock's back, barely ghosting against the fabric as they squeeze past a throng of high officials before letting his hand drop. Sherlock can only imagine John's reaction if he noticed. Perhaps that additional pang of jealousy will lend itself to giving a bit of extra spice to what Sherlock plans to do with him later.

Or rather, what he wants John to do to him.

They find their seats, and Sherlock grits his teeth. Of the bloody course it's Mycroft right across. John is to his right, James to his left.

At least Sherlock can trust his brother to keep the conversation going. True to form, Mycroft wastes no time in lavishing a warm welcome on the new Ranger and inquiring how James is finding Chard's Rift.

"More isolated than what I'm used to, of course," Moriarty answers. "So lovely in Hong Kong to be able to pop into town every evening if one was so inclined. Street food was great in quality and price, considering the lower service salaries. And the nightlife, of course. Thankfully, the guards were quite lax with us Rangers when it came to curfew."

"There's a weekly boat transport to the capital," John points out. "We tend to get busy here, so it's not really a problem not to be able to paint the town red every night."

"What do you do for fun here, then?" Moriarty asks John, more challenging than conversational.

"Nature's great for hiking. And Sherlock likes to sunbathe," John jokes.

The glance Moriarty gives Sherlock carries open admiration.

"You two get to spend a lot of time together. Relatively few military couples enjoy such perks," Mycroft points out, and James' attention returns to him.

"I see you've forgot how hard-won those perks are," Sherlock quips. He then addresses James, shifting so that he's pointedly ignoring his brother. "We had to blackmail him to get any kind of a wedding organised: I threatened to stop being a Ranger meat puppet for PR purposes. That seemed to make certain obstacles disappear."

Mycroft is looking a bit pink on the ears. "This soup is rather lovely, isn't it? Seasonal vegetables are always––"

"I read something about the difficulties you two had of getting a shared room?" Moriarty prompts politely, gaze shifting from Sherlock to John. "Something about the Staff Charter not recognising same-sex couples."

John rolls him eyes. "A can of worms that was, yeah."

"I see you've familiarised yourself with the history of our Ravager team," Mycroft commends Moriarty unctuously. "Their star status is great for recruitment, but my brother tends to think it ought to guarantee special treatment at all times." The look he's giving Sherlock carries a warning: behave yourself, brother mine. "Favouritism is not good for morale."

"Why the reshuffle, then?" John asks his brother-in-law. "We have a full rota of Rangers here, don't we?"

"There are some impending retirements and reassignments coming, and we have to prepare for the possibility that not all current serving Chard Rangers choose to undergo reimplantation."

"No one wants brain surgery, do they?" John sighs, "but if it's the only way to serve and they've tested the thing and already put it in several Rangers without a hitch, then why not."

This gives Sherlock pause. It sounds as if John has already decided. It's logical: John's implant is much older than Sherlock's. Colleen is constantly having to make adjustments and recalibrations to get theirs to work together, to make sure the Ravager's systems don't send too much data into John's implant, the processing capacity of which is so limited compared to more recent models.

Sherlock can appreciate that a brand-spanking new implant will be welcome news within the Corps in general since they all want to see humanity winning over the kaiju. It's just that personally, the time when he'd been implanted for the first time is something he tries not to think about too much. Yes, he'd done it voluntarily and yes, met John around that time which had changed his life for the better in so many ways, but there is a darker side to those months. He will freely admit that he'd been drifting through his life in London, being irresponsible with his future as well as his health, but at least those choices had been his to make. Even though he hadn't been sent to prison after being arrested for aggravated criminal damage, joining the Corps had not felt like a choice made in free will. They'd forced his hand. And, if he hadn't agreed to implantation, what would they have assigned him to do? Mop the Jaeger hangar floors until kingdom come or a horde of kaiju pummelled up the Shatterdome and killed all within its walls? When he had discovered that the Corps had use for him, and that he could be not just a Ranger but a spectacular Ranger if paired with John, why would he have settled for less?

Even though he had made the right choice, he still has the occasional nightmare about walking into Med Bay, about being put under for the implantation.

Going through that again would be… problematic.

It irks Sherlock — no, it infuriates him — that, once again, he feels as though what is being presented as a choice is nothing but a duress of circumstance.

He's tempted to ask if Moriarty has the new implant, but John, Little Mister Manners, would probably tell him it's not a topic for a dinner table. Or that it's too private a question. So many pointless social rules. When have I ever cared about such things?

"You were in Hong Kong when they started giving Rangers the new implants," Sherlock points out, eyes fixed on James.

Moriarty's expression lights up. "It's fantastic. You wouldn't believe the stuff they can do with it."

Sherlock is disappointed. This sounds like nothing but PR drivel — as if someone has asked Moriarty to hype it up. And he hadn't even specified whether such hyperbole comes from personal experience.

"I see that did little to convince you," James points out. "I do have first-hand experience, if that's what you wanted to know."

Sherlock expects John to start asking more questions from the man; wouldn't he want to learn more if he's already decided he also wants to be reimplanted. Yet, John remains silent.

Moriarty is such a conundrum. He seems keen to interact but is curating judiciously what he says. So far, he has shared very few personal facts and is skilful at obfuscation and redirecting the topic. Then again, on the occasions when he's been asked about personal things, John has been present and in a bristling mood. Who'd want to open up in the presence of someone behaving like that? Sherlock would never pretend to be an expert in reading people but even he can tell John is acting very different in the man's presence than he usually does when meeting new people. When he and Sherlock had had their first interactions years ago, John had guarded his privacy and hidden his curiosity under a medical role, but Sherlock had picked up on his desire to help. As the instant, mutual attraction grew, Sherlock had sensed that John was different — that he wasn't just mindlessly following orders and that he was conflicted about being a Ranger, too.

James Moriarty doesn't seem conflicted about anything. Right now, he's discussing something with Mycroft that Sherlock has managed to tune out. James is acting so overly courteous and subservient to the Marshal that it makes Sherlock want to regurgitate his soup back onto the plate.

Hapless sycophant or someone with an agenda? Sherlock wonders.

An officer who'd been posted at the door approaches Mycroft, leans close and whispers something into his ear.

Mycroft's easy, social mask drops, his features sharpen, and he rises to his feet, dabbing his lips on the napkin he recovers from his lap before placing it in front of him on the table. "Duty calls, I'm afraid. Rangers," he acknowledges with a nod and turns to leave.

"Anything we should know?" John asks loudly.

Mycroft looks back over his shoulder. "Perhaps you and Sherlock might decline the next glass of wine."

He then strides away, joined by the Base Commander also headed for the lifts.

Sherlock and John share a glance.

Breach belch? John asks in his head.

Could be anything, Sherlock shrugs internally.

His brother is here so rarely that he'd certainly be tempted to observe and evaluate Hammond's operational control of not just a proper kaiju incursion but also more minor events.

The Base Commander is informed whenever there is a change in the Breach: when one opens, when an earthquake happens in the mid-Atlantic ridge that might signal one, whenever there is an expansion in an open fissure, or when there are electro-magnetic changes that might signal that a kaiju might be coming out. Not every Breach hiccup means that a kaiju is incoming, but if this one does then the brass will want to start planning Jaeger deployment as early as possible.

As if on cue, the row of waiters pounce upon the dinner attendees, offering Chablis for the fish-based main course.

"I best not," John declines. "I've had my allowance already."

Sherlock spots James' confoundment at the statement. "Atlantic Corps rules states that Rangers on standby are never to have more than two standard doses of alcohol in their system. Preferably none."

James snickers. "We've all heard the stories of the first Rangers' post-battle benders and then having to climb into the Conn-Pod again the next morning. Fight hard, relax hard. We weren' such sticklers for rules in HK. Of course, there are other ways to celebrate together besides drinking," he suggests, glancing at John.

"Zero tolerance for drugs," John comments dryly. "And there's surprise testing, too."

Moriarty's amusement tells Sherlock this is not what their new colleague had meant.

The main course arrives: a steak of tuna on a bed of mashed parsnips and a vile-looking arugula-based salad Sherlock pushes away from the rest of the ingredients to prevent it from tainting the taste.

"Where did you two grow up?" Moriarty asks.

"Sussex, until I was sent to a boarding school in South Korea," Sherlock answers.

"Manchester," John answers after chasing down a chunk of tuna with a gulp of water.

Sherlock fixes his gaze on James, signalling he's interest in a counter-answer.

"Here and there. Mincéiri, you see. Travellers, as is the more common term. Didn't want that life. Thankfully, there was one option for escape." He raises his palms then turns them inward to indicate his uniform."

Sherlock can relate to that sentiment. He knows what it's like not to understand one's parents' life choices — what it's like to not belong anywhere due to being dragged around by family.

Why is John being so dismissive of Moriarty? It's hurtful, really, that John thinks he needs to police Sherlock's relations with others like this — that he thinks he can lecture Sherlock on proper conduct between officers and then signal he's doing it wrong by being civil to a new Ranger at the base.

What is James if not just another Ranger, and so what if he likes the look of me? I'd never be unfaithful, and John should know that by now. Doesn't he trust what we have?

John glances at him; perhaps he'd sensed a bit of Sherlock's inner turmoil. He'd been careful enough to shield his thoughts so little detail should have transferred over. But perhaps John had still picked up enough of it to realise Sherlock is thinking about their colleague.

Sherlock skewers another bit of tuna with his fork, but before he has time to shove the morsel into his mouth, mayhem breaks out.

The wrist consoles of many a Ranger light up, and after no more than five seconds, the general alarm begins sounding throughout the base.

Sherlock rises to his feet, drops his napkin on his not-even-half-finished meal. He relished what he feels through his connection with John: the initial surprise and mild shock has passed quickly for both, replaced by now by giddy, determined anticipation and urgency. John's heart must be pounding as hard as his, but not from fear.

No, what their bodies and minds are now preparing for is a trophy hunt.

"Ready to see what the Atlantic subsection does best?" Sherlock asks James. He hopes that enough drones have been dispatched to provide good views.

"Can't wait," James promises with a smile lit bright just for Sherlock. "Off you pop, then, Ranger Holmes. Bring me a souvenir."

Chapter 4: Foreplay

Once they've rush out of the lift into the window-lined corridor overlooking the underdome and the Ravager comes into view, Sherlock's steps screech to a halt.

He is shaken to the core by the sight of what they've done to his Jaeger.

When he'd used the term rag doll to describe the solution of replacing the missing appendage with an arm on loan from an older, smaller Jaeger, he had hoped that the expression would be an exaggeration. The sordid reality is that the sight of the Ravager with an arm transplant from the Greenwich Victory is even worse than he'd dared to imagine.

Even the colours clash. The Greenwich Victory, Chard's Jaeger patriarch, is silver in shade with green lights and dark green seam embellishments while the Ravager is black with red trimmings.

It is only when John grabs Sherlock's arm and yanks him back into a sprint toward the walkway leading to the Drivesuit room that he manages to shed the worst of the emotional upheaval.

"It looks bad, but it's functional," John pants at him resolutely as their boots pound the walkway grille. "At least that's what the bulletin said."

"Bulletin, what bulletin––"

"One of those that you never read."

They push past some maintenance crew headed in the opposite direction. After Sherlock activates the Drivesuit room door's retinal scanner with his wrist console and presents his face to the reader, they slip through the sliding doors as soon as they crack open wide enough. While John greets cheerily the four armour technicians waiting for them, Sherlock bothers with little more than a nod.

As the technicians begin to help them get their armour on, their arm consoles awaken again with an upwards-projected hologram of the kaiju that doesn't know it's about to get Jaegered, as some pilots have begun to phrase it. Sherlock thinks it's a rather juvenile term.

"We have to look out for that tail," John remarks, lifting his wrist towards Sherlock and turning the hologram with his finger to demonstrate the kaiju feature to which he's referring. "Looks a bit like one of those spiky ones that some dinosaurs used to have, doesn't it?"

Sherlock hums a distracted reply.

He feels oddly conflicted regarding what they are about to do. Any kaiju engagement is a gift since it breaks the tedium, but he'd prefer not to go at it with thrifted parts. If only we could swap cortex sides and John could handle that bloody awful Victory arm…

He realises he's also annoyed that their conversation with James had been cut short. He's against new people on principle, but James… Rare is the new arrival who's even marginally interesting. Behind James' calculatedly sycophantic behaviour must lurk things he can't help wanting to poke at.

Sherlock realises that all these new developments have thrown his mental balance off kilter. There's the Ravager's plight, the revelatory news of the new implants, his desire not to have more conversations his decision-making in battle affecting PPDC finances, and new Rangers the arrival of which mean changes to the current pilot rotas.

So many things interfering with the life he and John have constructed. As much as he grouses about many things in it, change is difficult. Always has been, in a life where permanence has been scarce, and he's always felt as if everyone else has held the reins but him.

You alright?

As always, John has picked up on the churnings of his psyche.

"Mm-hmm," he replies, hoping John will abandon his inquiries.

"You got any toothpicks?" John asks one of the technicians. "I've something stuck in the back teeth that's going to drive me nuts if I can't get it out before putting my helmet on."

"And you harp at me about being easily distracted," Sherlock teases him with a crooked grin.

"I recall that one battle where you spent half of it complaining about a raspberry seed––"

Sherlock tosses at him a spare piece of the foam liner used inside the armour parts to prevent chafing, and John bursts out laughing.

"Target practice?" he asks, and takes a swig from a water bottle offered by a tech. It's best they hydrate now; battle can last for hours during which drink and bathroom breaks are impossible.

"Hurry up!" Sherlock barks at the technicians peeling his spinal clamp out of its foam-lined stainless-steel case. It must be inspected for dust and dirt carefully before being lined up to connect to the backplate of his armour. Anything messing with the signal could pose a safety risk in battle since it could interfere with Jaeger control.

"Battle's not going to start without us," John reminds him, slipping his right hand into the two halves of a forearm guard the techs are holding up.

While the clamp requires time and attention to get right, all the technicians need to do to help their armour parts on is to bring the pieces close enough that the magnets pull the connection snug and the automated latches engage. John's new armour is black, replacing the green, vintage-styled one he'd been given right after they'd become a pilot team. He'd needed a new one a year and a half into their Ravager assignment since his body shape has begun to change due to a return to the fitness regime compulsory to all active-duty pilots. Sherlock's has been replaced around the same time but without a redesign of the colours. He's had this white mesh design right from the start, with the PPDC logo painted onto his chest plate. John sports two logos, one on each shoulder guard.

"You want to fight that thing inside the Miracle Mile, be my guest," Sherlock scoffs. "I'd prefer to have the missile option until we know what we're dealing with."

The Miracle Mile is a designated area close to the base. Within it, the Jaegers' nuclear weapons are not to be fired to prevent collateral damage. There are similar but more flexible limitations for use in habited coastal areas.

"We should be using melee or plasma-based weapons rather than missiles no matter where we are," John points out, "the new environmental regulations say that––"

"It's hardly the primary objective to save the whales, John," Sherlock comments right before getting the wind knocked out of his lungs when the clamp, now locked onto the backplate, is activated and connects to his peripheral nerves. It feels as though a rucksack full of boulders has been thrown on his shoulders. He'd forgot to grab the safely handlebars designed to help keep him upright, and the technicians rush close to grab hold of his arms to keep him steady.

"You said it yourself: we need to steer clear of that tail so melee should be avoided," he reminds John. "Victory's antique Plasmacaster could maybe get rid of the odd seagull on the aviation deck, but for this––" He shakes his head. The Ravager's plasma cannon, currently unusable, is far superior to its older cousin's weaponry, and has the added bonus of cauterising kaiju tissue and preventing its highly toxic bodily fluids from seeping into the ocean

Sherlock decides he has even less patience for rules today than usual. He wants to drown out the worries ghosting the edges of his thoughts with the noise of battle. He wants — no, needs — a spectacular bang or at least the opportunity to sink a melee weapon into a kaiju brain. He wants to remind PPDC brass what the important part of their work is, and it sure as hell isn't anything done on an abacus. Perhaps it'll take away at least some of this intolerable, simmering restlessness and impatience that seems to plague him these days.

He wants to maim, tear and scalp whatever has dared to crawl out of that Breach, and he wants to look good doing it. That would show James Moriarty who's the alpha predator in these waters.

"In a bit of a mood, are we?" John smiles with a fond huff.

"You know how having to endure a meal with Mycroft always gives me indigestion."

Sherlock is forced to stand and wait while John gets his clamp attached. He hates this part, feeling so ungainly, like a puppet sitting put before being connected to its strings. It's only once they're fully interfaced with the system that he'll get to enjoy the exhilaration of the Jaeger's full power connected directly into his and John's brains.

They are led — or, more accurately, assisted as though they were as clumsy as penguins on land — into the Conn-Pod. Once stood at the pedestal housing the controls, they step onto the leg braces and activate their individual virtual user interfaces. This signals to Colleen in the Control Centre that she can initiate Drifting.

"You ready, boys?" she asks, sounding a bit congested but perky.

"You really need to ask?" Sherlock scoffs with a smirk and a sideways glance at John.

"Some of that cut out," Colleen tells him. "You should get your helmet repaired."

"Tell the Breach to stop spewing out these things long enough. No spares, remember?"

It's yet another sign of the PPDC's skewed budget priorities that pilots have no spare helmets. The microphone inside Sherlock's has been acting up recently but he hasn't bothered to get it seen to since he only needs it to communicate with Colleen and the Base Command, not with John. Even if it breaks down, John can still handle verbal comms between their Jaeger unit and Chard's Rift. It would actually be a relief to delegate all of that to John and focus on just their mental connection and the battle.

"Kaiju designation's Rudong — that's Crawler in English," Colleen informs them. Every kaiju gets a name, often a Chinese one as a nod to the Global Command in Hong Kong and the historical significance of the base there.

"Not that big, but it's fast," John appraises. He's brought up a map of the route the kaiju has taken from the Breach towards coastal Europe.

"Might have to go melee, after all," Sherlock comments resignedly. The Victory's Plasmacaster cannot be put away; it'll be the only thing he can hold in the right upper limb he controls for this skirmish. It's heavy, which means that John holding a lighter melee weapon might make their gait uneven. They won't be able to use any of the Ravager's heavier melee options since those require two hands.

At least this got us out of that dinner thing. I know you hate those.

Sherlock gives him a smile that comes easily. It's odd how just that tiny acknowledgement of what John calls his quirks can make him feel seen. Why does he crave that acceptance so much, and why is John the only one who can grant it in a way that truly reassures him? Something about John's words echoing in his head and the earnest smile he sees when he glances at his husband again makes much of the tension drain out of Sherlock. It's astounding, this talent of John's to calm him down and help him focus. Why can't he remember more often that, instead of getting lost in his head, he could be relying on John to keep him right?

What would I do without John? Not pilot, that's for certain.

He needs to reorganise his priorities, fast. They're going into battle together, which is Sherlock's second-favourite thing to do with John. They're in the Ravager even if it's a bit under the weather.

Everything else is just white noise.

He breathes out, shifts his shoulders. John. Ravager. Kaiju. Focus.

"Initiating neural handshake," Colleen declares just as the Jaeger's energy core booms into life.

Sherlock closes his eyes, knowing from years of experience what to expect as they enter the Fade. A sense of his physical surroundings fades out, replaced by a dizzying, flashing, flickering tsunami of images and other sensory data. This is signal traffic in his brain synapses being connected to John's, like two rivers joining after floodgates are opened. If one does not trust a Drifting partner or have much experience with this phase, it's easy to push away that union, to get carried away by an image or a residual emotion from an intense memory. Sherlock knows not to chase those things, that he shouldn't try to hide them from John. In fact, he needs to do the opposite: to seek his partner's presence in those stormy waters of consciousness like a beacon in the night.

Dropships are ready, I think they've already done the cables, John tells him.

The way his voice echoes inside Sherlock's head more intensely than through their constant ephemeral connection is further proof that they're beginning to Drift proper. The auditory cortex is less complex to connect than the visuals, so it initiates faster.

Sherlock wonders if starting the system and establishing a connection will become quicker with the new implants. Every minute wasted flipping switches allows the kaiju to stomp closer to civilians and Chard's Rift.

If the new implants shave a few minutes off the launch, then great, John agrees.

Sherlock's visual field begins to return, signalling that the connection is nearly complete. Once Colleen finishes her final touches on their sync, he will be within John, John within him, and they will be the Jaeger.

After what must be less than thirty seconds but what always feels agonisingly long, the world reorients itself completely. Looking at his hands, Sherlock sees transparent, laser-like neon-coloured lines of the Jaeger's anatomy covering his own. This feature makes it easy for him retain a sense of the Jaeger's proportions. While they'd found each other in what Rangers had come to call the Fade though it has no official name, the technicians had latched their boots on the attachments on the hydraulic pedals that control the Jaeger's legs.

Hammond says they're putting in automatically-latching boot pedals in the next upgrade, John tells him.

Just like the ones the Sentinel has, Sherlock points out. I wonder why they're still not looking into turning the lower limb controls virtual just like the upper limb ones are.

 

Operating the elliptical-like leg braces is the physically most exhausting part of piloting. The upper limbs are managed via remote-controlled hydraulics and a virtual interface, with no direct transfer of muscle power involved.

It's down to cost — the virtual hydraulics are more expensive to maintain plus they use more energy since it's needed for fuel and for running the software processing. And the analogue ones are kind of neatly intuitive. You want to run, you run, John explains.

How do you know all this, and I don't? Sherlock complains.

 I think they covered that in our training. The old version, I mean, back in the day with Harry. We had to do some LOCCENT stuff, and that included quite a lot of technical details.

Thankfully, the manual leg controls are the only heavy thing in how the controls feel, save for a certain sluggishness caused by the size of the battle machine that reminds them how massive a weight they are throwing around.

Massive enough to kill kaiju.

"Pilot to Jaeger interface complete, integration at 97,4 percent," Colleen debriefs.

"Only 97,4? Let's fix that," Sherlock orders.

Their record is over ninety-nine, which had been unprecedented for a pilot team. Right after the Ravager was delivered to the base and the first pilot tests were conducted, no one expected anyone to reach above ninety-four.

They just hadn't seen us at it yet.

When a neural sync is complete, both pilots feel what the other is doing with the body parts they control as if it was their own motor pathways creating the movements. A sync above 88 % is enough to move the Jaeger from point A to point B, but well above 90 % is required for battle. Fighting the hardiest, biggest and baddest of kaijus, above ninety-seven is the official target. In the low nineties was a standard for a long time, but from Mark 5 upwards the Jaeger systems required such fine control that it put pressure to find more and more compatible pilot teams. That's why the Ravager still lacks a second pilot pair — such compatibility is so rare that all those capable of it would have already been recruited by the Corps if they existed. And some of the most promising candidates were lost to the kaiju before the Ravager was constructed.

Fist to palm? John suggests.

It's a move many teams use in the limited confines of the Jaeger's berth in the underdome to further enhance sync and to test their joint reflexes. One pilot makes a fist with the hand they operate and slams it against the open palm on the other. It requires enough fine motor control that the move can be used to fine-tune cortical signal flow by the LOCCENT officer.

Sherlock is not entirely happy with their coordination once the test is done. The dissonance is subtle, but it's there. Must be the temporary patch arm causing the issue. Still good enough for battle, he tells himself.

Colleen announces that they're at ninety-eight point one now. "Better get a move on," she presses.

"We'll make do with that," Sherlock declares snootily.

"No, we won't!" John declares mischievously. "Again!"

Sherlock is surprised by the sudden bravado rising in his husband, one that has been missing in battle lately. It's as if John has been knowingly giving him more limelight lately, 'letting the junior shine' as he'd once teased Sherlock. It's as if… John has been acting like someone about to exit stage left.

But not today; Sherlock can sense that John wants this kill and the fight leading to it as much as he does. What has brought on such a reinvigorated thirst for kaiju blood? Is it the promise of a new implant, the need to demonstrate his status due to the arrival of new, younger Rangers on base, or both? Does John think the new implant will mean an extension to his piloting career? Sherlock certainly hopes so for both their sakes.

He shields his thoughts as he considers all this. Whatever has put John in such a valiant mood has to be a good thing, and Sherlock doesn't want to deflate it with his own doubts.

He does the honours this time as they re-introduce the fist-to-palm move. Though the Jaeger's advanced vibration dampeners make sure that the pilots don't feel it, they can hear the hangar structures around the Ravager shudder and groan from the pressure wave.

"Hemispheric integration topping at ninety-nine point three," Colleen declares triumphantly. "And your taxi's here."

Even through the excellent sound insulation of the Conn-Pod, they now hear the approaching helicopters that will pick up the cables to the transport arches deck engineers bolt onto the Jaeger when an airlift is needed.

"Cable docking complete," comments someone Sherlock doesn't recognise on a rattling radio frequency.

Their communications systems continually scan all the base's radio frequences and choose what to transmit to their helmets based on a pre-set order of priority.

"Prepare for transport," rattles the radio, "Liftoff in three, two, one…"

There's a sense of upwards momentum, slow at first, and then the sight of the Local Control Centre across the underdome begins moving downwards as the Jaeger lifts off. The Ravager is brought up the shaft that forms the upper part of its berth until they clear it and are suddenly basted by bright sunlight. The roof of the Shatterdome sits tall at 120 metres, so once clear of it, pilots are treated to the beautiful sight of Terceira's west coast. The base is connected via a bridge to the more rugged part of the island's edge where black volcanic rock juts out, sharp and dramatic, caressed by waves in the shades of cobalt and royal blue. As they are lifted higher yet, they begin to make out all the small, square, moss-green patches of pasture and field, lined by ancient rock walls and irrigation streams. In the middle of the lush island the Santa Barbara volcano cradles its surroundings in a darker, almost brownish green. They had climbed it last year for a picnic on the rim on John's birthday. He'd complained playfully about Sherlock having slipped the champagne bottle into his backpack at the dorm, saying it wasn't fair to make him carry it up on his big day.

The joy of the memory and the fascination for this landscape wane quickly for Sherlock today. Usually they both love this part, getting to enjoy some spectacular scenery while being transported by cable-attached, specially designed heavily armoured choppers to wherever a kaiju has managed to crawl to before the PPDC intercepts it. It's an opportunity to chat with John in the privacy of the Drift, to enjoy the adrenaline tingling in his limbs in anticipation of battle.

He can sense that John is enjoying the view without a care in the world, but Sherlock has lost what little emotional forward momentum his husband has managed to lend. John had helped him shed some of his frustrations, but now they're returning full force. The most pressing is that he still has no idea what to do with the sorry excuse for a limb he has to work with today.

Worried about the arm? John asks.

Sherlock almost snaps at him. He reminds himself that John just wants to make sure they're both ready to ensure a maximum chance of success. Every time they are sent out for kaiju cleanup duty, they could be heading out to sudden death.

"ETA eight minutes, cruising altitude two hundred metres," Colleen informs them of their air travel plans.

Sherlock brings up the sonar scans of the kaiju on his virtual screen. As usual, whoever — or whatever — keeps sending these beasts to bother humanity — is learning. Many weak spots are now covered with sturdy, spiky armour — save for two.

Still no armour on the armpits or whatever the kaiju might call them, he tells John with some tentative excitement.

It would limit the movement of these quadripedal ones too much, I suppose.

Rudong looks to have very low ground clearance. The Ravager is tall, which might post some problems: they'd have to lean down to reach those weak spots.

If we could flip it over somehow, it would that give us access to softer bits, and that thing might not be very nimble at getting back upright, John suggests.

Sherlock considers it. As plans go, I've heard worse.

A rare compliment.

Johns hearty, private chuckle in Sherlock's brain manages to relax him a bit yet again. He decides he doesn't have to find out right now why he feels akin to a constant threat looming in the horizon like animals sensing an arriving thunderstorm. He just needs to focus and keep reminding himself that he's not alone in this.

John tests the Ravager's Assault Mount 3.25 Sting Blade by pulling it out and giving it a slight swing, making the airborne Jaeger swing a bit in its cables. The Sting Blade is a digger-like thin, sharp melee weapon perfect for aiming at soft, squishy, unarmoured kaiju bits. The earlier versions of the Sting Blade were the primary weapons of some historical Jaegers, and the Ravager carries two of them, rarely used since John and Sherlock prefer the more devastating power of its two-hand operated sword for melee fights. The sword is a wide blade with a powerful vibration dampener to prevent the hits reverberating violently into the Conn-Pod. It has a chainsaw-like additional mode hidden under the edge of the blade. Sherlock mostly controls it as the dominant arm, but a lot of co-operation from John is requires for executing any kind of strike with the long weapon.

The plasma cannon is hidden underneath the Ravager's right arm plating, currently being welded back together at the base.

The final trick in their arsenal is a row of four ballistic missiles concealed right where the Jaeger's heart would be, were it a humanoid biological creature and not a bipedal battleship.

Sherlock tests out the Sentinel's arm with a few punches, prompting grumbles from the pilots of the transports helicopters since they cause even more sway in the cables.

There's an intolerable lag in the elbow hydraulics, he complains.

The fact that the Plasmacaster is a permanent fixture in the Sentinel's arm limits their weapon options severely. The singular Sting Blades are structurally weak, unlikely to withstand more than a few strikes against heavy kaiju armour. This skirmish can't drag on — they'll need to finish the kaiju off before it leans their weaknesses.

They can't afford any new damage on the Ravager.

Arriving by walking on the sea bottom would offer some element of surprise; being airlifted in never does. The kaiju sees them coming, halts its wading in the shallows on top of a seamount. It roars at the sight of the helicopters and though John and Sherlock cannot hear it through the rotor noise, they are still impressed by the rows of sharp teeth jutting out whichever way from the creature's massive jaws. It looks as if an army tank mated with a prehistoric crocodile.

We hit water, we charge and slide. I'll jam the Plasmacaster barrel underneath it, you slash at whatever looks soft enough.

Is that an order or a suggestion? John quips

I'm just going with your suggestion of trying to crank it around, Sherlock shrugs. If anyone asks I'll promise to tell them you were the mastermind of this plan.

Especially if it fails? John chuckles.

Not funny, and it won't.

Well, then, Rudong. Let's see if you're worthy of attention.

The cables are detached close to the water, and they drop into the shallows with a splash that flings droplets all the way up to the Conn-Pod windows. They're deliberately made small so that they wouldn't be a large structural weakness. The pilots don't need them since there are numerous camera feeds that can be connected into their visual fields and virtual displays — they can see and hear as if they were the Jaeger.

As soon as they sense that the Jaeger's feet are firmly planted on the subaquatic reef, they fire purpose-built the elbow rockets to help with accelerating into a run. This bring on enough G-forces that the edges of his boots, firmly locked into the leg braces, press painfully into Sherlock's shins. He grits his teeth through the smarting while pointing the Plasmacaster's barrel downwards and slightly forward.

The kaiju has withdrawn its form, lifted it rear and its tail is poised high, preparing to meet the attacker with a deadly swing. Rather than charge at them, it has decided to make use of its formidable, armoured carapace to protect itself like an armadillo.

John doesn't need to tell him what to do — a projected image through their connection is a perfect explanation.

Once suitable close to the creature, John drops the shoulder on his side while Sherlock twists his slightly forward, throwing the Jaeger onto its healthy side. Its feet continue a slide forward as its elbow hits the ground, acting like a figure skater's front spikes in pushing the Jaeger into a spiral-like arc. They're now low enough to match the eye level of the kaiju, and the creature has too little time to realise what's going on, let alone react, before the Plasmacaster barrel pushes underneath its belly, flipping it sideways, and John sinks a well-aimed blade into an armpit. Just as they had anticipated, it struggles to get back on its feet, especially with a large, bleeding gash under a front leg.

"The neck, get the neck!" Sherlock shouts both out loud and in their heads, and John, wonderful, clever John still with the reflexes of a hawk, sees what he means: as the kaiju is swinging its neck back and forth to gain momentum to flip back onto its feet, it is revealing a softer spot between scales of bony armour.

With a grunt, John sinks the blade in and half-decapitates the creature. It is left flailing like a fish on dry land until too much blood has gushed out.

"Well, that was tedious. We came all the way here for practically a single-strike thing," Sherlock mock-complains, shaking kaiju blood off the Plasmacaster.

"Confirmed kill, then?" Colleen asks.

John kicks the unmoving kaiju with the foot he controls. "I'd say so."

As they take a step back from the corpse, raising the Plasmacaster back up, they accidentally swat a drone hovering close by. It nearly drops into the waves before regaining lift and buzzing off into a large arc around the Jaeger.

Two more drones are making their rounds, likely filming footage that will be shown in the evening news of many a European nation.

James will be watching this.

Better give them a proper pose, then, Sherlock remarks insouciantly.

They lift the Ravager's left foot on top of the dead kaiju. and take a moment to just stand there, Plasmacaster held against the Jaeger's chest.

"The Watson–Holmes manoeuvre worked, then," John enthuses, directing his words clearly at Colleen.

She's laughing. "Is that what we're calling it?"

"The Holmes–Watson manoeuvre," Sherlock corrects.

"Oi! You said you'd give me the credit."

A few jokes about an old-timer wanting a bit more glory come to mind, but Sherlock bites his tongue and shields his thoughts. Such jokes have lost their humour value.

"A waste of the Ravager, really," he comments to Colleen and whoever else might be listening in at Chard. "Even Churchill could have minced that one. In fact, a smaller Jaeger might have had an advantage."

"A rare occasion of modesty from Ranger Holmes," John interjects. "I'm sure it won't happen again."

"You have permission to return to base," Colleen informs them. "A kill is still a kill. Well done, boys."

They start walking and Sherlock reaches for a bottle of water placed just within his reach if he removes his hands from the arm controls. It'll be a long slog; the Corps often tries to save money by not picking a Jaeger up by helicopter after battle. The Rangers often complain about it amongst themselves; after an exhausting battle, having to walk back Chard feels like penny-pinching and unappreciative of what they've just gone through in battle.

The radio comes back alive just after they're closing in on the edge of the seamount shallows. Once they clear that area, they'll sink to the sea bottom and walk the rest of the way down there. At least there will be fish to watch.

"Rangers Holmes and Watson, can you read me?" their base commander calls out.

"Yes, Commander," John replies to Prentiss Hammond.

"Firstly, congratulations on your battle performance."

"Bringing home the Ravager in one piece, sir," John offers proudly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"You'll be pleased to hear that there are electromagnetic changes detected in the current Breach that may well mean it is closing. Let's hope Rudong was the last enemy it had to throw at us."

"That's great news, sir."

Is it? Sherlock asks, and John gives him a pointed look.

Objectively, it's good news by normal people standards that they'll be safe from kaiju attacks until a new one opens, but it also means endless days of tedium at the base.

That's assuming the analysis is correct and the Breach truly is closing. Sherlock has learned never to take any such news as gospel until there is incontrovertible evidence.

"Enjoy your day off, Rangers. I know those have been few and far between while the Breach was still open."

"You'll have some shore leave applications on your desk soon," John tells Hammond. It sounds like John is ready to believe that the Breach is gone.

Not even the notion of shore leave cheers Sherlock up. Sitting at some cafe in Ponta Delgada and replenishing his hair products is hardly equivalent to what they've just done. We should have dragged that battle on at least a little bit.

Colleen comes back on. "I've been authorised to offer you a lift."

Sherlock wonders if it's his brother suddenly feeling charitable who's greenlit the helicopter fuel. He and John look at each other, and John's already got the nav system brought up on his screen. "Shouldn't be longer than twenty-five minutes to walk back. Might not be worth it to wait for the choppers. Besides, it's a nice enough day?"

At the sea bottom? Sherlock asks.

"Is that a no on the airlift, then?" Colleen asks. "Sherlock, any thoughts?"

"If John wants to walk, we'll walk."

They don't get to spend half as much time in the Ravager's Conn-Pod as they'd like since a lot of training and testing can be done in the simulation lab. "That's a negative on the choppers, Colleen," John confirms.

"As you wish."

We could try that new autopilot thing? John suggests.

In last year's upgrade, the Ravager had been fitted with a new navigation system that includes a function where Rangers can disengage from the system and let the Jaeger return to base. The Ravager cannot be recalled remotely, but as long as at least one pilot remains alive, the function can be used to return the Jaeger and its Rangers to the shelter of the shatterdome. Not having to physically walk back will allow pilots to disengage from the controls so that they can administer first aid to an injured co-pilot, rest or use the newly installed tiny toilet in the Conn-Pod.

"Engaging autopilot; we need your signoff, Colleen."

"That's a negative," Colleen says, her tone suddenly tense. "Stand to."

The comms system rattles a bit, sounding as if someone else is joining them on the line.

"Turn around, we need eyes on the ground for where you left the carcass," orders Prentiss Hammond's voice.

They pivot the Ravager on its heel. The Jaeger's size makes its movements very slow in chest-deep water.

They reach the kaiju carcass. It's being picked at by curious seagulls, but after having a taste they're either spitting the pieces out or, if they've swallowed some, drop dead after staggering around on the corpse for a few steps.

They turn the Ravager around to scan the ocean stretching out around them, and all Sherlock can see is the Atlantic stretching out into the horizon. The sea is a windless mirror, only an occasional breeze disturbing the surface with a ripple. A grey cloud cover has drifted in, and the faintest drizzle of rain is starting. A seagull screeches past the Jaeger's head, chased by another trying to tear away a morsel from its mouth.

Everything looks calm and quiet, but something is making the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck stand up. He brings up a bathymetric map on the navigation software. They're just at the edge of the coastal plateau; less than a hundred metres away, the sea bottom drops dramatically into depths of hundreds of metres.

"Holmes and Watson, do you read me?" Hammond has returned to the radio channel.

"Loud and clear, sir," John replies.

"I'm afraid our relief was premature. The changes detected were not indicative of the closure of the Breach. Instead, it is widening," Hammond announces. "Look sharp, Rangers."

"Kaiju signature detected?" Sherlock presses. "Or just the Breach getting wider so far?"

There is a pause at the end of the line. They're still standing, watching the ocean.

Then, some three hundred metres away, the ocean shifts as if a sudden current change has occurred. The gulls hovering above put some distance between them and whatever is moving below. The surface draws momentarily inward as if being sucked into a maelstrom, then settles.

"Kaiju signature confirmed," Hammond informs them.

You don't say… Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"We're looking at it, sir," he snaps.

"I'll let you focus. Officer Dunne, the channel is all yours."

"Scans indicate category five," Colleen passes on to them. "No, that's… update: scans indicate we have our first category six, but visual confirmation of size pending, this classification is preliminary. Codename: Stormbringer."

That first one was just… John muses, astounded.

…foreplay, Sherlock concludes.

 

Chapter 5: Category Six

Notes:

The fourth episode of the Drift United tie-in podcast Ranger Ham Radio is out and it's called It's called "Well, I say 'friend'…"!

In it, Elldotsee plans a barbeque, J recalls her accidental phone sex with ChatGPT and the positively Lovecraftian linguistics of naming Jaegers and kaiju just may prove too much for the sanity of your hosts. You can listen to it on Soundcloud where all the prior episodes are available as well.

"Quick systems check?" Colleen asks. "I'm watching one of the drone feeds and that thing doesn't seem to have noticed you yet."

"It will, soon," John curses. "But yeah, best make sure we know what we're working with here."

As the Ravager's established protocol dictates, John checks the life support systems while Sherlock goes through the weapons status.

"There's a jammed exhaust panel on the Conn-Pod heating outlet so I've shut that system off," John declares.

"All four missiles left and all weapons systems fully functional. And we're still outside the Miracle mile," Sherlock summarises pointedly.

"We're good as new", John suggests in an encouraging tone.

"Hardly, but I get your meaning," Sherlock sighs.

"Hammond is sending in Sentinel and Defender as your backup. ETA fifteen minutes," Holly promises pointedly — as if trying to signal that protesting would be discouraged. "Well, more like thirteen, now."

"No arguments there," Sherlock pipes up. He might not like giving away his kills, but he'd be foolish not to recognise that they are going to need to take all the help they can get if they're forced to take on a category six with the handicap of a vintage Jaeger arm.

"Holly, can you plug us into that drone feed?" John asks. "We should stay put as long we can, keep an eye on that thing and hope for the backup to get here before that fucker decides we look like a fun new squeaky toy."

Sherlock is tempted to protest John depreciating their Jaeger but decides against it because they need to focus, not bicker.

Holly links them into the camera feed: the drone is hovering stationary above the spot of the last sighting of their new enemy. Rain is pelting the sea heavier, now, and the horizon is shrouded in a mist that makes the whole scenery look rather desolate. The wind has picked up, making it harder to spot anything moving underneath the surface. Sherlock bites his lip, seeking the video feed for any sign of where the kaiju has gone.

It's a veritable emotional jolt to go from thinking of dinner and relaxation to facing possibly the most formidable kaiju the Atlantic has even seen. There had been two category sixes in the Pacific last year, and the first one had killed one Ranger and sent two Jaegers to the repair shop.

He can sense John's tense anticipation. There's an uneasiness mixed in that Sherlock has not often felt from his husband. He catches a brief image of what John is thinking of: Harry. More precisely, John is recalling the kaiju that ended her life.

Perhaps that memory was the reason for John making a comment that belittled the Ravager's capabilities of keeping them safe.

Even with the Victory's arm we should still be a reasonable match to whatever that thing might throw at us, he tries to promise John.

The response he gets is the extrasensory equivalent of a noncommittal hum.

In the camera feed the sea surface shifts, churns, and the gulls think it best to get the hell out of the area. The kaiju has crept closer.

As the Ravager, John and Sherlock widen and lower their stance, tuck the Plasmacaster against the chest in an angle where it'll be easy to bring into play. Hoping that the noise of the latch hydraulics won't travel all the way to the kaiju, Sherlock uncovers the missiles.

John grimaces. "I think it heard that."

Out of the sea now rises a form as hideous as it is impressive. With a bull-like head sporting a towering ridge of bone plates that widens to horns sticking straight forward, the kaiju stands hunched like a hominid, seaweed and water dripping down its heavily armoured neck. It has almost disproportionately large upper limbs, knuckles spiked like the back of a stegosaurus. The tail, long and whip-like, is beating the water angrily. Its jaws sport a snarling line of triangular teeth, and from between them oozes out a blueish glow John and Sherlock know to associate with the radioactive, acidic properties of many kaiju bodily fluids.

That thing needs dental care, John comments in awe.

So sobering is the sight of the kaiju that his tone is ominous rather than humorous. It is roughly the same height as the Ravager.

Good thing we've got a few tools to floss it with, Sherlock says.

I think we could spare a missile to test out its defences, John suggests.

Even if one GDH-101 Vortex Missile hit is unlikely to kill the kaiju, it might weaken the creature and give the Rangers an advantage. It would also provide a demonstration on how this particular kaiju reacts to such an attack and how nimbly it moves.

No time like the present, Sherlock confirms.

He arms and launches the projectile. The kaiju turns to face the Jaeger just as the ballistic impacts with its chest, causing disappointingly little visible damage beyond some discolouration.

The kaiju roar-screeches, making Sherlock flinch from the ear-splitting sound even through the sturdy sound insulation of the Conn-Pod. The kaiju knows now what it wants: to rip to pieces whatever has just shot something at it. As it skulks closer, snarling and baring it supernaturally glowing teeth Sherlock cannot help a smidgen of fear rising in his gut: it isbig. They've faced only one kaiju that has come even close to this size, and it had been their toughest battle — until today.

"Category six confirmed," Colleen says and curses under her breath. "Jesus H. Christ."

"Doesn't necessarily mean it's harder to kill," John reminds all three of them. "Size tends to mean sacrificing speed and agility."

Thank you, Captain Obvious.

The Stormbringer's walking speed is reassuringly slow. They have perhaps a minute before it's within punching range.

We should activate the joint reinforcement hydraulics, John suggests.

Do it.

It means retracting all joints into themselves so that the edges of the large protective plates covering the Jaeger's limbs stretch over those areas. The joints are a weak spot since there electrical wiring and other sensitive parts are not as well protected as they are elsewhere. Activating the additional protection limits the Jaeger's joint movements, but it's a reasonable price to pay when facing a larger kaiju.

Stormbringer is drawing ever closer, snarling and snapping its jaws, and Sherlock can now see its anatomical structure well. Thankfully, no features stand out that look likely to fling or regurgitate something corrosive; such substances had disabled many an earlier mark Jaegers. The Ravager's rhodium alloy plating should protect it well, but avoiding such substances would please the maintenance crew tasked with scrubbing Jaegers clean after battles.

They barely manage to dodge the creatures first swing, a surprisingly human-like uppercut. Those spiked knuckles scrape the Ravager's breastplate with a screech, but diagnostics don't indicate any internal damage. John and Sherlock counter this by bringing the Ravager's fists together and delivering a reinforced punch into the side of its head. Despite the loud crunch, it simply shakes his head hard before turning and retreats a few steps, only to be peppered in the back by the Ravager's Plasmacaster. Its back ripples with pain, armoured bony neck ruches rising with each heaving breath it takes.

"That's a thinner carapace on the back than I thought," John appraises. "Looks like that really hurt."

They circle to the creatures back as it tries to keep up with where its more agile foe is going, managing only barely to move faster than it turns. They release another rapid peppering from the Plasmacaster, this time to the back of the kaiju's knees, and the creature howls as its balance wobbles. Sherlock and John make use of this respite from its counterattacks to rush closer and make a few stabs with the Sting Blade John has uncovered from where they normally sit retracted within the Jaeger's wrist guard in a square pattern. One of the stabs makes the creature screech and bend over.

Vital organ? John grins.

They take several steps back, the creature now straightening its form again and stomping in rage, likely preparing to ram them head-first, judging by the change in its stance. Sherlock raises the Plasmacaster as high as it goes, but the weapon's clunky size limits the range of movement. He can feel and hear cables stretching, a few snapping but the thing is still functional, and he fires a precise burst towards its eyes. The Plasmacaster's kickback ruins his aim on the first attempt, so he adjusts for the second hit.

This time, the kaiju is left pawing at its eyes, and the sounds it starts making are more frantic than angry.

"Backup ETA four minutes," Colleen tells them. She sounds as though she's perched at the edge of her seat and holding her headset microphone between her fingers nervously.

The image John projects into Sherlock's mind is a set of precise moves. Sherlock agrees it's the perfect strategy, and if executed right might even render their impending backup unnecessary. They're not deliberately trying to hog all the glory, but if they can finish this thing off fast…

Forming a plan has distracted them both momentarily, and their assumption that the kaiju has now been mostly neutralised due to blindness turns out to be wrong.

What the hell–– John starts.

As always, kaiju evolution is making the Corps up its game. A second set of eyes have opened in Stormbringer's neck, and now it leaps close with a mighty, watery thud, its upper limbs clawing for the Ravager again. It manages to rip out a sizeable chunk of shoulder plate from where it meets the opened chest cavity hatch housing the missiles, then slams that piece furiously against Sherlock's side of the Conn-Pod. The impact makes the steel arm connecting to his back plate jolt violently, whiplashing his neck and crushing his thigh briefly against the middle console pylon. He can feel the edge of the steel reinforcement of the foot pedal cut into his big toe. Adding to his real, physical pain are the neural feeds from the Ravager who has just lost the equivalent of a deltoid.

The fast-blooming, immense pain bleeds into John's awareness, too, causing them both to lose their focus momentarily. John recovers first, blocking the kaiju's next punch deftly with the arm he controls.

They can't use the missiles this close, and the Plasmacaster is out, too, since Sherlock is still in too much pain to even turn it away from where it's held against the Jaeger's chest.

"Sherlock?" Colleen demands, "Status report? I don't like what I'm seeing on your vitals feed."

"I'm fine," he manages to spit out.

Why is it always my side that gets hit?! He complains at John.

They know how dangerous you are.

Sherlock holds his breath through a fresh wave of pain, after which they drop the Ravager into a low protective stance, and attempt to make sliding steps backward in retreat, but something snags.

The kaiju is inspecting with curiosity the shoulder plate it had looted, and they spot several cables still hanging unbroken between it and the Jaeger. They can't get away as long as they're not completely severed.

Should we–– John starts.

Sherlock answers no as quickly as he realises that John is asking if he should slice the cables with the Sting Blade. An idea has occurred to him, but there's no time to explain it to John.

Sherlock wastes no time in bringing up three menus and rerouting power from the piston system that's responsible for extending the upper limb away from the chest to the reinforcement hydraulics to the arms since he knows those cables run right underneath the shoulder plate in the Victory. Then, he closes off two power couplets in the shoulder guards, causing a short circuit.

There is a loud bang, a blinding flash of blue-white light, and then the stench of searing kaiju flesh begins wafting into the Conn-Pod and the creature shakes with pain as the cables deliver 220 000 volts of electricity into its upper limb.

Stormbringer staggers backward, upper limb convulsed around the power cables. It begins to stagger backwards and finally, the cables weakened by the massive discharge snap, setting the Jaeger free just before the kaiju drops the shoulder guard into the sea. Its blackened upper limb is letting off smoke and the howl of agony and rage the creature is emitting is rattling the Conn-Pod windows.

Once the Ravager has taken a quick retreat, it's time for decisive move. Using the elbow rockets to accelerate into a head-on run for the kaiju, Sherlock and John lean down just as they are about to collide with it and use the long barrel of the Plasmacaster to sweep the creature's legs from underneath it. A rough shove sends it onto its stomach, and John aims his Sting Blade right into the sore spot they found earlier.

The kaiju writhes, blue blood gurgling out of its jaws. Its still-functioning auxiliary eyes have dropped half-mast but do not close. It chest is heaving and it's making frantic sounds as it tries to clamber back onto its limbs.

They use the elbow rockets to power themselves backward to a safe distance, then fire off a second Vortex missile. It hits the kaiju in the neck, ripping open a large, fleshy chasm. It convulses once, then goes lax, eyes finally glazing over and then closing. Half-submerged and still, it looks like an odd little island being licked by the waves.

John and Sherlock watch its demise wordlessly, panting from exertion, sweat dripping down their temples. When certainty over the kaiju's elimination finally wins over scepticism and alarm, John lets out a raw, celebratory whoop and pumps up his holographic control console -covered fist.

As his extension, the Ravager also pumps up its fist.

"Did you see that, Colleen?!" John raves, turning then to stare at Sherlock in astonishment. "That was––– We–– You electrocuted that bastard, you bloody genius! Category six, Sherlock!"

"I'm aware," Sherlock comments. He'd been so engrossed in what they were doing that the pain in his shoulder and thigh had faded into the background but now the cut on his toe starts to smart again, and the dull ache in his thigh and what the Pons system is feeding into his brain to signal the Ravager's shoulder guard damage are returning full-force.

"Colleen, can you––" he squeezes his eyes shut, "––just cut the damage signal feeds."

Soon, only the tolerable ache in his thigh and the negligible stinging pain in his toe are left. The hit to his lower limb is likely to be anything more than a surface bruise; altogether the damage is mild.

"Sherlock?" Colleen asks. "Do you need a medevac or is a medic in the Drivesuit room enough?"

"I won't need either. John can patch me up at home."

"It's protocol to get you checked out," John reminds him.

"You felt that jolt, too," Sherlock reminds him.

"John's spinal implant didn't register anything above a damaging level and his heart rate didn't skyrocket," Colleen says.

Nothing is ever private, is it? Sherlock grouses.

"John can check me out in the Drivesuit room," he negotiates, "all I need is a plaster slapped on my toe."

John gives him a sceptical look, but at least Colleen doesn't press the issue further. She patches them into a drone feed again, awarding them with an eyeful of fallen kaiju.

"Now that's what I call newsworthy," Sherlock comments to conclude the conversation on his health.

"This is why you two get put on all the recruitment posters," she praises. "We can tell from here through the feeds that it's a confirmed kill. Hammond's recalled your backup."

They can now see the six helicopters carrying the two other Jaegers in the distance turning and heading back to base.

"Now, do you still want to hike all the way back or can I interest you in an airlift?" Colleen chuckles.

"I'll take the airlift," John replies readily. "We barely broke a sweat with the Rudong but I sure could a shower after this one."

"Not much of a Stormbringer, was it," Sherlock jokes. The rain has stopped and the sun is peeking through the dissipating clouds.

He allows himself to go lax, his weight supported by the pilot station's structures. The most intense wave of stress hormones is fading, but it will be a while before he descends from the emotional high.

Moments earlier, he'd been focussed singularly on survival. Now, the repercussions beyond it are beginning to dawn.

This is what we live for, and after such a feat, no one is going to take the Ravager away from John.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

While the reception at Chard after their previous deployment had been subdued, this time it's the extreme opposite. Everywhere they go, fellow Rangers demand to hear their story of the battle, and they get clapped so many times on the shoulder than Sherlock's right one, already sore and stiff from battle, gets positively bruised. His neck is getting stiff from the sudden violent jolt when the kaiju had used the shoulder guard as a melee weapon, but at least his thigh feels fine. The nasty cut on his toe is still blissfully numb from the local anaesthetic John had injected before cleaning and closing the wound with a few staples in the Drivesuit room. Sherlock had declined a CT on it despite the protestations of the Med Bay physician who'd seemed a bit disgruntled when his patient had insisted that only his co-pilot was allowed to give him a once-over.

Before retreating into their quarters for the night, John insists on changing to their service uniforms and dropping by at the Rangers' Lounge for a drink. He is in an infectiously boisterous mood, and Sherlock relents even though he'd like nothing more than to be alone with John.

At the Lounge they are greeted with thunderous applause and congratulations. Someone has looped an online news report of the battle on the large screen mostly used for watching sports matches, and John and Sherlock are prompted to recount, once again, their version of the events.

Sherlock can't recall when he's last seen John this excited, this wonderfully brash and basking in the respect and attention from their fellow Rangers. He acts as though years have fallen off his shoulders.

Watching John feels as if Sherlock is seeing the ghost of him when Harry was still alive: young, confident, adventurous, believing himself and his co-pilot immortal. He wonders how different it is to pilot when that illusion has been shattered by personal experience. All Sherlock knows is victory with a side of the occasional close shave.

He counts over half of the base's Rangers in attendance. When Colleen appears in the doorway, visibly hesitant to enter the space reserved for pilots, Wallis compels her warmly to come in and shoves an uncorked beer into her hand.

"I didn't do much, it was all John and Sherlock––" she tries to excuse, but the Rangers wave off her protestations and raise their drinks to her.

"We'd all be dead without our LOCCENT officers," scoffs Maria Groenewald in her blunt signature style. "Everyone knows that."

"But unfortunately, some Rangers are dead because of shit LOCCENTs," sighs Wallis. "Did you hear about that guy in Durban?" he asks Colleen.

She shakes her head in disbelief. "They're saying nothing officially until the investigation is done, but him drinking on the job is the word on the floor. Everyone's too busy swooning over you Rangers that I guess LOCCENT problems get overlooked," she teases.

"Yours is a stressful job," John offers.

"Not as stressful as ours," Sherlock points out, "but yes, a demanding one."

Colleen raises her hands in grinning supplication, beer bottle held between her thumb and forefinger. "I'd never want to trade. Happy to be the support person to your kaiju-hunting. I shudder to even think about meeting one up close."

"What's the tally, then, Watson?" Wallis asks, having picked up a piece of chalk. He's gone to stand by a large blackboard on the starboard wall that lists all pilot teams' kill numbers.

"Nineteen. Including one category six," John declares without missing a beat, and this prompts a lot of whistles and hoots from the crowd.

Sherlock, standing by the door, lets the conversation gradually fade into the background. He's holding the beer bottle that had been thrust into his hands but hasn't taken a single swig. It's that cheap Portuguese variety John seems to enjoy but Sherlock finds watery and too bitter.

He glances around the Rangers gathered.

Where's James?

Does he hate these things, too, these social gatherings where Sherlock feels so intensely like a fish out of water? They're celebrating his and John's achievement, but he still doesn't know what to do, how to conduct himself, what to say.

James would be the only Ranger whose reaction to their battle tactics today he'd be interested in hearing. Why? Why would he want the man's admiration? It's pathetic, such a compulsion to preen for anyone. All the Chard's Rift Rangers know what he and John can do, but James is an outsider. Who knows what he's seen in Hong Kong.

"Looking for John?"

He's startled by the voice of LJ Marais right by his side.

"I think he's gone to get a whisky with Wallis." That means John will have headed to mess hall's officers' side on the opposite end of the floor.

"Oh," Sherlock replies, feigning interest.

Wallis is the most traditionally macho male of all the Chard Rangers, and not the most complex of personalities. Why John seems to want his friendship and approval is deeply confounding. Sherlock respects the man but has no desire to spend any of his free time with him. Does John need such pedestrian company to reinforce some part of his identity? After taking down so many kaiju there should be no need to prove himself to anyone.

"They should have upgraded Victory's Plasmacaster years ago," LJ remarks, jolting Sherlock out of his thoughts once again. "You made the best of what you had, certainly."

"Thank you," Sherlock replies, aware that he does so with too long a delay. It can take him a conspicuous amount of time to pick apart things people say to him, to try to find some elusive hidden meaning.

"And John finished it all off very neatly," LJ adds.

It does not surprise Sherlock that LJ, who has a keen eye on strategy, would have made note of their individual contributions. "He did. He has excellent aim."

"And so much experience," LJ says pointedly.

The comment raises Sherlock's hackles. Is it just an innocent remark or an attempt to gauge his feelings about John's retirement sometime in the future? Is he getting paranoid around the topic? Sherlock can only wonder how many veiled attempts to discuss this very thing John is forced to fend off.

He takes a swig from the bottle, barely manages not to make a face at the taste. He lets his gaze roam the crowd again, pointedly ignoring Marais. He has nothing against the woman — he might even say he likes her. Certainly, he respects her a great deal.

He's come to the lounge for John, not for himself, and now that John has found better company, he should be free to make himself scarce.

Just as he's about to discard of his beer discreetly by placing it behind a potted plant on a side table, John's presence at the edge of his awareness intensifies. Soon enough, Sherlock spots him, Wallis and Ranger Marsh at the end of the hallway. He doesn't have a drink in hand. Must've chugged it at mess hall.

Sherlock watches Marsh clap John's shoulder, then separate from the two men. Wallis and John are laughing at something, engaged in conversation, but when they reach the doorway — and Sherlock — John steps back from the Fightmaster.

"Thanks for the Talisker; I should get a bottle of my own to keep behind the counter."

"You're not staying?" Wallis asks.

"It's been a long day," John says firmly. "I need a shower, and I think Sherlock's ready to turn in as well."

Not to sleep, though, John tells him privately, the remark accompanied by a rather explicit suggestion of what they mightdo in bed instead.

Sherlock blinks and swallows, then shoves his bottle at Wallis. "Yes, that's–– correct," he manages, and likely turns slightly red on cheeks under John's amused eye.

Oh, there will be punishment for playing these sorts of games in public, he promises his husband.

I'm open to ideas.

Wallis watches the two of them, bemused. Then he shifts a pointing finger from John to Sherlock. "You two are… talking, aren't you?"

John shrugs. Ghost Drifting's existence as a phenomenon is common knowledge within the PPDC and even outside of it, but so rare that even Rangers tend to ask curious questions about it, especially after Sherlock had mentioned in a radio interview during a PR tour that the two of them experience it.

"You hear about that stuff, but… It's got to be a challenge to a relationship?" Wallis asks.

"How so?" Sherlock asks.

"No secrets?" Marsh, who has rejoined the group, suggests.

"Why would we need secrets? Aren't secrets, not lack of them, supposed to be a big problem for people's marriages?" John asks.

"Doesn't everyone sometimes think idly about, well, other people, or curse their spouse for leaving socks on the floor or something?"

"Sure," John relents, "but the perks far outweigh the downsides. Besides, this one knows how to shield. I mean, block me out when he wants to." He cocks his head at Sherlock.

Why does it feel like an accusation. "I don't do that very often," he defends himself.

John's features melt into a fond smile. "It wasn't a complaint. Everyone likes a bit of privacy. You know I do. Well, did," he chuckles, and their company, save for Sherlock, joins in the laughter.

The whisky has brought colour to John's cheeks by dilating the capillaries. Sherlock can tell he's in the stage of pleasantly buzzed; there is still time before the alcohol content in his blood begins descending, which tends to turn him mellow and tired. This is the perfect time to take him to bed.

"And what are these perks, Watson?" Marsh asks cheekily.

"We'll get to that some other time," Sherlock says resolutely. "Come along, John."

 

 

Notes:

If you fancy a little glimpse behind the scenes of what Mycroft's work is like, 7PercentSolution has very recently done a fantastic Mycroft-centric oneshot called Drift War Games that would happen pretty much around the time Drift United is taking place.

Chapter 6: Vice

I think I'm drowning
Asphyxiated
I want to break this spell
That you've created

You're something beautiful
A contradiction
I want to play the game
I want the friction

— Muse: Time Is Running Out

 

The two-piece underlayers of their battle armour and their socks litter the furniture. Boots have been kicked off just inside the door. A half-drunk water bottle has rolled under the table.

John lets his eyes flutter closed momentarily, savouring the moment. Sherlock is in his arms, that delectable arse pressed right against his cock, slowly softening after a bloody spectacular sucking off which had blackened his vision and made him sag against the door. His battle-spent thighs had begged for at least a chair, but they'd made it barely inside the door before Sherlock had grabbed his hips, pushed him against the wall and tugged his trousers down. Once done, Sherlock had spat in the sink, downed half the water bottle as if he'd just crossed the Sahara, then just stood by the sink, watching John with tentative anticipation. The way he'd pinned his lower lip between his teeth, swollen from the bruised kisses they'd exchanged in the hallway while fumbling to unlock the door, had driven John wildly mad and exorcised his exhaustion. He wasn't going to rest until Sherlock was as boneless and blissed-out as he had felt a moment ago.

John is now well underway of returning the favour. Since their mental connection pinpoints precisely when he's doing the right things to get Sherlock closer, he could make quick work of bringing him to orgasm if he wanted to, but tonight John wants the exact opposite. From the slight changes in what he senses from Sherlock he knows what works and what doesn't, which enables prolonging the pleasure.

When he can sense he's taken his partner to the edge, John lets his grip on Sherlock's cock slacken just enough to bring an ebb to the arousal. Judging by the increasingly strained noises and the sweat beading on Sherlock's upper back, he's nearing an intolerable level of desperation. A few more strokes, and then Sherlock's back arches just as John feels that ghost wave of warmth crest yet again. He lets go, hovering his hand barely on Sherlock's cock and making him moan deep and raw from frustration.

They're lying on their left sides, John reaching his right hand over Sherlock's hip and down to his cock. His lower arm is pinning both of Sherlock's hands up above his head, and also keeps the crook of his elbow firmly pressed on Sherlock's waist to ground him further.

Sherlock tugs one hand loose, slips it on his stomach and starts inching it downwards. John pushes it away, slides his own hand lower from Sherlock's cock to scrape upwards at his balls, then tightens his fingers around them like a cage.

Uh uh, he reminds Sherlock. We agreed — no hands.

With a shuddering exhalation, Sherlock raises his arm back to join the other. It coils into a fist as John moves his grip to his cock again, absent-mindedly flicking the tip of his thumb across the drop of moisture at the slit.

"You're enjoying this," Sherlock accuses through clenched teeth. "What do I have to do, call you sir?" His tone is mocking, but the edge of it is lost in heady arousal.

Though Sherlock can't see his expression, John knows his husband can feel his amusement reverberating through their connection.

"You know…" John starts in a mock-pointed tone and begins sliding his circled fingers slowly down the hard shaft.

I think I'd rather enjoy that, he concludes.

Sherlock grabs John's wrist and pulls their joined hand to his lips, then pushes two of John's fingers into his mouth and twirls his tongue around them. At first, John isn't quite sure what he's after, but then Sherlock pushes his elbow back to get some room to manoeuvre before unceremoniously shoving John's now saliva-dripping fingers between his own buttocks.

Not part of the plan, John informs him.

He manages to tug his hand free and hooks his knee around Sherlock's legs. "You'd go off like a bloody champagne cork if I did all that," he chides playfully.

"Isn't that rather the point?" Sherlock's tone is feigning anger, but John can sense how the brief wrestling has only increased his appetite for what John is doing to him.

Pressing a kiss on the salty skin on Sherlock's shoulder, John increases the speed and grip he's using to deliver a relentless, slightly twisting glide of slightly parted fingers down the shaft. When he pauses once again as climax approaches, Sherlock lets out the bastard offspring of a growl and scream just as several sets of footsteps sound from outside their room.

John waits longer this time before continuing; if he wants to prolong this further yet, he needs to wait for Sherlock's breathing to even out.

There is sudden conversation heard from outside that makes Sherlock's breathing hitch, but not from impending orgasm. He goes stock-still, and John is alarmed to sense that his arousal is waning fast. Whoever is walking past is likely to have heard Sherlock — and no one with half their wits would mistake the racket for anything else than sex.

There are three fist-hits on the door followed by raucous laughter, after which the footsteps recede. It's nothing worse than a few of their Ranger colleagues, cheerily drunk and just passing by.

John presses a line of kisses down Sherlock's deltoid, trying to get him to relax again. Before they met, John would have been the self-conscious one about making love to a man since Sherlock had never sought to conceal his orientation. He has never been embarrassed by others knowing that he and John are in a relationship involving sex — in fact, he's been rather proudly verbal about it to the point that John has had to tell him to tone it down in public. But talking about it is so different than the reality of this moment. Sherlock wouldn't let anyone else see this side of him: the side that enjoys relinquishing control, the side that wants to trust John with his body and every thought in his head, painfully aware of how exposed that leaves the very core of him, sensitive and vulnerable like a raw nerve.

John, holding his partner tight, sucks Sherlock's earlobe lazily into his mouth, then whispers, "I used the privacy setting on the lock. Nobody's coming in here."

It's just us, he adds.

He closes his eyes, focusing on the delight and calm he feels over the fact that they've survived another battle. He tries to send that wave of emotion over their connection like pushing a toy ship onto the waves. Sherlock is warm and alive and as beautiful as ever and in bed with him, and John hopes that feeling his joy over those facts might help calm Sherlock down and bring him back to what they were doing. John knows that if he continued the handjob now, Sherlock's residual alarm might make him over-sensitised, and that would mean game over.

Sherlock had once explained that when they're having sex is the only time he cannot shield. There's no reason to assume anyone else could pick up on the details of his thoughts, but John has gathered that he still feels like his privacy is fragile at such moments. Ghost Drifting is rare, but Rangers living in the same dorm can sometimes pick up on very faint traces of each other's presence, especially during times of intense emotion.

Trailing a line of kisses down Sherlock's long, pale neck, John tries to gauge how this touch of his lips is received. Sherlock smells so good, a mixture of the expensive salon shampoo he stocks up on when they go to Ponta Delgada, the cheap laundry detergent used in the base, battle sweat and himself. It's a heady mixture of a million things John wouldn't even try to name but to which he and his cock have developed a Pavlovian reaction.

No one here but us. It's alright.

He nips with his teeth at the back of Sherlock's neck where the curls give way to the delicate lines of muscles. Slowly, John can both feel under his lips and within their connection a yield as Sherlock relaxes again.

John coaxes him to shift his knee back and up until it's sideways on his thigh. He moves his hand from Sherlock's front to his buttock, caressing slowly down its roundness until his fingers reach between the thighs and he can gently press down on the perineum. Sherlock is sensitive enough that it should exert enough pressure on his prostate in a way that just might jolt him back to full hardness. John is not mistaken: the tenseness in the shoulders against his chest melts further away, and there's a contended, no longer apprehension-strained sigh. It takes only a few dozen strokes to bring Sherlock back to the brink of orgasm, and this time John decides not to suspend him any longer in exquisite agony but lets him tumble into that chasm. He brings John mentally with him, the climax feeling like the aftershock of John's own. It floods their mental connection like a dive into the warmest ocean wave, sinking into water broken into a bright prism by the sun.

John is certain that anyone who has experienced this with a partner would never want to go back to having sex without Ghost Drifting. He would rather spend the rest of his days celibate than settle for anything less.

He gives Sherlock a moment to realign himself to reality; he's described his orgasms as feeling like an EMP to his brain, and that it takes some time for his sensory processing to come back online. John has wondered if it means that his climaxes are more intense than the average. John will never get enough of getting to experience them by extension.

Sherlock's arms have goosebumped; it's draughty in their dorm and the layers of sweat on their skins will start feeling rather sticky and cold and unpleasant soon. John is hankering to wash his hand, now coated in drying semen. He needs to move also because the arm he's had to keep raised to derail Sherlock's attempts at speeding things up is getting very tired, even developing pins and needles since he'd rested his head on it.

"Come on," he prompts. "Shower and then some late dinner." He sits up where he's wedged between the bulkhead and Sherlock's thighs.

Sherlock lets out a barrage of muttered consonants and flops onto his stomach, eyes closed. Some of the results of Sherlock's orgasm had spilled on his stomach instead of John's hand, so they will now be smeared on the bedding.

"Really?" John scoffs. "I changed the sheets yesterday."

Then again, this is a military operation. Those with a neurosis for cleanliness should stay the fuck home.

I can hear you, you know. Who the hell thinks about chores after sex? Sherlock grouses.

He then snaffles both their pillows under his chin and tries to close his eyes. The position must prove less than ideal since he grunts and crunches his eyes tightly closed, stretching his neck before pushing John's pillow on the floor.

"Oi! You're the absolute worst, I swear," John chuckles.

After climbing out of bed, he removes his T-shirt, chucking it in the direction of the laundry bin by their uniform lockers. On his way to the shower, he pauses by the bed upon hearing quiet snoring. If he lets Sherlock sleep now, he'll wake up a few hours later, annoyed and disgusted of the state he's in as well as cranky from dehydration and tanked blood sugar.

John nudges his shoulder. "Get up."

"Don't want to."

"If this is how it's going to be every bloody time, then we need to stop having sex after."

He doesn't have to specify after what — somehow, the adrenaline and triumph of taking down a kaiju has always fired up their desire for each other, and oftentimes the lift from the underdome becomes a masterclass in restraint. The second the door of their dorm room closes behind them, the rest of their armour pieces and undersuits are ripped off. Today is no exception.

"You wouldn't last two battles trying to stick to that stupid rule," Sherlock points out, and drags himself off the bed. He rubs his brows with his fingers and rolls his head from side to side. "Neck's killing me."

"Dramatic. Should have let Med Bay have a look."

"I know it's not broken, so what would be the point?"

"We got jolted around pretty bad today. Whiplash injuries are real, you know, even when there's no bone involed."

"It's just… it's not actually my neck, it's the shoulder, but it radiates every which way. I've been getting this stinging on it for a week; didn't start today."

"You know what I'm going to say." Med Bay employs a very good physical therapist who has helped John with various pains and strains through the years.

"First dibs on the shower?" Sherlock evades sardonically.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Since a battle deployment means at least 24 hours off duty, they don't set an alarm for the next morning. When Sherlock blinks himself finally back online, he finds John's half of the bed empty and the man nowhere to be seen. He gropes around the floor beside the bed for his wrist console, and once he's attached the strap the device activates, and he finds a message from John saying he'd been summoned to Med Bay for the start of his chronic fracture treatment. He hasn't been complaining about his back much, but Sherlock has noticed the blister packets of paracetamol and dexlisaminoprofen dwindling even faster than usual on the medication shelf of the bathroom's above-sink cabinet.

Aches and pains are a Ranger's lot, no point on dwelling on it.

Speaking of which… his battle-whiplashed neck feels stiff and the strange, almost electric shoulder pain comes back full-force when he tries to roll his head every which way. He should hit the gym, do some stretching. He's behind on his physical conditioning quota and would prefer to avoid having to answer Wallis' strongly worded emails about slacking off. Sherlock ignores emails from most people, but the Fightmaster's authority is considerable and while Sherlock wouldn't profess to care much about what his fellow Rangers think about his exercise habits, he recognises how beneficial the work is for piloting. Making the Ravager walk is like being on a combination of an elliptical and a Stairmaster for hours.

He drags himself to his feet, yawns and ruffles his curls briefly. What was it again that they are supposed to do to John today? The term 'stem cells' floats idly to mind, but Sherlock had either deleted or ignored the details when John had told him the news.

He glances at his wrist console again. It's Sunday, apparently. Many staff will have the day off, leaving only a skeleton crew to attend to the daily maintenance work of the Base. Sherlock realises that the Commissary is closed. A shame; could have used some cigarettes. He could have even smoked them easily since John, who tends to nag about the habit, will be absent for at least a few hours. When he buys a packet, he needs to smoke it soon since the potential hiding places in the dorm room are limited, and John has discovered all of them. Besides, smoking inside is not allowed at the base, making all the outdoor areas — save for the aviation deck due to flammable fumes — are a nicotine addict's paradise. On most days, Sherlock takes a slow-release synthetic nicotine derivative tablet or slaps on a patch or two which keep the cravings away, but it's never the same as the full-body experience of taking a luxurious drag on the platform high up on the underdome room or on a cannon deck, enjoying the sea wind and the scenery.

After emptying his bladder and staring at the state of his hair with desperation while washing his hands, he snatches a small cardboard packet from the top shelf of the cabinet. Out of it he digs a nicotine patch, tears the thing out of its foil with reckless abandon, and slaps it on the outside of his thigh. On a whim, he digs out two more and adds them on the opposite thigh. It'll take a few hours before they kick in. It's yet another reason that exercise, with its distracting ability to flood his system with endorphins, is a grand idea.

He decides to put off shaving and brushing his teeth until the post-workout shower. No need to pack a bag; he'll return home for his hair and skin routines after exercising. All he grabs to bring with him is a small towel since there is always a tower of bottled water and sports drinks on offer in the corner of each exercise space. He drags on soft-worn camo trousers he's used for hiking with John as well as a pair of trainers, and completes the devil-may-care ensemble with a dark gray Corps-issue T-shirt.

The gym should be relatively quiet since most Rangers seem to think in civilian terms of weekday versus weekend even though the kaiju hardly respect such human concepts. For Rangers, physical conditioning is work, so many cluster it on Monday to Friday.

Though Sherlock hopes to exercise in solitude, it occurs to him that there might be someone at the gym from whom he could borrow a few cigarettes as a Sunday indulgence. That would spare him the trouble of hiding the rest from John.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Through it's one of Sherlock's preferred warm-ups, the rowing machine does not entice today since his neck and shoulder still feel aflame. He does a twenty-minute treadmill run at an angle, instead, then hangs from the bars of the functional training cage, slowly letting his full weight stretch the shoulder joints. Whatever's causing the pain doesn't seem to be a muscle tear since strength-wise, he feels fine. A few tentative chin-ups fail to increase the pain, so he changes to pull-ups. After twenty reps, he trusts his physique enough to swap to a hockey-grip version, alternating which side he raises his head to. To add some abdominal conditioning, he raises his straight legs to an L-shape for a set of twelve more regular pull-ups, finishing with some leg cross-over ones. John is not a fan of any of these, complaining that Sherlock's height makes it easier to reach the bars. When Sherlock had tried to help by suggesting a jumping variation, John had grumbled under his breath and retreated to his beloved chest press bench. He lifts more there than Sherlock does these days.

The gym is deserted save for Sherlock, which comes with the blessing that no one has turned on the radio. Why anyone would prefer it to selecting their own music and using the implants' auditory cortex streaming capabilities, Sherlock fails to comprehend. He activates the sync on his wrist console, then selects Prokofiev's fifth symphony from his library, jumping straight into the second part since the first is much slower. The toccata-like phrases in the second should provide a suitable structure for his weight routines.

He's halfway through a tricep set when the door opens.

Half-hidden behind a column Sherlock, disgruntled at his peace being disturbed, leans to the left to see who has entered.

It's James.

He wanders in, looking more as if he's browsing a shop window than determined to start a workout. He walks around the space, taking stock of the options on offer without seeming to notice he's not alone in the space. He's in a white, crisp tank top and skinny black joggers paired with black boxing shoes. The trousers hang low enough to reveal — deliberately, Sherlock is certain — the brand of his designer underwear.

James takes over a bench, arranging artfully his towel and his water bottle on the floor next to it on top of his gym bag. He flips through his wrist console, activates what Sherlock assumed is a playlist, then picks out weights for what turn out to be a warmup of high-incline shoulder presses.

Sherlock retreats behind the column and tries to get back to what he was doing but cannot resist stealing another glance after his next set. James is now doing lateral raises with his dumbbells, well-defined arm muscles rippling. Sherlock suspects that the man balances weight training with quite a lot of aerobic exercise and perhaps martial arts; while he has the upper body definition of a boxer, there is flexibility and agility in his movements that more tank-like bodybuilders such as Tom Wallis lack. Even covered by James' tank top, Sherlock can make our well-defined abdominal muscles that speak of a lot of core workouts. No, this temple of weights and bars and machines cannot be James' true element — more likely this is just a necessary routine to ensure sufficient strength since he has that very particular look of combat-ready endurance; of constantly sustained explosive power, ready to react. James' strength is partly concealed, brought out only when strategically beneficial, whereas someone more a brawler like John carries it on himself for all to see.

With John, one sees what one gets, although some of the openness is a front since the man can be intensely private about certain things. James is the opposite — an enigma daring one to try to peel away the layers but not get cut in the process.

I need to see him sparring with someone at the dojo, Sherlock decides.

He's startled when James stops a bicep curl halfway and glances up, straight at him. His expression reveals no surprise — it's as if he's known all along that he's being watched. He greets Sherlock with a slight jut of his chin and the subtlest of knowing looks.

It feels like stepping onto the tatami, locking eyes for the first time with an opponent.

Sherlock straightens his spine and, instead of retreating back behind the pillar, Sherlock forces himself to reply with a nod.

James' eyes seem to… if not soften, then at least relax. His expression is hard to read: he's not openly delighted but reserved in a way that is in odd contrast to their molasses-dripping first encounter. No, this seems much more genuine. Self-contained. Calculating.

Someone with less powers of deduction and less experience with observing people without them knowing might think James is just disappointed that he can't have the gym all to himself.

Sherlock knows better. They are both gathering information in order to decide how to respond.

And shouldn't it be Sherlock has that right to be annoyed of his peace being disturbed? I was here first.

James goes to a rack in the corner to fetch a kettlebell, then starts doing pushups behind the bench with his hands gripping the handle of the black, heavy object. Sherlock can only see him when he comes to the crest of each push, and James keeps his eyes firmly forward. It can't be a performance for Sherlock's benefit since he's mostly not even visible.

Sherlock drinks some water and shifts his belongings to a small table by one of the two leg presses in the back of the hall.

After a set, ignoring firmly whatever James might be doing, Sherlock checks his wrist console between sets to see if John has got out of his Med Bay appointment.

'I'll be awhile', John's first message says. 'Takes an hour for the stem cell migration drug to draw enough of them into peripheral blood', he had then explained in a second communique. 'It'll take them a week to do some fancy splicing to somehow program them to respond to the spinal implant. These Science Division guys are pretty thin on details.'

It must frustrate John, a physician himself, to be given so little explanation about the procedure he's undergoing. It's not surprising — what happens within the Science Division stays within the Science Division. Even Mycroft has complained about it.

'As long as it's safe and it works,' Sherlock replies.

He waits for John's reply, but none comes. When he finally locks the wrist console display and looks up, he's startled to see James towering above him since Sherlock is nearly lying down at floor level in the leg press. How had the man managed to sneak so close without him noticing?

"No Watson today?" James asks cordially, then takes a swig of water from his bottle.

"We’re not joined at the hip."

"In the Jaeger, you kind of are."

Does that mean he saw what we did yesterday?

"He’s…" Sherlock hesitates to decide whether medical things would qualify as the sort of information that John sometimes lectures him about revealing to others. John discusses medical matters with others all the time, though. "He’s getting a back issue sorted."

"Lucky him."

James' tone is evasive, almost bitter.

"I recall you having some personal experience," Sherlock offers.

James shrugs. "I try to keep in shape, keep things balanced, not to overdo it. Folly of youth was a factor back then," he chuckles mirthfully. "Not that age is yet a factor. Not for us," he says pointedly, eyes roving Sherlock from top to toe.

"You were able to re-enlist," Sherlock points out, unfolding himself from the leg press. He had been planning for a few more sets, but he's not willing to have this conversation from such a point of positional disadvantage.

"Gratitude is meaningless. It is only the expectation of further favours. And what else was I going to do? You know what it's like in the Conn-Pod. Once you've tasted it, that hunger doesn't stop, does it?"

Sherlock hums in reply. "No, it does not."

James cocks his head towards the middle of the gym. "Spot me?"

That's why he came to say hello, then. Just a utilitarian purpose.

Sherlock compels himself not to be disappointed. It's a commonplace thing, Rangers asking one another to spot when bench pressing a big stack of weights to make sure it doesn't drop on their chest if they can't lift it.

It's just safety and common sense.

Not what comes to mind when looking at James, is it?

Sherlock gathers his things and trails behind the man to the bench around which he's already collected a set of plates. There are seventy kilograms on it now.

"That's a warmup; won't need you for it yet. Make yourself comfortable," James prompts with a smirk.

Sherlock sits backwards awkwardly on the seat of a pull-down rack.

"I meant no disrespect to Watson. If he gets the VIP package, good on him. The Corps isn't a charity," James comments after doing ten lifts of the bar and clanking it back onto the supports. He sits up, dabs his forehead with his towel. "You sign your life off of to them, but they can chew you up and spit you out. All it takes is one rotten apple in the high brass."

Sherlock is surprised to find himself tempted to defend the PPDC by saying that quite a lot of money and effort has been put into protecting Rangers from the kaiju and the physical dangers of piloting, but John would choke on his tea if he heard Sherlock ever say such things voluntarily.

At first, the Corps was just slightly better than prison. Now, Sherlock thinks of it as home, but is it because he's got so used to it? And because he loves John and the Ravager. He would have neither without the Corps, but does that mean he should be grateful?

After all, he's the one risking his life and his limbs for humanity.

"Is that what happened? A rotten apple ruined your career?"

It's the first time Sherlock notices he's managed to make the man look defensive. "I meant that those in charge don't always have the same perspective as us."

Sherlock rests his arm on one of the machine's supports, suppressing a wince when this aggravates his burning shoulder. There's no logic to what provokes the pain.

"And you don't exactly have the most standard service history, either," James points out as though responding to an argument Sherlock hadn't even verbalised.

"Meaning what?"

"You've been serving for less than half a decade." James' neutral expression now turns congenially conspiratory. "And you didn't join voluntarily. I didn't want to leave, you didn't want to enlist."

This isn't classified information: the whole sordid thing had been platered all over the papers in the UK and by extension, world media. 'Brother of Atlantic Marshal enlists to avoid prosecution'. Mycroft had probably gone to the press himself to gain control of the spin on the story; it was inevitable that it would end up in the media thanks to the fame of their parents, and Mycroft wouldn't have wanted his enemies to be able to weaponise the scoop. He had done well in making himself look like the loyal and caring brother but also a dutiful PPDC high official seeking a solution that served both humanity and weaned his baby brother off his substance abuse issue. After the explosion in Sherlock's rental flat and subsequent arrest, his aptitude test scores were de-classified.

Mycroft had simply made lemonade while Sherlock was left gnawing at the bitter rind of fate.

"Bit of a bad boy, weren’t we." James settles back onto the bench after adding eight more kilos of plates to the bar. "I hear you still are." Judging by his tone, this is something he admires rather than begrudges.

Sherlock elects not to reply. He hovers his fingertips under the bar as James does eight lifts. He's not struggling yet.

"The Breach is closed, then," James changes the subject. "Everyone's hoping for a bit of quiet."

"Calm and peaceful. Isn't it hateful?" Sherlock complains with a hint of a grin.

"Just so."

How do you stand it? Sherlock wants to ask. If you crave the fight like I do, how the hell have you adjusted to all these people, all these idiots around you, living in these cramped quarters? Do you socialise like John does? Do you enjoy it?

He asks none of this, because something makes him hesitate to reveal even the smallest personal things to James. He's the first interesting, different person Sherlock has met in the Corps, so why does James make him feel so reflexively evasive but also curious to the point of transfixed?

He wants this odd ritual to be over as much as he wants to make it last.

James does another set after less than a minute's break. Sherlock tries to work out where to look; staring straight down at James' face isn't a comfortable idea even if the man doesn't seem awkward about it. Sherlock has no idea why James hadn't asked him to help only when he was lifting a significant stack of plates. Why ask me over for the warmup?

He lets his gaze settle on the steady rise and fall of the bar. James is arching his back a bit off the bench, maximising the support his upper back is giving his pectorals.

John has got quite good at this lately, Sherlock realises, comparing his husband's usual weight stack to what James has put on.

"Gets lonely, doesn't it?" James asks as he straightens his arms for a quick pause.

"Hm?"

James doesn't continue until he's done five more reps and dropped the bar with a clang back on the supports. He sits up and digs out a small plastic container from his bag. "Melon seeds?"

"No, thank you."

James puts the container away after eating five pips. "I watched you and Watson last night. Everybody did, of course. He's good, but you did your part on that old fork of an arm. And that little trick with the power couplings…" James gives him a wicked grin as he climbs up and grabs his water bottle. "There's your average Ranger, and then there's people like you and I."

Sherlock doesn't ask which group James is shoving John into. It's obvious. He talks big, but I've not heard much about his kills in the grapevine. "Pilots are only as good as their partnership. It's a sum of more than its parts."

"You say that because you haven't been saddled with someone who holds you back. Or so I assume." Another innuendo clearly aimed at John.

"I thought it was your injury that got you benched, not your co-pilot."

"I meant before that. Drift compatible doesn't always mean ideal battle partner. Come on," he prompts Sherlock who has retreated to a respectable distance. "I'm not done yet."

He does yet another set with more plates on, and seems to struggle on the last two reps.

"I pity the ones who show promise but don't get paired with anyone," Sherlock offers to make conversation. "Nearly happened to me."

"You've never piloted with anyone but Watson, have you?" James asks, grabbing a towel and pressing his face into it momentarily. He groans with relief, chest heaving a bit.

Does he always push himself this hard? Sherlock wonders.

"No, and I wouldn't care to," he dismisses. He refrains from mentioning that he hasn't even done a proper sim with anyone else.

"How can you be so sure?" James asks. "You might not know what you're missing."

"Oh, I had my fair share of other prospective co-pilots when I was a cadet."

"Even if they culled half of these boring mouth-breathers from the Jaeger Corps, the rest of us could still get the job done. That is if they only let us do it the way it needs to be done."

"Which is?"

"You know exactly what's wrong with the Corps, Holmes. As for why you pretend you don't, I've no idea. One more," he says, sliding underneath the bar on his back again.

Sherlock steps closer for this set, his palms hovering just below the metal as James put himself through the wringer. He's irritated by his own reactions and wants to prove that there's nothing James could say to him that would even scratch the surface of his defences. He hates that he cannot help his curiosity, can't suppress this near-compulsion to learn more — to let his buttons be pushed because this attention is intoxicating.

"Is there a point to making comparisons between pilot teams?" Sherlock asks, once James has sat up and his breathing has evened out. "It's not a competition, unless you count the fundamental setup of it, humanity versus the kaiju."

"Just a little friendly rivalry between Rangers. You're almost as good as me, so of course you cannot be allowed to continue," James jokes light-heartedly as he rises to his feet.

Sherlock hopes this is the last he'll be asked to do. James seems to enjoy observing his reactions, and feeling exposed is the price to pay if Sherlock wants to observe the opposite. He reminds himself that there hasn't been anything thatmalignant in the man's attention, save for a few jibes at John and what might be construed as flirting.

"Do you think there's someone here you could establish a new partnership with?" Sherlock asks, trying his damnedest to sound neutral and uncaring.

"I hope so. I'd have expected them to start trial runs for us in the sim lab immediately, but things seem kind of, I don't know, churn slower here than at HK. Maybe it's because they want to get old pilots the new implants before making any decisions on compatibility."

"That would make sense." Sherlock stacks twenty kilograms of weights onto a short bar for his bicep set. He chooses a bench that'll have his back to the wall and the elbow lean in front of him — a physical shield from scrutiny.

James activates his music again and spends fifteen minutes on the treadmill. Once Sherlock is finished with his biceps, he moves on to do dips on one of the benches. He nearly falls arse-first to the floor on the second rep when there's a sudden ripping pain radiating out from his neck towards his shoulder.

He climbs to his feet, drops down to sit on the bench and tests the aching shoulder by rolling it back. There's a sting somewhere deep where his neck meets his scapula.

"May I?"

He's startled when James' voice comes alive right next to his ear. What is it with him creeping up on people?

"Had a bit of shoulder trouble myself, on the left," he says pointedly as if wanting Sherlock to hint that they are opposite hemisphere pilots.

Sherlock already knows that, thanks to the veritable amount of information the internet's various fansites have amassed on all active pilots. That's how he'd noticed that there wasn't a whole lot of talk going on about the battle successes of one Ranger Moriarty. It was a long time ago. No wonder he seems to be feeling the pressure to cause a stir, to prove his worth again.

"It's not the shoulder," Sherlock explains. "There's… it sort of burns down the side. Nothing wrong with the deltoid, I don't think."

"Thought so." James' fingers perch on his bicep, tentative and feather-light, then trail up the side of his neck.

"I should––" Sherlock swallows, "––it's––John has kept on about showing it to the Med Bay physical therapist."

James ignores all that, warm fingers splaying on Sherlock's spinous processes. "There's a street in Hong Kong, the Ko Shing, that's famous for its traditional medicine practitioners," he muses, fingers tapping along the side of the midline, tracing the dips and ridges of muscles. "I picked up a trick or two there back in the day."

Sherlock forces himself to be still; James' gentle ministrations tickle more than they seem diagnostic. He finds a spot that makes Sherlock reflexively lift his shoulder and pushes fingertips into that unyielding, cramping muscle strand.

"You go to one of the clinics, you have to listen to them spout nonsense about meridians and chi," James chides dramatically, then blows air through loose lips to frame a long-suffering sigh. "People. So superstitious. But when the snake oil salesmen turn out to be more useful than the so-called experts at the Science Division, you just might be forced to admit that sometimes things work even when we don't understand why. Sometimes, the pieces just fit."

Suddenly, there's a firmer grip of forefinger and thumb on that whipcord of muscle that instantly pulls Sherlock's shoulder towards his ear. James' breath hitches as he focusses. He brings his other hand to press down at the upper end of his scapula on the same side, retaining the pinch on that sore spot closer to the spine.

When Sherlock doesn't protest, James pushes his palm harder against his shoulder blade and pulls backwards where the ball of the humerus sits in the shoulder socket. He then releases the grip of his other hand and runs his fingertips up that cord of muscle in a gentle caress that makes Sherlock's arm flush in goosebumps. There's a warmth on his upper chest; it must be flushed, and he hopes the same isn't taking effect on his cheeks.

"Breathe," James whispers close to his ear, then chuckles quietly when Sherlock tries to swallow and exhale at the same time and ends up coughing.

James' fingertips then begin dancing on that sensitive spot again, tapping it as though playing a string instrument. "See how this thing gets all tight when you roll back your shoulder. It was the same thing with mine. Like you said, it's not the shoulder that's the problem. Let me show you."

He places his palm on the side of Sherlocks neck, fingertips briefly ghosting on his Adam's apple. Sherlock is suddenly very aware of his own breathing again, so tempted to close his eyes so that he could drown in the sensation of than hand on his neck.

James pinches the muscle strand he'd located earlier between his thumb and forefinger. He tightens until Sherlock can no longer keep still and his shoulder lifts slightly to escape the vice. Suddenly, the searing pain returns full-force, and he grits his teeth.

Instead of letting go, James pushes his fingertips deeper, practically underneath that whipcord-like muscle strand. With his other hand, he tilts Sherlock's head away from the affected side. The burn that has been coming and going and ruining Sherlock's exercise begins to build again until it sears like a brand.

The pain builds into a blinding cloud so intense Sherlock pinches his eyes closed and bites into the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper. He's only barely keeping from yelping out and tearing his shoulder away from the grip.

Relentlessly, James twists his fingertips around the muscle strand in a torturous massage while exerting yet more pressure where his jawline meets his neck.

Suddenly, the pain disappears, Sherlock's fingers start to tingle, and he feels something loosen in his shoulder. It's as if someone has poured warm water down his arm. The pins and needles last mere seconds until his shoulder and neck feel… entirely normal.

James rests his palm for a moment more on his spine, fingertips on his carotid as though gently feeling how frantically his pulse is racing. "Good?" he asks quietly, and Sherlock is surprised to hear no smugness in that tone.

"Better," Sherlock admits, wetting his lips. Both of James' hands move to his shoulders, now, and take their time giving the deltoids a few gentle squeezes before retreating.

It takes all of Sherlock's willpower to open the eyes that have drifted closed and to focus — to conceal the truth that he hadn't wanted James to stop.

"There's a nerve that can get pinched under that muscle," James prompts. "The Hong Kong Med Bay knew how to diagnose it, but not how to fix it. That didn't bench me, but… it was enough of a nuisance that I sought help elsewhere."

John would know what muscle it is, Sherlock thinks. He runs his fingertips along his neck muscles, trying to find the spot James had somehow uncramped. It feels warm, a bit sensitive, nothing else.

The door opens and closes, several shapes moving into the space. They're out of focus since Sherlock's narrowed gaze is still fixed on James, increasingly irritated that he cannot read what is behind that effortlessly neutral expression he is certain is a front for something.

His T-shirt collar had got pushed aside and now James reaches in to pull it back so that it sits symmetrically.

"Gentlemen."

A familiar, biting tone makes Sherlock whip his head to the right. It takes him embarrassingly long to recover from the surprise of recognising Mycroft.

Pointedly, James' takes his time arranging Sherlock's shirt collar before flashing a smile.

"Sir," he then nods courteously to the Atlantic Marshal.

"Ranger… Moriarty," Mycroft acknowledges icily, pretending that it had taken him some time to recall the name.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes", James says, and then he's walking away.

"Did you make a wrong turn?" Sherlock asks his brother, aware of how the tone of his voice lacks its usual timber. Mycroft by default would be enough to make anyone lose their composure, let alone the man appearing this suddenly at such an uncharacteristic environment at such a strange moment.

Mycroft's brow rises as his eyes flit to Moriarty, now on the very opposite side of the gym, chatting with another Ranger, then back to Sherlock. He then gives the rest of the space a more sweeping, not hiding his distaste at all the other sweaty men and clanking machines.

"A word in private?" he pretends to suggest. They both know it's an order.

"I was finished here, anyway," Sherlock says pointedly. The spell is broken, and he doesn't want to linger any longer in James' vicinity.

As they trail out into the hallway, Sherlock drapes his towel around his neck with flourish, making sure the end of it whips his brother in the face. When he inadvertently glances back towards the gym to see if James is leaving as well, his brother catches it.

"Whatever that was––" Mycroft starts, dripping with disapproval.

"––it's none of your business. If you must know, it's called exercising to keep fit for battle. You should give it a go. I'm sure you could manage… half a push-up before passing out."

"And what does Ranger Watson think of the company you keep for such exercise?"

"John thinks getting along with fellow Rangers is important."

"It's not conducive to battle fitness to seek unnecessary distractions."

"What do you want, Mycroft, except to raise my blood pressure?"

"I came to congratulate you on your victory, of course."

"You could have just typed up a message, which I could have then conveniently ignored."

"I observed your tactics yesterday. I am pleased to see that you chose not to compromise the Ravager unduly this time."

"Ha. You'd love to think that's because you told me off."

"I harbour no such delusions. You chose the best course of action."

"We chose the best course of action."

"Yes, of course," Mycroft dismisses.

Sherlock runs a hand through his curls to curb his frustration. They're messy from falling asleep when they'd still been sweaty. He still feels stale, frazzled and wrong-footed, and having to endure this sudden brotherly interrogation is making his skin crawl. Battle hangover?

The exercise had helped at least physically: he doesn't feel as though he'd slept folded inside a cardboard box anymore.

"I do like to see you on occasion," Mycroft muses as they wander further down the hall. "I worry about you constantly."

The brutal candidness of his tone knocks Sherlock off his sardonic mood. "Apart from when I'm in battle, why would you? All I do here is eat, sleep, stand at parade rest for the lot of you." And have sex with John. "I'm fine. While I might pretend otherwise when I feel like complaining, this is hardly a Siberian gulag where occupants must fight for survival."

"Glad to hear you've come to that realisation."

"Are we done?"

"I have a favour to ask."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You should have led with that; I'd have helped you save the spittle you wasted on false praise be telling you to fuck off right away."

Mycroft looks thoughtful. Sherlock isn't certain his brother is still having a conversation rather than talking to himself when he says, "There are certain developments…" Mycroft shakes his head with a frown. "I worry about the Corps."

"More than you worry about me?"

"Those two are intimately connected."

Sherlock snorts. "You thrive on putting out diplomatic fires, trying to make sure Britain keeps a leg over everybody else in the Atlantic subsection, or at least continues to pretend it does. What else is there? The kaiju keep attacking, we keep fighting back while you lot make sure the electricity bills get paid. Nothing new under the sun, is there?"

"You make the PPDC sound like a unified front."

"I was under the impression it was. Mostly."

Mycroft clasps his hands behind his back as they make their way towards the lifts. "All it took for the League of Nations to fail was the withdrawal of one major player."

"Then you'd better make sure the Science Division doesn't get any funny ideas about cloning Hitler."

Mycroft seems even more annoyed at his barbs than usual. He seems almost desperate to convince Sherlock of something but is being too cryptical about it to succeed. Typical.

"This inability to take anything seriously," his brother quips, "is the reason why it is my task to handle politics while you solve problems by punching them or making them explode."

"Never going to let me live that one down, are you?" Sherlock sighs.

"At least you are now channelling your more unsavoury tendencies into serving a greater good. And that is why I've come to you with my request. Your distrust of any organisation means your discretion can be trusted."

It might just be the nicest thing Mycroft has ever said to him. "Go on, then," Sherlock prompts.

They've come to stand by a wilted-looking ficus. Mycroft glances theatrically around to make sure no one is eavesdropping. "There are recent staff transfers from Hong Kong to the Atlantic subdivision."

"I'm aware. I sat at the same dinner party you did."

"The developments I mentioned… if you hear anything, any… murmurs, so to speak, of staff dissonance in Hong Kong, it would be greatly appreciated if you could pass on what you hear to me."

"You want me to spy for you?"

"We're both a part of the Corps, and my security classification is far above yours. Nothing you tell me could be construed as a betrayal of the PPDC."

"It could still be construed as snitching on fellow officers."

"Upon whom you have never bestowed much loyalty."

"You mistake loyalty with pointless friendship. I am loyal to whichever Rangers I respect. The same goes for high command. John is much more prone to doing the right thing, to serving the best interest of the Corps if that's what he believes he's doing after being told so by a commanding officer. You should go to him with your request."

"That is precisely where I've come from — I met him as he headed for breakfast after being released from Med Bay."

Sherlock glances at the clock; more time has passed than he would have thought.

"I went to Watson first, knowing he is the more social creature of the two of you, and it was he who directed me to the gymnasium as the likeliest place to find you after consulting the locator on his wrist console. His reasoning for asking you was simply that you are the, I quote, 'clever one'."

"He said no, then." Well done, John. "He wouldn't betray our fellow Rangers, either. Not everyone is willing to step over corpses to get to the top."

"John said merely that he has enough on his plate. Since he's living with you, I'm not surprised. Hellish, I imagine, particularly in such a confined space."

"I doubt that's what he said."

"He said he's never bored but that the same cannot be said for you."

"Don't you have enough sycophants to do your bidding, Mycroft? Why would you need me or him as an informant?"

"I need someone I can trust, and there is one thing on which I agree with your husband: your cleverness. You pick up on things, connect the dots."

"Even if I was considering this, you're giving me very little data to work with."

"I don't know what to look for myself yet," Mycroft admits. "Best not give you too specific a direction; it'll help you keep a more open mind."

"I'm saying no, if that escaped your notice."

Mycroft opens his mouth to push his point further, but then phone rings. He digs it out of his pocket, visibly dismayer when he sees the called ID. Sherlock cranes his neck to see, but Mycroft turns his back to him as he lifts the device to his ear.

"Endlich. Haben Sie ihn gefunden?" Mycroft says imperiously.

"I'll just––" Sherlock mouths, pointing his thumb at towards the intersection of hallways that will lead to the main lifts.

Mycroft covers the lower half of his phone with his palm. "Yes, yes. Take care." He then turns away again to continue this evidently urgent call.

Sherlock turns a corner, then slows his steps. He doesn't speak German but something about the perturbed impatience with which his brother had reacted to this call and the man's earlier comment about 'developments' makes him very curious.

Sherlock activates his wrist console and finds a translation app added to the software in case a Ranger was ejected from a Jaeger and got picked up by a foreign ship or washed ashore somewhere where they didn't speak English.

Automatically translated words begin appearing on screen as Mycroft's call continues.

[Because he's retired?! That doesn't mean he's lost all the knowledge that got him classed as a Category One asset in the first place! Unless he retired because of a very sudden and severe dementia, what he knows is worth millions — no, billions. Not to mention that his disappearance poses a risk of all that knowledge falling into the wrong hands.]

Mycroft barely lets his conversation partner answer before continuing to chew them up: [I've told you before that your myopic, parochial attitudes will lead us all to ruin, and that's even before a single kaiju breaches your coastline again! You should have had eyes on this man!]

Sherlock wonders how badly the other person is squirming, being told off in such blunt terms by the Atlantic Marshal. Germany has been very naughty.

[No, I will not trust it to The BND to handle this. You don't even know the timeframe of how many days' advance he or whoever has either helped him or made him disappear has on us!]

The app produces a small popup window to inform Sherlock that the abbreviation 'BND' refers to the Bundesnachrichtendienst, Germany's Foreign Intelligence Service.

Mycroft is finally listening to the other conversant. His shoes scuff a bit of the floor; he must be shifting his weight in anger. Then, his patience runs out again.

[Yes, there is the remote chance that he has some domestic, pedestrian enemies, in which case you should already have rounded all of them up in custody. I advise you to find him before you hear from our First Desk. You know I have jurisdiction in all PPDC-related matters to request intelligence service operatives to be assigned to investigate.]

There is one more short pause before Mycroft rings off with harsh parting words: [No, I shall not have a good day, and will assume that the next contact you make will be either to tell me you were mistaken and that Herr Reichenbach had simply popped down to the shops and your agents were simply too incompetent to notice, or to confirm that a coalition intelligence operation is in full swing to locate him.]

The call ends, and Sherlock sprints in the direction of the lifts. If Mycroft caught him eavesdropping, the worst he could do is give Sherlock a firm chastising about such antics, but he's not in the mood for more superfluous lectures from the man.

 

 

Notes:

Much thanks to Khorazir for help with the German bits in this chapter.

I had a very inspiring Tumblr ask soon after this chapter was published about how I planned and constructed these scenes. Here's a link to my answer on Tumblr.

Chapter 7: Tongue-Tied and Torn

Notes:

The next episode of the tie-in podcast Ranger Ham Radio will be out later today! Episode four will be called "Ranger Gym Bros" and you can listen to it on elldotsee's Soundcloud.

Once in the lift, Sherlock's finger hovers on the buttons, vacillating between going to their quarters or finding John at lunch. He knows he'll be distracted by what he's just learned, but perhaps John might offer some useful perspective. He also wants to hear what had happened at Med Bay.

Once at mess hall, he's dismayed to spot John sitting with Tom Wallis but relieved when the latter downs the last of his glass of water and rises to his feet, plate empty. Upon saying farewell to Wallis who's headed for the tray discard station, John spots Sherlock and gives an enthusiastic little wave.

Sherlock decides not to waste time on picking up a tray of lunch from the line. He's in the mood for something sweet rather than whatever the suspicious-looking casserole on John's plate is, so takes the seat opposite John, his back to the rest of the hall, and snatches the small dessert cup of bread-and-butter pudding with vanilla custard on John's tray.

"Oi! You can get your own, you know!" John laughs. He then seems to study the sight of Sherlock very carefully. "You look alright."

Sherlock looks up from poking at the pudding. It has raisins, which he detests. "What do you mean?"

"I thought I picked up on something. You… I thought maybe you hurt yourself exercising."

An unexpected panic rises; how should he explain to John what had happened with James? Mycroft's unwelcome appearance hadn't left Sherlock with any time or space to pick through the lingering aftereffects of his encounter with James, but he's realising that only now. Mycroft's tinfoilhattery had become the next shiny thing for his brain.

"I…" He knows he's blinking like an idiot. "I did some stretching at the gym. Managed to unlock something in my neck, which seems to have fixed the shoulder issue."

"I'm glad," John offers.

He doesn't look happy. Why doesn't he look happy? Sherlock forces himself to look straight at John, but the scrutiny makes him uncomfortable, which in turn makes his cognitive functioning derail and he drops his spoon on the floor. Can John tell I'm shielding? He usually can.

Nothing happened with James, he tells him sell crouched under the table. Nothing. We talked. He showed me a trick he'd learned from some Hong Kong witch doctor. Just a conversation between colleagues.

"How was your… thing?" he asks once he's fished the spoon out from underneath the table and plucked up the courage to face John again. He's not eating a single bite more with a utensil that has touched the always mucky mess hall floor, that's for certain.

John's features relax a bit, he creases of his brows straightening out. "A whole lot of blood draws and an injection. They want me back in the afternoon for the stem cell harvest."

"And that's done… how?"

"From peripheral blood, thankfully. They told me that fifty years ago they had to get them from the bone marrow. They also said that even just the stem cell stimulant injection might still cause some aches and pains. Turns out they're right." John winces.

"Are you allowed to take anything for it?"

"Just paracetamol. Opioid, if it gets bad, but that might get me benched for a day." Opioid-based pain management medications can impede cognitive function so they're a contraindication to piloting. "Ibuprofen and the like affect platelets, and they want to take caution with everything haematological while the procedure is being done."

"The harvest takes how long?"

"An hour, max. They give me… the name was way too complicated. Something that ended with -grastim beta. That releases stem cells into blood. Then they can just filter my blood through a machine that separates all the cell lines, give the rest back to me and just keep the stem cells they'll program to fix the bone."

John is talking as though none of this is cause for concern. "I'm surprised they told you even that much. They'll… filter your blood?"

"Yeah. And I'm getting a shot of heparin for that."

"Which does what?"

"Makes the blood not clot in the filter."

"How long does it not clot for?" Sherlock presses. How can John be so cavalier about it?

"Heparin is relatively short-acting. Half a day, a day, tops."

"I assume you'll be benched at least for that?"

"Sure." John studies his expression. "Hey. You look as if I'm going in for open heart surgery."

I feel like I am, listening to all this. Sherlock is annoying by John's gentling tone; it shouldn't be him trying to make Sherlock feel better when he's the one enduring whatever ungodly torture the Science Division has come up with.

It shouldn't make him this uncomfortable hearing John being treated for a relatively minor health problem. This isn't cancer, this isn't anything career-ending. It's the opposite — they're trying to fix his back so that we can get on with our work, he reminds himself, to no avail. Sherlock is no fan of Med Bay but is willing to trust the regular staff there. However, this is the Science Division, with a long history of secrecy and prioritising the war effort over everything.

"Did they come all the way here just for your treatment?" Sherlock asks. If they did, it's a good sign. It means they see what an asset John is, that he's worth all this effort.

"No, I just got lucky with timing. They're here for the new implants."

Sherlock has lost his appetite to the point of the very sight of food being disturbing. He returns the dessert cup back on John tray, dropping the spoon into it. John doesn't seem to want it, either.

"People who get dialysis for kidney problems do a similar thing three times a week, including the heparin injection," John starts explaining again, assuming that Sherlock is still thinking about the stem cell thing. "This won't cause any kind of infection risk, and the blood clotting issue won't last long. Anyway, what have you been up to besides the gym? Did you see Mycroft?"

Sherlock sighs with an eyeroll. "I did; thank you for that, by the way."

John chuckles.

"He was disappointed to see his covert agent recruitment process hit the rocks," Sherlock continues, "he really is worried, though, and that's new. He's always enjoyed diplomatic and financial housekeeping for the Atlantic Corps, but something must be threatening his position if his knickers are in this tight a twist."

"I'd have thought that he has lots of people around the world in the PPDC he could go to for information rather than us."

"Exactly. Not in the Ranger Corps, though."

John considers this while dabbing his lips with a disposable napkin. "Rangers at each base would keep a certain confidence within them, I suppose."

"He seems to think whatever is going on has to do with Hong Kong."

"That's Global Command. If I wanted to play power games, that's where I'd start, too."

"It's the home base of the Science Division, too," Sherlock accuses. "So, why is he asking us? We couldn't be further away from all that, including geographically."

"He didn't give any specifics to you, either?"

"The staff transfer is the only thing he mentioned."

"He thinks the Hong Kong arrivals might have intel?"

"It something is going on there, it makes no sense to send anyone involved all the way here, does it? Mycroft seems to be grasping at straws, wanting to hear whatever parochial rumours people might have brought with them. There is one more thing: I overheard him speaking to someone about the fact that the engineer who designed the Ravager has disappeared."

"He's retired, though, isn't he? There was something in the papers about that when they went public with our Ravager assignment. That his last assignment ended when the Ravager was delivered to Chard. He must be well over seventy by now."

"Mycroft thinks he should be kept an eye on since his knowledge is a war asset."

John snorts. "I doubt the kaiju kidnapped the guy. Unless they found his house flattened and massive footprints in the garden."

Sherlock grins. "I think the German police would have already solved the case with those clues."

John glances at his wrist console. "I need to get back to Med Bay. I've no idea how long the harvesting is going to take, but I'll need a nap after and would love some company."

 

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

John is gone for hours, and Sherlock doesn't know what to do with himself. He should have slept in, then headed to lunch with John and gone to the gym now. Now that he knows more about John's procedure and has been reminded of the whole upcoming reimplantation thing, he could have used some stress-relieving exercise more than he had this morning. He would have also avoided running into James Moriarty.

Anticipating John to be tired and thus more prone to nagging about housework than usual, Sherlock clears his things from the chairs and the floor, even drops some of John's used clothes into the wash bin. The Corps expects them to keep their quarters clean and tidy, but laundry services are provided by base staff. It's a relief, not having to iron their own uniform shirts.

Even after a bit of tidying up, their dorm room feels cramped and claustrophobic. He needs something to bide his time while waiting for John, whose presence is the only thing that can calm his churning nerves as well as a shot of fentanyl ever did in London. That wouldn't even work anymore; his receptors have been Frankensteined by the Science Division into no longer recognising such stimulation. The drugs used to be the key to a lock that has now been changed. Only one exception remains: nicotine.

The patches don't seem to be doing much today, but with the commissary closed, he won't be having a luxurious smoke up on the cannon deck. Besides, it's raining outside, as the small symbol on his wrist console is helpfully declaring. Their room has no windows, hence using the application.

He opens the computer, scrolls through his messages. Mostly spam, some of it from companies who have sponsored or helped arrange the Corps' PR ventures. There's a message from Mycroft: 'looking forward to your updates as always'. Since Sherlock has not supplied the man voluntarily with a single update on anything ever, this must be code for 'please reconsider becoming a snitch'.

He deletes it, along with three that may have contained some important info on next week's schedules and administrative updates from the base commander. If there's something he needs to know, John is bound to bring it up in some inane small talk over a meal.

Nothing in the messages provides any entertainment, so he shifts to browsing the PPDC open media library. After a moment's hesitation, he searches for James Moriarty.

There are plenty of old news clips from the man's early years in Hong Kong. Sherlock watches one: Moriarty being interviewed on the helipad just outside the Shatterdome entrance, after which he is shown writing autographs for a large throng of teenage girls. He's wearing a dark green bomber jacket with a Corps logo instead of battle armour, so this may well have been a deliberate PR run. James had worn his hair shorter then, a neat military-style crew cut with a high-shaved neck. Since there wasn't the slightest sign of a five o'clock shadow when he'd landed, Moriarty must shave with an old-fashioned and very high-quality blade, and several times a day, too. The years have treated his facial features well. He must take good care of his skin, Sherlock reasons. Clearly, appearances matter.

He finds a news video of a black-tie reception for visiting dignitaries in Hong Kong. James is in full dress uniform, the neat, vertical lines of the jacket and trousers accentuating his compact figure.

He connects the audio feed to his implant, hoping that the media team had interviewed James. He thinks he spots another familiar face in the: Ranger Michael Chen. The reel is old enough that even Marshal Stacker Pentecost was still alive.

As the camera sweeps across the hall, Sherlock spots James standing behind a pillar, conversing with a Japanese-looking man wearing the exact same uniform featuring the Ranger Corps insignia. His co-pilot or just a fellow Ranger? It's impossible to make out anything that they're saying, and the camera soon sweep further along the banquet wall.

Suddenly, there's a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. He reacts before thinking, elbow shooting up to knock his opponent's teeth out, but thankfully John blocks the strike with his forearm, laughing.

"Sorry, I didn't realise you couldn't hear me come in."

Heart pounding, Sherlock scrambles to close the media browser window.

"What are we watching?" John asks cheerily. "I could do a movie."

"Nothing. Just… news."

"You never watch the news."

"I was bored since you abandoned me for so long," Sherlock complains histrionically. Just as he's about to slam the screen down, there's a pop-up informing him of a new message.

Send: Ranger James Moriarty.

Fingers perched on the edge of the screen, he scrambles to make a decision on an appropriate reaction.

"Aren't you going to read that?" John asks.

If he doesn't, wouldn't that also look strange? Dutifully, Sherlock opens the messenger app, John's palm that has landed on his shoulder again sending off heatwaves of shame under the scrutiny.

The message is short, neutral. An invitation for a sparring session at the dojo tomorrow morning. Any Ranger might send such a thing to another, surely?

"He's probably asking us since he doesn't know many others here yet." Sherlock tries to keep his tone as neutral, as unaffected as possible.

John takes off his service uniform jacket. "I could use a few rounds on the tatami."

The invitation had been sent to Sherlock. Does that specifically mean that James wants to pair up with him, or could a request for "a partner" be fulfilled by John, too?

"It's been a while since you and I had a round," John says, leaning back and removing his hand. He goes to the tiny kitchen unit and puts the kettle on. They'd replenished their tea selection from Ponta Delgada last month; thankfully the number of English visitors to the island makes sure at least some of the bigger shops stock decent tea brands. "James can take on whoever wins," he suggests.

No. John can't see us together–– So thrown is Sherlock by John's decision to come along that he'd forgot to shield and quickly remedies the situation. "You just had your treatment–– won't the blood clotting thing still be–– I mean––" he points out as an extra security measure of discouragement.

John, holding the kettle under the spray of the tap, shuts the water off and turns to look at him, dismayed and alarmed. "You don't want me to come? Why? What's going on?"

"Nothing." Sherlock slips into the toilet to buy himself some time, making sure to try to project a nonchalant calm at John while shielding his thoughts. He's not sure at all how successful he is at such mental theatrics in his current mindset. He doesn't often do it, preferring to cultivate honesty between the two of them. When he's in a bad mood, Sherlock rarely has reason to conceal it from John, who has an uncanny ability to fix such emotional turmoil. And when he's horny, well, he has even less reason to hide that from John, since it is also a problem the man knows how to remedy and is more than willing to do so unless being woken in the middle of the night because Sherlock can't sleep and has decided an orgasm might help.

He's never had reason to hide from John — until James Moriarty arrived.

And the trouble is that Sherlock doesn't quite understand himself why he is drawn to the man's company against his better judgement.

When he re-emerges from the en suite without even bothering to flush as a ruse, Sherlock finds the computer window reopened and that same, incriminating news clip playing on mute.

John is leaning against the desk with his arms crossed. Two steaming mugs are sitting in front of the screen on the table as if they were enthusiastic spectators to the silent sight of James Moriarty shaking hands with Hong Kong high brass.

"Why do you start shielding every time someone so much as mentions that smarmy git?" John demands.

"I don't."

"You're blocking me right now!" John explodes, hands flying every which way, eyes flaming with fury. He's standing at his full height, shoulders tucked back and despite their height difference, Sherlock feels small before this outburst. John is often annoyed with him, sometimes a bit angry, but never like this.

"When I said you should maybe make some friends to help pass the time, I didn't mean the likes of him!" John shouts. "You can't possibly be so naive that you can't see what he's doing!"

"Pray tell, what is he doing, then?" Sherlock grabs one of the mugs and sips, mainly to get an excuse to break eye contact. He makes a face; this must be John's since there's barely any sugar in it.

"Trying to get a leg over," John says bluntly.

"Oh, for crying out loud! You think I have any need for that, with him?"

"You tell me. It's starting to seem like the two of you have something going, and whatever it bloody is you must be enjoying since you keep going back for it."

"I've met him twice, and both times I was with you," Sherlock points out. "That's not exactly the definition of going back for anything."

"You were with him at the gym."

Sherlock knows he's failing miserably to conceal his surprise. How the hell does John know that?

John scratches his neck and reaches for his tea, too. "Since I felt something weird from you earlier, I asked Mycroft to shoot me a message if he found you. I was just worried." John shrugs.

"And?" Sherlock swallows a large mouthful of the scalding tea. The burn on his tongue is a welcome distraction from the scorch of John's interrogation.

"He said you were fine, and in the company of Ranger Moriarty. I thought it was weird he mentioned that."

"You know he sticks his nose where it doesn't belong. Like our battle decisions."

"That's what you were doing with James, then? Making battle decisions?"

John's lip has quirked up with that bit of teasing, and relief floods in, washing away some of the adrenaline that's making Sherlock feel unbearably twitchy.

"He's entertaining company, that's all." Sherlock knows he sounds as though he's making excuses, being circumspect. He breathes in, tries to make himself drop the veil from between them so John would see he loves him, doesn't want anyone but him.

But the conflict, the confusion he feels over his own reasons for feeling like a moth seeing a flame when James Moriarty walks into the frame is probably still enough to make John doubt him.

Sherlock doesn't know what to do with his hands, so he shoves them into his trouser pockets. "It's a game," he admits. "At least that's what I think he thinks it is."

"You and him, playing games, hm? Fun, is it?"

"I've never sought him out. Not once. He simply happened to be there this morning."

John studies his expression and Sherlock is finally calm enough to drop his defences. He focusses on recalling this morning, and now that he can let John in, the evidence is right there: the gym meeting had been a coincidence.

"Alright," John relents. "I get it, you know. He's new and exciting, is that it? Young, too. Into you. Worships you," he mock-analyses. "Not boring like your old partner with a creaky back, is that it?"

John sighs, closed lips curling slightly around his teeth.

Now that he has decided that there's no reason to question Sherlock's loyalty, John seems to have decided that this unpleasant conversation must be his fault, then, a consequence of his shortcomings.

"John––" Sherlock pleads, but he has no idea what words to choose to counter such self-deprecation. He feels as if he's betrayed John even though he knows he hasn't. Even if John is hiding it behind humour, it's obvious that Sherlock's actions have him into a black hole of confidence. He needs to fix it but doesn't know how. "That back's about to be good as new, and you're twice the Ranger that anyone else in the Corps is. You think I'd have shacked up with anyone less than that?" he jokes haughtily.

John puts his mug on the table and closes the screen. He then reaches out for Sherlock's hand. It's an odd gesture — they've never made a habit of holding hands like a pair of teenage sweethearts.

It feels… strangely, more intimate than what they'd done in bed last night.

"Anyone who sees you would want you," John says quietly.

"I can assure you they don't, once I've opened my mouth. I've a lifetime of evidence to back that up."

"Or given them one of your signature glares. More effective than the Plasmacaster. I just mean… I was here for nearly twenty years living like a ghost. I don't always feel like this stardom you've brought on us is all that deserved on my part."

"I've brought? I wouldn't be in the Corps if it wasn't for you." Sherlock laces their fingers, studies the sight of their joint hands resting relaxed between their thighs. "No Ranger is even close to half the sum of their partnership with a co-pilot, if it's a good match. And if it's an exceptional match…"

This is exactly what he'd told James this morning. It sounds like the man has never enjoyed a co-pilot relationship the likes of what Sherlock has with John.

Maybe he should decline James' invitation, or not even reply to it. But wouldn't that signal that there is meat in John's suspicions? Responding that they would both be in attendance would give James cause for more comments about John and Sherlock being comically inseparable.

He tightens his fingers around John's, closing his eyes momentarily to revel in their connection.

Nothing happened, he wants to say, and nothing will. Yet something about his encounter with James makes the first statement feel false. Why?

"James and the other transfers are the only interesting thing that has happened here lately, that's all," Sherlock declares with all the confidence he can summon.

John raises their hands to his lips, gives Sherlock's knuckles a kiss before letting go. Sherlock finds he's unable to decipher the maelstrom of feelings he senses from John when he dares to drop his guard further. Resignation? Sadness? Had his words failed to convince John that there's no reason for jealousy?

"I am curious," Sherlock says with determination, "but not for the pedestrian reasons you fear. You don't think I can keep him in check? Watch me."

He grabs the bag housing his martial arts outfit and drops it right in front of the door dramatically. "I'll tell him I will be happy to do some sparring tomorrow, with my husband in the audience."

"Wouldn't miss it," John answers with a crooked grin. "Might fancy a swing at the guy myself."

He then performs an ear-splitting yawn, and Sherlock realises he hasn't asked about John's afternoon at Med Bay. Damned Moriarty, messing with my priorities.

"They got the stem cells, then?"

"Plenty," John answers, kicking off his boots beside his battle gear locker. "Got a bit feverish during the harvest but that seems to have passed. I'm fine, just tired. They'll reprogram the cells and give them back to me in two weeks. That's all there is to it."

"And you didn't hear any salient secrets while you were in there?"

John drops down on the bed, grabs the woollen blanket they keep on top to keep things tidy. "I wish I had."

"Mycroft's grasping at straws," Sherlock concludes. "Only in his wishful thinking would something exciting ever happen here besides the occasional Breach. Chard is as far away from global command antics and continental European politics as possible, and I like it that way. He can keep his war games while we handle the actual war."

"Not tonight, though," John points out lazily. "You think you could go get us some crisps from mess hall?"

"If you promise they'll help get you back into battle shape for tomorrow," Sherlock warns him with a grin and grabs his uniform jacket.

He'll reply to James' message later. Let him stew in anticipation.

 

 

Chapter 8: Clothe My Naked Villainy

The next morning finds John reluctant to drag himself out of bed. Every bone in his body feels creaky, and though he'd been told aches and pains are a common side effect of the medications to mobilise his stem cells, he hadn't expected to be this bad. He's torn between the pull of rest and a longing for a non-steroidal painkiller and finally, the promise of a relief what feel like growing pains wins. He climbs over Sherlock, still lost to the world and snoring, and goes to the bathroom. In the cold light of the cheap, industrial-style ceiling lamp, he looks pale and even older than he feels. He cards his finger through his hair, trying to decide whether he should shower now and give up on exercise for today or to see whether the tablet he now swallows down by drinking straight from the tap will make him feel more human.

Sherlock's alarm goes off on the wrist console on the nightstand. John is surprised he'd set one, then remembers they have a meeting with James Moriarty at the dojo.

Fuck.

John has no idea what martial arts trick the man has up his sleeve, but he doubts Moriarty would have extended such an invitation if he was just expecting to get his arse kicked.

The invitation had been extended to Sherlock, so it should be a non-issue if John limits himself to spectator sports today.

It's not what he wants, though. What he wants is to step onto the tatami to prove to himself, above all, that he's still got it.

That impulse is getting more intense, which is a problem. No one has actually questioned his abilities, have they? Sherlock teases him on occasion about his age, but even that has dwindled lately. Objectively, no one is avoiding him or giving him pitying looks.

Paranoia is what it is. I need to get over it.

Punching the ever-loving shit out of that smarmy James would have been the perfect method.

The dojo is where many interpersonal conflicts between Rangers are made flesh and then resolved. What happens there is sacred: no holds barred, but at the end of the session, as opponent's bow to each other, the hatchet is to be buried, and loyalty and mutual respect restored. Letting off steam together is a good way to remind Rangers of their similarities and their joint purpose. It had helped John and Sherlock get closer, too, before they were willing to accept both their battle compatibility and their mutual attraction.

John fetches their water bottles and fills them, slips one into the dojo bag Sherlock had dropped in front of the door. John had sent his gi to be washed and pressed after his last session, so he'll have to pick it up from the laundry unit. Laundry used to be delivered back to their rooms; removing this service is yet another budget cutback. At least it's still picked up three times a week when the cleaners stop by to give dorm rooms a more through scrubbing.

He knows Sherlock will insist on skipping breakfast even if he needs the fuel. Most likely he'll be so keyed up once he's shed the dregs of sleep that the only thing John can convince him to ingest is coffee. Sherlock does enjoy a nice cup of tea — emphasis on the nice. Most often he refuses to drink the base's standard brews. With coffee, quality seems to matter less. According to Sherlock, it's just a delivery vehicle for caffeine. John had once tried to argue that the same principle applies to cigarettes, and that's why Sherlock should stick to the less health-harming patches and such, but John had received an insulted glare as a reply and the declaration that he just doesn't understand.

It is the whole point of a vice, isn't it, that it's something you know you shouldn't do but enjoy anyway, and the forbidden fruit thing is a part of the allure? John wonders.

Sherlock's arm drops out from under the blanket to dangle from the bed, fingers almost brushing the floor. The rest of him is invisible under the bedding; he's commandeered John's pillow and blanket, too.

"Come on," John prompts, strapping on his wrist console. "We've got fifteen minutes. Didn't his message say nine thirty?"

Fifteen minutes is less time than Sherlock often spends on his hair in the mornings, and he's probably realised this just now since the blankets are flung aside as Sherlock practically leaps out of bed to transform himself into how their fellow officers have known to expect Ranger Holmes to look like.

John has always enjoyed seeing the transformation from this scatter-brained, bleary-eyed and electrocuted-fluff-of-hair private husband to the formidably handsome figure Sherlock presents to the rest of the world.

To John's surprise, Sherlock digs out one of the protein bars stashed in the kitchenette cupboard and downs a large glass of water before retreating to the bathroom. John wonders if he's gearing up for a battle that he anticipates will be particularly challenging?

"Does he do anything particular?" John asks through the door. Judging by the sounds, Sherlock is brushing his teeth.

"What do you mean?" comes the toothpaste-garbled reply.

"You do taekwondo, does he–– what's his style?"

"I've no idea."

"I thought maybe one of the articles you were reading might have said something." John tries to sound as neutral as he can; he might be even willing to admit to himself he was overreacting yesterday.

So what if Sherlock is finding out what our new colleagues were up to in the prior stages of their careers? He tries to argue with himself.

Still, he cannot shake the fact that even the Marshal had remarked on seeing James and Sherlock together.

He doesn't like this dance he and Sherlock are doing around the existence of James Moriarty. Leaning against the fridge, close to the bathroom door. John closes his eyes and tries to gauge Sherlock's mood. All he can pick up is residual tiredness and preoccupation with morning routines. No shielding.

He's not thinking about James.

Who appointed you thought police? comes a sardonic reply that startles John.

"Sorry, I was just…"

Overreacting.

"How do you do it? Shield your thoughts, I mean?"

John realises he's always assumed it's an innate ability that cannot be explained, like being musical or being able to Ghost Drift in the first place.

The door opens and Sherlock emerges. He'd been fast in arranging his curls into something less reminiscent of the result of someone shoving a fork into a socket.

"I didn't realise that's what I was doing before Marais explained it. It was a reflex at first, to keep those cadet idiots out of my head. Still is, sometimes. She said it's not uncommon that it happens for the first time when someone is having an intense emotional reaction to something."

Sherlock pulls on a T-shirt and grabs a pair of dark blue uniform trousers. They'll change into training gear at the dojo lockers; walking around in a gi is against regulation.

"Such as panicking to keep someone you dislike out of your brain." John reasons.

"To answer your next question: no, I don't believe I could teach you to do it. It would be difficult to explain how it's done. I just…"

John shrugs in defeat. "You just do." The universe has gifted Sherlock with several talents he lacks, it seems.

"You think we need more secrets in this relationship? More privacy?" Sherlock asks, turning to look at John genuinely perplexed.

"No, of course not! But if you didn't think shielding was useful, that you didn't need it sometimes, you wouldn't do it."

"It's a reflex, John, one I suspect all people have to keep things to themselves. And I try to give you privacy by not trying to focus on what goes on in your head all the time. Most of it is the equivalent of white noise, anyway," he teases with a smirk.

John slaps his husband's arse with a gym towel.

 

 

It's Monday, so the dojo is in active use. Wallis has taken over what is known as the east tatami leading a group of recent recruits through basic combat training, and John spots two of the Hong Kong transfers engaged in a spirited sparring match on the north one. Marais and Marsh are doing stretches on the south one; they must have done some sparring since their hair is plastered on their foreheads and their faces sporting a healthy blush of exertion.

John and Sherlock walk to the opposite end of the hall to get to the men's locker room, change into their gear. It's five minutes past, but Moriarty is nowhere to be seen.

"Fashionably late?" John asks. "I'm going to wait for my meds to kick in. If he shows up, you two can have a go at it and I'll watch. Otherwise, we could do just some light sparring or weapons kata."

He's referring to forms done individually to improve a sense of rhythm and to revise sequences of movements they'd been taught. The combat arts taught to every Ranger are a mix of traditional and modern, not adhering to any particular region's fighting style. The vocabulary employed is Japanese to honour one of the important founders of the Corps' combat training. Sherlock doesn't use the word kata — in taekwondo, that shadow boxing is known as poomsae.

Once they have put on their gis — the white, sturdy karate-style outfits that uniform etiquette dictates are to be worn at the dojo — they return to the tatami hall.

And find James Moriarty sitting cross-legged at the end of the south tatami. The other two Hong Kong transfers are leaving, and James is leaning back on his palms, exchanging a few words with them.

He's in a black gi, making John wonder if that's the norm in Hong Kong. His belt is black with a white stripe. John doesn't know what that denominates.

John doesn't particularly want to talk to James, so he gives Sherlock a nod and heads for the small, metallic spectator stand. He wonders if James had booked this specific tatami because it has such an audience area.

James climbs to his feet spryly as Sherlock approaches. How had they not seen James at the lockers? John wonders if the man had come in wearing his training gear from his dorm room, breaking protocol.

He wouldn't be surprised is James Moriarty's approach to protocol was similar to Sherlock's: ignore it at every opportunity.

He can't hear what the two are saying, but Sherlock cocks his head towards the stand, and Moriarty gives John a little wave with a lopsided smile.

John's fingers curl around the edge of the bench, itching to coil around a certain neck instead.

He would have expected Sherlock to suggest a weapon-based sparring match; after all, he and John prefer them when pitted against each other. Otherwise, their fighting styles are so different that things can get complicated. John is more of a boxer, whereas Sherlock's taekwondo skills have a heavy kick focus that keep him dancing out of John's reach. Using weapons such as a long staff brings the two of them onto a more even ground.

Wallis' teaching session has ended, but instead of releasing the students into the locker room to shower, he brings them to the stand to fill the seats. John isn't surprised; Sherlock is known to be a formidable fighter and watching him would be useful for the cadets.

As James and Sherlock start a warm-up at the opposite ends of the tatami comprising of some push-ups and the leg stretches Sherlock needs for his high kicks to prevent sprains, John leans closer to Wallis: "You know anything about Moriarty's fighting style?"

"Brazilian jiu-jitsu. They have this Hawaiian guy who's been at HK forever who happens to be a high-grade sensei. He teaches a lot there. That Moriarty's pretty advanced."

"And you know all this because…?"

Wallis leans back in his seat, crossing his fingers behind his neck. "Any Fightmaster worth their stripes would make it their business to know. I was hoping he might give some classes to the cadets, but he said he wants to settle in first."

Tom Wallis doesn't usually ask — he gives orders. Though he's the same rank as every other Ranger, as the Fightmaster he's been appointed the authority to govern Rangers' physical conditioning. If he wants Moriarty to teach cadets, he could just make him. The only other person John knows to have ignored Wallis' orders (and repeatedly to boot) is Sherlock.

John is surprised when the two men on the tatami don't head to the weapons storage area off the side. During their warmup, each keeps glancing covertly at the other and finally, they rise to their feet, tug their jackets straight and walk calmly to the opposite ends of the darker middle of the south tatami denoting the area for scoring sparring matches. If a fighter gets pushed or otherwise driven outside of it, they've lost a round. The same happens also if they are knocked out or tap out, which means slapping the tatami repeatedly to signal that they're opponent has them in an unbreakable hold that might even be painful, and they wish to yield.

People have been wandering in and out of the hall as the warm-up has commenced, many of them changing their plans in lieu of watching the impending match.

Sherlock always gets a crowd. John surveys the cadets sitting around him. None of them have plucked up the courage to talk to him even though he's caught many a curious glance. For them, Rangers as well-known as him and Sherlock seem to be an intimidating encounter, even though John thinks such nervousness completely unnecessary. Two of them are whispering something, eyes fixed on him, and John gives them what he hopes is a winning smile. They go all wide-eyed, and John chuckles.

He returns his attention to the tatami just as Sherlock and James finish giving each other the customary bow to mark the start of a match.

Wallis nudges John. "That's unusual." He cocks his head towards the entrance, where LJ Marais is standing with none other than Prentiss Hammond, the Base Commander. He's not a sight John would expect at the dojo unless there was something official going on.

"They want to find matches for the transferring Rangers, don't they?" John points out.

"I haven't been asked to arrange any demonstrations," Wallis answers. "I certainly didn't arrange this one."

John expects Hammond and Marais to head off; most likely the commander was just passing by. Instead, they take a few steps closer to the south tatami to see better.

John has no time to mull on this strange development: Sherlock and James are now circling each other. Sherlock is holding loose fists close to his chest, elbows bent and close to his torso. He's all tightly coiled energy, ready to spring into an attack when he finds an opening. He's balancing on both legs, which gives him a readiness to shift in any direction with explosive acceleration. John is very familiar with this starting stance; it gives the opponent infuriatingly few clues as to what he's planning. John notices he's being more careful than usual in holding his hands in a guard position — he doesn't know what kind of a fighting style to expect from James. John knows little about Brazilian jiu-jitsu but he doubts it's as focussed on techniques performed from a very standing-tall position. Sherlock will have to adapt just as he's had to adapt to John's more pragmatic, punch-heavy style.

The two men are still circling, matching even lean and weight shift by subtle changes in their posture. Sherlock is dancing a bit from foot to foot, but it's still relaxed enough to signal he's still sizing James up, not planning an initial attack.

James' hips are dropped low, centred for balance. His chin is slightly tucked, and he's holding his hands further away than Sherlock, palms open. His knees are bent, and the stance overall seems to be all about retaining balance, being firmly grounded. John is reminded of an armadillo or a rhinoceros, ready to bulldoze — though neither animal would do so with the athletic grace James is projecting. The stance makes him seem larger in muscle mass than he is. Wallis' remark about him being highly trained seems accurate; even without all that much martial arts expertise, John can tell that James does not waste energy on doing a single unnecessary movement. He's reading Sherlock's every twitch and shift with practiced wit. And he doesn't seem to be planning a first strike.

Perhaps that's what's making Sherlock hesitate to land the first offensive. James has seemed like such a show-off, why isn't he rushing to prove himself?

Sherlock is growing impatient. His bounces from heel to heel are bringing him closer to James and finally, he plants his left leg firmly sideways on the tatami and aims a sharp sideways kick directly at James' head. He shifts just enough that the kick only whips at empty air. Sherlock is ready for this possibility, adding a hook punch to the combination as his kicking leg slams back onto the tatami.

Moriarty manages to sidestep the punch, but instead of retreating, he grabs hold of Sherlock's wrist just as he's pulling it back. James then takes a large step that brings him close and very low in relation to the taller Sherlock's torso. A quick hand slipped around the waist gives him an opportunity to grip the back of Sherlock's belt, and when he takes a circular step to the side, he yanks Sherlock off balance and pulls him in the same direction. His weight lands on Moriarty's, who has turned so that his back is to Sherlock, but he's still got a hold on his wrist. He bends his waist, drops lower, and throws Sherlock over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He lands with a thud on his bottom just in front of James, who is far from done. Still with a firm hold of a wrist, Moriarty throws himself onto his back, his thighs landing on Sherlock's chest, probably knocking the wind out of him. Sherlock's arm is between his knees, and when he puts pressure on it, Sherlock's elbow is bent painfully against the shin he shifts sideways across his other leg.

Sherlock lets out an annoyed growl. He goes still as Moriarty increases the pressure.

The audience that has gathered is quiet, suspended in anticipation.

Finally, Sherlock slams his palm twice on the tatami as a sign that he's yielding to his opponent.

John knows his husband's third-degree black belt in Taekwondo usually guarantees a victory in every match challenge he accepts, but it might just be that whatever style of fighting Moriarty has been taught is a tough strategic challenge to grasp since it relies on getting close rather than keeping a distance suitable for staying out of the range of taekwondo's famed kicks. Sherlock doesn't expect such proximity, such a breach of the space his fighting style requires for efficiency. John occasionally manages to best him with his raw strength and the element of surprise he gets from Ghost Drifting allowing him to anticipate some of Sherlock's movements.

James doesn't have that benefit.

They start the next round. The two men are circling each other again, muscles strained taut in anticipation of the opponent's next move. Sherlock doesn't waste time: he's on the offence again with a powerful front kick at Moriarty's midriff. It's fast, hard to defend from — unless armed with such a technique as Moriarty demonstrates now by bending forward until there is enough extra room between the extent of the kick and his midriff. Just as the leg is retracting, he grabs hold of the ankle and leaps forward, trapping the leg as the knee bends. Airborne momentarily, his knees impact on Sherlock's hips, knocking him backwards hard. His head hits the tatami and John is glad of the softness of the material. James grabs an even tighter hold of Sherlock's foot and twists sideways, eliciting forth a yelp from the sudden pain and again, a swift slapping of the tatami.

Once Moriarty has risen off him, Sherlock rises to his feet, lifts his foot a bit off the tatami and tests its range of movement. Once satisfied that it's not injured and inhales, eyes narrowing and darkening, blazing with fury and determination.

Moriarty is only barely back on his feet, clearly expecting a longer respite as he's straightening his trousers. Sherlock sprints after him, uses the momentum to jump onto his outstretched hands as though attempting a somersault, but twists in mid-air so he can scissor-kick Moriarty in the midriff. John winces sympathetically; he's been in the receiving end of this flashy and brutally effective move more than once. The kick both brings on a sudden pain but also traps James and knocks him onto his back with a thud. Unfortunately, the landing position also traps Sherlock's leg underneath James. Sherlock manages to bring his knee up and pull his leg free, then giving James a sharp kick on the side. Moriarty grunts, keeps his head elevated for a moment, then gives the tatami a demure tap.

"No lock? I'm disappointed," he tells Sherlock.

"Useless against the kaiju."

"But not useless in a street fight if you have to disable an opponent so you can focus on the next one," Moriarty points out and something tells John this isn't just theoretical knowledge.

"Judo, I gather? I was under the impression that some of those moves are banned in tournaments, though."

Moriarty huffs. "Brazilian jiu jitsu. No reason to stick to archaic bans or an outdated style when you have something that works."

John thinks it fits with what he knows of Moriarty that he'd be drawn to a fighting style allows him to play dirty — to use flashy and potentially devastating moves banned by more traditionalist Japanese forms of his art.

Sherlock scores some points in the next few minutes, landing a few neat punches and an axe kick on a knee that James leaves too close for too long. They're going at it harder than sparring Rangers usually would, pushing the opponents body and pain levels just a bit over the level usually seen among sparring Rangers. They're measuring each other up, scaling each other's boundaries and potential weaknesses.

Although Moriarty has now literally wiped the floor with him a few times, John can tell Sherlock is enjoying himself now that the initial humiliation of having to tap out has evaporated. He can both see it on his husband's face and feel it in the rippling of their connection.

The match stretches past an exhausting twenty minutes, but the two men bounding around the tatami trying to best one another aren't showing any signs of giving up. In fact, Sherlock acts though he's just getting started. He's getting better at anticipating Moriarty's attempts at going for a throw and dances just out of the way before landing a fierce kick on a kidney or a punch at the face. Rarely do they reach a target, but at least he's thwarted yet another attempt by Moriarty to take him down.

Hammond and Marais had slipped out of the dojo after watching the match for a good ten minutes. Wallis had appeared as mystified by the visit as John is; they had shrugged at each other upon noticing their departure.

Sherlock's chest is heaving. "One more?" he asks.

James nods, retreating a bit to prepare. During their latest one, Sherlock had managed to keep upright under the pressure of yet another throw attempt and managed to push James out of the match area. They don't seem to be counting points anymore; there had been some talk about reaching three wins, but after James had reached it, they just carried on. He'd scored the three first, at least according to John's calculations. No one in the audience had pointed it out; everyone wanted the match to continue.

Sherlock goes for a punch; John can tell he's getting tired and is struggling to concentrate on thinking ahead. Moriarty's stance is low; that fist won't hit its target. Instead, his arm gets grabbed and Moriarty crouches low underneath, pivoting a hundred and eighty degrees impressively fast. Pulling down on the arm, he pushes himself backwards, knocking Sherlock off his feet and flinging him over his shoulder onto the tatami into an undignified heap.

"Ippon seoi nage," Wallis mutters next to John. "Clean technique."

Moriarty appears fearless in how he snakes his way inside the defences of his opponent. Before they even realise it, their attack has allowed James to slip in and use their strength against them, making it look so easy as if he's barely even breaking a sweat. It's also highly risky, a real devil-may-care tactic, but when it works, it allows him to build combos that gain instant and full control of his enemy. Once they're down, he keeps them down.

James has retained his firm grip on Sherlock's arm and is lifting him up by it. Sherlock's shoulder joint, its ball pressed painfully against the back of its socket, must be causing him agony by now. His face is red, eyes pinched, and John can sense the pain radiating through their connection like a crimson tide.

He doesn't yield. He closes his eyes, and John can tell he's using all powers of concentration he can summon to push away the pain. He stops fighting, goes slack in James' grip, which momentarily confuses the latter enough that Sherlock can tense his abdominals, raise his hips and deliver a knee to James' chest so hard it sends it staggering backwards — and out of the round as he stumbles beyond the match area, barely keeping his balance.

James is wearing an ear-splitting grin when he returns to the middle to offer to shake Sherlock's hand, a customary ritual to ends things in good spirit. Sherlock has climbed to his feet, slower than before, and John can tell he's exhausted. Yet, he hastens his steps to join James in the middle but does not offer his hand. James extends his, and after some hesitation Sherlock takes it, studying their joined fingers as if it's just another attempt to slam him on his back.

The other spectators begin to file out of the dojo, Wallis and his students included. John rises to his feet, too, expecting Sherlock to be heading to meet up with him. Then, he's caught by a strange sense and looks up and across the tatami again.

The handshake has stilled as the two men continue to study each other's expressions. John senses how private the moment feels, how off kilter it's making Sherlock feel. He's not been shielding during the match and John had enjoyed feeling the flow of his determination, his fighting spirit, his tenacity and that haughty sense of superiority until Moriarty's first attacks landed him in trouble and made him realise that he'd met a worthy match.

Their hands still joined, Sherlock's eyes narrow and the tiniest smile plays on his lips as he looks into James' eyes before he checks himself and schools his features back into nonchalance.

It's too late.

John has seen it, seen what he's just tried to hide.

That Sherlock is fascinated by this man. That he wants to be around this man. That this man is, for all intents and purposes, currently much more interesting than John is, no matter how hard John tries to project his support and affection from the edge of the tatami.

John had been hoping that James Moriarty would be just Sherlock's new hobby. He hasn't had many, save for a brief but intense run at geo-guessing, which he grew tired and frustrated of it due half to the laggy outside internet connections and what he described as 'an internet full of idiots and their idiot rules'. John has been hoping Moriarty would be a similar fleeting interest, nothing more. Not a friend, and certainly not anything more. But what he has just witnessed kindling between the two of them…

Sherlock hadn't tried to hide any of it. It's as if he hadn't even remembered John was there and on his wavelength.

Who the hell is this guy and how does he have Sherlock in thrall like that?

He can't watch any more of this. He can't watch Sherlock from the sidelines, queueing for the attention of his husband.

Moriarty has gone to the edge of the tatami to pick up his bag. John marches right up to him, determinedly and completely ignoring Sherlock standing close by.

"Ten minutes left on your mat booking," John points out without so much as a hello. The tatamis are booked by the hour. "I'd fancy at go," he declares, digging out his knuckle tape pointedly from his gi trouser pocket.

James turns. "Watson. You know what I do now. Think you can keep me entertained like Holmes just did?"

John's grin is wicked. He doesn't care about the outcome of this — it might well be that he ends up on his arse with this parasite weasel staring down at him, but that's not the point. The point is that he and Sherlock are a team. A kaiju, Mycroft, some transfer has-been from Hong Kong, whoever gets in their way, they take down.

John is just as much a part of that process as Sherlock is, and he needs James Moriarty to know it.

James makes a flourish with his palm, splays his fingers as he indicates the middle of the tatami. "After you."

"One round," John says. "Not wasting my time with counting points."

"Sudden death. I like it," James drawls.

John finishes taping his knuckles — he doesn't bother with his right hand, he'll focus on using his dominant left, anyway. Then, as he strides to join James, he glances around briefly, meeting Sherlock's gaze.

What are you doing?

John senses concern and confusion. Sherlock can only blame himself for that.

And he probably heard that, John realises. He doesn't care.

The same as you. Problem? He replies.

Sherlock doesn't reply, just worries his lip and retreats to stand by a chair between the tatamis. He looks to unsettled to take a seat.

Good.

I'm not jealous, just disappointed at his bad taste, John tells himself, not caring about whether Sherlock had heard that, either.

He stretches his neck by dropping his head to one side, then another. They take a bow — John's a jerky little thing that's a far cry from the genuinely polite and respectful ones he awards all the other Rangers.

He swallows, bites his teeth together. It's a precaution in case Moriarty decides he can punch, after all. John wears a mouthguard and a helmet when sparring with Rangers who are heavily into classic boxing and that's his style, too, but he doubts Moriarty would have hidden such a talent. No, with the match against Sherlock, he's handed to John on a plate an opportunity to observe his combat habits. Sherlock is good, but he thinks too technically and too fancily against this guy.

John may not know how to shield telepathically, but he knows how to keep his balance low, his hands an impenetrable defensive cage, and how to get close to an opponent. He makes sure his back leg is firmly planted, his steps short. Sherlock's kicks are a big risk for any tug or shove robbing his balance, and John isn't going to make mistakes like that.

James is watching him curiously, and shifts his hands higher, forming his fingers into a hard, flat shape. Then, he coils them into fists.

Now, John is in even more familiar territory. If Moriarty is planning on going for a punch to be turned into grappling, he should think again.

He shifts closer, and John meets the challenge. He's shifting his weight from foot to foot to keep moving, to keep his muscles warm, but is not bouncing from one to the other; that would leave him too vulnerable.

Moriarty goes for the punch… and John shifts just enough for it to pass right next to his ear. And, before it has even reached as far as James was going to take it, John delivers his honed-for-years left uppercut to the jaw, sending his opponent staggering backwards. John springs forward to follow, delivering a carefully controlled jab directly into the nose. He uses enough strength to make it hurt but not to crush all the cartilage.

James trips backwards and lands hard, sliding backward a bit, way out of the match area.

By the time he scrambles back to his feet, John has already turned and is striding for the locker room, ripping the tape off his knuckles.

He's not giving James a handshake. Let that be the message he'd come here to deliver.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Neither Sherlock nor James appears in the locker room in the time it takes John to change back to his service uniform. He feels restless, still high on adrenaline and the blistering anger that had risen over what he'd picked up from Sherlock. It had simmered down as he focussed during the match but now, it is turning into more generalised anxiety.

He could continue to fume at his partner, but knows he needs to admit to himself that this is about more than just Sherlock being curious and perhaps a little bit attracted to some newcomer. John has given an occasional once-over to handsome blokes they've seen in and out of the base during their marriage. He's human, after all. Doesn't make it right or good to notice and appreciate other people, but it's human. It doesn't mean John doesn't love or want Sherlock. It doesn't mean he'd be tempted into betrayal.

He should trust Sherlock's judgement, but there is also the fact that Sherlock isn't great at reading people and their intentions. He's curious to a fault and has turned overconfidence into an art form in some aspects of his life.

John knows that what he's feeling is jealousy, but not just jealousy. From that first moment they'd met, he's felt very protective of Sherlock. And something about James Moriarty has awakened that impulse, now burning with such intensity that John doesn't want the two of them to spend even a single minute together. Yet he can't just walk back into the dojo, grab Sherlock's wrist as though he was some child, and drag him out just because James Moriarty might still be there.

I need to trust Sherlock.

Once in the lift, John realises he'd left the dojo without a plan and is too riled up to return to the dorm.

He heads for the Ranger's lounge, thankfully empty save for Wallis. John is glad for the potential company: he needs a distraction, and Tom is always an uncomplicated, predictable presence. Spending time with people who can't read his mind can feel rather calming, especially since being treated to snippets of Sherlock's ever-churning, highly strung intellect is like having the cognitive equivalent of a beehive in his vicinity. Tom Wallis is a no-frills guy who's known John for a long time.

There's a footie match on the telly mounted up to a corner, and Wallis is more interested in reading the messages popping up on his wrist console.

"I should have stayed longer," he jokes when he spots John's entrance. "Sounds like the two of you really gave Moriarty a run for his money."

"He's good, but it was time to demonstrate to the HK crowd that Chard can hold our own," John says nonchalantly and plants himself on the worn sofa by the window. The club is at a level barely above the sea surface, and spray from grey, churning ways keeps hitting the scratched window.

"Not surprised you finished him off quick and brutal, at least that's what Siregar says." Wallis indicates his wrist console.

Natalia Siregar is a junior Portuguese Ranger who's been assisting Wallis as Fightmaster when Michael Chen is unavailable.

"It was fun watching Holmes dance his usual circles around the guy, though," Wallis offers.

"And get his arse kicked." Sherlock could use such reality therapy sometimes, but not from Moriarty. "That guy's a gnat and Sherlock's an eagle. Why the hell is he giving him the time of day?"

He hadn't meant to ask such a thing out loud. Turns out he's still frustrated enough for it to turn to anger.

Wallis points out that Moriarty is a gifted individual with high aptitude test scores. "Word in the corridors is that he's likely to get a Jaeger designation if they can find a co-pilot."

Well, he can't have mine. "He got injured so bad they let him go. He can't be a hundred percent physically fit for this, can he?" John knows he's grasping at straws.

"Are you?" Wallis asks. He knows about John's back issue; they'd talked about the experimental treatment he's getting. "Considering how well you and Holmes have done, doesn't seem to be an issue that you've got some years on him. We need new Rangers, good ones, and it saves a lot of time if we can recruit veterans. Kaijus have been chewing juniors up and spitting them out faster that they can recruit and train them in some parts of the Pacific."

Wallis' strategic pragmatism makes John feel rather petty. "Yeah, I hear Lima and Panama are petitioning for more transfers to make up for casualties. No one has a lot of extra Rangers to spare."

"We've been okay, compared to them. I'm kind of surprised they sent three people from HK here rather than the Americas. Can't complain, though, if this means our Marshal's looking out for us better than theirs."

The South and Central American Marshal had been forced to resign not twelve months earlier due to a corruption trial. A new one still hadn't been appointed due to Mexico rejecting every candidate but their own and other countries not wanting Mexico's huge aerial political influence to be bolstered by their scoring of the Marshal position.

John reaches over the handrest to grab a bottle of mineral water from a crate in the corner, not caring that it's lukewarm. He drinks half of it in one go, then leans back against his seat, resting the bottle on his knee. "I know we need people like Moriarty. I just…"

He doesn't want to complain to Wallis that the guy is all over Sherlock — in all honesty, as much as he considers Tom a friend, he's not certain how well the very traditionally macho Fightmaster could relate to gay marriage woes. Wallis has never acted in a way that signals disapproval of the two of them, so perhaps it's just John's residual paranoia and distrust from the many years he spent trying to hide his orientation.

"We need a steady flow of new blood, that's for sure. There's always injuries and casualties and retirements," Wallis commiserates.

He's said the r-word, now. John sniffs. His confidence over their latest battle feat pushing forward the end of his retirement, whenever that might be, is fading fast.

He has no reason to assume he can't continue piloting for many years, especially if his back gets fixed. He has no reason to assume that Sherlock has anything to do with Moriarty's potential pilot assignment.

Tell that to his limbic system, though, that sounds some strange alarm at the back of his consciousness whenever someone so much as mentions the concept of retirement.

I won't go out like this, fade into the woodwork while some smarmy sycophant ingratiates his way into Sherlock's favour. How does he not see what the guy is doing? Does he really need attention and flattery that much?

"Is that Moriarty guy a good pilot, though, or just a big talker?" John asks, shaking his head. "Wouldn't be the first time that someone got transferred because another base wanted to get rid of a bad apple."

His jaw tenses as he recalls the sight of Sherlock and James in the dojo. That punch he'd landed isn't enough by far to send the right message.

Then he realises that this is the reality he needs to adjust to sometime in the future, even if Moriarty has nothing to do with it. Is this what it's going to feel like when my time in the Ravager ends? I have to watch Sherlock work with other people, Drift with other people?

"You're pretty dead set that he is one, then." Wallis studies his expression. "What's going on, John, really?"

John averts his gaze, sips from his bottle. "It's not really about him," he finally admits. "I retired once. I did alright. Doing it a second time–– mind you, that's not in the cards for a long time, but I can't help thinking about it."

"I feel so damned old sometimes, working with the cadets. You know I retired before my co-pilot, too." Wallis grabs a HobNob from a packet someone has left on the table. "I didn't go see him off for their first deployment after he got re-paired. I just couldn't. We were friends, I guess, we had a good run. I trusted him; you can't bloody Drift if you don't, but we never spent that much time together outside of duties. I think I missed the Jaeger more," Wallis laughs. "That was the hard part. It's just a machine, yeah, but it's also a part of you."

"I know what you mean. I missed Harry so bad that Diablo hardly registered on the scale, but losing the Ravager would be… will be––" he corrects himself, "––hell."

The Jaeger is him when he's in the Conn-Pod. It's the symbol of everything that had turned around in his life after a long period of melancholy stagnancy. It gave him back everything that a career as a Ranger had promised but never delivered after Harry died. This is his career, these are his battle achievements just as much as they are Sherlock's even if people sometimes think he's just a sidekick to the great Ranger Holmes.

"You could teach," Wallis says. "You've got a lot you can give to new recruits. Your medical expertise, your battle experience. How to bounce back after injury and loss," he adds tentatively. "Underdog to hero. Don't get me wrong, you and Harry were a great team, and you did a hell of a lot of good for the Base as a medical officer. But you and Sherlock…"

"Yeah. Me and Sherlock." John downs the last of the water, hoping it were whisky, instead.

"It was always going to be you retiring first."

"I know that, but it doesn't mean I ever want to think about it."

"People who retire from some civilian job don't have to stick around to do work that pales in comparison to what they did before, to watch everything they love the most about their jobs get given to someone else." Wallis says sympathetically. "I hear you. And you had it worse since you really lost Harry."

"How long did it take before you could even look at Ares?"

Defender Ares had been the Jaeger Wallis had co-piloted.

"I grit my teeth and focussed on the recruits. It was good that they'd started shifting my duties towards overseeing combat training before I stopped piloting. A nice, soft landing. I will admit I was kind of glad when they shipped Ares off to Hawaii. Can't envy that Shatterdome. You know they call it the Scrapperdome since it gets all the other bases' Jaeger leftovers? They've been wanting to court-marshal their Base Commander for years for not looking out for their interests. I heard he's a drinker."

"Yeah, you'd think the Yanks with their historical level of military spending would know how to make sure their bases were well-equipped," John echoes.

"They've so many to fund, no wonder the money gets stretched thin. And it's not the only superpower who's getting a bit scroogey with their money. Apparently China and Russia don't think other countries, especially the US, are pulling their weight and are calling for changes in the Charter. Hammond says the Marshal keeps having to fight hard to keep the Ravager here."

"China and Russia have never liked the power balance in the PPDC, especially in the Atlantic." John has always wondered why having the Corps' Global Command in Hong Kong as well as the Science Unit headquarters isn't enough for China as power and influence go. The city used to be a semi-autonomous special administrative region of China, but when the Koreas had been re-unified after the famine in North Korea got so bad that the people finally revolted, China seized an opportunity to demand that the political power balance in the region be restored by properly integrating Hong Kong into itself.

"If politicians cared more about the kaiju and less about infighting…" Wallis laments.

"Most of them have only seen kaiju on the news, skewered by a Jaeger sword."

"That's because we keep it that way," Wallis grins and turns up the volume on the game on the telly. "We serve, Watson, in whatever capacity we can. That's what matters."

Notes:

The planning of this chapter (and chapter 7) is discussed extensively in episode four of the tie-in podcast of this story, Ranger Ham Radio. Join Elldotsee and I for some behind-the-scenes shenanigans!

Chapter 9: Rubik's Ranger

After John executes his abrupt and impolite departure and James disappears into the locker room pinching closed his bleeding nose, Sherlock lingers in the dojo hall. He goes to a side area reserved for stretching and warming up and drops down to sit on the mats there. They're softer than the traditional tatamis and, once seated, he's tempted to give into the bone-aching combat fatigue and take a nap starfished on the floor. Instead, he grips his soles and bends forward, muscles groaning and tendons stretching. He inventories the damage: some of the joints on which Moriarty had executed locks still ache, and his left wrist feels a bit warm and swollen. Just a mild sprain.

It had been worth the pain, for several reasons. It had helped him gain more knowledge of how James thinks, but an added benefit of the sparring is that he now has more insight into why John has been so tetchy lately. Sherlock had suspected some manner of kneejerk jealousy — the kind that John might direct at anyone giving attention to Sherlock — but this has turned out to be different. The bloody-minded determination to mow down a fellow Ranger he had not expected from John, who tends to exercise much more restraint, including in proper battle. That punch, as much as it had been to teach James a territorial lesson, had been just as much about John proving something to himself.

And therein lies the problem. What does John need to prove, and to whom? He has nothing to prove to me, and isn't that the only thing that should matter?

These kinds of stunts won't change the opinion of the commanding brass regarding retirement, since Sherlock is certain that the calculations on when John's piloting career needs to be put out to pasture will be pragmatic, based on biological age and medical data. There is no factual reason to think that retirement is impending since they're fixing John's back, and the new implant will remove many issues that have plagued his use of the Pons system.

John also has not failed in his duties in any way, nor is he falling short of the physical standards. No, this is about what John thinks about himself. And somehow, this confidence issue seems to be connected to Sherlock even though Sherlock is always the one to make sure everyone remembers John's contributions, his vital role in their partnership, his experience and his skills that so well compliment those of his co-pilot.

Is this the ghost of those years in pseudo-retirement corroding his self-confidence? I thought we were past that.

Yet that's exactly what all the evidence points to, and the issue is severe enough to make John do reckless things. All those self-deprecating and overreacting comments about being old and creaky, about Sherlock giving James attention because he's younger…

Would Sherlock staying away from James Moriarty fix all that in John's head? Sherlock thinks is unlikely, since James would still be at Chard.

Then what can I possibly do to help?

He mulls on the question for the better part of an hour as he stretches, yet the answer eludes him.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Once back in their dorm room, Sherlock decides to wait for John to return before showering. Perhaps John's mood might improve with sex, and they could shower together after, even though the size of their en suite is hardly ideal for it.

Two hours later, Sherlock is profoundly irritated, the sweat clinging to his skin making him feel as if he'd want to peel it off. There had been a notice on the hallway wall saying that a maintenance crew was working on the air conditioning, which explains why the atmosphere in their dorm level is rather tropical. The system must have been turned off for hours. After he's taken a shower all the glass and mirror surfaces remain dewed up for a long time, and the clean clothes he puts on are slightly damp.

It's been hours, now, since he's seen John. He uses the tracking function on his wrist console and finds out that John is at the Ranger's lounge. Sometimes he spends practically half a day there, fraternising with other Rangers. Sherlock wonders of this need to engage, to play the expected social role of a pilot is a part of wanting to feel like John still belongs, that he's not in some different, subpar category to other active-duty Rangers?

Sherlock considers messaging John to ask how long he'll be gone for, then decides that he dislikes what that says about him. I can find things to do without him.

He stands in the middle of the cramped room, watching water droplets created by condensation trail down the bathroom door. The shower's water pressure had been low, and during his wash he had given in momentarily to how terribly he misses the large, old bathtub in his London flat.

He tries not to think about England. His service contract spans fifteen years. He arrived as a young man and will leave middle-aged if not older. He assumes John wants to stay on even after his piloting career ends. This is supposed to be their life now. No use longing after things he can no longer have.

He loves taking short holidays with John, especially if they get to stay a few nights away from the base, but many times when they've returned to the base, Sherlock has been hit with an overwhelming sense of being trapped. As much as he tries to think of this bleak dorm room as a home, it's not. They don't even own the furniture and, save for the fanciest uniforms which are made to measure, nearly all their clothing are items worn by many others before them.

What kind of a home would John want, if their service contracts and finances weren't an issue? If they both survive until proper retirement, they'll need to decide where to relocate. A quaint village somewhere or the urban buzz of London? Or perhaps a country foreign to them both, one with a warm sun even at wintertime?

He reaches out for John and finds only the faintest presence unaware of his attempt to connect. John must be focussed on someone else's company.

Sherlock opens the computer, idly browsing some news outlets, but nothing catches his interest. He's tempted to look more into James, but John had made it clear that such research is considered uncouth in terms of fidelity.

He considers watching a few episodes of the nature documentary series they've been enjoying together, but Sherlock has a hunch that John wouldn't like that. Nearly all his favourite things to while away time between battles involve John while some of John's involve spending time with people who are not Sherlock. What does he lack that they do, or what does he force upon John in such excess that his husband needs these breaks from him?

Restless energy is building. He needs something to engage his brain. Thankfully, he doesn't need John for the next best thing after a kaiju incursion — simulating those battles. The simulation system, based on real-life battles, allows a pilot to take over the role of either Ranger in the original skirmish, leaving the rest to be replicated by the AI as close to reality as possible. He doesn't really need the practice since he knows the Ravager like the back of his hand but working on the mandatory simulations that all active-duty pilots must revise yearly just might help him might stop worrying about John and to shed this sense of gloom that is starting to saturate the whole room.

He messages Colleen and inquires if she could drop by at the sim lab to connect him into the system. Thankfully, she is available and doesn't ask questions regarding Sherlock's impromptu solo session.

They meet up at the training unit, and Colleen seems to sense quickly that Sherlock is even less in the mood for small talk than usual. After initiating a Pons connection, she leaves him to it, instructing to just leave things running when he's done; she'll drop by in the morning to reboot the system. A proper two-person neural handshake needs to be initiated, monitored and shut down by a LOCCENT officer but a simulation connection can be terminated by the user.

"Any specific ones you want me to line up or just go for the next ones in the mandatory package?" she asks just as Sherlock is about to open the door between the simulation room and the control booth.

An idea occurs. "Can you find out which Jaegers our Hong Kong transfers have piloted?"

Colleen brings up the four Jaeger names with lists of their assigned pilots and their service periods. Sherlock finds the name he'd been looking for but instead of mentioning James, he stabs his finger on the associated Jaeger on Colleen's screen. "Bring up the kaiju engagement sims of that one."

"That Jaeger's still in use," Colleen says appreciatively. According to the database, it's currently a part of the Wharton Basin Shatterdome's set. "You want its latest engagement, or––"

"No, the final three encounters it had while in Hong Kong."

The simulation scenario information lists the pilots, and the summary of the third and last one states that a pilot had been killed in that skirmish.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. James lost a co-pilot in battle. How did that happen, if he's as good as he claims to be?

Colleen blows out a solemn breath as they read the rest of the text, Sherlock peering over his shoulder. "They sometimes move a Jaeger to another base after a death, especially in Hong Kong. A bit of local superstition, maybe," she suggests.

"Not just that. Nobody wants to fight in a coffin," Sherlock points out. He knows John and Harry's Jaeger had been moved away like that, too, so it's not just a Hong Kong cultural thing.

"Two kaiju," Colleen points out, scrolling through the battle summary. "No wonder they got the better of a Jaeger. Taurax and Tailspitter," she reads out loud the kaiju names. "Categories two and three. Which pilot's role do you want?"

"The one who died. I'm curious if they could have done something differently."

Or if their co-pilot could have.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Time gets away from Sherlock as he immerses himself in the Hong Kong Shatterdome's battle archives. After walking through James' career, he wants to see what kinds of unifying conventions he could identify in the base's battle tactics, so he'd ended up simulating half a dozen other kaiju encounters from their archives. This turns out to be too little data to extrapolate any kinds of patterns from, so he'll have to continue the project later.

When he disengages from the system he finds two messages from John asking if they could have dinner together, and another that says 'never mind, saw Colleen and she told me you're working'. It's been hours since those messages; by the time Sherlock reads them, turns off the lights in the simulation lab and starts making his way back to the dorm, it's well past eleven in the evening. His mood is much improved, and it's a shame that John is already asleep when he slips into their room. Sherlock would have loved to show him some of the sim recordings he'd made, to hear John's opinion on certain tactics he'd tested out, particularly in the battle that had cost the life of one of their colleagues.

Of the two kaiju that Jaeger team had faced that night, Taurax had been a walk in the park. It was Tailspitter that had been the fateful challenge: its near-impenetrable carapace and vicious attacks had led to the Jaeger being cornered. The name of the pilot who had perished when the Jaeger had left its defences open in order to maximise a counter-manoeuvre had been omitted from the simulation records, likely due to some sentimental respect for the dead.

That pilot hadn't made any bad judgement calls. Judging by their performance, they weren't the sharpest pencil in the Corps' but perfectly adequate even by Sherlock's high standards. Paired with James, that nameless Ranger had formed an effective team. Even in the proverbial back-against-the-wall they found themselves in, there had been many options available, at least three of which would have protected both pilots better. There had been an odd moment in that sim, a delay in responding to the kaiju's movements. Pilot conversations are not included in the sim, just their actions to control the Jaeger, but Sherlock suspects that some kind of dialogue, perhaps even a disagreement regarding tactics had preceded the subpar decision that had left one pilot dead. Tailspitter was bad, but not any worse than what Sherlock and John have dealt with. James and his co-pilot should have won, Sherlock concludes as he unlaces his boots. They should have walked away alive.

After hurrying through his evening routines, he slips into bed next to John. It's still hot in the room even though the rattle and hum of the air conditioning has returned, but Sherlock still shifts close enough to press himself against John's back and reaches a tight arm around his waist.

John's acknowledgement is a barely conscious hum and a pat on the back of his hand. Sherlock can detect a little whiff of beer on John's breath even though they're facing the same way, and all that radiates across their connection is a distant calm and contentment of Sherlock's presence. He'd meant to set an alarm for seven in the morning after breathing in John's presence for a moment, but sleep claims him too fast.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

John hadn't set an alarm, either, so they nearly miss a mandatory Ranger assembly. John is grateful and Sherlock annoyed when Maria Groenewald, the no-nonsense Dutch Ranger in charge of creating each month's active pilots' rota, sends an urgent reminder on all Ranger's wrist consoles. Urgent and emergency announcements come with an alert sound that cannot be silenced.

"They don't often remind us like this", Sherlock grouses as he pulls up his service uniform trousers and tugs up the zipper. "What the hell is supposed to be so important on a bloody Tuesday?"

"Maybe it's about the reimplantation?" John suggests.

"You sound way too excited for brain surgery," Sherlock scoffs. "Might just be that they're tightening up discipline due to the transfers from HK."

"Could be. Makes sense that Hammond would want to show them that we run a tight ship," John agrees. "But will the transfers even be there if the assembly is in the Underdome?"

Access to the below-sea-level Jaeger hanger known as the Underdome is strictly limited to active pilots and ground crew specifically assigned to it. This is for safety reasons: there are organisations and individuals who would want to harm the PPDC and its staff. Mostly, it's cultists who think the kaiju are either gods or are sent by gods to punish mankind, and who by extension consider the PPDC an abomination rather than the massive creatures rising from the depths with an obvious beef with humans. There is also the possibility of corporate technological espionage, but the PPDC keeps tabs on all potential players on that field, and use of Jaeger tech in civilian medicine and engineering is strictly forbidden by law in most parts of the world. Proving that an innovation is the result of intellectual theft from the Corps can be difficult, though, and China has proven particularly reluctant to prosecute such suspicions.

They arrive at the assembly with only a few minutes to spare. The Underdome is packed with Rangers and Base Commander Hammond is already standing on the podium, a stack of notes in hand. Rows of chairs are set up so that the War Clock, a counter that resets every time there is a kaiju incursion, is in the view of all in attendance to remind them of the gravity of their service. Sherlock suspects that the Base Commander insists on holding these meeting in the Underdome also because he enjoys standing in the large subterranean hangar with the Jaegers as a sort of a nostalgic groupie since he hasn't piloted in over a decade.

Most of the meeting consists of the Commander's monthly report, nearly all of which Sherlock tunes out. The first piece of news that catches his interest amongst all the yawn-inducing bureaucratic drivel is that the Ravager is getting fitted with some advanced stealth tech. When Hammond invites commentary, Sherlock makes his opinion known that it's a waste of money — the kaiju will know they're there the minute they land their first punch or pepper them with the first bullet.

"Won't it be likelier that it'll actually hit something if the kaiju doesn't see it coming?" Groenewald argues. She's never liked Sherlock. The opposite also applies.

"And, unless you aim to fit that same tech on the choppers, the kaiju will notice the transport arriving even if it can't see the Jaeger they're carrying," Sherlock continues.

"All these limitations have been considered, Ranger Holmes," Hammond replies. He's sounding a bit exasperated. "We shall see if you feel differently once you've actually tested this technology."

John elbows him just as he opens his mouth to insist he won't.

No point, it's already decided.

Sherlock gives him a glare.

Shouldn't idiotic decisions be questioned regardless of whether they can still be reversed so that the brass could do better next time?

John has a point with: You really think they will?

It's not Hammond's decision, anyway. Such huge financial calls are made by none other than the Marshal.

Mycroft making rational armaments calls would require him to be a Ranger since he won't listen to any of us, Sherlock grouses.

"The stealth capability won't be the only upgrade on the Ravager," Hammond continues. "The Marshal has declared all other upgrade details classified and will be shared in advance of their installation only with the Ravager's pilots. We aim to make final decisions on our transfer pilots' Jaeger assignments after the reimplantation process is done. There may be some reshuffling of old rotas you should prepare for even before that as we start testing for potential pilot pairs and making preliminary changes."

This statement sounds as intriguing as it does ominous. Hammond mentioning the transfers in connection to the Ravager…

John interrupts his thoughts with the same realisation.

Could that mean a second Ravager pilot team, finally? John wonders. We could use more downtime.

Sherlock rather thinks he could more time in the Ravager, not out of it.

"I hope you've all given your new colleagues a warm welcome," Hammond comments with enthusiasm, "learning from each other, finding ways to incorporate the best of each Shatterdome's culture in all of the Corps makes us stronger for the future."

After the assembly ends and the crowd starts dispersing towards the elevators, Sherlock spots a face he hasn't seen in a while — Michael Chen. He's been Wallis' right-hand man in combat training for years but has been absent recently due to an extended compassionate leave. John had told Sherlock that Chen's elderly father was ailing, which is why he'd flown home to Hong Kong to be with his family. He'd served at that Shatterdome for many years before an urgent transfer due to Chard's Rift's old Fightmaster dying of a heart attack. The loss had left Tom Wallis in charge, and since he'd only been the assisting Fightmaster for a very short period, Chen was sent in as an experienced senior to help Wallis adjust to his promotion. They'd worked so well together that their pairing had been made permanent. Wallis and Chen had been in charge of Sherlock's basic training, and he had much preferred Chen's more academic approach to Wallis' barebones military antics heavy on discipline.

It suddenly occurs to Sherlock to wonder when, exactly, Chen had transferred out of Hong Kong.

He hastens his steps to catch up with the senior Ranger.

"Holmes," Chen acknowledges briefly, then aims his walk to beeline for the lift queue.

Sherlock trails behind him. "Do you––" he pauses, realising he should probably start with some platitude instead of getting right to the point. "I'm sorry about your father."

Chen is visibly surprised. "Thank you," he answers earnestly. "It was touch and go for weeks, we thought he might get through the pneumonia, but it was too much."

They pair up at the end of the queue, and Sherlock racks his brain for more details John might have provided. Normally, this is the sort of useless information he deletes instantly. "It was… cancer?"

Chen nods, grasping his wrist behind his back. He looks slightly evasive, perhaps trying to keep his emotions in check. "Liver. Spread to his lungs."

Sherlock doesn't know what to do with that information. He takes in how tired and haggard Chen looks. "My condolences," he adds for good measure. "I have a question."

"Go ahead."

"You served and trained cadets in Hong Kong."

"Yes, I did."

They squeeze into the lift. Sherlock waits until they've reached their destination before elaborating; Chen had pushed the buttons for the sixth floor, and Sherlock is going to follow along wherever he goes until he gets some answers.

Chen lingers in the lift foyer, sensing that Sherlock isn't done. They're at a residential level where his dorm room must be located and since it's a private space, Sherlock is unsurprised that Chen wouldn't lead him there.

"James Moriarty. He's here," Sherlock elaborates.

"I'm aware," Chen says carefully. He seems to be studying Sherlock's expression, likely wondering what business Sherlock has with the man.

"You knew him? Back when he piloted––"

"The Hydra Shrike," Chen recalls the Jaeger's name without delay. "He wasn't in one of my training batches, but all training officers collaborated to deliver certain basic training modules, and I was briefly in charge of active pilots' physical conditioning. The Ranger community there was just as tight knit as Chard's."

It's odd how many details Chen is volunteering even though his instant reaction to Moriarty's name had seemed evasive. Does this mean Chen knows something compromising?

Sherlock opts for a neutral approach. "Any opinions on Moriarty?"

Chen's gaze rises to the ceiling as he takes his time remembering something — or considering what he's willing to say. "He was a quick study with whatever we threw at him. Ruthless in battle. Went through several co-pilots," Chen adds in a cryptic tone.

What does that mean? As far as Sherlock can recall the Corps history he'd read up on as a teenager and studied during basic training, the Hong Kong coast was the Pacific rim's worst hot zone for breaches for years until the kaiju began popping up in other oceans. Many pilots had been killed in those years. "He lost them in battle?"

"No. There were disagreements in decision-making, and I remember the first one he got paired with requested reassignment. They never found him another co-pilot. Moriarty is not a team player, won't play half to a whole. Wants it all to himself. He was cutthroat in competing with the other Rangers, especially during basic training. Reminds me a bit of another Ranger I know," Chen jokes, looking pointedly at Sherlock.

Sherlock wants to protest that, while he might admit to wanting to prove himself among the idiots of his cadet cohort, he is perfectly content to be the half in the whole of him and John in the Ravager, and that he's not that ruthless.

"Heard you tried to cancel backup and wrecked the Ravager just so you could finish a kill. I hope you didn't run into that shift's Victory team after," Chen whistles, then laughs. "I think they were as keen to whoop your ass as the kaiju was. You should leave some fighting to the rest of the pilots, you know." His tone is so light that Sherlock can tell this isn't a serious personal attack against his decision-making, just a bit of jovial teasing. It always takes a moment for him to tell the difference and the right moment to join in the humour tends to have passed by.

"Then Moriarty got injured," Sherlock prompts.

"Yes, but I don't know if that cut his career shorter than it was destined to be. He ticked off the high command, you see. He disobeyed direct orders in battle and didn't toe the line with what he said or did with his PR stuff. Posed for some ladies' website, one of those softcore ones, in just his service uniform jacket. I don't know whether we could have managed to re-pair him after Hagiwara died even if we had more potential co-pilots."

In for a penny, in for a pound. Sherlock is perfectly aware that what he's about to say insinuates that a Ranger would willingly allow a colleague to come to harm, which goes against everything the Ranger Corps is supposed to stand for. "I went through the sims for that battle." He bites his lip, inhales. "They should have both survived, and I can't help but wonder why it's Moriarty who walked away from that disaster."

It's not a direct accusation, but still enough to shock any Ranger.

It speaks volumes that Chen doesn't look affected at all, merely takes a gravely pause before speaking. "They could never prove it, but there was a rumour Moriarty didn't do what he could have to protect him, that he sacrificed Hagiwara to win quicker."

I'm not the only one who saw that battle and called foul play, then. Now that Chen has confirmed his suspicions, James' decision-making seems even more reckless, even more uncaring. Though there is no love lost between Sherlock and many other Rangers, even he is reluctant to believe anyone would care so little about their fellow Ranger. James had done things that left the opposite side of the Jaeger completely open to the worst destruction that the Tailspitter could deliver.

Hard to prove it was deliberate, though. Sherlock himself has protested vocally when others have second-guessed his decision-making in battle. It's easy to be after-wise sitting in some office.

"There was a disciplinary inquiry, and it wasn't his first," Chen reveals. "Like I said, the brass was already watching him carefully."

"They booted him out after Hagiwara died?"

"It was a mutual agreement of sorts. I wasn't a part of the decision making so I do not know what conversations he had with high command. They let him stay until the end of what little was left on his original service contract, but pulled him out of pilot duty, made it clear he wouldn't be re-paired. He then got injured at the dojo. Nothing serious, but that gave them more reason not to agree to renew his contract."

"The injury wasn't battle-related?"

"No. It happened during a routine combat drill. They were practicing spinal locks, and the risks of those techniques became a reality for him."

"Aren't spinal locks banned by most martial arts organisations?"

Though taekwondo does not emphasize grappling as much as many other martial arts do, Sherlock had been taught a selection of joint locks, takedowns and throws. He prefers to rely more on kicking techniques since he always excelled at them and the margin for error has always felt smaller for him once he got his opponent on the floor. There, the enemy could easily turn the tables and incapacitate him, instead. At least with punches and kicks he can usually retreat and try again. Having been at the receiving end of James' lock techniques, Sherlock can attest to the brutal efficiency of them. Not a single spinal lock had been employed by James yesterday, however.

If he allowed his co-pilot to get killed, why pull his proverbial punches with me yesterday and pick safer techniques? Is it because he knows from personal experience the worst potential injuries that spinal locks could cause?

Why extend empathy to Sherlock if James had felt none towards his co-pilot?

"As you well know, this isn't a sports club, and James Moriarty was an advanced practitioner of the Oswaldo Fadda style of Brazilian jiujitsu that one of the Fightmasters taught. We never limited what techniques were allowed at HK," Chen explains.

Chard's Rift has no such rules, either, as far as Sherlock knows. They're highly trained professional soldiers, after all.

What Moriarty had done at the dojo was just as Chen had described the man: skilled, ruthless and cunning. Sherlock can appreciate the logic for such ruleless fighting when the ultimate target are the kaiju. There is no respecting an opponent if they don't even share your species and most likely don't even understand the concept of combat codes of conduct.

"He seems to think that back injury is what benched him for good," Sherlock points out. He hadn't wanted to reveal knowing a lot about James, but as a former HK Fightmaster Chen might well know even more. Rangers' medical details are somewhat less classified information than civilians' since their battle readiness affects the whole base, but he doubts Chen would volunteer details unless he thought that Sherlock was already privy to them.

"Even if I had the medical details, that information should be… limited to those involved," Chen emphasises just as Sherlock had anticipated. "All I can share are rumours. Unsubstantiated, all of it, of course." Chen taps the side of his nose conspiratorially. With this statement he's blurring the lines deliberately. "They say it was some kind of shoulder and back nerve injury. Painful, that was evident." He shrugs. "Or so he made us think. I did wonder… Maybe high command wanted to avoid bad PR and let him go with a medical discharge since that's an honourable one and enables re-enlisting."

There is still the remote chance that Moriarty was faultless in Hagiwara's death, but once the rumours started circulating, the high command were infected by them, too. You can’t kill an idea, can you? Not once it’s made a home.

"You think they gave him an honourable discharge because they thought he might go to the press with some sob story about being abandoned by the Corps after loyal service," Sherlock suggests.

"Rangers using the media for reform and personal advantage has happened, as you must know."

Sherlock is tempted to roll his eyes. Yes, he'd aired his grievances about the Corps' heteronormative marital accommodation rules during a press tour to blackmail his brother into fixing things, but only because it had seemed like the only option to get them a shared room.

"I'm sure the Science Division could have done something if it was a serious injury," Sherlock dismisses. James had made his disdain clear at the gym for how the Corps supposedly left him without the best help they could have provided. Sherlock now suspects the truth in the matter lies somewhere in the grey area between his and Chen's versions.

"The cost was weighed against his disciplinary history, that's all I was told."

That could mean the injury was real.

"More trouble than he was worth, then," Sherlock suggests.

"Yes."

Sherlock can see the rationale of such cold logic, but it still disturbs him that medical decisions could be made based on a person's value to a service. Even if they never let Moriarty pilot again, surely risking his life for years to protect humanity would be cause enough to provide the man with the best possible care.

"He told me it took years for him rehabilitate enough to re-enlist," Sherlock says conversationally. I wonder how he paid for that.

"He had the makings of a great Ranger," Chen muses. "If he could only respect the chain of command… once again, this reminds me of another Ranger I've helped train," he says sardonically. "At least you have always cared about your co-pilot." There is no hint of malignant suggestion in the tone; it's simply an observation.

"Enough to marry him. Why would they re-enlist Moriarty if his service history was that sketchy? It's not classified, is it?"

"They don't seal records of dismissed or honourable discharged Rangers, no. Applicant numbers are going down, and we can't afford to lose skilled people; the Jaeger program has never been about throwing as many soldiers at the kaiju as possible."

"I used to think that's exactly what the program is for," Sherlock quips bitterly.

"The category six kaiju has reminded the Atlantic of what we're up against," Chen appreciates.

He catches Sherlock frowning; he doesn't understand the reference.

"The emergency remedial budget that Hammond mentioned? For repairs at the base?"

"I wasn't listening."

Chen snorts. "The Marshal pushed it through the Council after your battle, insisting that Shatterdomes falling into disrepair is hindering Ranger recruitment."

It's as good an excuse as any. Sherlock doubts many prospective recruits know very well what the PPDC Shatterdomes are like — or care. What they want is the rockstar status that comes with being a Ranger, and the power trip of piloting.

"As long as they keep fixing the Jaegers, too," Sherlock replies. The Ravager is sporting only one arm today – Hammond had mentioned in his report that the replacement part has arrived and will be attached soon. Sherlock would like to know what, exactly soon means, since he's not willing to march into battle one-armed.

An expectant silence falls, and Sherlock takes it as his cue to leave since he doubts Chen can provide more useful information.

"I'll just––" he retreats a step.

"Holmes." Chen gives him a curt nod before turning and heading down the hallway.

Sherlock goes to stab the lift button, trying to decide between getting a coffee and heading to commissary to get cigarettes. After deciding that combining the two would be a desirable indulgence right now, he hits the commissary first, planning to get a coffee to go from mess hall after and then head up to the cannon deck to enjoy it all. Whales often come to these parts and watching tours for tourists are conducted from several Azorean islands. The last time he'd stood smoking up on the cannon deck, he'd seen humpbacks breaching. Besides, the sea wind will make sure he won't reek too much of cigarettes returning to the dorm.

The brain receptor upregulation that his other addictions had caused had been reversed when he'd been implanted, but when the Science Division medical officers had asked if he wanted the ability of nicotine to cause pleasure in certain brain centres removed altogether, he'd declined the option, wanting to hold on to at least one of his old guilty pleasures. He is still unwilling to rescind the calming ritual of taking a moment for himself, holding that cigarette between his fingers and taking long drags while watching the sea. As much as he loathes people using nostalgia as an excuse for anything, having a cigarette feels like the last remnant of life in London in a good way.

The commissary is on the lowest floor of the administration wing. Sherlock is glad to find only one other person lined up for its services; after the assembly he's had enough of crowds for today.

Distracted by the promise of a nicotine hit, he doesn't recognise James Moriarty until the man in front of him turns and gives him a delighted smile that for once, seems unrehearsed.

"Holmes."

"James."

Sherlock chooses a tone as polite as he can manage. He could have gone for cold, but that would both go against his instinctual response to the man and is hardly conducive to learning more about his past.

An odd sense of paranoia creeps in, accelerating his heart rate. Surely there is no way for James to find out that I've been asking around about Hong Kong, going through his old battles in the sim lab?

The commissary attendant behind the window looks impatient since James as her customer is ignoring her.

"Must be serendipity," James drawls. "I need a favour and was just wondering who to ask."

Sherlock hums half-curiously.

"My commissary funds are taking their time to transfer. Would you mind…?"

The only items on the sales desk are two packets of gum. Looks like his vices are more innocent than mine. "No problem."

Sherlock tells the attendant his account number and, after checking the balance, she punches the gum into her till. "A packet of Marlboro Reds as well, please," Sherlock adds hastily. In London, he'd preferred Benson & Hedges, but the selection at the commissary is limited.

They retreat from the sales desk.

"Thank you," Moriarty says. "So kind of you." He opens one of the gum packets, offers the contents.

Sherlock shakes his head. "Might want one after," he then relents, holding the cigarette packet between two fingers and presenting it to Moriarty.

Neither makes a move to leave. The moment stretches on, its pregnant silence increasingly uncomfortable for Sherlock. In contrast, it doesn't seem to bother James at all. He's chewing his gum with an expression that is oddly amused and relaxed, looking out a sea salt -stained corridor window.

Sherlock would never volunteer his company out of politeness, has never offered it to new recruits or transfers to make them feel welcome, but he knows that if he goes up to the cannon deck alone, he's going to be just thinking of the mystery that is James Moriarty when he could be gleaning more data by talking to the man.

He's like a Rubik's cube, Sherlock realises. You think you've solved one bit, but you've just locked and messed up your path on another side. Sherlock had learned to solve a standard Rubik's cube in less than a minute before the age of seven, of course, so solving James Moriarty should not prove too difficult.

The logical choice of what to say next becomes obvious.

"I was going to get a coffee," Sherlock mentions nonchalantly, hoping for Moriarty to make the deductive leap that this is an invitation.

Chapter 10: Rival

"And I was going to find someone whose arm I could twist to tell me about the morning assembly," James grins. "I could murder a coffee."

Sherlock decides that repeated exposure to the intensity of that smile has a desensitising effect. Then, he wonders when it might start kicking in.

"Lead the way," James adds, stepping theatrically aside.

On their way to the service stairs that are the fastest way to mess hall, James hastens his steps so that he can match Sherlock's stride. "They put us on the mailing list for all Ranger info but haven't given us all the keys. Way to make the new people feel welcome."

"You didn't miss much. Vague references to the reimplantation scheme, Jaeger upgrades coming up. That's pretty much it. Have you been up to the cannon deck? If you jump the railing on the scenic platform, you can walk up to the edge. The view is stunning."

"I'll admit I've been hoping for a tour off the beaten path. I'm sure you know all the secret spots. I used to explore when I got bored," Moriarty says pointedly.

"It's sometimes hard to get away from people in a place like this." Sherlock holds open the door to the spiral staircase trailing up the external wall. It's sunny outside, seagulls screeching as they swoop down into the cresting waves hoping to catch some fish.

"Hong Kong was even worse," James muses, raising his voice since a chopper is arriving on the main aviation deck. "A lot more personnel stuffed into the oldest Shatterdome in the Corps. Locals seemed fine with it being so cramped, but I guess the likes of us are used to a bit more living space."

The likes of us? Europeans? Westerners? Rangers?

Sherlock shrugs. "I'm not sure I'll ever adapt to communal living. Should have happened by now after over a decade of experience."

He wants to see if James picks up on the fact that he hasn't been at Chard for that long.

"Boarding school?" comes the deduction in an instant.

Well done.

"Where else could you park the children you stopped caring about the minute the kaiju showed up?"

Sherlock surprises himself with the depth of the dripping sarcasm. He hadn't meant to discuss the past that still wounds but realises this may serve his plan of getting James to reveal things in return. If I seem open about myself, maybe it won't seem suspicious to ask questions about him.

"What about Watson?" James asks.

The sidestepping of what Sherlock has just revealed feels like a rug pull. "What about him?" he asks coldly. They've arrived at mess hall, and he vacillates in front of the sales counter. Coffee. You mentioned coffee.

"Is he right at home here, living so communally? Hardly seems like the Eton type."

Sherlock wonders what information Moriarty bases this statement on. John's speech patterns? They are hard to decipher since his medical school education has filed away many of the edges of a working-class childhood. Perhaps James has observed John at the Rangers' lounge with other officers? John often seeks the company of the more down-to-earth Rangers such as Wallis. Military types. Stereotypically masculine.

To someone who doesn't know him well, John may look like he's a good fit in those situations. They may not spot the performance he puts up to feel like he belongs.  

"Ranger Watson has lived here much longer than I have," Sherlock contends to answer. It's easy to tell from John's reactions to James that his husband would not want any aspects of his personal life shared in this discussion. "How's your nose?"

"It's fine. Polite of Watson to hold back a bit on that punch."

Sherlock cannot tell if this is sarcasm of not. If it's true, why had John done that? Out of respect for a fellow Ranger? The respect he seems to have so very little of for Moriarty?

Sherlock decides that it's probably just because John isn't the type to really want to hurt people. Or is he? That display at the dojo had been baffling. Why even start that fight?

They get double espressos to go. The commissary charges Rangers, but mess hall and other food-serving facilities do not, save for alcohol.

"Speaking of Watson…" James starts as they are climbing the stairs from the back deck to the scenic platform, "you know what they say: typical pilot pairings are brain and brawn. I don't think I need to ask which one you represent."

"It's not that simple. Or was it for you in Hong Kong?" Sherlock is curious to see how the man would react to references of his old Drifting partners.

John had experienced losing his co-pilot, and it is clearly a deeply traumatising event even if the partner isn't the same flesh and blood. Even if James was responsible for Hagiwara dying, surely, he was a bit rattled after having to experience it second-hand.

And if it hadn't affected James, then what does that say about the man? Sherlock has caught glimpses of Harriet Watson's death in the Fade, and even those vague flashes have been intense enough to give both him and John nightmares after.

"Drift compatibility does not guarantee friendship, let alone more." Moriarty sounds regretful on a surface level, not emotionally affected. "Not everyone is as lucky as you two."

How unlucky does he think he's been?

Sherlock steps over the white-painted metal railing demarcating the official scenic platform. He then leads the way to one of the five large cannons pointed at the open ocean that sit on the back edge of the Shatterdome roof. They take a seat on the edge, boots dangling in empty air. Sometimes Sherlock climbs up onto one of the cannons, but the wind is punishing today; sitting in the shadow of the looming structure will ensure that he can light his cigarette.

He digs the lighter out from his uniform jacket breast pocket.

Moriarty extends an upturned palm. "Let me do the honours. I've got the wind on my back."

Sherlock drops the lighter on his palm and watches James flick the roll nimbly with his thumb. "You smoke?"

"No."

Then James Moriarty must have lit a great many cigarettes for others.

Sherlock opens his Marlboro packet, fishes one out and arranges it between his fingers, then lifts it to whisper against his lips. He leans closer so that the flame from the lighter Moriarty is holding can thoroughly lick the end.

Their eyes meet.

James' irises are light brown, a pleasantly warm colour especially when the flame is reflected on them. His hair is jet black like his brows, and the colours looks natural. His precise age is hard to deduce; Sherlock can tell he takes good care of his skin.

"Why the transfer, then? Sick granny in Lisbon? Kids needing you closer?" Sherlock grins. He then recalls the bitterness James had expressed for the PPDC at the gym. "Or was it just the Corps shuffling their indentured servants around?"

"Fancied a change, so I didn't protest when they suggested it. I barely had a teensy glimpse of what's going on out there in the big bad world during my first tour. I heard the Azores are pretty." Moriarty sips his espresso.

"You haven't travelled much, then, after your first service ended?"

Moriarty grimaces. "I wish I could have. Cash flow problems. A PPDC pension isn't much."

It still bought those obviously expensive clothes you arrived wearing.

"Sightseeing aside, I said yes because I wasn't sure there was a Jaeger assignment in the cards for me back at HK. They didn't seem to give two shits of what they'd know I can do if they'd reviewed my records."

Sherlock raises his brows. Or they looked at those records and decided not to expose another co-pilot to him? Instead, they sent him here to be Chard's problem?

"I assume they assigned me to HK since I'd served there before. They have a fully manned pilot rota and get plenty of cadets. Got tired of trying to work out where I might fit into."

James' explanation doesn't make sense. Sherlock knows that new recruits are generally sent to the Shatterdome closest to their country of residence unless another location needs them more. The only explanation Sherlock can come up with for Moriarty being in Hong Kong is that he'd been living in the area for a long time. Why stay there after his discharge instead of going back to Ireland?

James is watching the horizon where a large cargo ship is passing at a distance. "It's disappointing that the Atlantic subsection seems to be just as full of pointless rituals, drills and bureaucracy as Hong Kong. At least the Chinese know how to be pragmatic when it comes to winning," he muses.

There seems to be a lot to unpack in that sentence, but Sherlock realises he should take the bait of bitching about Chard's Rift so Moriarty would reveal more.

He has plenty to say on the topic of pointless bureaucracy, so he gives Moriarty a summary of the Chard's Rift rules and regulations he most loathes in very colourful terms. He also curses all the paperwork he had to do after the loss of Ravager's arm. "We won, but that seems matter less than money these days. Instead of blaming the kaiju, they blame us for how expensive the Jaeger program is."

"Humanity needs to win, and we're the ones who can deliver those decisive blows. We should be running the Corps, not some ungrateful idiot politicians," Sherlock curses.

"We're the same, aren't we?" Moriarty asks curiously, studying Sherlock's expression. "Don't tell me you do what we do for the benefit of humanity, or I'll be terribly disappointed in your level of self-deception."

Sherlock blows out a slow, luxurious puff of smoke. "This is better than prison." Even if it sometimes feels like one.

"There's an ocean teeming with intelligent life, yet we disrespect it by comparing the kaiju to animals. Whales and dolphins are said to be smarter than us, and dolphins are equally if not more ruthless. Our perception of how they look and seem are a nice mask for a bunch of nautical psychopaths we see in nature documentaries, and the details shock us more than seeing war on television. Human war. We think we're better, more moral than the kaiju, but this war is nothing but mutually thirsted destruction. The kaiju are just more honest about it. They don't build ideologies or pretend to be some civilisation. They simply want to take over and wipe us out in the process."

Is there a point to this? Sherlock wonders.

James extends his arms and leans back on his palms, closing his eyes as he raises his face to the sun. "People, people, people. Just stardust waiting to be distributed, dust that gets everywhere and clings to your skin. When they die, it's nothing more than a fish being ripped apart by sharks and returned to the circulation of nutrients. People seek a higher meaning to death in such silly ways, leaving their bodies to science when cannibals would be so much more grateful." Moriarty blinks and sits up, then starts tracing the outline of the Terceira coast in the air with his fingertips as he speaks. "In every breath you take, dancing in every sunbeam, all used-up humans, so what does it matter if we win, or we don't? You don't care about the people we're protecting, nor do I. We do what we do because it elevates us to the top of the food chain, ascends us from the hordes of the mindless. We defile it by pretending it's just an imperative for survival. Pomp and circumstance, uniforms and protocols to hide the fact that it's fun."

Can't it be an imperative for survival and fun at the same time? Sherlock wonders. John enjoys going to battle, but he also carries a sense of duty and honour for mankind that eludes Sherlock. He's surprised to find someone even more resistant to all the supposed higher ideals of the Corps.

There's something about Moriarty's somewhat unhinged, Nietzschean statements that are making Sherlock's skin crawl with how he cannot deny sometimes thinking in a similar vein. If there is always going to be a bigger kaiju, where does it all end? Will this conflict carry on, human generation after human generation, sapping resources and talented individuals who should be helping make life easier for everyone instead of building war machines to match the next category of the kaiju?

He is forced to admit that he wants to draw a line between Moriarty's darkness and his own because he doesn't want to put them side by side and see little difference.

The conversation needs to be steered back to why James is here. "They gave you a choice in whether to transfer?"

"I wanted a change," Moriarty says earnestly. "What do you want, Sherlock Holmes?"

"The truth." He takes a long, calming drag from his cigarette because he suddenly fears he's said too much, revealed his hand of not wanting to trust this man's intentions.

"Truth's boring," Moriarty dismisses casually, then lets out a histrionic sigh. "I meant no offence, by the way, asking about you and Watson. Curiosity seems to be another trait we might share."

"Helps me if I see myself through Watson's eyes sometimes," Sherlock hears himself say. "Makes me feel so much cleverer."

"Modest, too. Tediously so," Moriarty teases. He stretches his neck in a sensuous figure of eight.

"He has talents I lack."

"Likeability?"

"I meant in battle. In partnership."

"Sounds… fulfilling," Moriarty says, and there is no doubt whether the innuendo is intended. "A skilled marksman, I'm sure." He then sobers up his expression. "Now that I've imposed one favour on you, I was wondering if there is room for another."

"Depends on the details."

"I was hoping for a tour even more exclusive," Moriarty suggests, gaze fixed on Sherlock. "As you know, Rangers without official Jaeger assignments are not allowed access to the underdome, save for all-base assemblies. Unless… they are escorted by an active-duty pilot."

"You want to see them. The Jaegers." Sherlock grins. That, he can relate to. If he was visiting another Shatterdome, seeing the Jaegers would be the first item on his bucket list. Possibly the only item.

"I would love to see them." James' eyes are sparkling, now.

Sherlock wouldn't be doing anything wrong by taking him to the Underdome, yet he hesitates to make the decision. It's his Jaeger down there, his and John's.

What if James gets assigned to the Ravager?

Sherlock reminds himself that it would be a good thing for the Jaeger to gain the second team it's been lacking for years. He's not worried about people comparing him and John to James and whoever he'd be partnered with — he and John are and will remain the flagship team, of that Sherlock has no doubt.

If the commanding officers want to give James a Jaeger, Sherlock can do little about it. Taking him down to see them won't have any effect on that.

Sherlock worries his lower lip, then squares his shoulders. "It's something else, seeing them in reality rather than just on a news reel," he offers. "I suppose I could be persuaded."

"And I suppose I could be quite persuasive."

They finish their coffees, and Sherlock stumps his cigarette on the side of the cannon. He'd never do that in John's presence. This small misdemeanour feels strangely liberating.

They speak very little on the way to the underdome. Moriarty watches with rapt interest as Sherlock uses his wrist console and the retinal scanner to let them in.

They're not alone in the massive space; technicians and cleaning crew are bustling about doing daily maintenance on the Jaegers and their berths. Sherlock spots that a new row of lights has been installed in a side corridor.

Through the large windows high up they can see people going about their duties in the LOCCENT command centre. That's where Colleen does her work when Sherlock and John take the Ravager out under her supervision.

Sherlock stops in the middle of the underdome and spreads his arms to indicate the row of Jaegers standing like vigilant guardians in their receptacles. "Meet The Chard's Rift Five."

Moriarty takes a moment to drink in the sight, then tucks his hands behind his back and leans on his heels. "Churchill," he cocks his head towards the first one, the smallest of the sea.

"Fast, durable," Sherlock assesses with a nod. "Each hydraulic unit has two independent compressors, which makes it heavier than it looks, but it fights better submerged than most other Jaegers. Not enough firepower for anything beyond a category 2, but good for backup such as when it was used to run a cable around a kaiju's back legs so the Ravager could knock it down and keep it down."

"Uminari", Moriarty confirms without missing a beat. "Your third engagement, I believe?"

The kaiju's name means 'sea roar' in Japanese, which was quite fitting. That thing was so loud my ears were ringing for days.

Moriarty has studied him just like Sherlock has studied his battles.

"That's the old one, isn't it?" Moriarty asks of the next in line, a silvery one with green lights and green embellishments.

One of the largest Jaegers of its generation, the Greenwich Victory used to be the king of Chard's Rift. Now, several of the base's Jaegers tower over it, and the old boy is showing wear and tear after such a long career.

"The Victory is fully functional, but it's never the first to be sent out. Could use a weapons upgrade."

"It used to be in Tokyo, right?" Moriarty asks.

"Echo Saber it used to be called. My brother changed that perfectly acceptable name to befit his fanboying of British military legends."

"I suppose the next one requires little introduction," Moriarty points out. He walks closer, bending his neck back to take in the sight of the massive Jaeger.

The Reichenbach Ravager is so tall that the Underdome roof needed to be raised to accommodate it. It languished for an embarrassing amount of time without a single pilot team because its long operational range and advanced systems that could withstand even an EMP attack require an unprecedented level of cerebral aptitude and Drift compatibility. It was the white elephant of the fleet before the first team that could pilot it was formed as both the Corps and John and Sherlock realised they belonged together.

The Ravager is a PR ouroboros: the Jaeger is known for being John and Sherlock's Jaeger, and the two of them are so well-known partly because they alone pilot it.

Black and red like a poisonous spider, the Ravager can take on even the largest kaiju, withstand extreme weather conditions, and its hybrid power cores could outlast any kaiju encountered so far even during the longest battles. It's a miracle of diplomacy that it was placed at Chard's Rift instead of all the other Shatterdomes — every subdivision wanted it, and wanted it badly. It was the age and relative weakness of Chard's Rift's fleet that tipped the scales: Bastion Thunder, the first-generation Jaeger the Ravager replaced, was falling apart, and even after refurbishments it irradiated its pilots so badly that a team could only pilot it for a year before suffering significant health effects. Such first-generation Jaegers had led to the premature death of many pilots, including some of the founding legends of the Corps.

A rogue's smile has lit up Moriarty's face and he's staring hungrily at the Jaeger. "What's it like?"

"It's…" How could Sherlock even summarise the experience? Moriarty knows what it's like to pilot, but how similar had being at the helm of his old Jaeger been to what it feels like to control the flagship of the PPDC? And how could Sherlock describe the specific experience of piloting it with John, of sharing that exhilaration and being so connected to the person he loves? Sherlock doubts that part of his Ravager experience is something Moriarty could relate to, judging by his comment about his co-pilot and what Chen had to say about Moriarty's partnerships.

"Watson once said it's the best thing one can do with trousers on," Sherlock jokes.

Moriarty positively giggles, giving Sherlock an oddly enamoured look.

Then, he indicates the next Jaeger. "That's one of the newer ones."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "The Defender Europa," he declares dramatically. "Yet again, you can blame my brother for such a pathetic name. I bet he had a button installed in the Conn pod that plays Ode to Joy."

"They shouldn't let brass name these things."

"Agreed."

The Europa is a perfectly adequate Jaeger. It was commissioned to the fleet a year after the Ravager due to the latter lacking a pilot team, and it arrived a year after Sherlock had become a Ranger. A reliable war horse, it can be piloted by any team with a reasonably high compatibility score. It has several integrated weapons, its structure balances speed and the ability to withstand massive physical impacts. Sherlock summarises all this to Moriarty, and adds: "It's a good Jaeger, but not a great Jaeger."

He walks a few steps forward so that the last one of the five comes into full view. A shade of dark blue that resembles insect wings, its lights and embellishments yellow, the Sentinel Tempest reaches close to the Ravager in height. It's the base's latest arrival and still finding its sea legs in terms of what kinds of kaiju engagements it would be the best fit for.

"It has several weapons innovations designed to pierce heavily armoured kaiju carapaces, and that can be very useful combined with the firepower of another Jaeger. If and when we ever see a category eight the plan is to dispatch it together with the Ravager."

"A forward and a defenseman."

Sherlock snorts. "That's exactly what John–– what Watson said when it first came in. I'm not one for sports metaphors, but I believe that one fits."

He feels an odd, protective need to be formal when discussing John with Moriarty. Everyone knows they're married, and nearly all pilot teams call each other by their first names. John wouldn't want to be on a first-name basis with James.

"It's beautiful," Moriarty says, gaze sweeping the war machine up and down. "I believe there is an opening for a pair in its rota."

Sounds like he's picked his goal. The Ravager could use a second team to allow him and John more free time, but that would also mean they'd get to pilot it less.

Not my decision, he reminds himself, recalling bitterly the times Mycroft has seen fit to remind him that the Jaeger is not his but the Corps'.

"I miss the Shrike," Moriarty muses, now regarding the Ravager with a sad expression. "It was touch-and-go with getting an assignment to start with. I had high aptitude scores, but they just couldn't find a suitable pair. That year's recruitment drive was like a bad wine crop year: no matter how much you tried to refine it, out came swill. They made do with what they had, paired me up with someone who was good enough but not good."

"How long were you with… what was his name?" Hagiwara.

"Hagiwara. Yusuke-san," James drawls sardonically.

His tone carries a little too much humour for Sherlock's taste considering the Ranger had lost his life.

"His name meant assistance in Japanese," James continues, now sounding disinterested. "Fitting. They say pilot teams are equal, but…" He gives Sherlock a pointed look. "In my experience there is always the one who makes decisions and another who goes along with them and complains afterwards if they turn out to be suboptimal."

"I'm sorry about what happened with him," Sherlock offers, then wants to bite off his tongue because he's just revealed he knows more than James has told him.

"I see my reputation precedes me," Moriarty dismisses, idly taking a few steps back towards the Ravager. "I guess in this quacking duck pond of an organisation no one really gets a fresh start."

"I heard he died a hero in battle." Sherlock asks mock-innocently. "The two of you won."

Moriarty studies his expression, then seems to decide Sherlock is earnest in ignorance. "Every time a pilot is killed, tongues get wagging about whether the one who survived could have done more," he excuses.

Sherlock doubts that had been the case with John and Harry. After all, John had piloted a Jaeger alone for seven minutes even after experiencing, by extension, his sister's demise. Sherlock is certain that all the Rangers knew how close the two of them were, and everyone familiar with John would know that he'd never endanger or sacrifice someone if he could take that danger upon himself, instead.

"The aftermath must've been difficult," Sherlock offers.

"You don't pilot thinking that day would come when you feel the other one die. You try not to accept the possibility as real."

It's a non-answer, Sherlock realises. He's generalising, not saying a word about how he felt losing Hagiwara.

If John is to die in battle, Sherlock would prefer to go down with him. He doesn't even want to think about feeling John's light flickering out in the mental space between them. He's always felt alone in life, grown used to it, but after being with John the loss would be so much more devastating than if he'd never loved and Drifted with anyone at all.

"I just want to pilot again," Moriarty says, haunted with longing, eyes fixed on the row of Jaegers. "There's nothing like it, and I'll do anything to get back in there."

"I'm sure you will," Sherlock offers graciously, then realises the double meaning.

He turns and indicates the War Clock above the main entrance. It is reset to zero every time a Breach opens, and a kaiju comes through. "I assume HK has one of those."

"We had the first one as far as I know," Moriarty comments. "The more often it resets, the better." His sly smirk flashes a row of teeth.

Sherlock's wrist console gives a brief vibration to bring into his attention the note John had added to his calendar earlier about going to see Colleen together to see about a glitch they'd spotted in the environmental controls of the Ravager's Conn-pod. "This is my cue. You can stay if you want to, the exits work without access privileges."

"Thank you, Sherlock," Moriarty says, extending his hand for shaking.

He takes it, and the man's fingers — strong though shorter than his own — coil around his bones like a vice. James' thumb strokes briefly down Sherlock's knuckles. The contact continues just a bit longer than feels socially customary or appropriate.

"You're welcome, James," Sherlock replies evasively. Finally, he gets his hand back.

Moriarty pivots on his heel, clasping his hands behind his back again and sighing hopefully as he continues studying the Jaegers.

Sherlock feels a sense of urgency to leave, to retreat. Watching James drink in the sight of the war machines feels like an invasion of privacy. How the hell had the tables turned so fast? This is supposed to be his territory, not some newcomer's.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

His hand shakes slightly as he jabs the lift button for their dorm level. How the hell had James managed to get him so rattled? He feels as though someone has burgled his home, left things exposed, in disorder.

He wants the Ravager, and he said it himself: he'll do anything to get that assignment.

Sherlock is relieved to find John in their room. He glances at his wrist console, wishing it wasn't time yet to go see Colleen; he needs a moment to settle his thoughts.

John finishes typing on the computer terminal and leans back in his chair. "Good, you're here. Colleen messaged me, she's a bit delayed so we don't have to go yet."

Sherlock goes to run himself a glass of water. "Would it be possible to rehabilitate a nerve injury without the sort of tech that the Corps has?"

"Depends on what kind of a nerve injury we're talking about."

"Bad enough that it would take a Ranger out of a Jaeger assignment." He drinks his water, leaves the glass on the counter.

John's abrupt concern flows out in a wave between them. "You're not––"

"Not talking about myself, no."

The suspicion and worry linger, then dissipate. "I suspect that civilian medicine hasn't really caught up since the Science Division refuses to share their stuff, fearing it will compromise security and allow hackers to get into the PONS system."

Hackers have been trying to breach all the networks and operative systems of the PPDC since the organisation was established. Mycroft had once cursed that all the UFO conspiracy nutters seemed to have decided to abandon Area 51 in lieu of the PPDC, hoping to find some kinds of Earth-shattering secrets on their servers.

"It's astounding how hard some people are willing to work to wreck humanity's chances of winning this thing."

"It's like you always say: people are idiots." John flashes a smile. "Where were you? I was hoping to catch you at lunch after my appointment."

"Where were you? You disappeared when I was talking to Chen."

"Med Bay. They're monitoring my bleed cells levels after the harvest. Had to rush there since the assembly stretched on."

Sherlock realises John will probably ask again where he'd been if he doesn't volunteer the information. "I had a coffee up by the cannons, then showed some new people around the Underdome."

"You, playing tour guide? Did the hackers slip a virus into your implant or something?" John teases.

"He asked."

John's amusement is wiped out. "Need I ask for a name?"

Sherlock's anger flares up. "What do you expect me to do, refuse to talk to him? How's that work for your Ranger solidarity ideals?"

John's expression is hard to read, and the emotions Sherlock feels reverberating through their connection seem just as conflicted rather than jealous or angry.

"Look," John starts, glancing at the floor before forcing himself to face Sherlock with his lips pursed. "I don't have to like him. You want to hang out with him, that's… fine. It's all fine. Like you said, he's a Ranger. Lord knows you haven't made many friends here."

"And you don't get to pick them for me, anyway." Sherlock wanders away from the kitchenette. The room is so small that there is nowhere to escape from John's scrutiny save for the bathroom.

"Yeah, exactly."

"So, what's this about a nerve injury?" John rises to his feet and leans against the table, arms crossed.

"Moriarty got injured during his first service period. Depending on who you ask, it either ended his career prematurely and the Corps refused to use Science Division resources to help, or it wasn't that bad and there were other reasons for his dismissal. Nevertheless, he seems to be fine now. So, I just wondered––" He's painfully aware, now, that he's rambling.

John's eyes soften. "Sherlock, I'm fine. You can stop worrying. All the test results today were normal, and they said the process of reprogramming the stem cells is going fine. They've done this before, many times, even if it's still classed as experimental."

Sherlock blinks, utterly confounded. How is this suddenly about John? Does he think Sherlock is fishing out information about James' back injury because he fears the same will happen to John?

"I love that you're trying to solve this like some equation," John says, reaching out to give his shoulder a squeeze. "I know the Science Division and the Corps medical services has a bit of a Frankenstein reputation, but they haven't done wrong by us before. I used to work there, remember?"

Sherlock exhales, still reeling from this sudden turn in conversation.

"So, what did Moriarty think about our Jaegers? HK's got some pretty good ones, but…"

"…no one else has the Ravager," Sherlock concludes proudly. Then, he recalls James' possessive staring at the very same. "All the transfers are probably hoping to be put on the second pilot team."

"Not much point coming all the way here to end up steering some old rustbucket, is there?" John agrees.

 

Notes:

Want to see the Hong Kong Shatterdome and its War Clock? Here's a clip from the first film; start from 00:50 for the Shatterdome scene. As a bonus of watching it you get to meet Marshal Stacker Pentecost who's mentioned several times in this series, as well as Raleigh Becket and Mako Mori, two Rangers who've become PPDC legends by the time this story happens.

Chapter 11: The Order

"Holmes? A word?" Ranger Louise-Josephine Marais jogs to catch up to Sherlock in the hallway. John has sent him to fetch their clean laundry.

"Marais," he acknowledges but doesn't slow his steps.

"I need your assistance at the simulation lab with training our transfers."

"I'm not assigned to a training position. John would be much better at that, anyway."

Marais' slight smile is conspiratorial. "I asked, and he declined. Not very politely."

Sherlock stops to face her. "There must be a catch, then." Saying no doesn't sound typical of John who respects and likes the senior Ranger in charge of Drift training. Sherlock shares those sentiments; she'd been the one wise enough to engage John in training him. He doesn't doesn't feel a close enough connection to the woman to call her LJ like John does.

"John said he won't do it because he won't Drift with someone he does not get along with, not even in the walled-off training setting. The new arrival in question said the same about him, actually. That Watson doesn't like him."

"Ah." Not much of a deductive leap, then, which transferring Ranger they are discussing.

"I heard that John gave Ranger Moriarty a bloody nose", Marais laughs. "Mind you, I only learned of that after I tried to ask him for help."

She seems as amused by the prospect as every other Ranger Sherlock has heard discussing the events at the dojo, and Sherlock wonders why. Are they on John's side since he's one of their own, or are they amused that John would take on a younger, likely fitter combatant and win with such a crude tactic?

"Why would you need either of us?" Sherlock presses.

"We're looking to assemble a new Ravager team, and James Moriarty has been identified as a high-priority candidate."

Sherlock grits his teeth. It shouldn't be a surprise, but hearing someone as high-ranking as any training officer is say it out loud… There's no hanging on to the fiction any longer of the Ravager being only his and John's.

He used to be the star of the Hong Kong base. His high aptitude scores won't have changed with the injury and if he's been deemed fit for full Ranger duty… Sherlock cannot fault the logic. "Don't we have any cadets promising enough this year?"

"Yes, and we are testing potential pairings, but the Ravager isn't the best first assignment since it is often deployed alone or as the primary. It would be an asset to have at least one person in the team have prior Jaeger experience. John did say he would help with training a local cadet, just not Moriarty. Can we stop?"

The much shorter Marais has been forced to jog after Sherlock.

"The service counter closes in five."

"I'll wait for you here."

Sherlock picks up the four hangers of uniforms covered with thin, transparent plastic and returns to her, not caring if she picks on his reluctance to continue the conversation. She has bought a bottle of carbonated water from a machine and is waiting for him there.

She goes straight back to her point. "Hammond was impressed by you and Moriarty. You seemed to play off of each other well. Perhaps that would be beneficial for training."

"Chemistry doesn't matter in a one-sided training sim. All he'll need is a refresher course on all the basic systems piloting and some sims that teach him the Ravager's specifics," Sherlock dismisses. "The first I'm sure he's already done." Keen as James is to get re-assigned to a Jaeger. "The second… John and I never had that. And we've done just fine."

"Wouldn't you want to expedite learning the ways of a new Jaeger by working with someone who knows it?"

Being in such a hurry to train a new team is a joke after the Ravager has had to make do for years with just one and before that, languished unused since no promising candidates had materialised. If Sherlock had to train for a new Jaeger, he'd prefer to memorise the manuals and then explore the war machine's particular tricks in the sim lab with John and John only. The hypothetical scenario Marais has just suggested is preposterous, anyway. Why would I ever end up piloting anything but the Ravager? That would be a demotion.

"Surely you can't deny the practical potential of an established Ravager pilot as an assisting training officer. But, unfortunately for me and the Ravager… How is it you say England… the picking is slim?"

Close enough. After spending years at Chard where English is the operative language, she retains a strong French accent, which Sherlock likes. Retaining a connection to a home country can be a challenge in a place like this. England feels as though it's on the opposite side of the world.

When he doesn't reply right away, the clever Frenchwoman catches on to his reticence. "Problem, Holmes? I know you don't really make many friends, but I've seen you talking to Ranger Moriarty."

"Did he suggest me?"

"No," Marais says circumspectly. She seems confounded by the question.

Is Sherlock curious about seeing James in the simulation lab? Yes, especially if he could get him to go through that mission where his partner died. Is Sherlock willing to engage in a full, two-sided Drift with the man? No, and he wouldn't have to, since the training system has a built-in neural firewall that protects training officers' privacy. The most important question is whether he is willing to help James — or anyone — gain a Ravager assignment. The answer is no, absolutely bloody not, even if finding a second team would be in the best interest of the Corps. John might be a bit jealous of Moriarty, but what Sherlock is most jealous of is their Jaeger.

Besides, no should also calm John down a bit with his recent habit of playacting a green-eyed monster.

Sherlock grips his wrist behind his back and squares his shoulders in a dismissive approximation of parade rest. "I'm not on training duty. John and I clock enough hours as is. The answer is no."

Marais doesn't look discouraged at all. "Hammond thought you might say that. He anticipated that your fondness for the Ravager might deter you from helping out even if the person being trained is a new friend."

"I don't have friends; I just have John."

Sherlock only realises after he's said it how pathetic the statement sounds.

It certainly sobers up Marais' expression. "Our transfers haven't really had much time to integrate into the community here. It means they don't have friends here, either. It makes partnering them up more difficult."

"Not my job to fix that."

"You must remember what that was like, being new here."

"They're not children starting at kindergarten. I'm sure James Moriarty can manage being new without crying himself to sleep."

He starts walking, repositioning the garment bags onto his arm.

"Holmes," Marais compels, and he stops. Her tone signals she has lost patience.

He pivots on his heel to face her. "Is this an order? If it's not, then I'm not wasting more of my time on this conversation," he snaps.

They lock eyes, and though she is shorter than him, she isn't the least bit intimidated by his ire. Not for the first time, Sherlock suspects she must have been a formidable force in the Conn-pod during her active piloting days. "I didn't want it to be," she phrases pointedly.

"But Hammond authorised you, didn't he?" He huffs and averts his gaze.

"Can I count on your assistance, then?"

He's been cornered. If he declines, he'll have to deal with Hammond and probably face disciplinary action, and the other Rangers might well get too curious about why he'd be so obstinate. The ensuing rumour mill might make Moriarty realise I've been suspicious about him.

Anger rises. Why not order John to do this? If they gave him an order, he'd the sort that would execute it despite his personal feelings. From Sherlock's perspective the Corps seems to give John a longer leash than him all the time. Do they still pity him for Harry and the years he spent in a self-invent job barely above mopping the Jaeger hangar floors?

For the limited connection of a training sim, not much Drift compatibility is even needed, but it's still unlikely that John and Moriarty would achieve much of a sync since John would not want to bare his soul to a man he dislikes intensely. That leaves Sherlock, but why does Marais assume he's any more willing to faux-Drift with Moriarty in the sim lab?

He nearly shudders when he considers, really considers, what it would be like to Drift with James Moriarty.

And it's a sobering realisation about how curious he is about the experience despite the unease. Something about the man makes him want to keep pushing his own boundaries. It's like circling a venomous snake that's ready to strike.

Even just for John's sake he needs to stay the hell away from James, but it appears that fate — and the Corps — has a different agenda.

Sherlock sighs. "Fine, I'll do it, but only if you do me a favour in exchange."

"Yes?" Marais offers.

"If John asks, tell him it was an order, not a request. I mean, that's what it was about to turn into, anyway, since Hammond thinks one of us has to do it."

John would pick up on me lying, but not her.

Marais shakes her head. "You know I can't force people into things requiring so much trust since that won't get them to Drift well."

Now this sounds more like the LJ Marais he knows. Pragmatic, empathetic. Did Hammond give her an order, too?

"Stop pretending that this is me saying yes out of the goodness of my heart. It hardly matters if I trust him, since we're keeping it one-sided. That's my other condition," Sherlock adds. "And I'm not wasting my time showing him the basics. If he's as good as he likes to think he is, he can work all that out on his own."

"You will do only the requisite Ravager battle scenarios with him, then?"

"I'm doing it for the Corps," Sherlock insist, aware that it's not really her he's trying to convince.

"Of course," she confirms graciously. She retreats to leave, then turns to face Sherlock again, one brow raised. "Is everything alright with you and John?"

Sherlock has, after all, just asked her to deceive his partner.

"We're fine," Sherlock dismisses. "I'd just like to keep it that way."

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

John looks up immediately from the computer terminal when Sherlock returns to their room. His face is a question mark, slightly amused. "Must have been one hell of a laundry run."

"Excuse me?"

"I could sense you right from the lift, like a miniature storm cloud approaching. I've got my arm hairs standing up and all," he jokes.

Sherlock goes to hangs the garment bags in the open wardrobe. Facing away from John, he breathes deep, trying to get his churning emotions under control.

"Since when does LJ Marais boss people around as though we're cadets?" He spits out and turns to face John, trying to grasp onto anger from the conflicting strings of emotion tangling him up inside like strings of malfunctioning Christmas lights.

"She doesn't. She came to talk to you, too, then?"

"Sounds like Hammond put her up to this. I swear to God, John, I've no intention to Drift with anyone but you."

"I know." John's expression sobers up. Sherlock can sense there are new undercurrents in his mood now, too — the same brooding ones that make an appearance whenever James is mentioned. The chair creaks as John leans back looking thoughtful. "You complain often about how the Corps is a military organisation, but honestly, it's not that often they just tell us to do things without question."

"And you think this is because they value us as employees?" Sherlock mocks.

"LJ said we could use the training firewall. I still wasn't keen."

"I'd have expected her to try to give the order to you rather than me." Sherlock knows better than to reveal what she'd said about her and Hammond seeing him with James.

"She could've convinced me if she'd pushed on as long as it's the one-sided training Drift. We need a second team even just to prevent burnout."

"Speak for yourself. I'm not burnt out," Sherlock scoffs.

"The two of you will be a more functional training combination than Moriarty and I would be," John says calmly, and as hard as Sherlock looks for it between them, he can sense very little of that bitter jealousy that had made John punch the man. Perhaps that dojoencounter really had helped John assert his dominance and exorcise some demons.

Not that it probably made James feel very dominated.

"Doesn't seem the type to be discouraged by getting his nose flattened, no," John confirms, making Sherlock flinch. "You're going to show him what we're made of," he compels Sherlock. "Show him why he and whoever the poor sod is that they pick as his co-pilot are never going to hold a candle to what you and I can do."

"He's not the sort to want to play second fiddle to anyone."

"He's the one who came here, to our territory. He needs to prove himself, not us." John rises to his feet and closes the screen.

Sherlock's lip quirks up. This is how John should be, instead of feeling sorry for himself. "Sounds like you should punch people more often."

=================
END OF PART ONE.
=================

Chapter 12: Hong Kong Cowboy

=========================
PART II: DRIFTING APART
=========================

 

Chapter 12. Hong Kong Cowboy

 

"The fiercest anger of all, the most incurable, is that which rages in the place of dearest love."
— Euripides

 

Seven nights later, Sherlock cannot sleep. He's going to Drift with James Moriarty tomorrow, and his body is already in battle mode.

After tossing and turning and jostling John awake twice, he climbs out from between John and the wall, muttering he's going to get some air. John barely registers the words; Sherlock can sense his descent back into sleep. Having slept in his T-shirt, he slips into a pair of jeans and puts on a uniform jacket without buttoning it. It's swelteringly hot in the dorm and he's desperate for a bit of cooling sea breeze.

Glancing reflexively towards John to make sure he really is asleep again Sherlock slips his flattened hand behind his armour locker to retrieve the cigarettes and lighter he's pushed between the back panel and the wall.

Though the corridors are empty, the dorm level feels cramped, claustrophobic. Does the place always smell so like a wet dog? There are notices taped to the walls of water being cut off for hours the next day for air conditioning repairs.

Instead of heading for the lifts, Sherlock strides to a back corridor to get to the external staircase. It's the fastest way to the cannon deck, and he can't wait to get outdoors.

The night wind is strong, bringing with it scents of moss and petrichor from Terceira. Once he steps onto the top deck of the dorm wing, Sherlock can see lightning cracking far away. Judging by the cloud movement and the grey shroud covering the island of Graciosa, he estimates to have twenty minutes before getting drenched by torrential rain. Waves must be cresting high since he can hear the white noise -like sound of them hitting the bulkheads far below.

People visiting the Azores tend to leave with an impulse to describe the place in superlatives, to say it's a paradise painted in vivid green tucked away in the middle of the ocean. Having lived here for several years now, there are still moments when the stunning landscape takes Sherlock's breath away, but the novelty has worn off. He doubts that these islands will ever stop feeling so foreign.

Why does he miss the grey urban cityscapes of London and the misery of wet England winters with such a visceral ache sometimes? It makes no sense. His childhood home had been idyllic but lost at a young age when Mycroft saw fit to uproot him. The services and company that he enjoys at Chard are a vast improvement on that terrible boarding school and his Montague Street flat in London even if the base is in dire need of some renovation.

What am I doing here is still a question that hits like a gut punch sometimes. He could have done so many other things with his life, yet the choices he made — or didn't — shut door after door until there was only one left.

It is astounding how, from such an oubliette of misfortune, the greatest joy had entered his life.

John.

And what a cruel joke it is that Sherlock should now struggle to be content where he is, with John? Why does he have to feel like a worm in a fisherman's hook, not quite yet ready to succumb to the whims of fate that have led him here?

He lights a cigarette. There's no trespassing the safety cordon tonight; the wind might well knock him off the edge of a cannon pedestal into the waves. Instead, he takes a seat on a bench and watches the lightning.

John wants to take a trip to good old England. But where there? Does he want to do the tourist circuit of London's sights or retreat to a cabin somewhere? Sherlock isn't sure where he would want to go if they took such a trip. If he's honest with himself, the idea of it is marred badly by fear of how he would feel returning to Chard after.

He's between worlds. There is nothing for him in London. Everything he cares about is here, but it comes with a price: the limitations to his freedom that service requires.

A part of this current restlessness must stem from the fact that the ocean floor has been quiet. No breaches. No kaiju. He gets stir-crazy if he is forced to endure more than a week of just existing, doing their daily duties.

He hadn't been off his tits when he decided to buy that kaiju blood. He had craved for something to break the tedium, for a thunderclap to slice through the oppressing air that made him feel like his skull was about to cave in from some unnamed pressure. He had felt an irresistible need to be an agent of chaos, to see what would happen if he retracted the final control rods of his life, let the energy rage out of control. He was going nowhere with his life, so why not detonate the whole thing?

He just hadn't meant to do it so literally.

'Bit of a bad boy, weren't we' — James' words had stung in an unexpected way. What Sherlock had done with that kaiju blood, what he'd done with illegal substances in general, it hadn't been about anyone but himself. He never wanted to hurt anyone.

But do motives really matter, if the result makes one look like a villain?

Perhaps he should apply that principle to analysing John's jealousy. Sherlock had assumed that his husband sees their relationship as being on such solid ground that the attention he's given to Moriarty wouldn't be an issue. John isn't nagging Sherlock about it now, but he still seems preoccupied — hell-bent, even — on winning some pissing contest against the man.

John has nothing to prove. This alpha male nonsense is unbecoming.

James keeps bringing John up in conversation, as if trying to gauge if he could get Sherlock to say even just one thing against John, to make a comparison that would leave his husband lacking. Such poking and prodding as well as James' comments about his former Hong Kong co-pilot paint a picture of a disloyal man, one always looking for an angle to get the upper hand.

He won't find one here.

Colleen had messaged Sherlock yesterday afternoon, asking for his preferences for adjusting the cerebral firewall that will keep his memories hidden from James in the Fade. He'd opted for the highest level of protection, the same John had chosen when he'd agreed to help train Sherlock.

Having to be cordoned behind a cerebral firewall while Sherlock calls the shots of how these sim sessions should be ought to teach James Moriarty that here, the game is played by Chard's Rift rules — Sherlock's rules.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

I should have arrived fashionably late, he curses. He has already spent a good fifteen minutes pacing around the small control booth Colleen sits in during the sims trying to micromanage her. He forces himself to stop moving and leans against the doorframe, gripping his wrist behind his back to refrain from fidgeting. It's no use: he catches himself soon tapping the wall frantically with his fingertips.

"Have you met him yet?" Sherlock asks. "Who did his prior sims?"

"I was on shore leave during his basic Ravager training package set last week. Moreno was the LOCCENT for those sims. He's pretty new at this so I couldn't get much out of him in terms of evaluation. All he said was that Moriarty acted very professionally and is a fast learner. According to Moreno he came in well-prepared, knew all the theory."

Sounds like James is putting in the work instead of just sauntering in like some Hong Kong cowboy, Sherlock contends.

Piloting a particular Jaeger with skill is largely about being familiar with its systems down to the last detail. That requires not just practical training but a lot of rote memorisations of schematics and other technical data. That very knowledge had allowed Sherlock to rig the Ravager's arm into a bomb.

"If you can help him get through these modules as fast as you and John tend to be, I think we can get through parts one to four today," Colleen muses.

"The last time he piloted was a long time ago, on a much earlier mark Jaeger," Sherlock points out.

Colleen looks to be making adjustments to what Sherlock deduces are James' spinal signal dampening settings. Once she has input some numbers and set the code to assemble, she glances at him. "It's been a long time, yeah, but since he has prior experience, even just modules one to three just might get him polished enough with right hemisphere weapons control."

Like John, Moriarty's neural analysis had deemed him best suited to control the left side of the Jaeger. To make the control more intuitive, the same left-to-right crossing as exists in the human brain has been implemented into the Jaeger circuitry. It means that the pilot whose right hemisphere motor control is being fed into the Jaeger control the battle machine's left physical side. About ninety percent of human motor neurons cross over to the other side in a pair of ridges called the pyramids in the brainstem.

"He's a leftie, then, like John?" Sherlock asks.

"Naturally ambidextrous, actually," Colleen replies, sounding a bit distracted as she inputs even more complicated equations into a prompt box. Many settings can be adjusted on a what-you-see-is-what-you-get graphical interface, but she is old school and knows the system like the back of her hand. She's told Sherlock that when she was trained, the system still required LOCCENT officers to input changes as code rather than being able to just click buttons.

"If he could control either side, doesn't that mean there could be many potential co-pilot candidates for him?" He asks.

"He's never piloted the other hemisphere. It's a stroke of luck that you're locked to the opposite one. He'll learn faster if he gets to use the same side as he did for his prior Jaeger."

Sherlock considers, briefly, if he should share with Colleen what he's learned about Moriarty's past but decides against it: the man might show up any minute, now, and it might be useful to hear Colleen's unbiased assessment after the sims.

She seems to have finished her adjustments. "That was a handful. HK uses different abbreviations and metrics for many of their settings. Took a bit of translating to wager some guesses on what Moriarty might want."

"And? What did his records say?"

"He doesn't mind a low pain dampening level, likes to feel it all. Wants to keep his visual interface clean and simple. All possible weapons safeties off to allow quick decision-making. Very fast reaction times — close to yours, actually. Reduced connections between the ventromedial prefrontal cortex and the amygdala; very low measured stress hormone levels during battles. Oh, and exceptional overall numbers of synapses in the motor cortex, just like you, but his brain doesn't have the lower connectivity of yours in certain functional areas such as those governing attention diversion or emotional reactivity to human speech."

"In other words, he lacks brain features connected to being autistic that I have," Sherlock rephrases. He never suspected James to be similar in that way. What is he, then?

"Not on the Spectrum, no. And he's certainly not average. That was just some of the stuff that stood out. Impressive."

"No Ranger is average," Sherlock dismisses. Some of them are idiots, but being able to pilot does require certain brain functions to perform at quite advanced levels.

"Is John going to join us?" Colleen sips her tea.

"No."

John had offered to watch from the control booth as moral support, but Sherlock had declined, saying it might be a distraction. John had said he understood, adding that he'd be nervous if he knew Sherlock was watching his sim performance, so the opposite must be true. It's different when they're Drifting as a team, succeeding and failing together.

"LJ's coming by later to see how the two of you are doing," Colleen reveals.

Sherlock groans. "All I promised her was that I'd get Moriarty through the sims. I'm not here to perform for anyone."

"She's in charge," Colleen reminds him. "Not uncommon for her to come see what's going on in training sims. She probably has Hammond's ear when it comes to deciding on Jaeger assignments."

"She should have watched his solo sims then," Sherlock scoffs. Marais should know where he stands by now when it comes to who he pilots the Ravager with and how fond he is of the idea of a second pilot team.

"Wouldn't want to be Ranger Moriarty," Colleen jokes. "Huge pressure to impress the press and trying to get along with the two of you. I heard that John––"

Sherlock cuts in, growing irritable. "It was just a bit of sparring at the dojo, what John did. The rumour mill blows everything out of proportion."

Colleen thinking that he and John are jealous of the Ravager and are trying to bully Moriarty because of it is not a good look. It makes the two of them look so petty.

There's a click from the direction of the door; someone is turning the handle, but the digital lock is on red. Sherlock opens it by flashing his wrist console on a panel, and Moriarty steps in.

"I see even just sim lab access is limited to active-duty pilots," he comments dryly. He then plasters on a smile that is more reserved than the ones he's worn in more private conversations. "Sherlock."

"James." Sherlock keeps his arms crossed.

Colleen rises from her seat, offers her hand. "Ranger Moriarty. I've heard good things."

He takes it eagerly for a firm shake. "Officer Dunne. It's all lies, I assure you. What you should have heard are greatthings."

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"I'd be worried if I ever met a modest Ranger," she quips. "You two have met before, then."

"Many times." Sherlock pushes his palms against the wall to stand up to his full height.

Be professional. That's what John would do. "Shall we?" he indicates the door to the simulation room.

Moriarty looks at Colleen expectantly. "Ready for us, Officer Dunne? It appears I am remiss for not coming in early; perhaps you would have needed my help for some adjustments."

"I got all your data from Officer Moreno. We don't have default access on the Ravager settings to some of the things they adjusted for you back in the day at HK but thankfully, I know how to tap into the system." Her smile is conspiratorial.

It seems that John and Sherlock are not the only Chard's Rift officers wanting to demonstrate their skills to the rest of the PPDC through showing off at the transfers.

Sherlock holds the door open to James and they enter the simulation suite. It is now an empty, white cube, but once they're Drifting, their visual fields will be filled with information fed in by the PONS system into their implants.

The training system that John and Colleen had been wise to employ with Sherlock when he was a rookie Ranger was the old one, requiring the use of relay gel inside helmets. It allowed for a gradual introduction into entering the Fade, achieving a neural handshake and Drifting with another person. Sherlock had needed that slower induction, having ejected himself several times hard out of the new system that throws pilot candidates straight into their first Drift. Sherlock is very familiar with the new system, since that's what he and John have been using for their requisite and recreational battle sims ever since they were assigned to the Ravager.

Without the privacy filter, of course.

In both the old and the new training systems, the training officer's privacy can be ensured by locking them behind a neural firewall where no or little visual or auditory data is relayed to the person being trained as the neural handshake is done to achieve a sync. Emotions can still be relayed if the trainer chooses a lower protective level, but private things such as childhood memories and recollections of sexual encounters will not make it through the filter. All that will be passed through are communications that Sherlock purposely intends for James to receive.

"Can you two hear me?" Colleen asks. Her voice is being relayed through the implants directly into their auditory cortex through the comms system just like when she's facilitating a real Jaeger mission.

"Loud and clear," Moriarty confirms.

"Seconded," Sherlock adds.

"Ranger Holmes: from your perspective, this will look and feel and sound like any neural handshake. As for Ranger Moriarty, it will feel like walking into a store that's been raided. That's a description from one of last year's cadets," she laughs. "Lots of shelves, but they're empty, he said. You can talk to each other and me, and perhaps feel some things from each other, but Ranger Holmes will be behind a privacy wall. Mind you, at this filtering level only very intense emotion will bleed through, the sort that causes an intense physical stress reaction."

"And what if I wanted the same firewall?" Moriarty asks.

"It's possible, but if I cordon you both off, we're unlikely to get much of a sync. It would probably feel like limping along on a bicycle with square wheels."

"I don't need one, but if it makes Ranger Holmes more comfortable… Or perhaps such a privacy wall is Chard's Rift protocol?" Moriarty's tone is teasing with an edge of prickly. "Can't be breaking protocol, can we, Ranger Holmes? Shame. I was looking forward to getting to know you better," he laments pointedly.

"Let's get this over with," Sherlock comments dryly. "I believe Officer Dunne has lined up four sims highlighting the use of the weapons controlled by your side. We'll engage the kaiju, and you should take the lead in trying out what you can do with what you have at your disposal. I will offer advice."

"You don't control my and Watson's side," Moriarty points out. "Would you know more than the manuals?"

"Years of learning by observation should count for something. However, Ranger Watson is not just the pilot on the same side as you but by far, the better teacher of the two of us."

"But he was not willing to help, unlike you. I am grateful for this," Moriarty relents. "Did not mean to imply otherwise."

Sherlock refrains from pointing out that he was nearly ordered to do this. James thinking that he owes Sherlock a favour could be useful.

"Initiating neural handshake," Colleen comments.

Sherlock closes his eyes, expecting the usual flood of images, emotions and sounds. During the years he's been doing this with John he has noticed patterns and changes in time in what memories surface. When they started piloting together, Harriet Watson was a frequent and upsetting visitor in the Fade, but as John's joy over a renewed pilot life and relationship with Sherlock began to dilute the shock of her death, being yanked back into her final battle became infrequent, then rare.

Sherlock knows he should avoid getting distracted by both his own memories and those of his co-pilot, but curiosity gets the better of him as his visual field goes black and he's pulled into a river of images from the other side of the fledgeling neural connection.

This is James.

Sherlock catches a glimpse of a muddy field with horses, of being cold and tired. He sees a sunset with high-rises visible from a window, catches a sense of frustration and disappointment at the shape of a man behind a cracked shower partition. Then, he's intruding in a Jaeger assignment, seeing brief glimpses of a kaiju rising out of the depths. No emotional turmoil seems to be connected to the event from James' past, just expectant excitement at most. If a battle was going to rise out of James' psyche, why not the one where he lost his co-pilot? Why this one, that doesn't seem to have made much of an impression? wonders Sherlock.

An image floats past of a dark, noisy alleyway. Could be Hong Kong. Pain, a lot of physical pain echoes in their connection, then grey.

This doesn't feel like a memory. Sherlock can taste metal, and he feels as though he's been shut outside of something, abandoned, standing small beside the walls of some nameless city the nondescript buildings of which stretches nearly all the way to the heavens. The light is cold, and there doesn't seem to be a source for it.

He feels as though an invisible force is pushing him away, muting his senses.

Enjoying the tour? comes a sardonic question.

I saw very little. Just tried to focus on what we need to do.

I can play this privacy game, too.

Sherlock inhales sharply when he realises what James means: what he's seeing are not physical walls, nor is this a real memory of being is this desolate place. It's an illusion, created by James. A visual manifestation of being shut out.

James can shield, Sherlock realises.

Before he can examine his surroundings further to find a way through, he's yanked back into the Fade again. Then, he starts blinking in astonishment as the sense of movement stop and the blurred white of the room begins changing into familiar Ravager controls.

"Ninety percent and holding," Colleen says. She doesn't sound like she's noticed anything being amiss.

"How is that possible?" Sherlock asks without thinking. When he was a cadet and they made him try to Drift with people he disliked, shielding against them instinctively had thrown them both clean out of the system. James' little shielding demonstration should have done the same instead of achieving a very highly synced neural connection.

"It's a very good result, considering you were walled out," Colleen answers him.

Quite literally. How the hell could James shield and allow a neural handshake at the same time?

Sherlock realises he needs to get over his shock fast; he doesn't want James thinking he's too interested in the man's psyche and abilities, nor does he want him clued in to the fact that what has just happened has rattled his nerves. He's here to do his job, to fulfil an order, and then ignore whatever happens to James Moriarty career-wise.

That's what John would want.

Colleen and James discuss some more setting preferences, after which she initiates the first simulation. It's based on one of Sherlock and John's first kaiju skirmishes. The creature in question, codename Baegul — meaning white howl in Korean — had a name more impressive than its battle prowess. While disappointingly easy to beat, it's a good choice for a training sim since John had done the heavy lifting.

Moriarty starts wearing down the kaiju with some tentative attacks. Sherlock sits on his proverbial hands for a few minutes before speaking up.

We need to turn slightly.

That exposes my side more.

It all depends on whether you want to make this last or get the job done quickly. Your range of movement and reach are limited when I've got the sword out.

No fun in a quick hack job, is there, James replies mischievously. How about you tuck that thing back in your pants and let me handle this like I'm supposed to.

Sherlock nearly points out that the plasma sword cannot, in fact, fit into a Jaeger's pants since it wears none, but realises only after opening his proverbial mouth that James had been speaking abstractly. He shifts the sword so that it's pointing down and forward, exposing the simulated Ravager's chest. This means James needs to put more effort into defence at the same time as trying to get a few slashes in with the smaller blade on his side. The Baegul did not have a very thick carapace, but it was fast and relatively small, which can be a challenge for the Ravager whose sheer size makes it more lumbering than smaller Jaegers.

It's like trying to kill a rat with a tank.

This thing isn't built for hunting vermin, James echoes. Waste of a big Jaeger.

Suddenly, Sherlock nearly loses his balance as the virtual Ravager makes an abrupt turn — one that shouldn't be possible without his input. Perhaps he'd just reacted instinctively to feeling the impulse from James to initiate the turn.

He can barely keep up when the simulated Ravager drops it stance lower, then uses that momentum to kick the kaiju. As the Baegul staggers back on the low-detail rendering of the sandbank where the real battle took place, Moriarty retracts the blade and launches a shoulder rocket that decimates the kaiju, scorching their legs a bit.

"The Ravager would need a paint job after that but no there wouldn't be structural damage," Colleen comments. "You kicked it just barely beyond the blast zone."

"How do you know there isn't a second or even third kaiju coming up? Perhaps they are a bigger challenge where you could have really used the rocket that's now gone?" Sherlock asks. He tries to keep his tone neutral. He's been brought here exactly for this: to make sure James is aware of all combat possibilities that the Ravager offers, and to benefit from his tactical experience.

"And how did Ranger Watson solve this dilemma?" James asks, tone dripping with honey.

"He fired the Plasmacaster before that thing even got close the first time. The benefit of the caster, as you are probably aware, is that there's no kaiju blue spill. It was a good choice since we fought that thing close to a coastal nature reserve."

"I'll try to remember that," James replies oddly subserviently. "I am here to learn."

As much as Sherlock tries to find mockery in his tone, there is none, and nor is there any malice vibrating through their connection. He has avoided focussing on trying to sense James' mood, feeling rather shy about the man noticing and perhaps being inspired to examine Sherlock's emotional state in exchange. According to Colleen's explanation, as long as Sherlock keeps a level head and doesn't let his emotions run wild, there shouldn't be much that gets past the training filter, anyway.

Their connection feels toned down, distant, ephemeral, compared to what it's like to Drift with John. How is it possible that their neural sync was over ninety percent even with this rickety a connection? Sherlock wonders if it's the system causing these distancing effects, or if something else is in play.

Is it James, somehow making me feel as though I'm seeing and sensing very little? What level of access does he really have right now?

Sherlock reminds himself that Colleen is good at her job, that he must be safe behind the neural firewall. She'd notice if the safeguard wasn't functional. No Ranger can alter what the PONS system does.

"I think we can skip the next one on the list, Colleen," Sherlock calls out. "Give us more of a challenge."

"We're supposed to go through them all."

"And we will. Just…"

"––just give us something with a bit more meat on the bones," James echoes eagerly.

"Alright," she relents. "Two-hand weapon practice, then. The choice of kaiju is up to you."

"Juggernaut," Sherlock replies without missing a beat. It's the kaiju they had encountered fairly recently — the one to which he'd fed an exploding arm.

Let's see what you're made of, Ranger James Moriarty.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

Anyone observing the virtual battles they undergo in the next few hours would describe that the session goes well. Sherlock, however, would use a more superlative description. As they engage a simulated version of the Juggernaut — a formidable real-life challenge — he manages to stop worrying about how to behave around Moriarty and starts to feel confident enough to challenge himself, to engage in a bit of friendly competition as they push the Ravager to the edge of its endurance and abilities and even beyond. Even though Moriarty is piloting a Jaeger still somewhat unknown to him, it soon hardly matters at all: he is an astonishingly quick study, creative and bold, finding ways to employ his half of control in a way that fringes on encroaching, even pushing against Sherlock's role as the other half. It makes Sherlock pay attention, forces him to step up.

After defeating Juggernaut with some impressive Jaeger calisthenics and creative use of weaponry, they go through the sims of three more of John and Sherlock's battles. At several points, Sherlock want to slap himself for not realising solutions that seemed to occur instantly to his new practice partner.

When Colleen takes them out of the PONS system two and a half hours later, Sherlock is loath to admit how much fun he'd had, how refreshing a change James' approach had been to John's careful, calculated-through-experience, safety-oriented approach. He and John complement and complete each other, whereas Moriarty… even in just a simulation, the man is vaulting tactical obstacles Sherlock had assumed impossible to circumvent.

John makes him a better pilot. But what James makes him, even just in a training sim… he really doesn't want to dwell on.

The session has made Sherlock curious for more. Hungry for more. A bit not good, that.

A flushed, excited Colleen jumps up from her seat as they enter control room.

"That was fantastic!" she exclaims, shaking both their hands.

Moriarty beams. "I enjoyed myself."

He then glances at Sherlock almost coyly. His ability to shift between bravado and extreme politeness continues to make Sherlock feel whiplashed.

"Such an honour, Ranger Holmes," James drawls. His gaze sweeps up and down Sherlock's form as though drinking in the sight of him.

"You gave me a run for my money," Sherlock admits courteously.

"It's quite a lot of pressure, running with the star of the Corps," James admits to Colleen, letting his hands hang by his thighs and shaking them vigorously as if trying to banish stress. "You've seen all of Ranger Holmes' and Watson's deployments and learned a lot, I bet. Would love to pick your brain sometime over lunch, if that's appropriate," he drawls, eyes fixed on Sherlock as if trying to gauge his reaction.

Offering no reply, Sherlock feigns disinterest as best he can.

Colleen gives him a strange side-eye before returning her attention to James. "I… guess. Sure. Sometime."

It's hard to tell whether Moriarty's invitation to her had been a genuine pick-up attempt or not. Colleen is twenty years their senior and married with adult children. Fraternising between LOCCENT officers and Rangers is not forbidden, but Sherlock doubts Colleen is looking for a side squeeze even if James Moriarty is, admittedly, a pleasant thing to look at.

Everything Sherlock has sensed from James before has pointed to leaning towards men in romantic interest. Then again, he's hardly the best at reading people.

Who the hell knows what James wants or thinks he should do to get his way.

"Any plans for the afternoon, Ranger Holmes?" James asks courteously.

"Shower and lunch with Ranger Watson," Sherlock replies pointedly.

James untucks the front of his T-shirt and grimaces, wiping sweat off his forehead with the side of his palm. They had both shed their uniform jackets during a break they'd taken to drink some water and use the gents. Even just a sim can be heavy exercise, and they've been at it for three hours. "Seconded. Worked up quite a sweat."

Now that his heart rate is going down, Sherlock is getting chilly. He can't wait to get into a hot shower to rinse off his clammy skin.

"Water's out in the dorm section," Colleen reminds them. "There was a console bulletin while you were in the sim."

"They posted notes about that yesterday. That leaves the gym as the only shower option," Sherlock curses. He prefers to have a wash in the privacy of the ensuite of his and John's room but, considering the rate at which the base is falling apart lately, beggars and Rangers can't be choosers.

"Gym it is. See you there?" James suggests with a winsome glance at Sherlock.

Before he has time to reply, the door to the corridor unlocks and LJ Marais enters.

"Rangers," she acknowledges. "Officer Dunne. Well done today. A word, Ranger Holmes?" she asks Sherlock.

"I'll see you there," Sherlock tells James, adrenaline dissipating in anticipation of some dull evaluatory conversation about their session.

"Do you want me to––?" Colleen asks Marais, cocking her head towards the door.

"No, stay, please," the senior Ranger replies, then gives Moriarty a sphinx-like smile as he leaves with a nod.

Once the door clicks shut, Marais waits before speaking as though waiting to make sure Moriarty is out of earshot.

"I must emphasize that this conversation remains between the three of us," she starts.

This is unexpected. How much had she watched of their sims? Their session had gone great by all measures, hadn't it? Sherlock knows she can remotely access all the simulation room feeds from her office. Why does she sound so serious, considering how well we did?

"Outstanding performance," Marais tells him. Her tone is measured, steady, yet with a subtle shift that hints at hidden complexities. "I expected nothing less, of course."

Sherlock raises his brows haughtily. "I hear reservations."

"His approach to piloting mirrors yours. A preference for risk-taking, more reckless than taking calculated risks. It was… interesting, seeing two such pilots teamed up."

"We can't measure full Drift compatibility in sims, but we can create a bloody good estimate," Colleen pipes in, leaning the backs of her thighs on the edge of the console where she stands with her back to the observation window. "That was close to a Ravager-level score even just in a firewalled sim." She whistles to emphasize her astonishment.

"The Corps has been looking to form a second pilot team for the Ravager for years," Sherlock reminds Marais. Why does she look worried rather than excited? "You should be glad to see we may have at least one viable candidate."

"What you pointed out to him about exposing his side in order to use the weaponry more efficiently did not go down well."

"No one wants to play bait," Sherlock points out.

"Yet he had no qualms about leaving your side open to attack even when helping you defend yourself would have not compromised or delayed his next chosen offensive action. A similar situation happened several times, I might add," Marais points out.

"He knew I could hold my own," Sherlock dismisses.

"I'm not sure whether you are aware, but James Moriarty lost a co-pilot," Marais says bluntly.

"You sound almost as if Moriarty did something deliberately bad there," Colleen frowns. "It was a death in battle, the sort that just happens sometimes. That's what the investigation concluded. At least the updated report I found attached to that sim."

As always, Colleen has done her homework. She would have seen which sims Sherlock had gone through during his solo session and had probably got curious about his choices.

"Emphasis on the updated," Marais reveals. "You don't have the clearance to see the document logs, but I do. Care to speculate on why whoever altered those records would want to change the conclusion of the investigation years after James Moriarty was already dismissed?" Marais asks.

"Someone changed the reports after he was allowed to re-enlist to make sure the Corps wouldn't look like they took an unnecessary risk with him if he did got into trouble again?" Sherlock suggests.

"The records were altered before he re-enlisted," Marais reveals.

"Why were you looking into him in the first place? John's–– um, Ranger Watson lost his co-pilot, and no one has ever accused him of negligence, have they?" Colleen asks, frowning.

"That's because John's service record is so much less colourful than Moriarty's in terms of disciplinary action and less than favourable evaluations of his conduct from supervisors," Marais argues. Sherlock knows she and John are friendly enough to be on a first-name basis. "I like to do my due diligence with new trainees, especially ones that might get considered for a Ravager assignment."

"He's not a trainee. I assume he re-enlisted directly as a Ranger, not as a cadet," Sherlock argues. His lip quirks up. "You had more reason than just due diligence to look into him," he realises.

Marais nods. "Michael Chen came to me in confidence last night. He says he decided to do so after speaking with you. It's you who's been looking into Ranger Moriarty first. Why?"

Because I'm bored. Because he raises my heckles. Because he's the most interesting thing that has happened to me for a long time.

"He's playing his cards close to his chest even if he pretends otherwise. He wanted to be noticed by John and me when he got here. It's been obvious that a Jaeger assignment is what he's after, and he's not the sort to settle for anything less than the Ravager. I am doing my due diligence."

"What have you found, then?" Colleen asks.

"It's not a punishable offense not to care about people," Sherlock dismisses. "I investigated his last battle with his co-pilot. There are… unexplained inconsistencies, but if it was hard to prove anything beyond that all those years ago, it's even harder to do so now. What Chen told me is that Moriarty was let go because of his contract ended and the Hong Kong command thought that he was more trouble than he was worth. "

"What is he worth, do you think?" Marais asks.

"Not getting other Rangers killed. No one is," Colleen comments, visibly taken aback. "What do people think he did?"

"Failed to protect his co-pilot in the way any Ranger would be expected to. Or worse," Sherlock says. "No proof, but now someone has thought it best to pretty up those reports even more."

"He is… I mean," Colleen stammers, "I just thought he did things the way he did today because he knew you could look after yourself. Because you were the training officer, so he didn't need to protect you."

Sherlock nods. "It's a matter of perspective, and that's why they couldn't charge him with anything or dismiss him based on that incident in HK. None of his conduct today looks that alarming unless you have the context of what people suspect he did wrong all those years ago."

Marais looks sceptical. "Did what you just experienced feel like a partnership?"

"You can't get a proper feel for it in a sim," Sherlock counters. "I can tell he's good. No, he's great. And that's rare. And what's a little competition between friends, if it gets you better Jaeger performance?"

Why am I defending him?

All his life, people have misinterpreted Sherlock's social difficulties as callousness. Everyone makes mistakes in battle, suboptimal choices that lead to more danger. He hates it when people who weren't in the same Conn-pod second-guess his decision-making. He feels enough loyalty for others who do the same job as him to not jump into conclusions based on rumours.

Everyone deserves a new start. Yet, John who always wants to help and encourage anyone, had recoiled from his very first meeting with James as if he's a venomous snake, and even Sherlock's own instincts are telling him that getting closer to James Moriarty is playing with fire.

Still, he detests the insinuation that the man is so formidable, so dangerous and somehow unbeatable that Sherlock can't keep him in check.

"Is it just a little competition between friends that has kept you and John alive and well all these years?" Marais asks. "We don't need expendable showmen looking to go out with a bang — we need hard-working officers who look after themselves and their partners."

"Nobody thinks I fit that bill," Sherlock scoffs.

"Not when you first came in," Marais admits. "You didn't even seem to care whether you lived or died — the Marshal's words and not mine. But then you met John and now, you do fit the bill. You may be a bit reckless with the hardware, but not with your partner."

Sherlock shouldn't be surprised that conversations about him have been had through the years between his brother and high-ranking officials of Chard's Rift, but all this is more personal than he thinks Mycroft would disclose. Wouldn't such things that signal mental instability be an embarrassment that needs to be concealed in an organisation such as the PPDC?

There is one possibility: that Mycroft has taken a particular liking to Marais professionally — that he has chosen to trust the woman. Why else would he confide such things in her?

Sherlock cannot fault the choice. He can't say he knows her that well, but appreciates her ethics, her candour and her dedication to the Corps. And she'd been instrumental in helping him through Drift training by asking John for help.

"You go practically out of your way sometimes to protect John," Colleen chimes in. "I'd say you two have hit the perfect balance between outrageous stunts and taking care of each other."

"If you give Moriarty a Jaeger assignment, he will make quick work of any kaiju that dares to rise out of the Atlantic. The question is the cost to other Rangers and the financial burden if he's as… liberal with his battle tactics as I am," Sherlock admits.

"Strategically, we cannot afford to leave his considerable abilities unused," Marais concludes. "Hammond's words, not mine."

"You took your concerns to him?"

"No, not the details of what Chen said. He'd actually asked Hammond why the Corps would re-enlist an officer whose service record was so patchy, but he assured me he'd been very diplomatic about it. No details."

It doesn't surprise Sherlock. Chen doesn't seem the type to judge people harshly, to rely on gossip. It shows in how he trains cadets that he wants to give people a chance, the benefit of the doubt. It had been a stark contrast to Tom Wallis who had shaken his head at Sherlock's dislike of command structure and tried to make him submit to such nonsense with endless punitive push-ups.

He makes that very point to Marais: "Chen wouldn't want to get too involved, doesn't want to cause too much of a fuss if it turns out that Moriarty has changed his ways. That's why you watched the sims after he came to you — you wanted to see if he acts with a different logic in battle now."

Or maybe Chen just doesn't want to have any association to the case if Moriarty does end up doing something that causes a stir, Sherlock realises.

"Ranger Moriarty has experience, skill and aptitude, and he could act as the pilot for either hemisphere," Marais contends. "The imperative act here is to find him the right partner to offset his shortcomings."

The way her gaze is fixed on him makes Sherlock suddenly very uneasy. She takes a long pause before giving Colleen a brief glance and addressing Sherlock again.

"Your partnership with John has an expiration date," Marais points out, her expression apologetically empathetic. "I know it's a conversation no one wants to have, least of all you two, but it's already begun."

Sherlock's heart is pounding a staccato against his ribcage. "What is that supposed to mean? Begun where?"

"You must understand that those in command need to plan for long-term continuity, to avoid a transition period where we're left vulnerable due to the Ravager lacking pilots."

"It has lacked pilots for years while John and I," Sherlock narrows his gaze as he emphasizes the names, "have made sure no kaiju has reached this base or caused significant coastal damage. You need us in the Ravager." He steps closer to Marais, staring daggers.

"Sherlock." Colleen steps closer, tries to reach out to touch his arm, but he tugs the limb out of her reach.

He doesn't need consoling — he needs to end this conversation because it's madness. "John is my partner. That's all the conversation that needs to happen."

"We have to think about John's health," Colleen pleads.

"Who's we? Are you all talking about this behind our backs? Even you?" Sherlock lashes out at her. She is theirLOCCENT officer, one they have trusted and considered a friend for years.

"Officer Dunne is not a part of such conversations or the official decision-making," Marais assures him. "This is the first time I have raised the issue with both of you."

"What about with John? You don't think he should be here for this? They're fixing his back, with some experimental treatment no less, and the reimplantation will sort out all the compatibility issues! And he's managed to pilot despite those for years–– we've managed perfectly with Colleen's help. John is fine!" Sherlock is raising his voice but doesn't care.

"John will have much to offer for the Corps even without piloting, just as he always has," Marais tries to promise.

"The Corps kept around for years as some charity case because he's a doctor and his sister died," Sherlock dismisses. "That wasn't life or having much to offer! Not until I came along! He belongs in a Jaeger, and he knows it. You'll have to wrench the Ravager out of his cold, dead hands."

He regrets the words as soon as they're out. That is, after all, how so many pilots' Jaeger assignments end — in death. Any day, a kaiju category unprecedented may rise out of the depths and kill him or John.

But, if they have to die, they'll do so in a Jaeger, not benched in some menial role in this hellhole.

"You think Moriarty is a candidate for John's replacement? Is that where this is going?" He hates even saying such a thing out loud. John is his partner and he John's, period. The Reichenbach Ravager is their Jaeger, period. "James Moriarty isn't going to sit around waiting for an assignment that's going to take years to materialise, and they'd have to find a new partner for him at that point, too, because I'll be retiring with John, or going down with him!"

Colleen looks worried as she addresses Marais while stealing alarmed glances at Sherlock. "Moriarty pushed against his control of his hemisphere, failed to share his plans because they're his plans. He left Sherlock vulnerable so that he could mount his attacks. That's not partnership. He's a hell of a fighter, that's obvious, and there's astounding sync even with just––"

Sherlock silences her with a glare.

He can't blame James for this. He's an ambitious Ranger who has a good shot at landing a Ravager assignment. Anyone with his skills and personality would settle for nothing less. It's logical. What isn't logical is anyone thinking it's a good idea to break up an established pair of highly distinguished Ravager pilots because of some arbitrary biological deadline some idiot at the Science Division has pulled out of their arse. John will be livid.

"You finally have a third person who could pilot the Ravager," Colleen tries. "Like you said, we just need to find someone who could stand up to Moriarty, get him to pick up on some new teamwork skills."

Sherlock nearly snorts. He has his doubts whether those would be lessons James Moriarty would be interested in, ever. He'd had fun in the sims today, but it would get tiring to always have to look after himself first in battle since Moriarty the opportunist wouldn't bother to take care of a Drifting partner.

Good luck to whoever has to pilot with James.

"After seeing what I've seen today of you with him, I have to say I am not aware of another Ranger at Chard who would be a match to Ranger Moriarty," Marais replies carefully, watching for Sherlock's reaction.

Sherlock detests the word she'd used: a match. Yes, he knows what Moriarty might be willing to do to advance his career, he is aware of how manipulative he can be and yes, absolutely he can give the man a run for his money in the Conn-pod, but Sherlock would rather eat a live eel than call himself any kind of a match with him. "If no one available here is a safe pairing with him, then ship him back to Hong Kong."

"I'm not the right target for your anger," Marais points out calmly. "Even if Chen hadn't come to me with his concerns, I might well have reached the same conclusion today."

"Which is?"

"I would have profound reservations about pairing you with James Moriarty." She meets him eye to eye, unflinching, and continues, "Not all those reasons are about him. It would be a very explosive combination."

"And expensive, considering that he's even less likely than me to care about the fiscal responsibility my brother bangs on about," Sherlock reminds her yet again.

"I leave finances to others. What I like is to keep my Rangers alive." Marais' biting tone signals that he has touched a nerve.

"This is all theoretical," Colleen points out. "Why would we even talk about pairing Sherlock with anyone else, especially Moriarty, if Sherlock won't even agree to a bilateral Drift with him? That wasn't a proper neural handshake. You were both cordoned off."

"Unless that's another thing you and Hammond want to order me to do: to lie back and think of England," Sherlock snarls.

"Of course not," Marais relents. "You cannot force intimacy like that. Of course we wouldn't. It's a neural handshake, not an assault."

He believes her. She's not the one making any of the ultimate decisions on Jaeger assignments, and at least she has taken Chen seriously and investigated the matter of Moriarty's past — and current — conduct. She knows he's a wild card.

He just can't help it that the subject of John having already served much longer than him is a touchy one. Of course, he knows that age and the physical toll of piloting will get to John sooner than those things will start affecting him, but thinking about what that means for their future is…

It hurts.

Colleen is right — he should calm himself down by remembering that this discussion is purely theoretical. Even if he might be curious to glimpse deeper into the psyche of James Moriarty, the price to pay would be too high. Opening himself up to someone else than his husband would jeopardise not just his working relationship with John but their personal one. Drifting, especially Ghost drifting, is an intimate partnership — sometimes more so than sex.

The question remains: what the hell are they going to do on the day when John needs to retire?

Chapter 13: Conflicted

Sherlock senses they've reached an impasse in the conversation. His sharp edge of anger is beginning to deflate, leaving in its place an aimless agitation. He wants to retreat from company, to go somewhere quiet to organise his thoughts.

"Maybe we should consider––" Colleen starts.

Sherlock raises his hand to silence her. "John is my partner, in all things. There's nothing to discuss beyond that."

With a forced nod at the two women that comes out of some social script memorised years ago, he leaves the room and doesn't stop walking until he's reached the lifts.

Though the shock of what Marais had brought up is now dissipating, residual adrenaline is still making his heart pound, and he feels intolerably clammy and restless from the exercise. He rubs his face with his fingertips after jabbing the lift summons button.

I need a shower. Water's out in the dorm, he recalls absent-mindedly, thoughts still a reeling chaos from what he's just heard.

The conversation has been a sobering reminder that he needs to keep his priorities straight.

When he'd first arrived, John had saved him, given him a way to survive — to even thrive in this place he'd assumed would be nothing but a lesser hell to prison. Though he complains daily about many things at Chard, things could be so much worse. He could be dead — a very possible end to the trajectory on which his life was hurtling forward back in London.

He needs to close the book on James Moriarty and be content in the great and the good he has, John above all.

I have only three sims left on this assignment, he tells himself firmly. Surely Marais wouldn't force any more training work on him beyond that, especially after the conversation they've just had.

Why does it have to be so bloody complicated with James?

Sherlock knows that the thought of getting to engage in a few more virtual kaiju battles with the man shouldn't be giving him any joy — yet it does. He'd enjoyed himself today even if he doesn't want any kind of a proper partnership with Moriarty, doesn't want to let the man into his head.

What is wrong with me?

His fingers curl into fists as he waits for the lift to arrive.

He loves John. He wants John. Why isn't all that preventing him from being so bloody curious and, if he's honest with himself, pathetically flattered by James' attention?

James Moriarty is dangerous — but he's just a man. Just another Ranger. He's circling like a hyena not because he wants me but because he wants to be me, Sherlock tries to argue in his head.

I would likely do the same if I was him, not settle for less, he realises. That's what he had done — a nice, predictable existence in the ground crew had felt so beneath him that he'd wanted to reach for the moon, aka the Jaeger Corps.

The lift begins moving before Sherlock has even pressed a button; he must've stood there so long lost in thought that the mechanics had assumed there was no one inside. He presses the stop button, then selects the one for the sports facilities level.

He grips the safety railing, curling his fingers angrily around the cold, scratched metal. Why does his brain always have to grow tired so fast with what it's got and start screaming for more? That's what had happened with his drug use and the kaiju blood. Chemistry experiments at Cambridge had not offered the risk and excitement level he'd been looking for, and the war effort had stripped the university's STEM units so bare of money and equipment that quitting academia had been an easy decision. Mycroft had considered his moving to London a good idea, presumably because he was easier to keep an eye on there. What dear brother had not anticipated was Sherlock developing a quick penchant for practical pharmacology. After a while, the commonest and cheapest street drugs hadn't taken him high enough, so he'd turned to even more dangerous substances.

No, he decides. It's time to count his blessings, break this vicious cycle of cerebral and emotional greed. What he wants, is curious about, yearns for — it doesn't matter. He can choose differently, for the sake of his and John's future.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

The gym is empty save for a couple of ground crew members headed for the steam rooms; they've probably just concluded a shift and want to relax before lunch. Sherlock finds an empty locker, cursing the fact that he hadn't been in a sensible enough mindset to pick up his shampoo and conditioner and a clean change of clothes before coming here.

When he walks into the shower stall area with a towel wrapped around his waist, his hopes of solitude are decimated: he can hear the spray of water. The shower stalls have no doors, and the separating walls are frosted plexiglass. Military culture dictates that prudishness among members of the same sex is unnecessary, and nudity has never bothered Sherlock, anyway. He neither understands nor appreciates what he sees as pointless societal rules.

Walking quickly past the stall in use, he spots that it's James using it. He's standing sideways under the spray, and Sherlock keeps his eyes firmly at shoulder level.

How is he still here? Did he wait for me before getting in?

He has no idea how long his conversation with Colleen and Marais had lasted. It had felt like an agonising forever, but it cannot have been more than a few minutes. Damned Mycroft, making me paranoid.

He is oddly tempted to choose a stall as far away as possible, but that might signal he cares that James is here, wouldn't it?

Deciding against letting emotions dictate his actions, he takes the stall right next to the man. At least the wall goes all the way up to the ceiling, showing nothing but a moving shape on the other side.

He shudders and sidesteps when the first, spluttering spray out of the old piping is cold. In his current frazzled state, the first burst of hot water hitting the tiles sounds like a gunshot, startling him.

Once he's standing under the loud spray, it takes a moment to register someone might be talking to him. "Yes?"

"I said did we get good marks, then?" James asks. Sherlock can hear a mischievous grin in his tone.

"Excuse me?"

"Your little tête-à-tête with the LOCCENT officer and Marais," James teases, but there is a biting edge to his voice now.

Sherlock hums a distracted reply as he plants his palm on the tiled wall on James' side and sticks his head under the spray to wet it before recalling, once again, that he'd been too distraught by the conversation at the sim lab to even fetch his hair products. The soap from the receptacle in the wall will have to do for a quick shower below the neck; he'll wash his hair once the water at the dorm is back.

"I didn't know your job today was to grade me," James remarks more bitterly.

"They just wanted my input on how the session went since I know the Ravager."

"Keep your secrets, then," James quips in mock-anger, then laughs. There is no joy in it; it sounds piercing in the echoing space.

There's a silence as they continue their respective wash-ups. At one point there is an odd sensation of being watched, and Sherlock's eyes wander to the plexiglass between them. It's as if he can suddenly feel James' presence more acutely. Judging by the sounds of the water, neither of them is standing under the spray right now. Have they both stepped closed to the wall? Why?

He dares himself to take a closer look, stalking right up to the frosted glass. Before long, his cock begins to stir watching the shape of James moving so close, yet so elusive. Having to strain to make out details feels more intimate, somehow, than an explicit photograph would be.

Glancing down, he consoles himself with the fact that he's only half-hard, if even that. He shouldn't read too much into it.

It's nothing. I could just be looking at a headless pornographic image, and this might happen. It's just a reaction.

He could be imagining anyone, any man he likes the look of behind that wall.

It's just adrenaline.

He bites his lip and turns away, flinches a bit as the spray of the shower hits the sensitised skin of his cock.

"It wasn't England, was it?" James asks.

His voice startles Sherlock into drawing a sharp, audible breath, and he's left blinking. John always chastises him for his non sequiturs, of having half of a conversation just in his head before involving John in it. It appears James does the same. "Excuse me?" he's forced to ask again, grimacing at sounding like a broken record.

"Wasn't England, the place you went during the neural handshake?"

It happens often to Sherlock that the memories resurfacing in the Fade are those from the Korean boarding school in which Mycroft interred him. The neural handshake brings forth easiest those memories that evoke the strongest emotional reactions, and Sherlock certainly retains quite a lot of unsavoury recollections for that place.

Realisation dawns, flooding him with surprise: how the hell did Moriarty see any of me in the Fade?! He hadn't paid much attention to his own psyche during the neural handshake today since he'd been so curious about getting a peek into James' Fade. Besides, the firewall was supposed to keep everything private. Had Colleen messed up and not put in a proper mental cordon during the handshake? Did she forget something since she may not have had to construct such a firewall in a long time? Colleen had messaged him last night to ask what level of protection he wanted, and his answer had been 'full'. She knows what that means, and it's what she gave John when they trained me. Back then, it had worked: John had been completely hidden from him.

Maybe I was still thinking about Haig after we were already established in the sim? Sherlock wonders. It's the only explanation, and a benign one. "Must have been a school I attended in South Korea. Not a pleasant place."

"I could tell."

"What things tend to come out for you, then?" Sherlock is emboldened to ask. The glimpses he'd caught of James' memories in the fade had been difficult to interpret. What he sees of John tends to be a lot clearer, sometimes as vivid and detailed as watching a video.

"Things I don't like thinking about. Doesn't that apply to every Ranger?" James evades.

To Sherlock, it had seemed odd that a battle with a kaiju had surfaced from James' recollections with little to no emotion associated with it. Why would that one come up if it wasn't that memorable or intense? It had all flashed by so quickly that Sherlock couldn't even identify the kaiju. It had looked similar to the one that had killed Moriarty's partner, but he couldn't be certain. Not with such a blink-and-you'll-miss-it vision.

"Maybe some people have had such easy and happy lives that they have just nice memories to hold on to during the handshake," Sherlock offers.

"How dull," James comments. "You think those people would want to join the Corps if they're so ecstatic in their civilian lives? I think not. Besides, I love a good tragic backstory, don't you?" he drawls. He's stepped close to the partition wall and is standing still, watching Sherlock.

Sherlock turns his back to James, but still feels exposed. The surprise of James's comment about Haig has deflated his arousal, at least.

"I know people are talking about me," James says quietly, his tone a warning flirting somehow with resignation. "If they shipped you off to another base, I guarantee it would be exactly the same. No one wants a competitor on their territory. All I'm asking for is the same chance you had of a new life, a shot at a Jaeger assignment, the benefit of the doubt. So far, you've been the one willing to give me that. I can't get anywhere at Chard if I have no allies. I was going to be the underdog, anyway, coming in from HK. Now they're got even you scared of me with their rumours," he complains with a hollow chuckle.

Sherlock turns off the shower and faces the grey shape behind the wall. It would sound very schoolyard to insist that he isnot scared of James Moriarty. "The Corps has never quite decided what it wants: kaiju killers, or puppets with a nice smile for the telly."

I carved my way to the top. I don't have to help anyone else do it.

Yet… James is right. It would be horrible, trying to adjust to a life at a PPDC base that wasn't Chard. Sherlock knows this place, and John is here with him. James has nothing, and no one, and it's obvious social life is not his forte, either, if he's aware of having raised quite a lot of heckles.

He's just a man. Just another Ranger.

"Aren't we the Corps? Without pilots, all that brass would be sitting ducks like the rest of humanity," James argues.

"There's a rumour that you're too ruthless even by PPDC standards. All you can do is put your nose to the grindstone, play by the rules — at least until they give you a Jaeger."

"Is that what you did? Keep your head down. Sir, yes, sir, and all that?" James mocks, lowering his voice in an imitation of Sherlock's baritone. "Why grovel when I could just prove those wagging tongues wrong. With your help."

James steps out of the shower and Sherlock does the same. He grabs a towel and starts drying his hair by the benches by spreading the cloth over his head, making sure to let the other end dangle low enough when he's leaning down to conceal his privates in case his cock decides to react to James again.

A pair of bare feet appear by him; that's all he can see from under the towel. He straightens his back and reveals his head from underneath the fabric, coming face to face with James. He's forced to look a bit downwards since he's significantly taller than the man. They're both naked, and Sherlock takes care not to let his eyes wander below chest level.

James, however, is looking. His gaze drinks in the sight of Sherlock from top to toe and, save for the tiniest hitch of the edge of his mouth, he conceals his thoughts at what he sees.

Defiant, Sherlock dangles the towel from his hand and juts up his chin.

James sits down on the bench, pointedly close, and grabs his own towel to start massaging his hair dry.

"I've no idea how I could help. Once people get ideas in their heads…" Sherlock shrugs.

James gives him a sardonic glance before reaching for his uniform trousers, neatly piled onto the end of the bench. "They'd believe you, if you had first-hand knowledge of what happened with Hagiwara. If I focussed on what happened back then right as we got into the Fade, maybe I could show you."

"Maybe," Sherlock relents. He sighs and starts putting his sweaty clothes back on. He decides against the t-shirt, slipping straight into his uniform jacket.

"Hiding behind orders and rumours and Watson is easy, but wouldn't you want all the facts to decide for yourself?" James presses further. He stands up and idles close to stand in front of Sherlock, right in his personal space. "I'd need to trust you to do it, though," he points out coldly.

Sherlock leans to the side to grab his uniform trousers, then sidesteps, trying his best to conceal how James' remark just now has caught him completely by surprise. Why wouldn't a man who has been acting as if he reveres Sherlock when he first came in, would cast such doubts now?

"I don't know who's trying to keep me from getting what I came here for. Insisting on a completely one-sided Drift in the sims made me realise it could even be you." James retreats to get to the rest of his things.

As he continues, he sounds quite wounded before leaning over his shoulder to give Sherlock a sly, almost goofy grin. "Then I thought to myself: nah, the great Ranger Holmes wouldn't have to bother. Why would he be intimidated by anyone?"

As much as Sherlock tries to ignore the barbs, they sting. James is right: he has a Ravager assignment and an established career. Why the hell is he tying himself up in all these knots trying to protect himself from… what, exactly?

Just a man.

"I'm not asking you to drop all the simulation firewalls," James entices. "I just… I thought we could meet somewhere in the middle, you know? If I'm going to show you what happened to Hagiwara, it's…"

"You want collateral."

"Such a nasty word. But shouldn't any sensible person ask for it? You show me yours, I'll show you mine?" James closes his eyes dramatically. "You make it sound as if I'm blackmailing you. Which means they've got to you with all the tittle-tattle. Disappointing."

James dons his uniform jacket, then heads for the door, giving Sherlock one more pointed glance over his shoulder. "There's lines you wouldn't cross, and lines I wouldn't cross. I think we're very alike, you and I, and I'd like to prove that to you. Maybe you'd stop looking at me like some personal ghost."

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

John tugs at the hem of his uniform jacket and glances at his wrist console. He has less than ten minutes before his short-notice appointment at Med Bay. He'd messaged Sherlock about it as soon as he'd received word, and there's been no reply — not even an automated sign-off that it's been read. According to Colleen, the simulation session with James had concluded an hour ago, and that Sherlock may have headed for the gym to shower.

John paces the length of the dorm room, then checks again. The message remains unread. He must have taken his wrist console off.

He had really wanted to talk to Sherlock before heading to Med Bay since he has no idea how long today's procedure will take or how tired or sore he'll be after. He's curious and a little worried about how the training session with James Moriarty had gone, and it's worrying that he'd sensed some anger and frustration from Sherlock when the simulation must've ended, but nothing since. Both the simulation facilities and the gym are far enough that it would take considerable intensity of feeling to project across such a distance.

Colleen hadn't told John much, save for that the training had progressed well. In hindsight, maybe she'd been a bit less forthcoming than usual, perhaps even evasive. It doesn't seem like her.

John trusts her. She'd tell him if there was something going on with Sherlock that he needs to know. Sherlock being angry, frustrated, stir-crazy or annoyed with something is hardly news and more of a daily occurrence.

And perhaps the fact that he hasn't been able to glean much from Sherlock's mood just means that he's shielding in James' presence. Taking extra precautions to protect their privacy from Moriarty is something John won't hesitate to support.

He can't delay any longer or he'll be late, so he breathes out and grips the door handle. Worrying about Sherlock has been a distraction from worrying about what he's about to do. Being summoned to Med Bay means that the Science Division has finished programming his stem cells and that they'll be returned into him today. It's not the most outlandish thing by far that John knows the Corps' medical scientists can do — after all, the entire PONS system with its sophisticated implants is nothing short of a marvel. It's just that the implants are designed to enhance abilities, not fix problems, and being an active-duty pilot doesn't allow for a great many of the latter. Though he's aware that this isn't a run-of-the-mill procedure available at every civilian hospital ad that makes him nervous, he's eager to fix his back.

He pauses in the hallway until the door has clicked shut behind him, still hoping Sherlock would make it home right now. He could really use his partner's unwavering conviction in his abilities and their future today. John knows that this complex and probably terribly expensive procedure is a sign that the Corps wants to invest in him instead of putting him out to pasture, but who the hell knows about the PPDC? It's a morbid relief that James Moriarty had been allowed to re-enlist after being benched due to back issues, but he's younger than John, probably healthier. Fitter. And John had effectively re-enlisted once already even if he technically never left the Corps.

Sherlock is always sceptical about the quality of the higher-up decision-making at the Corps, and sometimes he's right even if his cynicism is mostly fuelled by Mycroft-related family trauma. It's easy to get caught in all kinds of doubts and paranoia when living on a knife's edge with the kaiju. Not even Mycroft is immune to it these days. Whatever he thinks is going on that warrants trying to recruit spies at Chard must be a symptom of that.

John walks as slow as he dares to the lifts. They won't start without him, of course, but it's in his nature to want to be respectful, to keep good time and execute his orders properly. He squares his shoulders and turns a corner…

…colliding with Sherlock. John's chin hits his partner's shoulder, and they're both left a bit dazed and blinking by the impact.

Sherlock looks dishevelled and tired, and now that they're in proximity, John is assaulted by the maelstrom of distressed thoughts that must have hastened Sherlock's steps and distracted him to the point of not realising he was about to literally run into someone.

Sherlock gives him a hasty once-over but seems to draw a blank. "Where are you going?" he demands.

"Med Bay. Got the summons," John declares. "They're ready with my cells."

"I'm coming with you," Sherlock declares petulantly.

"Okay," John replies carefully. "I don't know how far in they'll allow you since it's probably all a bit hush-hush, but––"

"I'm coming with you," Sherlock repeats insistently, pivots on his heel and starts marching down the hall.

John hurries after him. "How'd it go with Moriarty?"

"Fine."

"That's what Colleen said."

Sherlock stabs the lift button with his finger. Twice. "That's all she said, then? I'm not surprised." he snaps.

"You alright?" John asks. He can tell Sherlock is not, but he needs to gauge whether his husband is ready to talk or if he needs to fume to himself some more.

"You need this procedure." Determined, insistent.

"Yeah, now that it's on the table it kind of makes me realise how my back was actually giving me quite a lot of trouble."

"Is there anything else, anything that might compromise your piloting fitness?" Sherlock presses.

"I'd have told you if there was. Osteoporosis is not grounds for benching anyone, it just needs to be monitored."

"Osteopor––" Sherlock is blinking, confused, then seems to remember that they had, in fact, had a conversation about it after John's medical. "Alright," he replies carefully, and seems not quite sure if he's ready to believe that it really is the extent of John's medical issues.

They enter the lift that's thankfully empty. John knows no one else can read Sherlock's mind, but he's broadcasting such a whirlwind of agitation that it seems to fill the small space. Being privy to Sherlock's mind is a roller coaster ride on any given day, but something has turned it into a painful merry-go-round, the details of which are whizzing past so fast that John can't grasp any.

Sherlock broods wordlessly until they get to Med Bay, and John senses a rising, emotionally complicated reticence to enter the place even as just company. Why had Sherlock wanted to follow John here voluntarily?

They're directed to take a seat in waiting room of the surgical wing, but Sherlock remains standing, practically vibrating with tension.

"You've always hated this place," John tries to start a conversation.

"Nobody likes hospitals except for people who work in them."

John catches a flash of a memory from his partner: white walls, foreign language, high anxiety. "Korea?"

"Got pushed down the stairs by some older students. Broke my arm."

John catches another flash of recollection. Pain, wet clothes, confusion, then a feeling of choking and panic. There's Mycroft, much younger, wearing an expression of concern mixed with exasperation.

Sherlock licks his lips nervously, offers no explanation to what he must realise John has seen, too.

John touches the back of his hand briefly against Sherlock's fingers. "Sit down. Please."

Sherlock deflates into the next chair. "This is safe, isn't it? The procedure?"

"You saw the paperwork I signed." John offers a wan smile. "They wouldn't risk the few Rangers they have, would they?"

"Everything the Science Division does is experimental. Especially the implants."

A woman who'd been sitting in a corner chair as they walked in perks up at the mention and now, John recognises her. It's Zainab Al-Khadija, a French Ranger with Egyptian family roots. He greets her with a hello.

She's leafing through a large wad of papers with a pen in hand, looking as though she's about to sign them.

"Hello, John. Sherlock," she adds hesitantly. John suspects it's because Sherlock is not at very firm first-name basis with many Rangers. Calling him Holmes would seem rather formal. "Are you two here for reimplantation?" she asks, lifting the paperwork to indicate that's the reason for her visit.

"They've started those?" John asks. No wonder that stack of paperwork she's got is so big.

Sherlock twists his torso to face her as well, and John can tell it's the mention of reimplantation that has caught his attention.

"They're doing it by surname so lucky me, I'm probably first," she replies. "They're sending the appointment info and paperwork to all Rangers in three batches. I got mine two weeks ago, so I bet you're getting yours soon," she says, directing her words to Sherlock.

"My implant is less than three years old," he points out. "I'm not even sure I'll need an upgrade."

"I thought Hammond said it's everyone," she frowns.

"Can't wait," John smiles.

The door to the surgical floor opens, and she gets called in.

"Wish me luck?" She suggests.

"Relying on luck for a medical proced––" Sherlock shuts up when John slaps a palm on his knee hard.

"Good luck and take your time resting up after," John tells her.

They're now alone in the waiting room.

Sherlock is jiggling his knee and tapping his fingertips with his thumb.

Two stims at once is a bad sign, John decides. "Ready to tell me what's got into you?" he asks. He needs to de-escalate whatever this is before he's called in and Sherlock redirects his agitated energy into acting out at the staff.

"I can't decide who to trust. Present company excluded."

"Alright. And what do we need to trust someone about?"

"Moriarty."

It's not what John had been expecting, and it's certainly not a problem he'd care to be solving right now. In fact, it's not a problem he wants existing in their lives at all. "Can we back up a little? You're there to train him, that's all. You are using that training firewall, aren't you?"

"Of course," Sherlock scoffs in his trademark do-you-think-I'm-an-idiot tone.

John knows Sherlock's contrite attitude is not really intended as an insult; it's just a symptom of anxiety. "Then it doesn't matter whether you trust him or not, does it?"

"It's not about him," Sherlock insists.

John can tell his frustration is growing by the minute. He wants to talk but doesn't know how. What am I not getting? he agonises.

"He may have done something," Sherlock reveals. "In Hong Kong. The evidence is inconclusive, but what's not inconclusive is that he's here to land a Jaeger assignment. And I don't know half of the time if he's using me to get one, or being genuine."

"I can tell you right now he's not being fucking genuine." John leans back in his seat.

"And you got that from… what? You've barely spoken to him."

"I don't need to pretend to become his mate to know he's bad news."

"I'm not pretending anything."

"No, you're not. Because you don't, ever." John's heart softens. "You're exactly who you are, a hundred percent of the time. I know you can't read people that well, and that's why you need to be careful."

"Don't be condescending."

John reminds himself that Sherlock had said he didn't know who to trust about James Moriarty instead of talking about trusting the man himself. There's got to be something in that subtle difference to be picked apart.

John gives his knee a pat in the same spot he'd grabbed earlier to shut him up. "It wouldn't surprise me at all if he was trying to get into your good graces to… I don't know… gain some advantage in competing for a Ravager assignment. I think lots of people would see that as a potential strategy even if pilots don't really get to recommend people for Jaeger assignments."

"Marais came to me after, and I thought it was so that she could hear my take on how Moriarty did, but she already had doubts. The same ones I have. But all we have to go on is second-hand hearsay and some questions raised by the incident report."

"Did they investigate what happened back then?" John asks.

"They did. I don't know what the original report says. Someone's changed it after he re-joined. He asked for my help to clear his name."

"And how would you do that?"

"He'd show me in the neural handshake what really happened with his partner before he was discharged from the Corps. That can't really be faked, can it? If I saw what happened, then––"

"Why do you need to get mixed up in any of this? Why's the hell does it have to be you?" John knows his voice is rising along with his temper. He'd prefer Sherlock to stay the hell away from James Moriarty, not poke around his memories. What is this infernal fascination with the guy? John would love to trust that Sherlock can make sensible decisions about people and life in general, but his track record isn't exactly encouraging. Sherlock is an adult, but John can't help but want to protect him from exactly these kinds of people who know how to manipulate someone who might not realise that's what being done to them.

"He asked me, because he thinks my endorsement would carry more weight than rumours."

"Just proving that he didn't hurt someone isn't exactly worthy of a recommendation letter," John scoffs.

Sherlock is now picking at a fingernail, scraping the edge of it compulsively. John realises this issue is really putting his partner in a tailspin. Getting angry at Sherlock over it is not going to help at all. "You can be his friend––" if you really have to, and I'd prefer if you didn't "––even if you don't get mixed up in all that old stuff. You don't need to help him even if we need a second Ravager team," John tries.

Sherlock looks up at him as if burnt. It's as if John has said something he wants to contradict but somehow thinks he shouldn't.

"I know what it's like when everyone else has pegged you down as something you're not. When they read you wrong all the time," Sherlock says bitterly.

"Nobody's reading Moriarty wrong. He knows what he's doing. It's an act, Sherlock."

"Not all the time, I don't think."

Somehow, John is getting the sense that Sherlock's insistence and fears over this procedure are somehow connected to what they're discussing… and to whatever Sherlock doesn't seem to want to tell him. "Is that all of it? That's what's got you so worried? That he asked for your help?"

The doors open, and a nurse holding a pad steps out to scan the waiting room. She doesn't check the name from the device before calling out, "Ranger Watson? We're ready for you."

Sherlock leaps to his feet before John does. "I'll be accompanying him."

The nurse grimaces. "Authorised personnel only. Sorry. You can see him after in the post-op rest area, though."

"Not the recovery room?" Sherlock asks.

"He won't need to go there," the nurse promises.

"It's just an infusion of cells, not surgery," John assures his partner.

"He does need to be monitored for three hours after. Then, discharge evaluation and that's it," the nurse informs them cheerily.

"If it's just an infusion, then why can't I––"

"I'll be fine," John tells him. "We'll talk more after. Lord knows there won't be much available for entertainment besides you."

Sherlock looks disgruntled at being referred to as entertainment, and John realises that what he's said might feel like he's dismissing Sherlock's worries.

And there's no time to fix any of it since the nurse is starting to look impatient.

He rises to his feet, touches Sherlock's shoulder. "I'll see you in a bit. Get a snack or something. When did you last eat?"

Sherlock flaps a dismissive wrist. "Can't remember. Unimportant."

"Sherlock. Sort yourself out while I'm in there. You'll feel better. And no caffeine." John has a hunch his partner will choose nicotine, instead.

He joins the nurse by the door. She leads him into the surgical wing and into a small procedure room with a trolley and an armchair. She then wheels in a vascular access cart. He's always had visible veins that don't shrink out of sight like Sherlock's do if someone approaches them with a needle in hand, so it doesn't take to get an IV started.

A Japanese physician joins them soon, wearing what John recognises is the tailor-made white, high-collared uniform of the Science Division. She has a quiet voice and thick accent, and John is forced to ask her several times to repeat her explanations.

The plan for the procedure and beyond it is simple: once the infusion and the post-procedural observation are done, there will only be one follow-up appointment three months later. It will include an MRI to see how the fracture has healed and and a PET scan with genetically labelled contrast medium to see where the cells have gone and how much of them are left undifferentiated once they'd repaired the bone damage. The Science Division physician informs John that the only side effects to be expected are some aches and soreness in his back in the first few weeks, but as long as the pain is manageable with mild medications, he's allowed to remain in active pilot duty.

"Sounds good to me," John says, and signs the form he's presented with that's the final declaration of consent and understanding of the follow-up instructions.

The Science Division physician then opens what looks like a very fancy heated cabinet on a side table and presents John with what looks like a bag of platelets. It's barely half the size of a normal blood product bag, though.

"Can't believe you can program those buggers to go where they're told," he jokes.

The doctor doesn't show even a hint of the smile, and John is reminded of the way Sherlock seems to think of the Division as a futuristic version of Dr Frankenstein's laboratory.

"You are familiar with typical transfusion risks and reaction symptoms?" The physician asks him. "You are a doctor?"

"Yeah, I'm familiar. Fever, chills, hives, itching, risk of haemolysis, that sort of thing."

"This nurse will remain here to watch for thirty minutes. Then, you can be moved to observation."

"Alright, good. My partner's in the waiting room," he reminds the nurse. "Don't forget to let him in once we're done here."

"No problem," she replies. "The tall bloke with the curls? Just kidding! Everyone knows the two of you."

"Seems so," John chuckles.

"I actually saw Holmes for his jabs last year." Her expression is amusement flirting with dread.

All PPDC personnel are obligated to get certain vaccinations to prevent epidemics spreading in the close confines of Shatterdomes.

"Don't take it personally. He's just not a fan of hospitals," John tells the nurse. Or people.

"You got it," she replies while flushing a set of IV tubing with a balanced crystalloid solution. She then connects the tubing to the stem cell bag before hanging it up on the IV pole and opening the stopcock.

The doctor remains in the room, calmly watching John during the ten-minute infusion. Since the fluid the cells are suspended in must be plasma to imitate physiological conditions, the mixture entering his veins doesn't feel like much. The bag had been kept at body temperature so the only part that feels like cool pressure is when the nurse — who turns out to be Norwegian according to their chat while the cells are administered — flushes the line with some more crystalloid before disconnecting the tubing. She tells him the IV will stay in place as a precaution until he's discharged.

The physician retrieves from a fingerprint-locked cabinet a much larger tablet computer than the standard one the nurse had been carrying. She informs John that she's now accessing his spinal implant to contact the cells so that they'd start homing in on the injury. This takes only a few minutes, after which she locks the tablet back into the new-looking cabinet.

Maybe all this special, locked-away stuff is used also in the reimplantation program, he wonders.

"Be well, Ranger Watson," the physician says courteously. "I will be by later to sign the discharge documents."

The nurse, Katja, takes him to the observation room. It's where day surgical patients go after they no longer need vitals monitoring at the recovery room proper. The space features a row of lounging chairs, a dining table with chairs and a kitchen unit with a fridge and a coffee maker…

…and a restless-looking Sherlock standing by a potted plant.

He calls out John's name the second they step in, looking surprised that his husband is being returned in one piece.

"It's done?" he asks incredulously.

John spreads his arms as though he's just entered a stage. "Ta-dah. All teeming with supercharged stem cells. Which one's mine?" he cocks his head towards the chairs.

"I wasn't aware I needed to reserve one for you beforehand," Sherlock blinks. "I don't know which––"

"Oh, you idiot, stop looking like you slept through a deployment." John drops into a chair, tucks his hands behind his neck. "See, I'm fine."

The nurse takes a seat behind a desk in the corner, her back to the rest of the room, and starts typing up something in the patient records.

Sherlock gives her a suspicious glance, then drags one of the dining chairs next to John's seat. What John can sense from him is slightly different from the waiting room. He has calmed down considerable, perhaps after having some time to think. He's still anxious, but that seems to be now focussed on John rather than a whole mess of different things.

John feels a sudden warmth, then a twinge in his lower back. He presses his palm on the spot underneath his jacket and T-shirt.

Sherlock, always the most observant man in the room, notices. "John?"

"They must've started doing something."

"You can feel it?"

"They're supposed to get to the injury, then start turning into osteoclasts and osteoblasts. Maybe whatever they did to the cells turbocharged their specialisation."

"Has anyone else undergone this at Chard?" Sherlock calls out loudly to alert the nurse. "How can you inform him on what to expect if he's your first patient for this?"

"We can always ask the visiting physicians overseeing the procedure," she assures them. "Everything alright, John?"

"Yeah, it's…" The twinge has stopped, leaving only a radiating, pleasant warmth. It's a nice change to the grinding pain he's had to deal with for a long time. "Doesn't feel too bad, actually."

"You can have some paracetamol if you need it. No non-steroidals since they can interfere with bone healing."

John remembers learning about that during his orthopaedics rotation at medical school. It had seemed like a controversial topic and he wonders if the Science Division has newer knowledge they haven't shared with the medical community at large.

"No, thanks. At least not yet. It doesn't hurt, it's just… weird."

"Weird how?" Sherlock is alarmed again.

"Will you stop?" John tells him firmly. "I promise I'll tell you if I'm uncomfortable or I think something's wrong, alright?"

Sherlock grips the handrests of his chair. "Fine."

They sit in silence until the nurse has finished her charting and leaves.

John reaches out for Sherlock's arm, giving it a pat. "We didn't finish our conversation." He reaches out through their connection. Spending the good part of an hour fretting seems to have tired Sherlock out, since John senses just resignation and residual frustration instead of the painful agitation of before.

"It sounded like you maybe want to help Moriarty," John suggests.

"He's our rival," Sherlock admits quietly. "Or, at least he might see it that way."

"He's not our rival. They don't have any reason to push out an existing pilot pair after it took them years to find one."

Sherlock looks up at him, and John is startled by the look of misery. "He's not the only one. All the evidence of what's going on is so conflicting."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock shakes his head. He's shielding a bit. He really doesn't want to talk about whatever has happened today, John realises. Which is even more reason why he should try to coax Sherlock to share.

"We need to both get reimplanted," Sherlock declares apropos of very little.

"I need it more than you do. But yeah. If you actually listened to Hammond at the assembly regarding the Ravager upgrades, I think he sort of meant that some features would only be useable with the new implants."

The only reason that John could think of that might cause the brass to reconsider their Ravager assignment is if the Jaeger received all these newfangled features that the two of them couldn't use because Sherlock refused the procedure.

"You'll get yours first. H comes way before W," John points out.

"We'll do it together, have our recovery period together. I'm sure they can schedule us on the same or consecutive days."

"Sounds good to me. We can't pilot, anyway, if one of us is benched, so that'll minimise the time we're out of the rota."

The warmth on John's back is still there but a bit more muted. It's like having a heat pack on his back that is beginning to cool.

Once those things have fixed my back and we've been reimplanted, I'll be good as new.

Chapter 14: Over A Barrel

"In war, events of importance are the result of trivial causes."
— Julius Caesar

 

They make a pit stop at mess hall for tea and sandwiches before returning to their room. John notices that the lights they'd switched off have been turned back on and mentions it to Sherlock, whose eyes narrow and begin scanning the room.

The only thing amiss that they can find is brown envelope sitting proudly on the table with Sherlock's name and Ranger ID number on a white sticker. It's not the first time that mail has been brought into the room rather than the pigeonholes at the end of the hall, but only the most important or private parcels get delivered this way. Most messages are electronic these days, anyway, so those pigeonholes don't get fed very often. When the Corps sees fit to print something out, it's usually noteworthy, indeed.

"Is that what I think it is?" John asks.

Sherlock rips the envelope open and slides out the contents. Though they turn out to be over twenty pages of medical information and legalese divided into several stapled batches, it doesn't take long for them to establish that these are the reimplantation consent papers to which Ranger Al-Khadija had referred.

"There is some surgery involved this time, since they have to remove the old one." Sherlock makes a face. "At least they don't have to do anything to the spinal component."

Both their spinal components had been inserted through small incision in the back, and John's cerebral implant had been installed the old-fashioned way, too — through an open incision necessitating removing and then replacing a small piece of his skull. In contrast, Sherlock's implant had been injected into his bloodstream in the form of nanobots programmed to assemble the device in situ.

"Couldn't they program the nanobots to just disassemble everything?" asks John.

"They want some sorts of samples, to see what kind of neural damage my generation's implants have caused in long-term use."

"Can't you just decline that part?"

"Doesn't say, and maybe they didn't even create a nanobot option since it says here that they're installing this edition only on priorly implanted Rangers. Seems a bit backward to sacrifice experienced Rangers as guinea pigs than fresh-brained young cadets."

"Shouldn't they value experience over age?" John echoes the sentiment. He's trying to read the pages Sherlock is leafing through, but the pages get flipped too frequently. Of course he wouldn't have the patience to give them a proper read.

"It's the Science Division. Their logic has often eluded me." Sherlock flips through the rest of the pages with disinterest, then drops the stack on the table. "Not signing anything until you get yours."

"I could ask them when the rest of those will be sent out."

Sherlock hums, then throws himself onto the bed and closes his eyes. His nervous energy had finally ran out during the wait for John's discharge, and it doesn't take long before he starts snoring.

John goes out to the hallway to call Med Bay on his wrist console. He ought to be resting, too, but his back feels fine save for the occasional local pins and needles in the area and a constant sense of warmth.

He gets hold of Med Bay's charge nurse for the shift, who goes to find someone to ask about his paperwork. When she returns, she informs John cheerily that all papers have been delivered today, with surgical appointment times sent as electronic messages.

"But I haven't got mine. The reimplantation program was supposed to be all Rangers."

"Oh, there were a couple left out as far as I know."

"Can you transfer me to someone who could confirm whether I'm one of those?"

John swallows, tells himself this is just a glitch, some bureaucratic fuck-up. They happen all the time.

They've just fixed his back. Why would they do that for someone who's then left out of reimplantation?

He resists the impulse to wake Sherlock up for moral support, realising that diplomacy is the way to go here and a skill his dearly beloved husband sorely lacks.

While listening to the queuing music, John opens the messages app on his wrist console. There's nothing there from Med Bay or anyone else about an appointment. He hurries back in, grabs Sherlock's wrist and stares at the console. For safety reasons, they've set things up so that they can unlock each other's consoles with retinal recognition.

Sherlock stirs, grumbles something and tugs his arm away but John still manages to spot a new message pop-up on the screen. It's from Med Bay, and the subject is: "An appointment has been reserved for you".

John's heart is pounding in rhythm with the queuing music that has shifted to a cheery march. It's got be a mistake, and they can fix it.

He drops Sherlock's arm and checks the spam filter on his own console's messaging app. The Corps doesn't get a lot of spam since their firewall systems are good and the service email is reserved mainly for official within-base business, anyway.

There's nothing there.

John hurries back into the hallway just the music ends, and a voice appears at the other end of the line. He can't decide whether it's a good or bad thing that it's the Japanese physician with a glacial bedside manner who takes his call.

She tells him that they are working off a list provided by Base Commander Hammond, and that Ranger John Hamish Watson is not listed on it.

He asks about Sherlock.

"Ranger William Sherlock Scott Holmes. Appointment made, information package sent out," she confirms what he already knows.

"You said Hammond provided the list, but who made it? Who decides which Rangers get reimplanted?" John demands.

"It is a coordinated strategic decision between Local Command and Global Command."

"But I was just there, today! You fixed my back — why would you do that, then not offer reimplantation?"

The Science Division doctor seems confused by the connection John is making between the two. "Your stem cell procedure was based on medical necessity. You are a pilot in active duty, which means you are eligible to all services the Corps' medical systems have on offer, including experimental procedures evaluated and licenced by the Science Division Ethical Committee. Implantation and reimplantation are not done with the purpose of medical treatment; they are, as you must be aware of, armament technology. The Science Division's role in the decision making regarding them is thus limited to delivering an assessment of medical eligibility."

"Is that medical evaluation done before or after the strategic decision of whether to offer someone the reimplantation?" John is not in the mood to keep the bite out of his tone.

"After."

"And was I on the reimplantation list before you lot wrote up that assessment?"

"I have not seen the original list of Chard's Rift Ranger Corps personnel chosen for reimplantation, but I do know that no alterations were made to it based on things that came up in the medical assessments. I regret to tell you, Ranger Watson, that this means you were never on the list passed on to us from the offices of Commander Hammond."

"Thank you," John manages with his mouth dry.

'You were never on the list.'

He rings off, cards a shaky hand through his hair, then calls Colleen to ask if she's heard anything related to the reimplantation programme. He doesn't share what he's learned with her because doing so would make it feel real. He knows he's grasping at straws, hoping in vain still that this is a mistake even after being confirmed the opposite.

"I don't know who's on the list and who's not," Colleen muses. "All I know is that they've started the procedures; we've got a quiet couple of weeks coming up in the sim lab since so many Rangers will be on sick leave after their procedures. It'll be busy later, though, since they're using this time to do some Ravager upgrades that will make use of all that the new implants can do. Can't wait to see the two of you playing around with the upgrades––"

John cuts her excitement off. "Will all of the Ravager's systems still work with the old implants after those upgrades?"

Say yes. Or say you don't know. Colleen is clever. She can rig things so that my rickety old implant will still do its job. It always has.

"There are several parts of the Ravager's new weapons targeting systems that won't be compatible. And then there's the balance hydraulics––"

'You were never on the list.'

"So the answer's no?" John presses.

"It's a probably not. I mean, we've always had to do a lot of extra adjustments to keep yours compatible with upgrades, and with the new automated calibration software, it looks like we'll lose access to being able to tweak some things manually."

"So, it is a no?"

'You were never on the list.'

John's patience for maybes and ifs has run out. He needs answers, and he needs them now. "Have they talked to you about any reassignments?"

"No, they haven't. I'm sorry John, I don't know any more than this. Is something wrong?"

"I'll talk to you later," John rings off.

Anxiety is beginning to evolve into rage, barely kept in check. Is this how they intended him to find out he won't get the new implant? Why is he having to work this hard to piece together the sordid truth that he's being benched from the Ravager?

His fingers clench into a fist and he adjusts his weight, sniffing and holding his breath momentarily, chest tight with anger. Is there not a single soul at this base with the fucking balls to tell me to my face?

He calls Base Command, gets Hammond's secretary. He's not surprised when her response to his explanation of the issue is to offer a sit-down with the Commander later in the week when he's got an opening in his busy schedule.

"This can't wait," John snaps. "I can guarantee it's more important than whatever paper-pushing he's got going on."

"I can get you in this afternoon at half past two," the secretary relents. "He has a twenty-minute opening he usually spends having some refreshments but if I tell him it's important––"

Hammond likes to boast that his door is always open to his fellow Rangers. He's not my fellow Ranger if he throws people away like this. "Make sure you put that appointment down," John tells her.

When he returns to their room, Sherlock is up and alarmed, looking impatiently expectant where he's standing by the table, fingers coiled into the back of the chair. He must've sensed John's distress from the hall; his eyes had fixed on John the second he'd stepped in.

Just read my mind, John pleads.

He doesn't want to say any of what he's discovered out loud because that would make it real.

"What's going on?" Sherlock demands. "I'll get the big picture faster if you tell me rather than make me sift through the mess in your head. Believe me, I tried."

"Med Bay–– well, the Science Division says my name wasn't on the list Command gave them."

"That doesn't make sense since I'm on the list, aren't I?"

"Yeah, you are. They sent you your OR appointment time and all," John offers needlessly. The envelope on the table had been confirmation enough. His head is a mess.

"And the reimplantation program involves all active-duty Rangers, does it not?" Sherlock reasons.

"That's what they told us, but it wouldn't be the first time they make speeches and lie," John scoffs, and goes to run himself a glass of water. I sound like Sherlock, he realises. He drinks the water straight down, slams the glass on the counter with his back to Sherlock. "Nobody knows fuck all. I've a meeting with Hammond, at least. He must be able to explain this."

"And if he can't, we'll have to take it up with the Science Division ourselves."

John shifts his gaze to his husband and widens his eyes sarcastically. "Yeah, I bet they're going to be really forthcoming. And that's what I just did, basically."

"They can't be the ones to decide who gets reimplanted. That's an operative decision, not a medical one. Yes, they'll clear Rangers for the procedure health-wise, but…"

"…but it's Hammond who allocates resources and decides on Ranger assignments," John completes. "The Science Division doctor told me exactly that. Local and Global Command make the lists and Science Division does the medical clearances."

"Global Command doesn't know us as well as Hammond does, so his word must've been instrumental," Sherlock points out. "As brass goes, he is a relatively reasonable individual." This is high praise coming from a man who tends to think everyone is an idiot except himself and perhaps John. "If Hammond made the list, he can change the list. It could still be just a mistake. He made the list in a hurry, or his secretary messed something up."

That hadn't occurred to John. The possibility of this just being Hammond's human error doesn't calm his nerves down completely, but witnessing Sherlock's determined calmness helps him find some of his own.

He sits down on the bed and starts unlacing his boots, then pauses, shaking his head. "This isn't how I go out, Sherlock. Shouldn't it be my decision when to stop piloting?"

"You know it isn't. How many Rangers would retire willingly?"

"I don't know. Maybe someone whose health got so mangled that they just couldn't hack it anymore."

"That's not you," Sherlock insists. "I know you: you'd go out fighting. With me. And so what if you don't get reimplanted? We can continue with the Ravager, you and I. No reason to put you out to pasture."

"That's the thing: I talked to Colleen and according to her, the coming Ravager upgrades will mean that my implant is unlikely to work with the system anymore."

"What about the other Jaegers, then?"

"What about them?"

"If it turns out to be true that you won't be offered the procedure, which I very much doubt, they can just reassign us to a Jaeger where your old implant will work."

John is startled by the matter-of-factness with which Sherlock has brought up the notion of giving up the Ravager. Earlier, at Med Bay, he'd seemed out of sorts, adamant that they must both get reimplanted post haste.

Would he really give up the Ravager just like that so we could keep piloting together?

Sherlock picks up on his scepticism. "I'm disappointed you think so little of my commitment to you."

"I'm not saying you wouldn't do it, just… it would be hard."

A royal brow hitches up. "And it wouldn't be hard on you?"

"Point taken." It would be like ripping off a limb. During the years he's spent in the Ravager John has realised how much his and Harry's Ravager had meant, too — and how he'd blocked that pain away for years, focussing just on mourning Harry. Missing a hunk of metal seems so petty compared to losing a loved one.

"But would they be willing to reassign us both if your new one does work in the Ravager?"

"What new one?"

"The new implant?" John reminds him. "Earth to Sherlock: they've booked your surgery."

Sherlock is looking at him like he often does: endeared by what he sees as John's chronic lack of intelligence. "If it gets confirmed that you won't be on the list, then obviously I'm not consenting to the reimplantation, either. Not without you."

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

"Commander Hammond will see you know."

John thanks her with a nod, tugs at the hem of his service jacket to make sure he looks his tidiest and enters, back straight and steps determined.

Sherlock had insisted he should come to this meeting, but John had persuaded him out of it, reminding Sherlock how his famous lack of diplomacy might not be helpful. He'd been left sulking in their room as John left for the Command Deck.

Now, as John walks into the spacious office, John wishes he could summon some of Sherlock's bloody-mindedness and utter disregard for authority so that he could push his will through this meeting. Hammond is a Ranger like me even if he's got a few more stripes on his shoulder.

Sherlock had told him to base his arguments on the war effort. The Corps exists to win over the kaiju, and you've proved time and time again how putting you in a Jaeger with the best possible weapons furthers that goal is what Sherlock had told him.

John juts up his chin and hastens his steps.

"Ranger Watson." Prentiss Hammond rises from behind his desk and rounds it, indicating a set of armchairs close to a large window with a coastal view.

To John, Hammond's demeanour seems a bit evasive. The man often calls Rangers he knows well by their first names or at least just by their surname.

John halts to a parade rest, gives a salute. "Sir."

"At ease. Take a seat. Would you like some tea?"

"No, no, thank you, sir."

Hammond pours himself a cup from a pot placed on the table between the chairs.

"Thank you for seeing me," John starts, wanting to be as polite as possible. If this is just some bureaucratic cockup then he doesn't want to call the Commander out on it since he might not even be the culprit.

"I always have time for our Rangers. What can I do for you, John?"

Finally, a more personal touch. "Reimplantation. I never received my consent and information package, and Med Bay says there's no timeslot reserved because I'm not on the list. No one has informed me of my status until I asked, so I wondered if there's a mistake made somewhere. Was I accidentally omitted from the list, or…?"

Hammond's expression is serenely apologetic; distant but sympathetic. "There's no mistake. You won't be in the reimplantation group."

A cold tingle goes down John's spine. It's just as they'd feared.

"I'm sure the reasons are obvious," Hammond offers.

"With all due respect, sir, they're not."

"How so?" Instead of leaning forward with interest, Hammond's tone is bone-dry.

Now that the time has come to argue his case, a sudden trepidation over the monumentality of this conversation is giving John stage fright. I'm not Sherlock who marches on to any stage with the confidence of a tyrannosaurus.

"I've a good service record," he starts, aware of how feeble this sounds. "Especially with Ranger Holmes. We're the first, and so far the only Ravager team. I want to continue serving the Corps."

"Your service record is venerable, but the Ravager's upcoming alterations won't be compatible with your implant."

"I'm aware. There are other Jaegers at the base," he suggests. "I assume they won't all be getting the same upgrades."

"Correct. They will still be compatible with all the implant generations currently in use, including yours."

That's a relief.

"Then Ranger Holmes and I can be reassigned to one of those," John concludes.

"We can't afford to lose the entire current Ravager team. The plan is to train three new pilots for the Jaeger."

John decides to sidestep the implications of that precise number. "Why not train four? There's at least one transfer from Hong Kong who could do it. At least he's being trained for the Ravager."

"I'm aware," Hammond replies. James Moriarty hasn't been officially assigned yet, but even just training him in the Ravager sims must mean Hammond is considering it.

"I'm sure there are more if the Corps just shuffles people around enough," John offers, cringing at the unfounded optimism in his own tone.

"It took us years to find even one team."

"And that's why it makes no sense to stop using that team when it's still perfectly functional!"

"It is true that we have to avoid leaving the Ravager benched even for short periods of time, but we have to think long-term. I know it's not an easy thing to hear but we may have to re-pair Ranger Holmes since he will still be eligible for Ravager duty after reimplantation. You have served bravely and honourably in active pilot duty, John, far beyond the years required. This is a suitable moment for transition."

"I'm not looking for that, sir. I was what someone might call in transition for years before I got back to where I am, before I get back to where I belong. Respectfully––"

"––is what Rangers say when they don't like my decisions."

John tightens his lips in reluctant agreement. "That may be, but I just wanted to point out you're assuming that Ranger Holmes is willing to be paired with someone else. During his training, I was the only one he agreed to work with. That decision still stands."

"You shouldn't speak for him," Hammond remarks. His tone is uncharacteristically cold, and John can tell how uncomfortable he is defending these decisions. Then why the hell make them?

"I'm not speaking for him, I'm speaking for us, with his mandate."

"I'm sure years of successful service and gaining a bit of maturity have altered his work ethic and he sees the bigger picture. I'm certain you will, too, in time. I've received reports that Ranger Holmes has already successfully Drifted with James Moriarty."

"Only in a one-sided sim. It's not a full neural handshake. You and Marais twisted his arm to do it."

"Holmes never even got that far before you began participating in his training," Hammond points out, signalling that he's read all their files and considered his decisions carefully. "He has been offered reimplantation, and I hope he considers his career prospects as well as the fact that what is best of the Corps is best for humanity."

Hammond thinks Sherlock should choose the Ravager over me.

And John needs to believe Sherlock never would.

He knows he should ask what his duties will be after Sherlock's potential reimplantation, but he can't bring himself to do or say anything but rise from the armchair, give a salute and walk away. He doesn't even ask if he can be dismissed.

His fate, Sherlock's fate, and the fate of the Ravager now rest with Sherlock's decisions. What scares John the most is not what Sherlock might choose — after all, he's already told John that he won't stand with their piloting partnership being dismantled.

What frightens John is how much Sherlock might regret choosing John over all that he could achieve and experience if he stayed with the Ravager. If he never got to see what he could do if he was partnered with someone younger, hungrier and with a brand new implant?

Could Sherlock be that selfless and not grow bitter over the what-ifs?

Just as John is about to reach for the door handle, he realises his ears are picking up on some sort of commotion outside.

The door slams open, and Sherlock marches in straight past John as he makes a beeline for Hammond. Etiquette dictates that a dress uniform be worn to official meetings, but Sherlock is wearing just a white T-shirt, his dog tags and black jeans. Of course he'd followed John, and after picking up on his disappointment and shock, made the inevitable deductions about what Hammond had had to say and barged in.

"You will have both of us in the Ravager, or neither," Sherlock snarls glacially at their commanding officer. "Two reimplantations, or none."

Hammond hurries to his feet from his chair. "Ranger Holmes––"

Sherlock grabs an eclair from the tea tray, pivots on his heel and walks right out, John trailing behind.

As they wait for the lift, Sherlock bends the baked good in half and shares it with John.

"What you just did… that was… that was good," John manages, mouth full of whipped cream.

"I did hope for a bit more assertiveness from you. We're the assets, John, we shouldn't be begging for scraps."

"No more Drifting with Moriarty, then?" John stabs the lift button for the dorm floor. At least there's that silver lining.

Sherlock snorts. "Oh, there absolutely will be one more training session. If we can't have the Ravager, then I'm going to make sure he won't, either. If pushing us out leaves them with zero Ravager teams and zero prospects, the only thing they can do is bring us back in."

"How is training Moriarty going to achieve that?"

"I'm going to get the proof that he shouldn't be piloting any Jaeger, let alone be allowed to get his hands on ours."

Chapter 15: Mirage

Notes:

This isn’t quite the shocker of a chapter I was shouting about on tumblr and Discord — simply because I had to chop that monster in half. So, hold on to your hats, butts and Jaegers particularly hard next week. Meanwhile, the first half of it is nigh right here, and it ain’t a picnic, either, since it sees Sherlock diving deep into dangerous waters.

John's words ring in his ears as he jogs down the stairwell to the dorm level below their own: 'Just be careful, Sherlock.'

James Moriarty's room is number seventy-four, third on the left.

Sherlock's conscience is clear. He'd shared his plan with John, whose objections had been surprisingly feeble. John's desperation for changing the fate thrust upon him by that idiot Hammond must be making him a bigger risk-taker than usual since he's allowing Sherlock to go through with this — to drop his guard when Drifting with Moriarty.

Wars are never won with caution, are they?

Sherlock knocks on the door. He can hear loud music from inside and wonders why James isn't using headphones or the direct streaming feature of his implant. This cacophony not something John would listen to — he prefers 1980s and 1990s honest and simplistic hard rock. What James is listening to is more complex: harsh, mechanical textures with an almost mathematical quality, multilayered samples of drums and distorted guitars. It's oddly minimalist despite the density of the instrumentation.

He knocks again. The music stops and the door opens, but no footsteps trail closer. James must have unlocked the door remotely from his wrist console.

When Sherlock enters, he's met with the sight of dim lights, save for a reading lap by the bed, on which James is sprawled on his stomach, book in hand. He drops it on the bed and climbs spryly to his feet.

"You're early," he remarks as if he'd been expecting Sherlock to fetch him from his dorm though he's never done that before. "Welcome to my humble abode."

Sherlock covertly scans their surroundings and decides that the description fits. James has resided at Chard long enough that Sherlock would expect some personal touches but the space is spartan — as though it's a temporary stop akin to a hotel room.

Every surface is tidy, immaculately clean. The room is not much smaller than Sherlock and John's cramped quarters and smells of laundry detergent, monosodium glutamate (a common scent at Ranger dorms since instant noodles are a popular in-room quick meal among the staff) and James' aftershave. The fact that the transparent bathroom door is fogged up and James' hair looks recently and carefully coiffed tells Sherlock that he takes great care with his appearance for their sessions. Was he reading on his belly rather than on his back to avoid disturbing the hairstyle? Every time Sherlock has seen him, certain details have signalled that James Moriarty wouldn't be caught dead without a meticulously planned visual appearance.

What is it all a disguise for?

"I wanted a word," Sherlock starts, painfully aware that the silence may have stretched beyond what is socially acceptable.

James offers a chair by arranging it in front of him as though presenting some precious artwork. Sherlock refuses it with a shake of his head, so James shrugs, spins it around and straddles it, arms leaning on the back.

"I'm all yours," he prompts Sherlock to explain further with a blink-and-you'll-miss-it wink.

Sherlock only barely manages to keep from gritting his teeth. Innuendo on the very edge of plausible deniability seems to be the man's modus operandi. "What you asked me to do… the favour I mean — the answer's yes. But only after the training session, and only for as long as it takes to get to what you need to show me."

The flirty undertones evaporate as James now regards him with tired resignation. "I suppose trust was too much to ask."

"I don't trust anyone." Save for John. "I recognise that more openness has been asked of you than me during these past sessions." Even if you're perfectly capable of regulating exactly how much or how little I see. "And I am meeting you half-way, since I'm willing to do this."

"Wise, but not conducive for a battle-worthy neural handshake." A slight, knowing smile. "And that's why you're leaving it until after the two modules we have left," James deduces.

He studies Sherlock's features with a keen eye and such intensity that the impulse to change the topic becomes too acute.

"Any good?" Sherlock cocks his head at the book James had left on the bed.

James reaches out to grab it and presents it to him. It's in Russian.

Interesting. Sherlock crosses his arms instead of taking it. "I don't know the language."

"You'd enjoy this one. Жизнь и судьба by Vasily Grossman, 'The Fate of Man' I believe the translation is called. It's about a scientist caught between a war and the totalitarian system he's forced to live in. It's about how the choices of brilliant individuals can turn the tide in a war and for a nation." James artfully arranges the book on the table so that the man in the cover image is staring right at Sherlock.

"And what does he choose?"

"He realises winning the war for his own side isn't a real victory because it would just keep the cogs of a broken system turning."

"Heavy reading in a foreign language for someone who ran away to join the Corps from a nomadic culture that probably doesn't value formal education." Sherlock realises too late that this statement might be taken as an insult even though he'd just meant to express his curiosity.

Thankfully, James just looks thoughtful instead of hurt. "Even if they don't value it all that much, doesn't mean I thought the same way. University College Cork, undergrad in the School of Languages, Literatures and Cultural Studies. I left for the Corps halfway through year three, though. Never finished a degree."

"Ever use your Russian skills in service? Maybe they could have sent you to one of the Russian coastal bases if you wanted to see the world," Sherlock suggests.

James flicks a dismissive wrist. "Russia always has enough pilots, no recruitment difficulties since the Corps will be a better life than for most outside of the big cities. Guaranteed pay, which you can't say for many jobs within the country since the civil service and army coffers have been empty for years."

"Largely due to the high tithes to the PPDC. Or, at least that's what they probably tell their citizens to blame outsiders for many issues that are actually internally caused."

"Clever boy. Mind you, they used to have a great legacy in the Corps but Europe, Japan and the US want to do all the decision-making. While especially the shatterdomes in the Americas waddled around like newborn calves, Russians kept their coastlines uninvaded."

"Cherno Alpha," Sherlock nods. The legendary, nuclear-powered Jaeger had been instrumental in that long-term success.

"I met Sasha Kaidanovskaia on a joint PR tour during my first service period," James reveals. "She gave me something."

He uncoils from the chair and goes to a shelf by his armour locker. He brings Sherlock another book, and this one's in English. It's the autobiography of the female half of the Kaidonovsky pilot team, signed. She had lost her husband and co-pilot, Aleksis, in battle during one of the worst internal and Breach crises in PPDC history.

"I heard she committed suicide a few years after that book came out. It's tough on people, losing their Jaeger and their co-pilot," Sherlock offers pointedly. John is living testament of such devastation. The question is, how devastated is James?

"Of course. Did you know Aleksis wasn't her original partner?" James asks pointedly, dark gaze fixed on Sherlock. "She had the good sense to trade up."

Sherlock decides to rapidly lose interest in the topic of the Kaidonovskys. "The Siberian front did break eventually. No single Jaeger could have held ground forever, not with the Breach outbreak that got them to build Novaya Zemlya." Before that, the only Shatterdome on Russian territory had been Vladivostok. Breaches in the Arctic had become more frequent due to the northern passage opening up as the polar ice cap keeps melting due to climate change.

"Cherno was the last of the T-90s," James reminisces. "Have you been to the PPDC museum in Tokyo? They've got the Cherno head there still. It's serving as a coffee kiosk in the memorial garden. Typical of the PPDC in how it treats its heroes."

"Odd that they named a Jaeger after a disaster that was such an embarrassment to the Soviet Union."

"The Chernobyl nuclear disaster? No, that wasn't it," James laughs condescendingly. "No, the name is a reference to the Slavic Demon Chernobog." He flips through Kaidanovskaia's book to the photo section in the middle and shows Sherlock an old painting of a menacing figure of a male deity, commanding an army of wolves and eagles at night. "They believed that no one who was really powerful could be just good or evil — they had to be a bit of both. Chernobog was the god of chaos and misfortune. Isn't that what the kaiju are to us, and what we wish to unleash upon them with the Jaegers?"

James goes to return the book to its spot on the shelf and opens his uniform locker. With his back to Sherlock, he removes his T-shirt and slips into a fresh white dress shirt.

Sherlock realises that James has very few scars despite extensive battle experience many times. It seems likely that he's made use of Med Bay's services in getting them removed. Sherlock has wanted to keep some of his, as has John. They're a chronicle of a life lived, of joint victories.

Instead of remembering the past, James wants to erase it.

Many Rangers are fascinated by PPDC history, and James is right in that Russia had such a long stint of glory days that it's not an unusual focus of historical interest, but James' obvious admiration of not just their past but their present makes Sherlock want to dig deeper. Perhaps he needs to provoke the man a bit to get a more honest, revealing reaction.

"If Russia wants to re-ignite their PPDC glory days instead of being repeat offenders of pissing every other country off, they might want to consider being less bolshie about pilot selection," he snarks.

When James turns to face him, the Irishman looks unimpressed. "You think diversity hires are going to win us this war? Sherlock, Sherlock…" he singsongs.

"Flint and Amarok can hardly be called diversity hires with their scores. The ones Russia picked over them were the ones chosen based on politics rather than skill."

There is a long-standing feud between Canada and Russia over the Chrome Brutus, a Mark-3 Canadian-constructed Jaeger that was to be originally stationed in Russia. Canada had wanted to send along a pilot team trained to its operation during the Jaeger's construction, and their choice was the first-ever Inuit one, cousins Ilisapie Flint and Zeke Amarok. Russia rejected them despite how great a symbolic value their selection had offered within Canadian internal politics and how high they'd scored on all fronts in the selection process. Russia's insistence that they weren't good enough to serve on Russian soil without disclosing the training results of the pair they had selected in their stead had caused a diplomatic incident as well as prompted international protests calling for the purging of ethnic discrimination within the Corps.

"Never bodes well, does it, when some nameless bureaucrat gets to decide on pilot assignments," James replies, straightening his shirt collar under the uniform jacket.

"How would you like them to be decided, then?" As far as Sherlock knows, Base Commanders tend to be former pilots. Higher-ups in Global and Regional Command are likelier to be career politicians like Mycroft.

"Everyone knows who the bad apples and the real stars are," James says cryptically.

And I'm here to determine which label to slap on you, Sherlock thinks to himself as he follows James out the door.

One more training session. Two simulation modules. One neural handshake without safety barriers.

Time to see who you really are, James Moriarty.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

James greets Colleen and wastes no time in entering the simulation room, but Sherlock lingers behind in the control booth to explain their plans to the LOCCENT officer.

The two simulations today will be a doddle. The first one is about finetuning motor coordination at which James had excelled early on, and the second one is just an exercise in fighting in a two- or three-Jaeger team. Colleen asks for Sherlock's picks for the backup Jaegers. To make things more interesting, Sherlock picks Churchill and the Victory. Having a miniature Jaeger and that rust bucket as backup should allow James and I to do the heavy lifting.

Sherlock hopes that getting into the heat of battle will dilute some of the nervousness over what comes after. Perhaps he should even try to enjoy the experience while it lasts since he's had no choice in undertaking it. Pilots paired up for a Jaeger assignments rarely get to practice with others, and Sherlock wouldn't even want to do so under normal circumstances, anyway, but who wouldn't be curious about how other Rangers think and fight? James is cunning, good at improvisation, a risk-taker after Sherlock's own heart. He's also not that great a communicator, making it unsurprising that his prior partners may not have been very fond of him.

Training with James had been a sobering lesson: as much as John's more cautionary tactics have frustrated him over the years, having this taste of what it would be like to let James Moriarty tempt him into unleashing reckless, glorious destruction with little regard to what happens to the Jaeger has made Sherlock realise how much paperwork, injury and other trouble John has spared him of. If Sherlock — and all the others who are sceptical about James' suitability for this — are right about the man's disregard for the safety of his co-pilot, being his partner would be an exhausting life of multitasking. James' partner would be fending for oneself at the same time as trying to fight.

Sherlock can see what LJ Marais had meant with her comments about balance — about him and James being a dangerously explosive combination. It would be a rivalry rather than a partnership.

He watches Colleen browse through menus to bring up the requisite simulations for today. The first one will be based on one of his and John's battles, and it hits with a gut punch how much he misses fighting with John. Why has the Atlantic been so damned quiet? Maybe I need a Breach to purge my system of this macabre fascination with James bloody Moriarty.

Colleen sips the tea she's placed on the console. "I've got a LOCCENT assembly at two. We've got plenty of time for modules eleven and twelve and for a long lunch." She leans back in her chair and crossing her fingers behind her neck.

Sherlock swallows. "There's one more thing I need to do with Moriarty."

"Yeah?"

"I need you to take us out of the system after the last sim, then re-initiate the handshake. Without safeguards."

"What?" Colleen frowns. "I thought you were dead set on those. Which sim do you want to add to the roster?"

"No simulation, just…" He worries his lip. "There's something I need to know. Something I need to find out."

"Is this about what Marais said the other day? About what happened all those years ago?" The look Colleen is giving him carries a warning: don't get involved. Sherlock can tell she wants to protect her Ranger team.

"I don't have a choice. John is… they're not offering him reimplantation."

Colleen blows out a long breath. "I thought so. He called me yesterday. Didn't say as much, but I put two and two together. But what's that got to do with Moriarty?"

Sherlock hesitates before deciding that this is their LOCCENT officer, and honesty just might get her to help him in any way she can.

He juts up his chin and looks her straight in the eye. "The best way to prove they need to keep John in is to eliminate the replacement."

"Does he know you plan to unbar the gate to Castle Sherlock?" Colleen cocks her head towards James, who's doing something on his wrist console, leaning against a white-painted column in the simulation room.

"Yes. And it's not as if I needed to ask for his consent — he's tried to get me to do it since day one."

"Why? I mean, the firewalls are a standard approach with training, and it's hardly surprising that someone in a relationship with their co-pilot wouldn't want to drop their knickers for another Ranger."

Sherlock detests the turn of phrase. This conversation is a reminder that while Colleen is as familiar with Drifting as anyone working closely with Rangers, she doesn't have personal experience of it. She's right, but this isn't an inexperienced trainee being kept in the dark about their teacher's secrets — this is two Rangers of equal standing. What James has asked for is not wholly surprising, nor is it unreasonable.

It would still be completely out of the question if the PPDC didn't have him and John so completely over the barrel… and if Sherlock didn't feel an inexplicable, intense desire to take James Moriarty down.

What has the man done, exactly, to provoke such an obsession? Dared to flirt with him? Wanted to compete with him to be the leader of the pack?

There are things within his fascination with the man Sherlock doesn't like looking at. They're also things he doesn't want to share with John, and not solely because they'd make his husband jealous. No, they're things Sherlock has known are somewhere down there, things that might make John fear him, make John realise he might not know Sherlock as well as he thinks.

There is something Sherlock has feared more than anything ever since he'd met John: that a day might come when John finally sees all of him, not just the things he likes about Sherlock but all the things that hide under the surface. And when John would finally see them, he'd look at Sherlock like he's a stranger.

He knows this fear is irrational: after all, they can read each other's minds. What is even left that John hasn't already seen?

It's not about memories. It's not about the past. It's about the future. It's about what Sherlock is willing to do to win, and the reasons he's stuck around this hellhole and the Corps.

Well, there was the thing with choosing between prison and this, but…

These good years with John had mostly silenced those fears, and the arrival of James has made them rise from the depths again. It's as though the man can see into Sherlock, right through him, into the dark recesses within him he likes to pretend don't exist because John had let the sunlight in and he had wanted to believe John would make those things disappear, that they were never there to begin with. That what once stoked those flames were nothing but the cerebral byproducts of the aimlessness of his life in London. That it was just the drugs that hardened him against the consequences of his actions.

Is there something black, endless and waiting inside him, waiting for someone to invite it out? Something in the margins of his choices, something that has always haunted his life at the edges. It had been his only companion at night in that abhorrent boarding school and in the emotional desert of their home caused by their parents' constant absences that his young mind could not explain away with anything but the fact that they simply must not love him at all. It had flowed in his veins as he filled them with whatever substance he could find to numb the pain.

Sometimes, when he's brave enough, it looks back at him in the mirror.

No matter where he goes, he cannot escape himself.

He knows he's not like John who's genuinely on the side of good, always making the selfless, moral choices and expecting them of others. Yet Sherlock is still not ready to accept he's like James, who only seems to serve his own interests, embracing whatever lurks in the dark of his psyche. Has James made peace with it, decided to make use of it? Does it animate his hands and his feet as he takes down a kaiju? Is it the same thing that Sherlock feels, one that has many names, including bloodlust? Does Moriarty relish in his own desire for such carnage, and would Sherlock do, too, if John didn't act as his moral compass?

Is it the impulse, or the choice made to fight it or succumb to it that defines a person?

James is a living, breathing reminder of that impossible question, and that's why he needs to be taken out of the equation. Otherwise, Sherlock will just keep on being tempted to find out whether James Moriarty might have the answers to what plagues him and how to deal with it.

Why can't Sherlock just be, content with what and who he has found at Chard's Rift?

He loves John. But the longer he continues like this, the less he loves himself.

"You're sure about this, about dropping your guard?" Colleen asks, her face a picture of concern.

"You heard Marais. If he did it to his partner, someone needs to stop him, and I just might be the only one candidate for the job."

Colleen still looks unconvinced. "I know it's none of my business, but does John––"

"John knows what I'm about to do. Needs must."

"Alright, then. I assume you still want to keep your safeguards for the sims?"

"Yes." Sherlock clasps his wrist nervously behind his back and glances through the window. James raises a brow at him, then taps his wrist console to signal the day is wasting.

Sherlock draws a deep breath and enters the simulation room. Out of the frying pan…

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

Two and a half hours later, Sherlock feels considerably calmer. All morning, James has acted impeccably professionally: no barbs, no innuendo, and he'd even asked Sherlock for some advice. It's as though he's two men in one: the person he is in battle who also seems to be the one Sherlock has come to know through their interactions when alone, and then this odd, civil, borderline bland and sometimes comical normal person.

Sherlock is quite certain which one is a mask employed to misdirect others.

There is still a slim possibility that there might not be any proof about the man's culpability in Hagiwara's death. He might be a ruthless bastard, but it's still possible he's not a murderer.

Yet… Sherlock's rational mind and his gut feeling are two different things, and over James Moriarty they are very much at odds.

They're now wrapping up the final Ravager module, when Sherlock feels a familiar but unexpected presence reaching out to him. It's John, and Sherlock can tell he's very close physically. He must've joined Colleen in the control booth. They'd made no such plans but Sherlock is hardly surprised that John might've been so antsy about what he's about to do that he's wanted to come on site to offer moral support — to see for himself what happens when the safeguards are removed.

Come to distract me? he teases John.

Just to remind you why you're here. Mind that tail, John chuckles as the holographic kaiju tries to take a swing at the lower limb Sherlock is controlling.

This confirms that John is in the control booth, and he must be peering over Colleen's shoulder at the displays.

When the defeated kaiju fades out of view, Colleen disengages Sherlock and James from the PONS system. The moment his visual field returns, Sherlock seeks out the control room window. John is there, watching him with a slight smile where he stands by Colleen's chair. He gives Sherlock a nod, and that's all he needs to gain a bit more fortitude for what comes next because it makes him realise what the perfect tactic is for what he's about to do. He needs to control what James sees, and sometimes focussing on a certain event in his life has shown John memories from exactly that moment when they've been taken into the Fade at the start of a handshake. It's got to be James' plan, too: how else could he try to show me what happened with Hagiwara but by focussing on that memory?

Relief washes over Sherlock as the answer becomes clear: all he needs to do to protect himself is to think about John and John only, to home in on the memorable milestones of their life together. That should bore James enough to make him lose interest.

"Want to take a break before I bring you back in?" Colleen asks.

Before James has a chance to reply, Sherlock informs her that he wants to get this over with and then get to lunch.

"With John," he adds pointedly, and senses a flash of triumphant delight from the control booth.

Be careful, John reiterates.

I will. Now shut up, I need to concentrate.

Now that they're out of the system, Sherlock cannot sense any emotion from James. He'd controlled himself in that regard carefully all morning, likely using his shielding skills to conceal from Sherlock whatever there might have been to conceal. James' skills at regulating what his partner sees conceal have been established as immense during the time they've spent together — better than Sherlock's.

He doesn't need software firewalls, he's got his own is how he had described it to John.

Before last night, they hadn't really discussed Sherlock's James-related simulation experiences much at all, since he'd sensed John's green-eyed heckles rising every time he'd picked up on Sherlock sparing even the faintest thought to the man. After Sherlock had declared his plan of finding the potential murder evidence in the man's head, John had been more receptive, more open to discussing what Sherlock has been doing in the sim lab. Having that conversation had provided surprisingly intense relief: it's as if a weight had been lifted when he'd been able to discuss with John the pressure he's been feeling, what a tightrope walk that having to spend time with James has been.

It'll be over soon.

"Initiating neural handshake," Colleen declares, slower and more carefully than usual — as if stretching the moment to allow Sherlock a final opportunity to bail out.

"We're ready," James confirms.

Even before the world around him fades away, Sherlock closes his eyes and summons all the moments he can come up with that make up the fabric of his relationship with John. He owes it to John to keep at bay whatever damaging and embarrassing information might be conveyed to James in the Fade from his side, so he needs his conscious armed with something harmless by the time the veil between their brains is ripped down. Whenever there is a more intimate experience that surfaces, he tries to push it out by engaging the slightest bit of shielding to redirect James' presence away. Two can play this game.

Soon, he's struggling. It's nearly impossible to focus on trying to peer across the black waters of consciousness to the opposite shore of James' mind while trying to curate the exhibition of his own recollections. The Fade won't last forever: he needs to get to what he's here to find out before the neural handshake is complete. Reluctantly, he lets go of some of his control, hoping that the good, harmless memories he's summoned will sustain themselves until the end of the process.

"I'm not getting very good index figures yet," Colleen points out. "Chasing the rabbit a bit, Sherlock?"

He offers no reply. Now that he's no longer clinging on to his own memories like a limpet, he can sense James better. The man's presence is like an approaching storm, a dark cloud in the horizon. It resembles that odd, vague sense of unexplained doom he'd felt after his original implantation right before he'd had an epileptic seizure. Or is all this just his imagination playing tricks? Has his propensity for dramatic interpretation turned James into a mythical villain he's really not?

Just a man. Just a Ranger.

Thought you got lost for a minute there, James comments.

He's startled by the clarity of the voice; it's as if James is further along in establishing a connection than he is. It's the story of their acquaintance, really: Sherlock thinking he's in control of the situation only to be proven wrong by James subtly cleaving through the assumption.

The darkness below — why below? — Sherlock shifts, and wisps of white turn into the crests of violent waves. It's as if he's suspended high above the ocean like some deity, watching a scene unfold on the surface.

They must be in James' memory, now, and Sherlock recognises which one: the kaiju that rises out of the waves is Tailspitter, the assumed murder weapon in Hagiwara's case.

Why are they seeing all this from above as if James had been having an out-of-body experience during that battle?

Suddenly, Sherlock is jerked back into the darkness, then into a Conn-Pod he recognises from the simulations he'd gone through alone. It's the final moments of the battle, less than a minute before James had struck the decisive blow alone. By that time, his co-pilot was dead.

Simulations cannot do justice to the battle that led to Yusuke Hagiwara's death any more than they can to Harriet Watson's death. Yet, seeing it through James feels different to experiencing John's memories of Harry's demise. This is cleaner, less intense. It's still such a chaos that Sherlock realises he'd need several playthroughs to pick up on all the details.

He has only this one chance. It's crushing to realise it won't be enough even if it needs to be. All he can do is scrape together a rag-tag collection of observations to be pieced together like a thrift store puzzle missing half its pieces.

He watches the final moments before the point of no return plays out. Unlike when he'd been watching the simulations, Sherlock cannot find any mistakes, any malice or any deliberate action to endanger his co-pilot. This is simply a battle that goes sideways because they were exhausted and the kaiju they faced was a formidable one. When James realises what is happening as the connection to the other pilot begins fading, Sherlock senses alarm but not panic. Any Ranger should be desperate to keep their partner alive because having to pilot alone might incapacitate the whole Jaeger. It has happened to many Rangers, more than Sherlock wants to think about. Many left alone in the Conn-Pod by the death of their partner haven't been able to lift a single Jaeger finger. Sometimes they were gravely injured themselves, sometimes in such emotional distress that coherent thought and action became impossible. Sometimes they just lacked the aptitude to pilot alone for any length of time.

It's as if James had simply resigned himself to his fate, readjusted in a matter of seconds to a reality where his chances of dying had increased astronomically, too.

What am I missing? Did he not care whether he was going to die, too?

Or has whatever Sherlock had been looking for rushed past already?

When James' last shreds of neural sync with the other Ranger are severed, it's as if the connection to the memory flickers, shorts like a fuse. It all happens so fast that Sherlock has no time to try to pick apart what — if anything — he can sense from James. There's shouting, the sound of metal twisting and groaning. Too fast. Too chaotic to make sense of.

What he senses from James after Hagiwara's presence disappears is… bland. Empty. Emotionless. James does spare a thought to the man while struggling to fight the kaiju alone, but it's nothing but a cookie-cutter, honourable goodbye to a fellow Ranger, an acknowledgement of a selfless sacrifice before getting on with getting rid of the gigantic oceanic pest that's still trashing and roaring in the waves, preparing for another attack.

Even if James had somehow arranged the pawns on the gameboard of this battle so that Hagiwara would meet his end, shouldn't Sherlock be able to pick up at least something to that effect? Triumph? Schadenfreude? Self-congratulatory smugness?

There's nothing but an automaton-like sense of duty. It doesn't seem like James.

How is it that being in the man's living memory feels like watching security camera footage, not a human recollection? Is James so traumatised by the event that he's blocked how he'd felt when he'd been ripped out of the neural sync? John's connection with Harriet had been so much deeper than whatever James had built with Hagiwara, and John's psyche hadn't blocked out any of the pain and shock, quite the contrary.

Time has run out. The scene fades into darkness, and the simulation room begins to reappear, staged to look like the Ravager Conn-pod by the PONS system.

Sherlock curses under his breath. Whatever he had needed to find… it's not there or he missed it.

We just did our duty. It's easier to accept you're losing someone when you're not in love with them, James tells him in his head.

Why does it feel like an accusation? Does James think being involved with a co-pilot beyond a professional relationship is a bad idea?

But he was your partner!

He was a good man, but a mediocre pilot. The death rate for Rangers is inversely related to skill.

It's also related to whether their co-pilot cares about them at all, Sherlock counters icily.

He slams up his shielding, aware that it's likely to push him out of the handshake. It doesn't matter; this is the end of the road.

He'd wanted to find either the confession of ruthless killer or a world of pain and had found neither. That memory had felt like something an artificial intelligence had whipped up after being told to turn some emotionless report into a demonstrative video.

None of what he's seen is going to help solve the issue of his and John's partnership being under threat.

"We're losing sync," Colleen tells them. "Should I try––"

Frustration floods in, and Sherlock is suddenly desperate for Colleen to killswitch them out of the neural handshake. James' presence feels like a spider crawling up his leg, and self-preservation instinct are kicking in, making him want to flee. "We're done," Sherlock snaps. "Take us out."

He opens his eyes before his visuals reorient back to reality and sees nothing but white. He swallows the bile that rises to his throat as his sense of balance is knocked off kilter by the lack of input.

He can sense, albeit faintly, John's concern.

I'm fine, he snaps into the aether.

He's not certain the message goes anywhere, since he doesn't know how to keep shielding against James but let John in.

Once Colleen has shut down the connection and Sherlock is reconnected with his surroundings, he studies the sight of James who's taking a drink of water leaned over the sink in the corner. Most times when they've encountered Harry's death in the Fade and taken a break because of it, John has manifested some physical symptoms of the ordeal such as paleness, shaky and clammy hands. All James is wearing is a healthy sheen of exercise sweat on his forehead. He looks too serene for anyone who's just relived one of the worst moments of his life.

"Got what you came for?" James asks after straightening his back and wiping off a few droplets of water off his lips. He sounds hopeful. "You see now how I didn't do anything to hurt him?"

No, Sherlock doesn't see it, but he has no evidence to the contrary, either. All he knows is that there are discrepancies between the memory he's witnessed, and the simulation records he'd gone through on his own.

They scrubbed the incident reports, but it didn't occur to whoever did that to alter the simulations based on the battle. Shouldn't the unadulterated memory of someone who was there be more truthful than a simulation or paperwork created after the event?

Those sims aren't based on James' memories, but how could James have experienced it all so differently, missed what had seemed so obvious to Sherlock in terms of leaving Hagiwara open to danger?

"You don't look convinced," James points out. "Not even when the evidence is in your head," he concludes, pointing at his temple as though pointing a pistol. "It was worth a try," he shrugs, then heads for the door.

Sherlock's lips part, but he fails to come up with the decisive words to wring the truth out of the only person who carries it with them. They can't all be wrong about him, can they? Chen isn't a conspiracy theorist, and Marais would never waste a talented Ranger, especially if they might be a Ravager candidate.

Something is amiss here. Where there's smoke, there's a dead Ranger and another with blood on their hands.

But where's the proof?

James glances over his shoulder, hand perched on the door handle. "I do appreciate the help, Holmes. It was fun, and I've got what I need now. Question is: do you?"

"Not for me to decide what the Corps should do with you."

"I was hoping you'd put a good word in for me."

Sherlock's chuckle is hollow, dismissively cold. "They never listen to me."

"Think on what I said before: if you want people to listen to your expertise, maybe the Corps isn't the place for it."

"You're working awfully hard, then, to convince them of how irreplaceable you are, if you think it's all a dead end," Sherlock argues.

This seems to amuse James. "Maybe one day, you'll get brave enough to burst your own bubble. Ciao, Sherlock Holmes. Be seeing you."

"Catch you later," Sherlock manages, still reeling from confusion and frustration.

James steps out, and Sherlock hears him exchange a few words with Colleen. Pointless small talk, social niceties such as expressions of gratitude.

When he sees through the window between the control room and the simulation lab proper that James has left, his shoulders sag. It had all been for nothing. He'd risked his privacy for what now seems like a worthless display of propaganda.

John is still in the control booth, and Sherlock can't bring himself to meet his husband's eye or stop shielding. Sherlock had sensed John's scepticism for his loyalties on the Command Deck, which is why he had been eager to prove he'd move heaven and Earth to make things right.

And I failed.

It hurts that John doubts him like that. What does it matter if he gets an occasion erection in the company of other men or gets curious about someone like Moriarty, if John should still be able to feel all the permanent, devoted truth of what's in his heart? They've been through so much together, and if he couldn't imagine Drifting properly with anyone but John, shouldn't John be able to feel that certainty, that conviction?

It had been Sherlock, in the beginning, who'd showed them both what they could be together.

James isn't going to break that. Nobody can.

Even if they lose the Ravager, they'll still have a Jaeger. Some old clunkbucket, yes, but they just need to show others that it's not the abilities of the Jaeger that make or break a mission, it's the pilots. If they think putting someone else in the Ravager is going to equal what Sherlock and John have done in it, they're in for a rude awakening. The two of them will continue extending their kill list old-school, Ravager or no Ravager.

At least this is what he tries to tell himself. In reality, he leaves the simulation room so distracted, so frustrated and so anxious that he forgets to even say goodbye to Colleen. He walks right past her and John, who jogs after him, calls out his name, and grabs his arm in the hallway.

John is relying on him to fix everything, to build leverage that'll guarantee them either reimplantation and a continued Ravager assignment or a new stage in their career piloting some other Jaeger. He's failed miserably.

"Well?" John presses.

"It's not there," Sherlock admits quietly, desperate for an absolution he knows he cannot get from John. This fiasco might not land them in a worse situation that they're already in, but this abhorrent sense of failure is making Sherlock realise, once again, how this had also been about him and James and not just about John's career. Once again, I let him get under my skin. Maybe I was too focussed on him and not what I was seeing.

"What do you mean?" John asks.

"I didn't find anything incriminating." Sherlock halts his steps and almost sags against the wall, shaking his head.

"That's okay," John offers. "You tried. I know you took a big risk. For us," John adds, but instead of reassurance it sounds like a question.

Who did I do it for and why?

Nobody has definitive proof as to why, but Sherlock knows that James Moriarty should not be given a Jaeger. That he should never have been given a Jaeger.

But what does that say about Sherlock that he's the only one who really understands why?

'We're very alike, you and I, and I'd like to prove that', James taunts him in a memory of one of their conversations.

I don't want to be anything like him.

He rubs his closed lids with his fingertips.

"Can't have been fun, being in that arsehole's head. You need something to replace it with," John promises. "Let's get some food into you and then see if we could take the afternoon off for a bit of time alone." He sends an image into Sherlock's head of what time alone might be an euphemism for.

Sherlock hopes that John can sense the relenting relief over the suggestion. He feels so frazzled that he's not even certain if he's still shielding instinctively. Physical closeness is the reset button to his brain, the best cure for boredom and the next best thing after taking on a kaiju crawling out of a Breach. He agrees with John that it might just be the best way to purge James Moriarty out of his head.

 

 

Chapter 16: The Ghost Uninvited

Notes:

I told you at the start of this story to be prepared for anything.

"We've got to get your mind off the sim lab," John sighs and wipes pasta sauce off his lips.

Sherlock is aware that he's spent more time twisting the spaghetti around his fork into birdnests than eating it. He hasn't tried to conceal from John the fact that his mind is like an engine, racing out of control, a rocket tearing itself to pieces trapped on the launch pad as he spins around and around in his head every image, every sound, every single detail from what he'd been able to memorise from the reliving of James' recollections. It's like trying to squeeze together dry sand, trying to hold water in a sieve: the data just slips through his fingers, the big picture disintegrates into white noise.

Did he see what James wanted him to see, or is the man just not as good as commandeering his memories as they had both hoped?

And what the hell had James meant that he'd 'got what he needed'? Sherlock suspects he may not have been referring to just learning how to control the Ravager.

He glances over his shoulder where they are seated at a secluded corner table. It's approaching noon, and the mess hall is becoming noisier. It's not helping his concentration, and the claustrophobic awareness of the growing hordes of people is grating on his nerves.

His brief scan of the space has established that James is not among the lunchtime crowd, but somehow Sherlock thinks he can feel him close, like an invisible eye watching his every move.

He's exhausted and angry — and paranoia is the side effect.

"He's not here," he curses at himself under his breath.

"Hm?" John frowns, and the shift in his expression signals that he's caught a thought of who is being referred to from Sherlock even if he hadn't heard the words.

John puts down his fork. "Let it be," he pleads gently. Does the fact that he no longer bristles like an angry warthog every time James Moriarty is mentioned mean that Sherlock has managed to convince him they're on the same side, that whatever attention Moriarty has directed at Sherlock is not working? "It was a long shot to begin with, trying to get proof from someone who's likely a liar. Maybe he doesn't even think he did anything wrong, regardless of how anyone else might view what happened.

"You may be right." Psychopaths don't feel guilt, do they? Is James one of those?

Or maybe he really didn't do anything wrong, and hubris is his worst fault.

Sherlock tries that idea out for size in his head. Nope, not buying it.

John has finished his spaghetti. "Dessert? You can't run on fumes forever, so if you're not going to eat that…" he nods at Sherlock's plate. "I'll get you a chocolate bar," he decides.

"Fine." He lets his head loll back in defeat.

John is right. I need time out of mind.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Their lovemaking has begun just like this many times: one seated and the other one kneeling, taking a cock in their mouth. Sherlock tries to relax, tries to stay in the moment where he's sitting with his legs splayed on their bed, leaning back against straightened arms, hands planted on the mattress and fingers curling into the bedding just as John slides his lips and tongue down his shaft. John is good at this, especially since their connection allows instant feedback of what works and what doesn't. He knows how to get Sherlock properly aroused so that his erection lasts even if John takes his time fucking him, or if John is impatient for release, they can finish off together with a two-way hand job.

It just won't work today. The blanket is too coarse against his fingers, the room too warm, and he wants to take his boots off, wants to be able to wiggle his toes. He hates the seams of his clothes, wants to crawl out of his skin. John had wrestled Sherlock's shirt off earlier, licked a trail from one nipple to another and he can still feel that line of drying saliva like a branding iron mark.

He tends to enjoy letting John take control, set the pace, bring him to the edge and then force him to sink back without release so many times it drives him mad. He knows John enjoys it, too, getting Sherlock to the point of wanton begging for orgasm.

None of it is working right now. He feels too helpless and aggravated after what had happened earlier to enjoy being at the sexual mercy of someone else's whims.

What's wrong?

John has stopped his ministrations and is looking up at Sherlock, left foot and right knee on the floor and his hands holding Sherlock's thighs in place.

Sherlock feels like cowering from the attention; the last thing he wants right now is for John to act empathetic. It makes him feel so useless. It's sickening, having to feel so much gratitude over so many things coming to John so naturally, when Sherlock struggles with basic tolerance for any kind of human presence on a daily basis. John being the sole exception, of course. John's selflessness right now, it's… doesn't he want something instead of focussing on me?

Not in the mood? John asks with what is probably intended to be an understanding, encouraging smile.

It makes Sherlock feel even worse, this dripping understanding that almost reeks of pity. "Can I fuck you, instead?" he asks bluntly.

It's not something they do very often. Sherlock likes having John inside him, finds it easiest to climax like that with either him or John reaching in to stroke him to completion. It might just also be that they've begun to form and follow routines after being together for several years. Maybe he lets John take the dominant role so often is because it seems to soothe John's profoundly masculine ego, bruised by years of living the life of only half a Ranger. Sherlock has sometimes wondered if this preference for being the penetrating part also has to do with the identity issues John had long struggled with regarding his sexuality. It seems so cliche, such an oversimplification, thinking in terms of masculine or feminine, dominant or submissive when it comes to sex. For Sherlock, something that is essentially about organs performing their admittedly intoxicating biological function, shouldn't be laced so generously with the white noise of culture. He doesn't care about roles or expectations; perhaps John still does.

He doesn't want to be the conduit of anyone's else's beliefs or desires today.

He wants to come and to control how it happens.

"Yeah," John relents. "Yeah, we can do that."

He must sense that Sherlock is shielding, which has never been a very good starting point for sex, but the fact that both their cocks are apparently all in for the idea seems to convince John this isn't just an attempt to distract him or to get things over with quickly.

"Just go slow," John smiles, climbing to his feet and already unbuttoning his trousers. "It's been a while."

Not my first attempt, Sherlock reminds him.

He's deliberately shifting to wordless communication so that John can be reassured by him opening that connection again. Stop shielding, he compels himself. It's John. He takes a moment to just breathe, leaning the back of his head against the bulkhead. He gives his cock a few tentative strokes and finds it's more sensitive, almost painfully hard. He won't last long thrusting into John but knows from experience that his husband will take that as a compliment.

When he opens his eyes and stands up, he's met with the delectable sight of Ranger John Watson, naked on all fours on the bed. Sherlock grabs the lube John had placed on the bedside cabinet and after coating his fingers, his grips John's buttock hard and slides in a finger. John tenses, but not for long; Sherlock can sense a near-overwhelming initial pleasure that he can't help intensifying by pushing his longer finger deeper.

When they first got together, John had been worried about being loud, but once it became a public thing that they were a couple and especially after their romantic partnership turned into an official union sealed with a ring, John has shed such caution even when Sherlock clings still to some of it. Soon, John groans loudly as Sherlock takes to pushing both his index and middle fingers and finds the prostate. John should now be ready for something bigger, now, and the timing is perfect since Sherlock realises that he's finally able to ride the moment, too, instead of his mind wondering. Even after years of having sex with John, Sherlock is still fascinated by the effect he is capable of having on his partner. Is this why John likes to do things to him, keep him keening in lust before allowing him to topple over the crest?

Turn your face to the wall, I want to do this standing up, he tells John.

The tightness of arousal in his belly has become so distracting that he needs to move things along.

John shifts so that his bottom is on offer right at the edge of the bed. Sherlock drops his trousers and his boxers, wondering briefly if he has the patience to remove his boots since they'll have to go before showering afterwards. No, he does not.

John is breathing hard but staying still, cock jutting against his belly. Unless Sherlock does it for him, John is likely to soon grasp it himself, plant perhaps a palm against the bulkhead for support.

Sherlock has his own cock gripped in his fingers, and after coating the palm side of the fingers of his left hand with lube, he gives it a few strokes, making sure to smear the wetness all over the tip, even tugging back his foreskin a bit to make sure it gets everywhere. As John had reminded him, it's been a while, so Sherlock wants to make sure a lack of slick isn't going to increase the challenge. His cock, while a bit longer than John's, is slightly smaller in girth but still requires adjusting to. He needs to take his time, focus on John. That should help prevent coming to soon.

John shifts his knees apart a bit more and Sherlock does the same to make sure he's lined up at just the perfect height. He places a palm on John's buttock to steady him, splays his fingers and gives a gentle thumb stroke along the edge of the furled skin he finds in the cleft. John must be able to sense his intentions through their connection, should be able to tell when he's about to push in, but Sherlock finds he needs that bit of physical contact right now and hopes that John appreciates it, too. He'd like to be able to see John's face but John has mentioned finding this physically easiest for a starting position so he'll have to contend with sensing his presence in his head for the reassurance of closeness he needs.

John groans from deep in his chest as Sherlock pushes in. He's gripping the bottom of his shaft to control the angle and the speed. The tight heat is at first so overwhelming he can't help but flutter his eyes closed before taking John's silence and the waves of unadulterated arousal reverberating between them as encouragement that he's not hurting John, that he can move again.

John gasps, drops his head to loll down as Sherlock's full length is buried inside with one firm but slow stroke.

Oh my god. Why don't we do this more often? John asks.

His presence within Sherlock's consciousness feels as though he's smiling with his entire being. Sherlock's head is becoming blissfully quiet save for John's manifestation in it. He wants for nothing but to seek more of the friction that is making his balls tighten. As he'd anticipated, there's a steady warmth build in his core. He begins to thrust, hand still resting on John's buttock as a warning system if John decides to shift so that they won't get out of sync.

He pulls almost all the way out, groaning as the sensitive tip slides between tight muscles. He pushes in, feels the hitch in John's breathing and once fully in, leans to place a kiss on John's sweaty shoulder.

Straightening his back to prepare to move faster, he's suddenly jolted out of this reverie by an eerie sense of being watched. It's as if an invisible voyeur has slipped into the room. The sensations shifting between him and John had so distracted him from reality that it takes him a moment to realise the presence he's suddenly sensing isn't corporeal rather than similar to how he is feeling John beyond the physical plane. He's blinking, frantically scanning the space around him, but finds no one but John.

The presence he senses waits, seems to meld into the shadows in the corners.

There is no one who could intrude on them like this. What the hell is going on?

Sherlock starts to pull out, to grab his trousers in a sudden bout of unease, but then his knees nearly buckle as a tidal wave of arousal washes over him, enveloping his very being. He nearly collapses against John, pushing inadvertently forward again, his cock sinking deep into the yielding warmth of John and he can't help the pained, desperate groan escaping his lips.

I know what you want.

That presence is now with him, somehow pressed against him though there is no one there. Sharp, invisible fingertips run down his spine, and he shivers. Even if he wanted to move he couldn't; he's suspended at the very edge of orgasm, control lost over both his body and his mind. Now, there is what cannot be anything but a tongue laving against his own hole before slipping a finger in and ghosting against his prostate, gripping his testicles and squeezing just hard enough for pain to flirt with pressure, arousal with a sense of danger.

He knows he should evict this intruder, that he needs to fight it, but it's as if he's fallen through the fabric of reality, no longer certain what part is happening in their dorm room and what part only in his mind — what part is projection and what real touch. The only way out must be through the haze of arousal, so he begins thrusting into John, desperate to end the mounting, agonising pressure that's becoming unbearable. He cannot even feel John right now, cannot know if what he's doing is bringing pain or pleasure or both.

I know what you want, even when you don't want to accept it.

It's the whisper of James Moriarty from the dark recesses of his mind just before he sinks his teeth into the back of Sherlock's shoulder.

That sharp, blinding pain is what takes him over the edge, exploding white light behind his eyes. All his body is an inferno, its nerve endings short-circuiting and synapses overloading. His thighs shake, and the orgasm that rips itself out of him is so intense and so long that he cannot even register his rock-hard cock emptying into John.

Finally, his mind finally claws his way back to reality and he manages to distinct between what really exists in the world around him and what had been merely a cerebral spectre that has now retraced its steps into the ether. He is starved of air, hard-edged shallow gasps being all he manages to bring in oxygen. Drenched in sweat, he slumps against John's back. His ears are ringing, heart pounding against his ribcage like bolting horses. He has no idea how long it takes until he starts registering sound beyond those heartbeats.

When his mind painstakingly manages to parse together speech from seemingly random sound, the voice is familiar, one he realises he should be able to recognise, but he feels too boneless, too languid, near-sleep, spent, achy all over.

"––off."

He did just get off, spectacularly so. Good of John to notice. I should make sure he gets there, too, but Christ, I'm so exhausted––

"Get off!"

Sherlock blinks his eyes open blearily. John is getting impatient. Understandable. He must be painfully hard still. That has to be remedied even if Sherlock might fall asleep trying to take care of it. He reaches down, fumbling for John's cock–– only to find it soft, uninterested in attention.

"I swear to God, Sherlock, pull out and get the fuck off me!"

The initially clipped tone escalates into fury, and startles Sherlock violently. It's like a slap on the cheek, slamming him out of that luscious post-orgasmic reverie onto unsteady ground.

He does as he's told, the words having now registered but not their cause. He's still half-hard as he gently holds his cock, disgusted at the feel of cooling lubricant on his foreskin and semen on his fingers.

John scrambles up, grabs his clothes angrily.

Sherlock cannot understand at all what's going on. "John?"

John turns, naked save for the trousers hanging from his vice-like grip. He wets his lips, tightens his jaw, and the way he's looking at Sherlock is… he's never looked at Sherlock like that before.

John is looking at him with such absolute, crushing hurt only barely kept in check by anger that his mind is well and truly wiped blank with alarm, short-circuited with utter confusion.  Trousers still spooled around his ankles, he reaches out for John's hand in a desperate need to understand.

Though the resistance his attempt to connect meets is not physical, it might as well be. He feels as if he's been shoved hard.

For the first time ever, when he reaches for John in his mind as well as with his body, what he feels is akin to a wall of steel, so high he cannot find its edges.

His mouth falls open in astonishment. John is shielding, blocking him out.

He's never been able to do that.

Something Sherlock has done has been so terrible that it has brought out that dormant, self-protective ability for the first time.

"I can't believe you," John growls, shoulders tight and eyes so sharp and cold it feels as though they're slicing into Sherlock's skin. "You absolute fucking wanker. That's why you were shielding. That's why you weren't really focussed on me during any of that. That's why you've been shielding all along when he's around."

Shifting the words in his head, Sherlock is still struggling to parse the big picture. "I–– what––"

Then, he understands.

The realisation is a searing hot iron sinking into his chest. He had been shielding before whenever Moriarty was around to keep the fact of how much he was thinking of the man to himself. Of course John would have noticed.

He hadn't been shielding moments ago. And that's what had left the door open.

It wasn't me. He was here, somehow. In my head.

So lost in his own lust, he hadn't even said no. He hadn't tried to push Moriarty away. He'd been too overwhelmed to do anything but surrender.

And John had felt all of it. He'd seen all of it, including the last image in Sherlock's mind before orgasming, and it had been another man.

John has climbed into his trousers without even wiping any lube off, grabbed a T-shirt off the back of a chair. He marches out and slams the door in his wake.

Sherlock nearly trips as he hurries to pull his own trousers up, curses as his trembling fingers fumble with the zipper and his belt. He doesn't bother to grab a T-shirt before hurrying into the corridor.

It's empty. John has stormed out at such speed that he must have quite a lead already. Sherlock hears the lift doors close; no use chasing after him now without knowing what floor he's heading for.

Sherlock sags against the wall, lets his head collide with the hard, cold concrete.

He's messed up worse than he could have ever imagined.

Now that the momentum of trying to follow John is gone, reality is hitting full-force. He should have admitted to himself earlier that James Moriarty is a flame he keeps wafting his palm through, pretending he won't get burnt if he lingers longer and longer.

How the hell did he Ghost Drift with me? Why couldn't I shield, push him away?

Sherlock knows why, though he's loathe to admit it. He'd been too long gone, too drunk on his own desire, too overwhelmed by the pure lust projected at him.

Now John thinks he had willingly done that with Moriarty while making love.

He pinches his eyelids shut, tries to find John, but it feels like trying to navigate in darkness. He can sense the faintest other presences in the building; all Rangers can sometimes pick up on others connected to the system but that's not yet considered Ghost Drifting. Any level of control over that sort of a connection or increasing its intensity would require not just an exceptional level of Drift Compatibility, but perhaps also a certain kind of attraction, more likely to be of romantic than platonic kind. There are no reports of intense Ghost Drifting even between twins, just Rangers in romantic relationships.

I'm not in a bloody relationship with James!

He thought that he'd been shielding from the outside world, protecting their private moment. He's assumed he could keep it up instinctively during their lovemaking.

Instead, without even noticing, he'd left all his defences wide open, and a ghost had walked in the door.

Sherlock has thought of his ability to shield as his gift to John since privacy and trust are so important to him, even more so than to Sherlock. By letting John keep his thoughts to himself sometimes and by shielding both their minds against the world when they share an intimate moment, he'd believed he was keeping them both safe.

Now, that gift has turned into a poisoned apple with James Moriarty's teeth marks.

 

 

Chapter 17: Exit Wounds

Notes:

Chapter 16 left both readers and our Rangers stunned and shocked. Now, we get to find out what John thinks just happened and what it means for his future.

You're fighting an endless war
Hunting a miracle
And when you reach out for the stars
They just cut you down

Looking through the glass
Cannot recognize the ghost that you're seeing
Every step you take on the burning sand
Slowly sinking deeper

— Within Temptation: Endless War

 

"Whisky. Neat."

The mess hall attendant's eyes go wide at John's tone and whatever she seems to read on his expression. She then wastes no time in bending down to a cabinet below the sales counter to retrieve a bottle of Famous Grouse. It's not what John would choose, but beggars can't be choosers in a military base looking to cut corners. I'll take whatever poison I can get right now. Not for the first time, he wishes he'd bought his own bottle to keep stored at the counter like many Rangers who prefer something of higher quality.

Not that it matters right now. What John is after is quantity.

"Double," he adds angrily.

The attendant, a young Portuguese woman, licks her lip nervously and places the bottle on the counter. "We are not really supposed to––"

John grabs the bottle and marches out.

She tries to get his attention by calling out "Ranger, sir?" but he's already in the corridor, gripping the neck of the bottle hard.

 

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

He wanders aimlessly around the public spaces at the entrance level of the Shatterdome, bottle in hand, the people he passes unseen, until he finds himself outside on the aviation deck. Solitude a priority, he climbs up to the scenic platform. It's empty at this afternoon hour; most Rangers and staff will be attending to official duties since it's a weekday.

Feeling like a brittle heap of bones as the steam of his rage begins mingling with anxiety and hurt, John drops down to one of the benches, opens the nearly full bottle and drinks like a man dying of thirst. He hasn't stopped to think since he slammed himself out the door of their room and stormed down the stairs without any direction. All he knew is that he wanted to get as far away from Sherlock as possible, so far that he would no longer sense their connection within the din of the cramped base.

He opens the bottle, shoves the cap in his uniform trouser pocket and ingests a large mouthful. He then places the bottle next to him on the bench, leans his elbows on his knees and cradles his face on his palms. Jesus fuck.

There is a promise he'd made to himself years ago: that he wouldn't go the route his father and Harry had taken where every joy, every sorrow, every shock and eventually most moments free of duty were marinated in ethanol but right now, if he had a substance even stronger than the whisky at his disposal, he'd ingest it without a second thought.

He straightens his back and drops his palms, blinking in the garishly bright sunlight. Shifting in his seat, he can feel the remnants of lube and Sherlock's orgasm between the buttocks. He forces himself to breathe hard and slow, fighting the urge to rip off his clothes and hurtle over the edge of the platform into waves to rid himself of not just the physical traces of what has just happened but the entire experience. It would have hardly been any worse if James Moriarty had stood physically in the room, watching them.

He had thought Sherlock knew him — intimately, and better than anyone — but that hardly helps if he doesn't care about John's feelings. Sherlock is clever, but apparently so spectacularly ignorant it's even hard for John to fathom right now. How the fuck could the think he could just do that, think about someone like James when we're––

It almost feels like a fever dream, what had happened moments ago.

Almost.

A bitter parody of a chuckle crosses John's lips. Sherlock would say that what just happened is nothing but biology, so it's pointless to make such a big deal out of it. He's never understood why it's been difficult for me to even start this relationship. Maybe he doesn't understand why what he just did is so wrong. Probably never will.

John shakes his head. He's not going to let his partner off the hook this time. Sherlock is free to be as callous, uppity, rude, unempathetic and egotistical as he wants at other people but not with him.

I don't beg for scraps from someone else's table.

Not falling for the lure of alcohol isn't the only promise he'd made to himself long ago: he'd sworn off men, too. What the hell kind of use would it be to fall in love with one if he wasn't even going to come out of the closet and do something about that attraction? A quick grope in the dark on a shore leave would have to do. He thought it would be enough… until Sherlock had barged into his life and, with his usual finesse, grace, respect for the boundaries of others, proven to John that they could be great together.

In a way, this is very on-fucking-brand, doing whatever he bloody likes, never mind me.

John is now beginning to realise he must have been pretty naive thinking Sherlock Holmes could be capable of any kind of change. Capable of growing the fuck up and caring about anything but himself? Yeah, nope. You're nothing but a machine, are you. Two peas in a pod, you and that other fucker.

Even though John had wanted to dull the pain with the drink, the crushing realisation now hits full force despite the cheap whisky still burning on his tongue: he's being pushed out of the Corps, but at least he'd thought he'd have Sherlock.

He senses a tentative attempt from Sherlock to find him. Instead of reaching out as he always has he imagines a brick wall, an impenetrable fortress around the core of his being, and the presence disappears, pushed out by John's sheer will to keep his thoughts to himself for once.

He laughs again, the bitter and hollow sound drowned out by the sea wind. Who knew that all it would take for me to learn how to shield was utter, absolute betrayal.

He hadn't even realised doing it at first as he struggled back into his clothes and removed himself from the dorm. He'd thought initially that it was Sherlock blocking him out in panic and embarrassment, but once he'd calmed down marginally in the queue for the mess hall drinks counter, he'd realised this felt different. Now, shielding is getting easier by the minute and he finds he can adjust the level instead of it being a black-and-white, on-or-off kind of thing.

He takes another swig from the bottle. No, the taste isn't improving on repeated exposure.

I should have known. I should have looked at the facts and stopped lying to myself. Ever since James had arrived, when John and Sherlock had moved in the public spaces of Chard's Rift lately, Sherlock has been scanning the crowd as if looking for someone. Every time there's been an opportunity to spend time with Moriarty, Sherlock has taken it. Was it even true that Marais twisted his arm into the simulation sessions?

Even Mycroft had commented on their attraction early on, and recalling that conversation makes John's innards twist with mortification. God, I'm such a fucking idiot. Even that poncy strut saw through what was going on, right from the start, while I smiled like an idiot and pretended my husband was not flirting with someone else, nosirree.

He hasn't felt this alone in years. Not since Tom Wallis asked him to have a look at a certain recently arrived, misbehaving and poorly cadet.

He should have just stuck to the role he'd carved for himself after Harry died.

He takes another mouthful of the whisky as an errant memory floats in. Harry, cradling a vodka bottle smuggled into her dorm room, lamenting a break-up with her usual eloquence and grace. 'Better to have fucked and lost, Johnny, than never to have fucked at all…'

Harry is the only one he should be Ghost Drifting with. If only he could connect right through to the afterlife so that his sister could tell him what to do right now.

A seagull lands on the salt-crusted deck nearby, cocks its head hopefully. It must be wondering if John is carrying food. John thinks the bird looks a bit sad, standing there shifting its webbed feet. Or do gulls just all have sad-looking faces by default?

John knows that sailors used to think that seabirds carried the souls of those who've lost their lives at sea. Harry qualifies, doesn't she? He flaps his hand at the gull and its hops a few inches away from him. I'm not talking to a fucking bird, he decides, and takes two large gulps of whisky.

Harry never got to see her career to the end, never got to retire. Maybe it would have been best if they'd both left this Earth on the same day. 'Best go out with a bang than die in diapers in a care home eh, Johnny?' she used to say whenever his worries threatened to escalate to panic in the Conn-Pod. Somehow, her devil-may-care attitude was infectious. It always helped.

All those recent jokes about John's age, about the aches and pains of his body come to mind, now. If Sherlock is really so opportunistic as to leave me for someone younger and hungrier to continue his piloting career, then why would he tell Hammond it's either both of us or neither? Why bother pretending he'd stand by me, no matter what?

Had it all been just some dog and pony show to make him think Sherlock would always choose their partnership even if Sherlock never really believed that they had a realistic chance of continuing to pilot together?

What do you want from me? John asks the empty air and the seagull still coyly watching him. It's a question he should be asking Sherlock, but he's certainly not about to drop his guard and let him in. Time for him to see how he likes being shut out. It's always been unfair that John, who guards his privacy more carefully, hasn't had the ability to guarantee it for himself. He's had to rely on Sherlock's ability to shield and Sherlock's discretion.

Sherlock's discretion and tact — now that's a proper joke.

"You want him in our bed, hm? Well, you're not getting it–– him," John mutters. Trying to adjust his eyes to look further out into the distance is a bit slower than normal. It means the whisky is working.

But it's not his choice, though, is it, who Sherlock has in Sherlock's bed? All John can do is remove himself from there. For all I know, he may have marched right to that smarmy psycho's dorm and finished what they'd started.

The seagull leaves, having given up hope of a meal from John.

He taps the bottle against his calf, trying to think, but the whisky is now hitting full-force, grinding his intellect to a halt. He welcomes the cottony haze and the vertigo. He wants… wants to not feel.

He'd have to pass out to achieve that state, though, because the truth that keeps trying to lance through is that he's lost everything.

For starters, he's effectively lost his Ravager assignment. When the upgrades are installed, his implant will belong in a museum and not the Conn-Pod he's manned for years. And if there is no other compatible partner available for him, why would they even try to reassign him to any other Jaeger? And if I'm no longer worthy of the Ravager, why would they give me any other Jaeger if they think I'm too old and decrepit to be reimplanted?

He realises that if Sherlock won't agree to being reimplanted without him, and John won't pilot with him, Sherlock can't continue with the Ravager, either. That serves him right.

Or was it just smoke and mirrors when Sherlock insisted on refusing reimplantation? Maybe he just wanted to play time, get John to accept the idea of dismantling their co-piloting team before landing the even more decisive blow of getting the new implant, after all, so he could join forces with Moriarty?

Did he lie to me? Did he just want to chase me away before getting reimplanted and partnering up with Moriarty?

John decides that such a plan would have required Sherlock to consider his feelings and bother to try to spare them. No, I don't think so.

This is all getting so complicated that it's making John's head spin. Sherlock is very bloody clever, but would he be that Machiavellian?

No, John decides. He wouldn't bother, because he doesn't care about my feelings enough to try to cushion a blow like that. He's just doing whatever the fuck he wants. He once blew up half a block of flats because he was bored, didn't he?

It had been such a relief, the way Sherlock has stood by him these past few days. It's so hard to believe it may have been just an attempt to conceal his attraction to James — pitiful placation for a has-been who Sherlock considers so unobservant and weak that he needs to be literally shielded from the crushing truth?

It'll kill me if I lose him but right now, I want to punch his daylights out.

John continues the inventory of things that have slipped away.

There's his home — that's probably gone, too, since there's no way he's walking into that dorm room again, let alone sleeping in the same bed as Sherlock.

He will also lose being a Ranger. Not in title, but in effect. He'll go back to being a useful has-been. He's lost his sister and neglected her memory for years because he'd thought that with Sherlock, he could live again. Now, he'll have to go back to that pathetic half-existence as being a Ranger but not a pilot. And it'll be worse if he has to watch Sherlock with that–– that––

He won't do it. If they want me out, I'll be out alright. I'll fucking retire. I'll go on strike. They can throw me in the brig for all I care. I'm not watching Sherlock with that––

He has no words for what James Moriarty is. John should be enraged at him, too, and of course he is — but none of this would have happened if Sherlock hadn't let it. Sherlock is the one who's been pretending to be in a relationship with him while courting someone else. What was that bullshit at the dojo, Sherlock, hm? Fucking foreplay?

The whisky bottle's bottom is approaching fast. It's a pity he couldn't grab two. It's unlikely the attendant will report him; the staff tend to be very wary of filing complaints against Rangers even when there is solid cause.

John is aware that his stage of inebriation has progressed from tipsy to firmly drunk and will soon be approaching sloshed. It's quite liberating, really.

"Wha's 'e got that you don't think I don' have?" he mutters into the sea wind.

James is young…er. Handsome…er? And he's going to have a Jaeger assignment longer than what I've got left.

John's heart slams against his ribcage as his thoughts screech to a halt upon realising that maybe his days in the Ravager are not just numbered but gone. Will he want to walk into the Conn-Pod with Sherlock ever again after this? After having a threesome with Sherlock's little fantasy of being fucked by James bloody Moriarty? No, I don't.

John wants a shower. No, he wants to shower his brain. Bleach it. Throw a match in after.

"D'you think I wouldn't notice or care? You're'n idiot," he mutters, lips curled around the mouth of the bottle and finishes it off.

Putting it down on the bench, he squints at his wrist console. He'd turned it off when he'd sat down, but a push notification is flashing. There's only two types that will come through even if a console has been turned off.

Breach alert. Fuck.

He cards his fingers through his hair, nearly poking himself in the eye with his thumb in the process. What if the alarm turns into a kaiju attack?

Relationship crisis aside, John suddenly realises there is no way in hell that he'd ever disregard an order. Not when a kaiju could threaten this base and the innocent people living on the coast.

"'m still a bloody Ranger."

He needs to be ready to go once more unto the breach. Literally, he giggles morbidly. It's best he hasn't had time to deal with Sherlock after his–– his–– after that utter, complete bullshit stunt he just pulled–– I'm going to–– that fucking Moriarty.

If there is a kaiju and he doesn't show up, would they summon that bloody weasel to take over his spot by Sherlock's side? That idea makes it clear what John needs to do: splash some cold water on his face, drink a few cups of coffee and report for duty if the call to action comes. I can be professional. Or is it a professional? A, singular, me, since Sherlock is fucking useless.

If he could only get down these stairs first. He trips on the last one leading to the aviation deck, and the whisky bottle he'd been holding by the neck rolls away. The waves are high, making the deck vibrate, and a gust of wind sends the bottle clattering over the edge into the churning waters.

"John?"

He clambers painstakingly to his feet, right shin smarting since it had hit the edge of the last stair somehow. He's forced to blink hard to focus so he could recognise who's talking to him. "Tom?"

Wallis looks both perplexed and slightly amused. "Now, what's going on here?"

"I need to––" What was it that he was supposed to do? Drink coffee?

"I need to gret geady," John declares. He tries to pat droplets off his trousers; the deck he'd tumbled onto knees-first had been wet.

Wallis is now wearing frown lines that Mycroft would be proud of. "Are you–– um, we havin' a bit of an afternoon bender? I thought you and Sherlock were on duty."

"Shhherlock––" John curses. "'S a fuckin' idiot."

Wallis chuckles mirthfully. "Alright, then."

John dangles his console-adorned wrist in the air. "I've get–– got to be getting my uniform. No, I mean, my armour. In the dorm," he explains further. Fuck. Sherlock might still be there. Maybe Tom could get it for him. "I–– can you need––"

"John, you can't fight in that state," Wallis cut him off sternly. "You realise that, don't you?"

John lifts up a forefinger. "No, no, no, no, no. I jus' need som' coffee. I can deal it with it, I can deal with him––"

"John. You show up like this at the Underdome, you'll get suspended. Or worse."

"I'm 's good as dead, anyway. Yeah." The tears come, but he doesn't realise it until one dangles off his nostril and makes it itch. He wipes it off, realises he's lost it in front of Tom Wallis of all people, and starts sobbing from sheer despair and mortification.

I can't live here and watch Sherlock be with someone else.

He can't pretend to be useful plastering people's scratches or whatever they'd charitably let him do after ending his piloting career, and watch Sherlock take the Ravager into battle with Moriarty.

How could he have ever believed Sherlock would settle for some other Jaeger? And how could he have been so stupid as to think Sherlock would settle for him forever?

He hates it here, always has. The only thing that makes him want to stay must be the Ravager, because it clearly isn't me.

He leans a palm on the concrete wall of the Shatterdome to keep himself upright. Wallis watches him with open concern, and John wants to punch him so that he'd feel less pathetic.

He wipes snot off his nose with the side of his palm, then squeezes his eyelids shut as more heavy pearls of tears squeeze out.

"'m still a Ranger," he tells Wallis, voice wavering. "I am."

"No one's said otherwise," Tom assures him.

He then claps a hand on John's shaking shoulders. "We need to get inside. They're closing the deck."

John looks up, tears still clouding his vision as though underwater. Through the drunken haze he recalls that a Breach alarm requires emptying all battle decks of non-essential personnel and closing the ventilation hatches. As Rangers, they are allowed at most spaces in the Base even during an alarm, but John wants to get away from people. He shouldn't be seen in this state. Going inside doesn't seem like a good idea.

Can't he just sit out here, watch his world burn to the ground?

"I'll take you home," Tom suggests, "and call in sick for you."

"Ne'er called sick ever before. And 'm not going home. Not to him."

"Then my couch will have to do."

Wallis practically props him up against the wall by the service lift off the main entrance and calls Colleen on his own wrist console. He informs the LOCCENT officer that John is acutely ill and thus unavailable for a deployment if an incursion alarm is sounded in the next twelve hours.

Listening to the call, John feels as if someone has their fingers around his neck, squeezing tight. This is the proper way to solve the situation, one that will spare him of disciplinary action since no one is really going to come check the nature of his illness or whether he's reported to Med Bay for it. He's a Ranger, and Rangers are assumed to be trustworthy.

He snorts. Trustworthy like Sherlock? Or Moriarty? What a fucking joke.

John knows Wallis could and should have reported him for this. As the Fightmaster, the man has a moral duty to do exactly that, but right now, he's being a friend instead and for that, John is grateful.

"It's just shit luck, mate, that there was an alarm today," Wallis makes conversation as he summons the service lift. "Remember Haugen's birthday party last year?"

A Norwegian Ranger who had been transferred to Lima a few months later had celebrated his birthday with a crate of vodka from his home country. Had there been a kaiju incursion that evening, it was doubtful they could have manned more than one Jaeger, and even that one would have staggered around quite clumsily. The brass knew about the incident but seemed to decided that, for the sake of camaraderie and morale, it was best not to throw nearly all of Chard's Rift Rangers into the brig for being inebriated on duty — or for failing to report such indiscretions.

John's embarrassment is profound and growing worse by the minute, because he's slowly parsing together that he really had been trying to report to duty in a state that would have probably both tarnished and ended his career.

"There's not reinst–– replant––mplanting me," he complains to Wallis. "They're not. I would, but they never sent him–– me the papers."

When the lift arrives, John nearly trips again, and Wallis duck-walks him into it. "They're not?"

John tries to spread his arms, but they seem to sprawl all over. "Too old. Too creaky."

"I'm declining, too," Wallis sighs. "Not piloting again, anyway, and I'm not doing sim training with the cadets so why bother. Marais is doing it since she kind of needs to."

John blinks incredulously. "They 'ffered it to you?" Wallis is older than him and has been out of the pilot rota for over a decade.

How the hell is Tom Wallis eligible and not him? Someone must really hate me.

That thought brings on another bout of tears. John leans his forearms on the scraped metal of the lift wall and tries not to give into sobbing, but that just makes him hiccup, instead.

"Jesus, John. Not going to ask what's happened, not if you don't want me to, but… You're still in active duty. Why wouldn't they reimplant you?"

John huffs and pushes his palms against the wall to stand upright again. Well, almost. He's swaying a little. Maybe the lift is broken.

"Ask Hammond. Not that he wants to de-plane… esplain himself. I asked."

"That doesn't seem like Pete."

John has heard very few people call Prentiss Hammond by that nickname. He should have remembered that Wallis and Hammond are friends, having served together during their pilot duties. They were never Drifting partners, however. "He's turned into some bur--burs--bureauract like the rest. Like the Mars––shal." He flaps a hand. "You know how it goes."

Defeated, John stares at the wall until the lift's mechanical voice states that they've arrived on the sixth floor.

"Come on." Wallis grabs his arm, and John lets himself be led meekly down the corridor. The floor Wallis lives on has an even mustier smell than his and Sherlock's dorm level.

"Water?" Wallis offers once they're inside his quarters and he's deposited John in a chair.

"'s bigger than ours," John grumbles. "Yeah, I'll take some."

"Perks of a Fightmaster," Wallis replies and runs John a large glass of water from the tap. The water at the base carries a slight smell of chlorine and an oddly chalky taste for desalinated seawater.

Sherlock prefers bottled.

John's chest constricts with the weight of the realisation again of what has happened, and it's hard to even breathe. Everything, absolutely everything at this base, in John's life, is connected to his partner. If it's over between them, he can't stay here.

I've lost everything.

The water suddenly makes him nauseous, and he puts the glass on the coffee table, then drops down to lie on his side on the couch.

"You should just sleep it off. Stay as long as you need. There's blankets in the cupboard?" Wallis suggests.

"'s fine," John mutters, eyes closed. The room is spinning, but he doesn't want to be awake any longer. Too many thoughts.

Swallowing down bile, he wonders if the nausea will get so bad he'll need to drag himself to the toilet.

Wallis gets a call on his wrist console. It sounds likely that he's speaking with someone monitoring the situation on the battle deck. John doesn't focus on the words, just idly registers his fellow Ranger's tone until he hears his own name: "Yeah, Watson's out for this one. Right. Good luck."

"Wha's going on?" John mutters, keeping his eyes closed. He wants to kick off his boots but is too tired to lift a single finger.

He does sit up, startled, when the kaiju incursion alarm begins blaring all over the base and both their consoles.

"Nothing you can do about it," Tom says with conviction and sits down on the coffee table on the side of the couch, knees knocking with John's. "I called it in that you're not going so rest up. The others can handle it."

The initially ear-piercing alarm now only slightly less loud seems to have shaken some of the whisky-painted cobwebs from John's brain. "I swear to God, if they put Moriarty in the Ravager––" he grips the edge of the couch seat hard, muscles twitching to climb to his feet and go prevent such blasphemy.

Wallis looks confused. "Stand down, John. He doesn't have a Jaeger assignment. Why would they order him in?"

"Sherlock wants to replace me," John admits.

"What?" Wallis' disbelief is palpable. "You two are as thick as thieves. You're our best team."

"Tell that to Pete, then." John drops back down on the couch. He'd already forgot how inviting and soft it is.

Wallis taps through some menus on his wrist console. As Fightmaster, he's a member of the strategic board and thus has access to battle command logs. "They've not dispatching the Ravager. This one's barely a category two, any Jaeger can take it down, and the Sentinel can handle most of what we used to need to Ravager for."

"Most," John snorts. "Yeah, that's true. It can handle some of it." God, he's tired. "I fucked up," he mutters face-down into the sofa's handrest. "But Sherlock fucked up even worse."

"Nobody's perfect," Wallis concludes. "I need to get to Battle Command. There's aspirin in the bathroom cupboard."

 

 

Chapter 18: Fallout

You got inside my head
I want you out
I have been betrayed on holy ground
— Within Temptation

 

When John's departure registers, Sherlock springs to action with no plan. He trips and hits his elbow on the desk trying to get his underwear and trousers back on, and doesn't even bother to grab a shirt as he tears out of the room in pursuit.

He doesn't fully understand what has just happened or why, but he knows two things: John has somehow pushed him away, completely shut away their connection, which leads to the second fact: it's imperative that he prevents John from leaving.

At the intersection of the dorm level corridors, Sherlock's steps halt. Which way would John have gone? Panting from the frantic sprint, his nose registers an oddly familiar scent. It takes him longer than usual to identify it, but after he tries unsuccessfully to match it with John's aftershave, the realisation dawns of when he has sensed it the first time: he'd been pinned down by James at the dojo. Why would I be smelling it now? Must be another one of that bastard's tricks to throw me off kilter.

His eyes dart around, but the corridors are empty.

No time for deductions. He needs to find John. He'll have to act on the balance of probabilities. He can hear distant, hasty footsteps from the main stairwell but ignores them because John always takes the lift.

Sherlock sprints to the lift lobby only to see the digital numbers on the lift display already descending.

Stupid, stupid, STUPID! In his confusion, he's missed John by seconds. He has no idea what to say, what to do, just knows he can't let whatever trace he might still be able to sense of John's presence disappear into the beehive of humanity that is Chard's Rift. He needs to explain, needs to show John that he never meant any of this to happen. Since he's being blocked, he needs to get to where John is physically.

How did he suddenly shield against me? John could never do that before. It frightens Sherlock to wonder what the timing of John finding such an ability within himself might mean. It hasn't manifested during battle, not during moments of extreme anxiety over a flashback of Harry's death in the Fade, not during sex, not even when he's been particularly cross at Sherlock over some housekeeping nonsense.

Sherlock stands listlessly by the lifts, flicking his fingertips raw with his thumbnail, anxiety like a clamp around his windpipe.

Can James still find me? If he can get through just like that, is he listening in right now?

Sherlock presses his fingertips to his temples, agonises over whether to continue to shield or not. His concentration is so shot that he can't be sure whether he could shield selectively — to allow himself to find even the faintest trace of John while blocking James firmly out. Had James withdrawn from the connection after he'd driven things to completion, or had the shock of John's departure jolted Sherlock into blocking their intruder?

He can't sense either John or James. He can feel the white noise of Rangers in the base, but the presence he longs for and the one he fears aren't anywhere to be found.

John, please–– he tries, biting his lip as he calls out in his head.

Nothing.

He digs out his lighter and cigarettes from his trouser pocket with trembling hands and realises just in time that he can't smoke indoors.

John is angry, no, furious because of me.

Somehow, he's broken John.

I let James in I let him in I––

In his desperation to follow John, to fix whatever had just happened, he realises he may be sidestepping who the real culprit, the real enemy is. That voice at the back of his mind that has wanted to keep James Moriarty at an arm's length even when he still had little reason to do so… that sense of a chain around his neck being yanked over and over and over again…

James never shed his skin and revealed his real face — it was in full view the whole time, and he'd used flattery and Sherlock's sense of being so different from all the other Rangers to reel him in and make him doubt himself.

Moriarty is playing with your mind, too! He pleads for John in his head.

But he's communicating with nothing else than an emptiness that used to house John's presence.

 Can't you see what's going on? This is exactly what James wants!

Sherlock didn't want this, nothing like this. He wouldn't trust James Moriarty as far as he could throw him, perhaps partly because of John's instantaneous scepticism about the man, and he realises now why that has played into James' plan. If he wants to get close to Sherlock, he needs to take out the husband and co-pilot standing in the way. John's instantaneous disdain had made James' task so much easier.

But why do any of it? What is the endgame here? A Ravager assignment? He doesn't need me for that if he's as good as he thinks! Just pair him up with some disposable idiot he could then sacrifice just like he did Hagiwara!

Would Sherlock sit idly by watching that happen? Or does Moriarty think he would have agreed to a partnership just to protect others?

No. If James thinks we're so alike, he would assume I wouldn't make any selfless choices.

Sherlock flinches when the door to the neighbouring lift opens and two Rangers he barely knows pour out. The relief hits like a jackhammer to his heart as he identifies neither as James. They walk past him and disappear into the dorms.

How could James even Ghost Drift with me? Shouldn't that require more exposure in the neural handshake? We were barely in there long enough to achieve a sync!

Unable to contain his mounting frustration and anxiety any longer, he slams his palm into the metal panel containing the lift buttons, and the limb explodes with sharp, bright pain. He knows it's not broken, even welcomes the sensation because it's a distraction from the panic rising over John's absence.

Moriarty has been playing him, playing with him like a child tearing the wings off a dragonfly and watching it crawl helplessly…

Or, that's what James thinks he's doing. He thinks he's punishing me for not joining him, maybe even thinks this will bring me to his side.

Idiot.

If he thinks this will put me in my place, turn me to his side, he should think again. He went after me because he thinks I'm his only rival. But I know how to be an enemy, too.

And making that clear could be a first step to proving to John where Sherlock's loyalties lie and what's really going on.

The last thing he wants to be right now is anywhere near James Moriarty, but he has to fix this, and fast.

And he needs to have the upper hand in walking into that conversation.

Come on, think! He steeples his hands under his chin.

Sherlock realises Moriarty can't have tested his abilities to Ghost Drift out before such a reckless plan. If Sherlock had sensed him and rejected him, he would have lost the element of surprise. He had to reveal his hand all at once, to erase John and to make Sherlock think he has nowhere to hide, no control, no other road to follow but the one on which James wants to lead him.

He spins around, looking for clues. Even through he's looking for a spectral bandit, somehow he has a sense that he's looking for something tangible.

John always takes the lift. When people are upset, they don't act out of character, do they? No, they'd do exactly as predicted.

If John took the lift, who ran down the stairs? And why did he smell James' aftershave?

His eyes fly open with a quick exhale. It's a two-piece puzzle — and he's solved it.

His heart is pounding now not just from panic but also schadenfreude. He may still have leverage to fix this, a means to limit the damage: awareness that James isn't quite as powerful in his abilities as he thinks.

 

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

As he makes his way from the lower dorm level's stairwell landing towards James' room, Sherlock concentrates hard to drop his guard only an inch — only enough to sense a presence if it was there. He would prefer to find further confirmation for his theory before facing the man.

He's frazzled enough to make it nearly all the way down the stairs before realising his chest was bare, so a sprint back had been required to grab a black T-shirt. He would have preferred the armour of a full dress uniform, but there's no time. He needs to do this before his anger-fuelled courage runs out of steam.

This time, James does come to the door to welcome his visitor. He's wearing only a pair of black, muay thai -style boxing shorts. With their silken fabric, they might as well be underwear.

Deliberate fashion choice? Sherlock asks in his head.

There's no visible reaction; in fact, he can't sense even the faintest probing from James in response to calling out. Everything he knows about the man signals that he couldn't possibly resist poking in to see what sort of a reaction his invasion had produced. Further proof of what I suspect about his limitations.

James looks tense but seems to be trying to pretend otherwise, and is blinking a little too frequently. The lighting in the room is low, and the laptop and the old television left behind in a side table are turned off. James has even removed his wrist console.

Headache? He looks like he's run a marathon. Maybe what he did and how he did it took a lot out of him, Sherlock reasons. Ghost Drifting has never taken a physical toll on him or John. When it comes naturally, it has no side effects.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. Is his ability manufactured? If yes, then who could do that, and why?

"Took you longer than I hoped. Disappointing," James drawls, gaze roving up and down Sherlock's form but with less enthusiasm than before.

He can't even keep up the pressure of projecting his interest. Shifting his glance over James' shoulder towards the kitchenette, Sherlock notices a glass of water and two tablets placed next to it. He must've showed up just as James had been about to take them.

James notices him looking, and shifts his position as if to conceal the sight. "Is that your service pistol in your pocket or are you still pleased to see me?" he asks, tone more tired than suggestive.

A part of Sherlock wishes he really had brought his service weapon, but that's really not his style, nor is it James'. John might go around punching people to make a point, but James requires an approach with a bit more finesse.

Sherlock's thoughts had been such a mess as he'd hurried down here that he hadn't really prepared a speech. The need for decisive words is acute and terrible, seeing as he's battling the impulse to flee as far away from James' presence as possible. "You had no right––"

James lifts a finger, presses it onto Sherlock's lips briefly, shaking his head. "Nope. Bored. We're going to skip whatever spluttering moral lecture you planned or didn't plan on the way here and skip ahead to the part where I remind you that my little visit was nothing more — and nothing less — than how you… you, Sherlock, seduced one Ranger John H. Watson."

Sherlock's lips part in shock from the enraging rudeness of this man, and the patent ridiculousness of that claim. He's barely able to prevent a shudder from the touch of James' finger on his delicate flesh. He grabs James' wrist hard, shoves his hand away.

James retreats a step, studies his nails in mock disinterest.

Sherlock needs to pick apart the patent ridiculousness of James' claim. "I have not and never will intrude on John's privacy like that, especially not––" his words trail out he begins reliving that memory in his head.

I didn't––

His heart constricts in his throat.

James is right, isn't he?

The man is watching Sherlock with patient, cold eyes and slightly amused quirk of lip. When the other shoe drops, he spots it instantly, and a vile smile spreads on his features. "There you go," he praises, sounding like an old-fashioned school mistress. "Ready to drop your double standards?"

"You never intended to show me anything real about Hagiwara! You only wanted to drive a wedge between me and John!" Sherlock is shouting but hardly cares. "You think weaponising my memories is a way to endear me, to recruit me? It just proves to me what you are."

"Oh please." Moriarty executes an eyeroll the likes of which Sherlock wishes he knew how to perform. "Your little heart-eyes scrapbook of moments with Watson was not was I was after even if it did give me some viable ideas. To show you what you need but still fail to understand, I didn't need your memories — what I needed was access. I needed to get in the door to jamb it open."

Once again, Moriarty has carpet-pulled him into being on the defensive, trying to dodge blows instead of landing them. "To get me to understand what?"

"We both know you didn't drop that firewall just for a long-dead Ranger. You got curious, wanted the excuse for a proper peek, and now you think you get to demand for an after-wise consent negotiation? Silly me, forgot all about that bit!" James pretends to look horrified, then his expression hardens. "Past behaviour indicates you like that sort of thing. Did you ask for dear John's permission, too, when you decided to Ghost drift to seduce him?"

"I didn't decide anything, it was just a big a surprise for me as it was for him that we could something like that!"

Sherlock soon wants to bite his tongue: the last thing he wants is to go on the defence by revealing how little he understands about his own abilities. John also wouldn't want him to start picking apart their relationship in front of James.

The only reply Sherlock gets is a nonchalant shrug, and he suddenly sees red. He grabs James, shoves him hard against the wall and crushes his forearm against his neck. The man is oddly pliant, like a rag doll being manhandled. Something tells Sherlock he's enjoying this. "What you did was not the real thing."

James shifts his hips so that they're pressed against Sherlock's front. "Not real? Feels solid enough to me."

Sherlock tightens the pressure on James' neck. "Is it just me? Can you get to John, too?"

He doubts James will give him an honest answer, but there's no harm in trying.

"All he saw was what you may have unwittingly showed him. I've no backdoor to him," James squeezes out through his narrowed windpipe. He adds a grin, visibly proud of his infantile joke. "Nor do I want one," he rasps under Sherlock's arm. "You should be flattered."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and lets his arm remain in place for a moment more before stepping back.

"Quite rude, really," James chastises, then coughs. "You came, I conquered, and this is how you thank me. Did Watson give you a black eye for your little ghostly toss-off visit back in the day? Wouldn't put it past him. Not exactly a Pride movement poster boy, that one. You can feel his pain in those early interviews whenever you mention your relationship," he taunts. "I didn't even need to see any of your memories, I could have just read the Daily Mail. 'Ranger Holmes shares the story of meeting Ranger Watson — all the details you've ever wanted!'" quotes James loudly. "Oh, the tabloids had a field day with that. Though you pretend to be such a knight for dear old Watson's privacy, you've certainly penetrated his barriers without asking."

Sherlock has wanted to believe that Ghost Drifting with John back in the day to share an intimate moment had helped John understand that it was safe, that finding the courage to share a life and a bed was worth the fear and anxiety of giving into the desires John had denied for years. That the experience had been good for them both.

Has he missed something? Is James right, and he'd invaded John's privacy in a way he shouldn't have? Is what he'd done with John, — to John — after they had started to Drift together the same as what James has done today? That moment all those years ago has come up several times in the Fade as he and John have headed out to battle. For John, as far as Sherlock has been able to tell, it is now a fond, even titillating memory just as it is for Sherlock. But is it so because they did end up in a relationship? Is it just after-wise?

Or is this just a part of James' tactic to make him doubt himself, to paint even the good he's done in a bad light to convince him he should give up hope of ever belonging with the rest of the Rangers?

Sherlock is certain it was different, what he did. It had to be. But somehow, he can't find the right words to hammer home that distinction. John welcomed it, didn't he? They'd got together after. But that had required a long conversation, and John had still been hesitant to take that step.

Sherlock pinches his lids together momentarily, trying to summon some equilibrium. This isn't the time to search his heart, to pick through the rubble of that memory, but he's unable to push away the self-doubt. He's believed that the memory has been a good one for both him and John, but is that just his version of the story? How conflicted is John really about that moment, that breach of privacy since Sherlock cannot deny it was exactly that?

Sherlock realises he had continued even when he'd felt John's initial surprise and hesitation. At least he had waited, taken a tentative step first instead of barging in at a moment when John was too far gone to stage a proper protest. John had been thinking of him, that's all. He'd knocked on the proverbial door, and John had decided to let him in.

But if John couldn't shield…

What Sherlock had done to show John what they could be together he'd done because he wanted John, loved him already in ways he'd never experienced before. A rejection would have crushed him. Is intent all that matters or the method as well?

If John had given him even the slightest inkling that his presence in his head wasn't welcome, Sherlock would have retreated. He'd have licked his wounds and never tried again, stayed out of John's presence in the strange aether somehow created between them.

As for how James would have reacted to a protest even if I'd been capable of staging one…

Sherlock is certain James would have just tried harder, pushed through without remorse. Maybe it would have just made him more excited to do it.

What James had done to them not fifteen minutes ago is different, has to be. Instead of bringing two people together, it has left John wrecked and Sherlock homicidal. For weeks now, he's been manipulated and seduced, and now invaded. Sherlock is not sure he'd feel worse if Moriarty had committed the act physically instead of storming his mind.

But how could he even start explaining any of that to John? He had been too far gone, too close to climax to even parse together a no. He'd come, intoxicated by with James flooding his brain with his own arousal, making Sherlock feel as blissed out as if he'd just done a hit of high-grade cocaine. How can he make John understand that even if his body and his short-circuited brain reacted favourable to what James had done, he never wanted it before, didn't want it as they were having a private moment, and still doesn't want it?

John clearly thinks there is only one suffering party here, and that it's himself. He's hurt, rightfully so, but…

I need to prove I never wanted to invite James in like that.

Thinking that James might attempt something like that again makes Sherlock's stomach turn, but it would be a lie to say he never felt any attraction at all to the man. It would be a lie to say he didn't seek out opportunities to get to know him better. It would be a lie to say he hadn't enjoyed their strange game.

Is he guilty by intent? Has he given James ample evidence to believe he's just playing hard-to-get? People who aggravate others to murder often get the same punishment as the killer does. Is John right to put him on trial for incitement?

James interrupts his maelstrom of thoughts. "What happens next is up to you. I have just shown you all the open doors," he says plainly. He goes to swallow his tablets, drinks greedily until the glass is empty before turning to lean on the counter. "You're right. It's not as easy for me as it is for you and Watson, the Ghost Drifting. But you know now that you don't have to give it up even if you give up…" James trails out, giving Sherlock a pointed look. "With me, you wouldn't have to give anything up. Not the Ghost Drifting, not the Ravager."

"Just my husband. And my life, if you decide I'm in your way like Hagiwara."

"You want to kiss me or kill me? Just make up your mind, Holmes; I'm not the one who's having a hard time deciding. This dance is getting tedious," James complains theatrically, eyes dark.

What Sherlock wants is to bite into James' lip so hard he draws blood, but only because he wants him to hurt as much as he's hurt John, and in exactly the same way. "I'll make it clear, since you're failing to grasp the obvious: I will always choose John over you, over the Ravager."

Their eyes lock. It's a face-off Sherlock is sure he can win since James is visibly exhausted by having lost a few hundred thousand brain cells by however he is forced to mock-Ghost Drift.

Of course it's right now that their wrist consoles emit a short alarm: a Breach has been detected on the ocean floor.

Sherlock curses under his breath. The bloody kaiju, Not now!

James has gone to retrieve his console to silence the alarm. Sherlock flicks through the menus on his own and finds confirmation for what he has suspected: John has removed his permission for wrist console tracking. And since he's also shielding… The ominous novelty of it hits Sherlock once again like a kick to the solar plexus.

There's a Breach, and he has no way of finding John and having the conversation he doesn't even know how to initiate before they may have to step into the Conn-Pod.

Would John even be able to Drift with me right now?

He forces himself to tear his eyes off the console and return his attention to James. "I'm not playing your games. This is the last conversation we'll ever be having, so use it well."

"There's a whole world of possibilities you're not seeing because you insist on keeping company with all these good little boy scouts. You have no idea what you are capable of, what you could do if you weren't so limited by the rules you've always detested, anyway."

"You're bound by the same rules."

"Am I? Is that you or your habitual sense of duty talking? Do you even know the difference any more, after spending years trying to convince yourself this is all there is," James asks, spreading his arms to indicate the room, and all of Chard's Rift outside of it.

"You think you could recruit me and then what? Start a coup? Oust Hammond and take his job? Christ, if being a bureaucrat is what you want then this is an odd way of going about it. And why me? I'm sure you could find sycophants much easier to recruit. Maybe they'd even want to get into bed with you."

"Why would I settle for less than Ranger Holmes, star of the PPDC?"

James had blocked all those others deliberately, then, so that he could get Sherlock to Drift with him. There was a plan, perhaps all the way from Hong Kong.

That would require power beyond what a single re-enlisted Ranger could ever have, Sherlock realises.

Sherlock steps closer again, towers over the man with his more significant height. "You must've been trying to sense whether I was about to show up. The fact that I couldn't sense you until I was at your neighbour's door tells me that unlike me and John, whatever mockery of Ghost Drifting you're using, needs proximity. I felt you in the mess hall because you had to follow us around to see when we went back to our dorm. And I can tell however you pushed your way in got you thoroughly drained. Otherwise, you'd have stayed around to feel for my reaction after John left, hung around to gloat and attempt to claim your prize. That just proves it's not real Ghost Drifting. I don't know how you've done it, but that's not how difficult it's supposed to be. When you have the right person, it's not difficult at all, and it sure as hell doesn't require resorting to dirty tricks. You'll never understand what it's like with someone you want to be with. It's the oldest trick in the book, trying to turn partners against each other. It won't work, because you don't know John and I. If you're as good as you think, you don't need me to get to the Ravager. What is it all for, anyway? Why waste your time playing games? It doesn't matter if I'm attracted to you. It doesn't matter what you think or how well we work together. What matters is that I choose John, and I will choose John over and over and over again and that's how you're always going to lose. You'll lose, because it's a choice you can't understand, and you're going to trip over yourself trying."

"Yet it's you who's come to yell at me while Watson is nowhere to be seen. Do you know where he is, Sherlock? Did you two have a little domestic? You chose him, because he was available. A loyal little lap dog, a has-been next to whom you'd always look good even if just for your skills and not the goodness of your heart. You're on the side of the angels, Sherlock, but we both know they've left you out of the clubhouse. You talk big, but only until someone proves to you that instead of being one of them, you're me. You're going to need me, or you're nothing. Because we're just alike, you and I. I’ve given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I’ve got going on there in the big, bad world. Do you really think, down the line, in ten years, twenty, forty, just John Watson is going to keep you entertained and your bed warm? Even with dear old John, you're just as lonely in a crowd, Sherlock, as you've ever been, and that's why you walked right into my trap."

"You admit it was a trap, then."

"It didn't have to be. Choices, Sherlock, exactly as you just said. You can choose John Watson, but that choice comes with consequences. Sorry," James shrugs with a grimace.

"I'm not afraid of you, and neither is John."

"Oh, I know. But it's out of my hands, now," James replies nonchalantly.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? "It never was in your hands."

Moriarty doesn't decide on Jaeger assignments, and he sure as hell doesn't get to decide who Sherlock is willing to pilot with. Or intrude on their private moments ever again. At least he can't do it unless he's physically close. But… he must have somehow made this transfer happen even though he doesn't have that kind of decision-making power… And how the hell did he get the ability to Ghost Drift?

Someone is helping him.

"You think you have all this power to decide for yourself. Fifteen-year contract, Sherlock — they own you. In the simulation suite, you acted as if the simulation training was a job interview you were conducting on me. You've forgot that they hold the sword over you, too. They can push Watson out, and they can push you out."

"They wouldn't, because even an idiot would see I'm the Corps' best asset. That we're the best the Ranger Corps has."

"Best and worst misbehaving. Oh, that Ranger Holmes, such a bad boy, even humiliates his own brother. That wedding cake photoshoot you blackmailed him with, oh, I wanted to frame those pages!" James' expression sobers in an instant, turns menacing. "Newsflash, darling, you don't get to decide anything for yourself. You've ruled the roost for too long, started to think no one could possibly match what you and Watson do that you forgot who pulls your strings."

"No one has matched what we do."

"But not because the Corps doesn't have anyone that could. It's just that this backwater Base doesn't."

"I went through your pilot career. I saw nothing that would stand out."

It's not strictly true. Seeing all those simulation records had made Sherlock wonder what Moriarty could do with a partner even more compatible and ambitious than the ones he had in Hong Kong.

"Just like you, I've had to endure keeping the company of mediocrity. It's flattering when you always come out looking better, isn't it, but it gets so tedious, because they always drag you down. Poor old Watson, how charitable it is that Holmes fell hard enough for him to give him the time of day. Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. So touchingly loyal."

"I’d be lost without John," Sherlock snaps.

"Then your marriage must be going so terribly well." Moriarty lets out a dreamy sigh. "I should get myself a pet like that. Well, I did. He didn't last long."

Sherlock huffs, eyes flashing with rage, and turns his back to Moriarty. Just as he's about to slam his palm on the door lock and march out, his name is called out again.

"Hand on heart, Holmes. Do you want to join John dearest in the retirement that's nigh any year now, play the happy couple in some quaint little village and read about the Ravager in the papers, or would you like to really find out what your potential is?"

Sherlock doesn't turn. His palm hovers on the door lock panel.

"A part of you still wants this," James calls out sternly. "You want it, and that's why you came here, and that's why you're working so endearingly hard to pretend you don't. But the flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now! I've shown you what I can do; the rest is up to you. You'll come around to my thinking when you've had enough of being the Corps' glutton for punishment. Now, since you're being no fun at all and I'm so very regrettably out of tea, I'd like you to leave."

"You're telling me to––" Sherlock huffs. He turns to face the room again and nearly flinches when James has skulked so close that their breaths seem to mingle.

No, Sherlock tells himself. I won't let him intimidate me anymore. "Whatever future you're peddling that you think I'll come crawling back for, you're wrong," he snaps. "It doesn't matter if we would have made a good, great or unbeatable team. I'm not interested in you, not in your mind games, not in your theories or your plans. I'd rather take the Ravager apart with a screwdriver than help you get into its Conn-Pod because you. repel. me." He hisses the words through clenched teeth.

He then pivots on his heel, slams the door button, and marches out. Once he's turned a corner, he's forced to lean a palm on the wall to keep his knees from sagging from stress and sheer exhaustion.

Will it be enough to keep Moriarty the hell away from us?

Eager to leave this floor and never to return, he starts for the stairwell, but gets only a few steps ahead when the loudspeakers on the ceilings of every corridor and public space in the base come to life, and his console starts wailing an emergency sound.

Kaiju incursion alarm.

A Breach alert doesn't trip the base's general alarms but is displayed on corridor screens and transmitted to all Rangers on base. An incursion alarm is a general one, sounded through the emergency system. When it goes off, all base service desks and catering is to be shut down, and all staff are on standby for an evacuation order or an order to shelter in below surface level protective areas.

Why is Sherlock's wrist console only showing the standard alarm instead of going properly off with a summons to the Ravager to prepare for deployment?

He shakes his wrist, wondering if the device is malfunctioning. The screen is flashing red with the incursion alarm, but there's nothing directed specifically at him. He even flips through the internal news bulletins he never normally reads, but the only notification there is a general PPDC news item about some Australian Ranger named Bruce Partington going missing on a diving trip off the coast of Queensland.

Aggravated, Sherlock huffs. Why won't anything work or make sense in this place these days?!

During every incursion alarm in the past thirteen months, he and John have been summoned to man their Jaeger. A few times, they've been told to stand down when the first team sent in has been able to eliminate the threat but even then, they'd always been ordered to prepare for a drop into battle.

He calls Colleen on his wrist console, jogging against the crowd of staff hurrying to pick up things from their quarters they'd want to take with them in case the order comes to go to the below-water shelters or to evacuate to mainland.

She answers fast. "Sherlock?"

"Where's our summons order?" he demands.

"Is John doing better? I thought––"

Sherlock is taken aback. "Have you talked to him?"

"You're not with him?"

"Stop answering with more questions!" he snaps. "What the hell is going on? Where's our deployment order?"

"They're sending the Sentinel and Greenwich. It's a small kaiju, even the Sentinel might be overkill."

Sherlock wants to punch a wall. Again. Why won't anyone give me a straight answer to anything today?! Not Moriarty, not Colleen. It might be a small kaiju, but of course he wants the kill. "What do you mean, 'anyway'? And no, I'm not with John," he hisses. "Why is that even relevant?"

"Wallis called in for John not ten minutes ago, said he's off sick. I thought you'd be with him if he was under the weather."

Sherlock is certain there's an unspoken accusation hidden in her words, but there are more important things going on, so he sidesteps the insinuation that he's shirking some sort of husbandly duty. "Why the hell would Wallis call in for him? John was fine, the last I saw him."

Well, I say 'fine'…

"I don't know any more than you do. Look, it's a small kaiju, they wouldn't have needed you two, anyway, and since John called in sick, it means the only Ravager team is out one pilot so no dispatch order can be given. Stand down," Colleen laughs. "I'm sure the kaiju won't be so offended by the two of you sitting this one out that they refuse to send more troops eventually."

What if donning their armour and walking into the Conn-Pod was the perfect way to resolve the issue between them? If Sherlock could show John in the Fade the conversation he's just had with James––

But could he be completely honest? Would he be willing to show John all of his recollections of their interactions? He'd played with fire, and there are moments that are likelier to aggravate John further instead of placating him.

Yes, Sherlock decides, I would show him everything. He deserves nothing less.

He almost asks Colleen if John is alright, but he knows the answer already. John has never called in sick for a battle engagement, and Sherlock had detected no signs of physical illness when they'd been together less than an hour ago. It's not like Ranger John Watson to shirk his fighting duties for anything milder than a severed limb.

He ends the call without saying goodbye to Colleen.

No, John is most decidedly not alright, and it's my fault.

 

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

Sherlock has endured many nights in his life that have felt endless: nights in rehab, the night he'd spent at a holding cell at Holborn Police Station before being escorted to a plane that was to take him to Portugal. The first night at Chard, thinking he'd been doomed to a hell only marginally better than a Chinese gulag. That was before he'd realised that the strange Ranger-doctor sitting vigil by his bedside was more than met the eye.

He's endured so many lonely nights. In fact, he'd characterise as such every single one in his adulthood prior to meeting John.

Instead of watching the battle on the large screens in the mess hall or the Ranger's lounge like many of his colleagues, he'd retreated home to their dorm. The fact that the alarms had been turned off not thirty minutes after he'd heard the transport helicopters depart with two Jaegers had told him Colleen's assessment had been correct: this kaiju had been defeated with ease.

There's no signs of life from John even though it's been hours since he'd stormed out. Sherlock can't decide if it's a good or bad sign that he'd been in Wallis' company. John seems to consider the man a friend, but while Sherlock might have some begrudging respect for the gruff Fightmaster, he doesn't like him. He's always wondered what need John has for such company. There are many Rangers at Chard more intelligent and more interesting than Tom Wallis.

On a whim, he calls the Fightmaster, who turns out to be just as unhelpful as Sherlock had anticipated. He seems protective of John, refuses to comment anything about his whereabouts or his state of health. Sherlock takes offence with that but decides not to express it. This is his husband, and their private matter, but he knows from his cadet days what a brick wall Wallis can be.

"Good luck, mate, both of you," Wallis tells him at the end of the call.

Sherlock has no idea what that means. He shuts off the connection and huffs in frustration.

Being angry would never be reason enough for John to refuse to answer a battle call. That's not who John is. What's so wrong with him that he needs Wallis' help to cover it up?

Sherlock drops into a chair. Rarely has he felt so restless and helpless at the same time.

John always demands conversation when he's angry. 'Care to explain yourself' is his go-to phrase when I've left laundry on the floor or something else that he has decided is worthy of overreaction.

Sherlock knows this is different. He knows why this is so much worse, but he loathes forcing himself to think about it.

By midnight, his feet ache from walking a trench into the cold concrete floor of their room. He's also lost count of how many trips out to the external service staircase to smoke he has taken. Like a broken record of a distress signal, he keeps trying to reach John, to no avail. A few times he thinks he can make out John's faintest presence somewhere in the base but cannot pinpoint it. John's wrist console stays turned off, too, which is against regulation. And John is such a stickler to pointless rules.

The silence in the sleeping dorm level is deafening when he returns from yet another cigarette break. There is a gnaw at the pit of his stomach, he feels faintly nauseous, and his pulse of whooshing in his ears: signs of nicotine overdose.

If only I could explain everything to John.

He'd also tell John he's sorry. And not just say it, because John might dismiss the words in anger, but show John that he really is genuinely apologetic, that he regrets letting that snake anywhere near their relationship. He needs John to understand that he's trying to fix this, that Moriarty cannot intrude on them unless he's close by. It may not by much consolation, but it's a start. As for how James was able to breach his defences, Sherlock still has no idea. He needs John to help him work that out.

He's safe, they're safe, as long as James isn't too close. But what if I go to sleep and James–––

His skin crawls from the very idea that Moriarty might try something like that again.

He needs John, right now. John can't keep avoiding me forever, can he?

What else could Sherlock do to help argue his case? He'd told James off, told him to stay the hell away from them.

A thought occurs: could he make James disappear?

Mycroft!

For once, that useless oaf could do what he claims is his job: to protect the PPDC.

Sherlock doesn't spare a single thought to how late the hour is when he initiates a video call with his brother.

Mycroft answers without delay. He's in his study, working. Sherlock catches a glimpse of what looks like a gorilla-sized security guard. That's new. He hasn't really feared for his safety in years.

Due to more frequent kaiju attacks, the cults worshiping the creatures have dwindled. They used to be the biggest security threat to both PPDC brass and Shatterdome security.

"It's late," Mycroft comments pleasantly. Even at this hour when most doing work at home would have changed into something more comfortable, Mycroft is still wearing a layered green tweed ensemble.

"Then why aren't you tucked in?" Sherlock counters, stretching his stiff neck.

"This must be urgent," Mycroft concedes. He leans forward, clasps his fist within his palm to signal he's listening.

"You wanted me to keep an eye on what's going on. I have. James Moriarty."

"The name is familiar. Enlighten me."

"He's one of the recent transfers from Hong Kong. He knows Russian, and he has taken an unhealthy interest in the Ravager."

A stately brow lifts. "The purpose of Ranger transfers is, above all, to make sure as many Jaeger rotas as possible are manned, and the Reichenbach Ravager has lacked a second team for years. Why would you categorise his interest as unhealthy?"

"Because he doesn't want to be a part of a new team — he wants to take over from John and I. Specifically, he wants to replace John."

"And what methods is he utilising to achieve this?"

Sherlock realises he should have prepared for this conversation better. He's not about to discuss his sex life with Mycroft. "Any means necessary."

"I suppose many Rangers might want to work with you, regardless of your reputation as a difficult man."

"Everyone knows John and I are a team. The team."

Mycroft reaches beyond the screen and produces a delicate white cup that must contain tea.

At this hour? He must be pulling an all-nighter.

Upon careful scrutiny of his brother's visage on the screen, Sherlock realises Mycroft looks quite haggard. He can't have slept properly for some time and hasn't kept up his usual frequency of hair trims. He's sitting stiffly, jaw and the lines of his shoulders tighter with tension than Sherlock would expect at home.

"So, you seek to eliminate competition just as this James Moriarty does. By any chance, would he be the gentleman you were loitering with at the Chard's Rift sports facilities?" Mycroft asks.

"Just look at his records and tell me what you see," Sherlock prompts.

Mycroft frowns, reaches somewhere for a pair of reading glasses and starts clicking away. Sherlock hasn't known he's started needing a pair.

"James Francis Moriarty," Mycroft reads out loud. "Two years your senior. A long absence from the Corps, during which visa and travel records place him first in Hong Kong, then the Russian Federation."

"Ha! Told you!"

"You only claimed he knew the language."

"Studied it at university," Sherlock declares triumphantly.

"Did he, now?" Mycroft sounds disinterested. "Hardly surprising, then, that he might want to visit."

"How long was he there for?" Sherlock presses.

"Several years."

"He received an honourable medical discharge after an inquiry into the death of his co-pilot. The Corps medical services never fixed his issues but somehow, he marches right back in years later. After being in Russia." 

"It appears he traveled there on several occasions after his discharge from the Corps."

"And you don't think that's suspicious?"

"Certainly it is a notable fact, but what I've been investigating seems to centre  on China, not the Russian Federation. Admittedly they and China have been expressing identical grievances with the way the Corps are run, but––"

Sherlock skids in. "How did Moriarty get himself transferred to Chard?"

"I'm not privy to the details of decision-making at Hong Kong."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You're privy to everything you want in the Corps since you've got spies everywhere. Who fixed his back, and what did he give them in return? How did they enable him to Ghost Drift?"

"How do you know he can?"

Sherlock grits his teeth. Because he did it to me. "Somehow, he can bypass the shielding skills of other Rangers with that ability. But he does it differently. It seems… artificial."

"Not much is known about Ghost Drifting, and you've only experienced it with one person. It may not be similar in all pilot pairs," Mycroft points out. "The Science Division has not deemed it a high research priority. Fascinating, without a doubt, but with little battle application."

"That’s what someone who doesn’t understand it would think. Is it an innate ability, or can it be somehow manufactured?"

"That would require highly sophisticated neuroscience, experts for which are, to my knowledge, largely or solely employed by the PPDC. I am not aware of any R&R programs connected to it, and if it's not a scientific priority for us, then why would it interest anyone else? As promising as telepathy might sound for, say, international espionage, its use would be limited to implanted individuals."

"What about espionage within the Corps?"

Mycroft takes a moment to mull this over. "Still not a very good way to acquire technical knowledge of the PONS system or the Jaegers since only a handful of Rangers possess the ability, and you are not the foremost experts in PPDC battle technology, merely adept at its utilisation."

Sherlock's anger flares at such belittlement of Rangers. I’d like to see you attempt to utilise that technology against a kaiju! "Why are you being so obstinate?! I found him, I found the mole or whatever Moriarty is, now you can remove him!"

"You have given me very little to connect him to anything bigger. An ambitious Ranger seeking a tryst with you hardly sounds like international political intrigue. Perhaps you're merely trying to turf your relationship problems to someone else under the guise of making them into more than they actually are."

Mycroft sounds tired and frustrated. Perhaps his own search for whatever he thinks is going on within the Corps has hit a wall.

"There's got to be a reason why he's doing all this, and someone is helping him!" Sherlock insists.

"I really cannot see what grander purpose there could be in giving a Ranger the ability to Ghost Drift."

"To turn John and I against each other," Sherlock declares.

Mycroft picks up a pen, idly spins it in his fingers. "I must stress that your romantic indiscretions are not official PPDC business even if they harm your and Watson's co-piloting."

"He needs to be transferred back. Or someplace else. That should prove there's something bigger going on: I bet if you attempt to move him, someone will block that."

"If he is a Ravager pilot candidate, then it is in everyone’s best interest to keep him right at Chard. If I compelled Hammond to get rid of him, I'd have to have an answer as to why."

"He needs to be kept away because he's a danger to everyone!"

"Of which you have no concrete evidence. It is also not very like you to care so much about the Corps at large. I can't be seen to interfere in operative personnel decisions unless there is grave cause to do so. Right now, I must protect my integrity and reputation if I am retain any chance I might have to get to the bottom of what's––"

"There’s something I'm not seeing. You asked me to spy for you, to keep an eye out for some nameless portent. I've a feeling I'm staring right at it, but… There's also John not getting reimplanted while everyone else is, even Rangers who are already retired from active Jaeger service. Why keep only John from getting it as the only Ranger at Chard left out of that list?"

"John is serving his second term as a pilot, which is a rarity in itself. His retirement isn't far away––"

"He was retired for such a long time that his combined years as a pilot are fewer than those of many other Rangers!"

Sherlock counts the mysteries in his head: Moriarty, Russia, John being pushed out, the Ravager's designer going missing–– "Did you find that engineer who disappeared?"

"No, we have not. I've spent weeks dealing with the incompetence of Central European intelligence services." Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. "And now Australia wants us to handle the disappearance of a Ranger since he's a double citizen. The Australian PM is demanding a state funeral in London. Do you have any idea the amount of work planning the security alone would require? Religious fundamentalists love a good hearse procession."

There's something familiar about the story of an AWOL Ranger. Sherlock racks his brain, and manages to recall the news item he'd seen on his wrist console. "The one who went missing on a diving trip?"

"Bruce Partington, yes. He designed the Corps' new training regime and oversees its implementation from Hong Kong."

"The new regime meaning how they now insist on an early focus on Jaeger-specific training? What if he's not drowned but missing, as in defected or kidnapped, like your engineer?"

"Many world powers would want the knowledge Reichenbach possesses. As for Partington, he was a celebrated educational officer, but I don't see how he would be an asset to anyone outside the Corps. Who else than us would have use for Partington, since no one else has Jaegers?"

"It would make sense for someone who doesn't have a Jaeger yet," Sherlock insists. "If they need someone to design such a machine and oversee its construction, Reichenbach is an obvious pick but they'd also need pilots. Either they'd have to recruit from the PPDC or train their own: that's where Partington starts making sense."

"None of this gives us a connection to you or Watson. Neither of you are training officers or technicians."

"I can't get to all the needed information from my position, so I hoped you'd help with the rest of the answers." Sherlock hesitates at the word 'help' — he loathes the very thought of asking for anything from the man he still thinks ruined most of his childhood.

His brother still has his attention fixed on something on his laptop and is ignoring Sherlock. He feels like a gnat being swatted away, an unwelcome distraction.

He's been an unwelcome person all his life, and he's tired of it. This is the feeling James had weaponised more effectively than his libido: this childish, profound longing to be seen, to be important to someone, to be better than anyone instead of being treated as the runt of the litter.

"Mycroft!" He snaps, and the man actually flinches.

There's a pregnant silence, during which the Marshal empties his teacup and seems to be studying the visage he sees on the screen. "Are you quite alright, Sherlock? What is it, really, that you require of me tonight?"

"I need you to listen."

"Very well." Mycroft turns in his chair briefly to dismiss who Sherlock assumes is the security guard.

"You never used to let them into the house," Sherlock points out.

"Desperate times require desperate measures." Mycroft sounds joltingly earnest in his choice of words. "If I appeared dismissive of your findings, it is merely because the hour is late and my own investigative efforts have been thwarted repeatedly. Whatever is going on, it's well concealed."

"Just tell me––" Sherlock starts. It's not as if our relationship can get much worse even if you're honest with me. "Are you behind all this? Did you get them to push John out so that Hammond could slot Moriarty in his place?"

He wouldn't put it past his brother to sacrifice his happiness on the altar of the war effort. After all, he's done it before.

"No, I did not. Whatever is going on threatens not only the two of you, assuming you're right, but also my position." Mycroft removes his glasses and looks straight at the screen. "I promise you I would never knowingly separate you and Watson. The Corps has benefited greatly from your partnership. Ranger Watson has a balancing effect on you. Whyever would I want to disturb the peace?"

Sherlock finds that he believes his brother, especially since hiring someone to seduce him away from John hardly seems like the sort of plot Mycroft would cook up. The Atlantic Marshal operates within the realms of finance and politics, not romance.

"I take it your investigation took a turn you did not expect," Mycroft analyses. "And now you wish for me to somehow remedy the situation? I must say your mild… let's call it insistent incoherence as well as your worse-than-usual fluctuating mood are somewhat alarming, as is the very fact of your calling me voluntarily. I will look into this Ranger James Moriarty, but you should prepare yourself for the eventuality that it's a wild goose chase."

Sherlock knows he can't delegate away the issue with John. He just wishes he had someone on his side right now. Making sure he's done everything he can to rid their lives of Moriarty should count for something when it comes to talking to John about all this. John will understand how even just calling Mycroft voluntarily is the cutting of a proverbial chunk of flesh for Sherlock.

This is all assuming John is even willing to listen to me.

"I am painfully aware of how you struggle to grasp the finer points of social interaction, but surely you understand how fooling around could upset Watson?" Mycroft chides.

"I did not fool around! I got to know Moriarty because you wanted me to keep an eye out for anything suspicious." Initially.

"Even Mata Hari got caught. And she was married, too."

Sherlock growls. Mycroft is insufferable. "You'll look into Moriarty," he compels. "I'm right. Just you wait."

"Sherlock. You may well have good reasons to suspect this individual, but considering your current mindset and the reasons why your investigation has hit the rocks, I must take your theories with a grain of salt since your objectivity is likely compromised. I can't suspend or court martial someone just because they enjoy Tolstoy and want to pilot the Ravager. I must stress that I cannot start interfering with in-base operative decisions on your behalf without solid proof; your feelings are not reason enough. Optics, Sherlock. This is a very delicate time."

"Optics," Sherlock spits out. "Just like when you needed to ship your own flesh and blood off to this hellhole so you could look like a saint for the Corps and keep your job."

"We cannot move on in life unless you stop insisting on holding on to these old resentments."

"Move on where? I'm stuck here, potentially without John––"

"If you and Ranger Watson are having issues, I hear talking helps. Courage mounteth with the occasion."

"Advice based on your many serious relationships. John and I shouldn't need to talk," Sherlock scoffs. "He knows I love him. He knows I’m committed. He knows I wouldn't betray him."

"Does he, now?"

Sherlock blinks. "It's John. Of course he does."

"Even with your ability to each other's read minds, I'm sure there is still potential for miscommunication. Actions can speak louder than words. If you become involved with someone outside your union––" Mycroft inhales, leans back in his seat. "Perhaps you flatter yourself by thinking there is a sinister plot behind what just might be garden-variety physical attraction. In that case, it really isn’t me you need to be arguing your case with, it’s John Watson."

"I told him about Moriarty, that I needed to find out whether he killed his partner––"

"And what was his response?"

"He failed to understand why it was my task to investigate him."

"Perhaps you should find an answer to that, then. Unless he's right, and you’re grasping at straws to find an excuse for spending time with this individual."

"Whatever issues John and I may have, there’s something else going on as well. Something big. I can feel it," Sherlock pleads once again.

"I know there is. I've told you as much. And I must stress that you need to keep whatever I have shared to yourself. I cannot risk making waves before I have a definitive picture of what’s going on — and proof. Good night, Sherlock."

Mycroft sounds reluctant to end the call but does so. It's now half past midnight.

Sherlock goes to the bed, drops down on it into a boneless heap. His last nicotine dose has worn out.

He closes his eyes, seeks out what used to be there all the time.

He finds no John. The aether is silent.

Why hadn't he been able to shut the connection, to push James away? He has always liked to think he's more in control of his baser instincts than that. What else could John have deduced from whatever he'd seen than Sherlock wanting it to happen?

He will accept his part of the blame. He has to. He'd known he was playing with fire, and John had questioned why he couldn't just leave well enough alone.

A horrid thought occurs: John does understand, doesn't he, that James was in my head? That it wasn't just something I thought up?

He realises he can't even decide which option John would think worse: that he'd unwittingly drawn the map to let Moriarty in, or that he'd been fantasizing about another man while making love to his partner?

Should I let John think––

No. Sherlock knows what he shouldn't do once John is willing to communicate again: to lie, to try to offer a curated truth or otherwise try to obfuscate.

John already knows that there has been some attraction between him and James, so there's no use trying to splutter and deny that. That blow has already been dealt.

All Sherlock can do is wait until John is ready to talk, then offer all of the truth and hope it's enough.

He doesn't sleep that night, save for nodding off once and getting jolted awake by a nightmare where the shadows at the edge of the room suddenly took the shape of James' silhouette.

He'd been so convinced that James Moriarty was just a Ranger, just a man, that he hadn't realise James can walk through walls, pass through like radiation, insidious and invisible. While John had called it right away upon their first meeting that they shouldn't have anything to do with Moriarty, Sherlock had chosen to dance. And James had spun him until he was dizzy enough to fall.

He drags himself off the bed, shivering, and opens the computer. To distract himself from feeling so hag-ridden, he reads through everything he can find on Ghost Drifting on the PPDC internal network and the limited websites accessible through the base's outside connections. He can't undo what has happened, but he can try to solve this riddle. If he can explain to John how Moriarty had done it, maybe John would believe Sherlock hadn't wanted the man in their bed.

He's disappointed to find how little data is on offer on the networks. Mycroft's sentiment that the Corps hasn't been very interested in researching the topic appears accurate. There are no reports of three persons sharing the same connection, and everything points to John not having experienced anything directly but only through what had passed through from Sherlock. Otherwise, he would have reacted much sooner, Sherlock realises. He must think I was fantasizing.

Ghost Drifting is an anomaly, a glitch, a rare bonus gift.

Or so he and John had thought.

Little did Sherlock realise that a neural handshake could be turned into a Trojan horse.

 

Chapter 19: On the Warpath

"A nation can survive its fools, and even the ambitious. But it cannot survive treason from within."
— Cicero

Upon waking up, John has two questions: where am I? and do even the dead feel this rotten?

There's no way to tell the time from looking around; the room he's in has no windows and the lights are off. He seems to have lost his wrist console, which is a punishable albeit mild offence. All Rangers are supposed to wear theirs constantly while on standby for deployment. He fumbles around what turns out to be sofa cushions, then sticks his hand down over the edge. Reassuringly, he finds the console on the floor and discovers from the display that the hour is closing in on eight in the morning. He finds a message from Colleen, asking how he's feeling and summoning him — if he's well enough — to the simulation suite at ten for continuing their work on a fix to his upper limb controls that she's been working on for a month. It's a complicated task since she needs to go to the base code of the PONS system to tweak things due to John's implant being so old and incompatible with newer parts of the software.

Must be a relief for her, no longer having to try to fit a square peg into a round hole once the Ravager upgrade gets pushed through and I can no longer pilot, he thinks bitterly. What is the point of fixing that motor control issue since I won't be using the system for long?

The wording of her message had been quite insistent, and a work task would help get his mind off yesterday, so he types a short reply to her, saying he'll be there.

He wonders idly how last night's battle had gone. There's no kaiju-sized hole in the ceiling, so whoever they sent must have won.

It now occurs to him to return to the issue of his whereabouts.

The snoring he hears from the bed in the corner is not Sherlock's.

Sherlock.

The rest of yesterday's disaster all comes flooding back, save for anything he'd done after going up to the scenic deck. He's still wearing yesterday's uniform, even his shoes, which is a relief. It means he'd not ended up in anyone's bed.

He doubts that had been a real risk yesterday. He's never had a one-night thing with anyone at the base since he's only barely had the courage to do that when far away on shore leave. The last time had been over a decade ago on Ponta Delgada. More importantly, he'd never cheat on Sherlock. It has never even crossed his mind. He may have looked once or twice at a handsome bloke at the gym, that's all. He'd never––

He'd never do what Sherlock had done to him last night.

Staring at the ceiling, he decides he's too tired and too hung over to focus on anything but surviving the now. He can't even begin to sort out the rest of yesterdays' mess in his head before he's had coffee and a proper breakfast with extra bacon.

First, he needs to find out whose sofa he has borrowed and thank them, though. It'll feel like a walk of shame, leaving here, even if he's kept his underwear on.

Is Sherlock waking up in… not our room, too?

John stops that thought before it gets further. First things first. He stretches his neck, yawns. His tongue tastes like cat piss, and stomach acids are going to task gnawing at his innards. He climbs to his feet and uses the dim light of the console, now back on his wrist, to light his way towards where he suspects the bathroom is situated.

There's a uniform jacket hanging on the back of a chair, and John raises the lapel to read the name tag. Thank fuck it's Tom. He'll understand a man's need to get away from their own head by drowning themselves in a bottle.

Once he's stepped into the small bathroom, John turns on the light and winces at the sudden brightness. He then closes the door gingerly behind him. He drinks greedily from the tap, head pounding while he's bent down. He opens the cabinet, finds some aspirin. Ibuprofen would be preferable and less old-fashioned, but beggars can't be choosers.

Squeezing a bit of Wallis' toothpaste on his finger and using it as mouthwash with a bit of water from the tap, he steals a look of himself in the mirror. There are glistening bags under eyes, and his skin tone is blemished and dull. His hair is a mess. All in all, he looks very much the part of having enjoyed quite the bender last night.

He needs a shower and a change of clothes. The first he could do at the gym or once Wallis has done his morning routines, but changing his uniform into a fresh one would require going home.

Fuck.

He knows he's got to face Sherlock sooner or later, but he's not sure at all what he wants to say or do when that happens. It depends on Sherlock, I guess, whether I punch his lights out or pretend to want to listen to his excuses first.

When John retreats from the bathroom after splashing some water on his face, the lights in the main area of the suite are on and Wallis is sitting on the bed, sliding on the camo trousers he prefers over a dress uniform for his dojo teaching work.

"Morning," John manages, sliding a palm down his face. He needs a shave, but his blade is at home and the commissary charges an exorbitant price for them.

I don't want to go home yet if he's there.

Maybe he could just slip in and out to get what he needs, take some more time to mull things over. Maybe Sherlock isn't even there.

Not finding him there would tell me all I need to know. But is he prepared for such a truth?

No. Not until I've had more time to think it all through.

"Morning. I've got a class at nine, could grab breakfast on the way," Wallis suggests.

"Sounds perfect. Sorry for all this," John offers, though he's not even sure what things he might be apologising for. His memories are completely blacked out long before he could have ended up here. He barely even remembers seeing Wallis yesterday. Was it up on the scenic deck?

"You needed it," Wallis replies, but then fixes John in place with a look that carries a warning. "Whatever's going on, you two need to sort it out. You're on duty until tomorrow, aren't you? You look like something the cat dragged in."

"Did the Breach close after the attack?" If the answer's yes, then there should be a low probability of having to do into battle today. He'll just have to fly under the radar until he feels and looks more human again.

"It is, but they're monitoring some residual radiation signatures. It's probably nothing."

There is an unspoken but there. If those signals turn out to be a premonition of another Breach opening John will likely need to fight, and there's no way he could achieve a sync feeling like this about his partner.

Suddenly, there's an odd sense in his head — an errant thought he's not sure he's formed. It feels like a brainwave, a déjà vu, a reverberation of something. The best description he can come up with is someone trying to part the veil of his hangover-hazy consciousness.

It feels like a knock on an invisible door, a pebble hitting the window at night.

Is he still shielding or just a mess from the after-effects of the whisky?

He closes his eyes, tries to calm his breathing and to prevent a knee-jerk reaction of turning away from the now obvious attempt to communicate.

There's only one person capable of calling out for him like this.

John!

The exclamation in John's head feels like the cerebral equivalent of Sherlock scrambling to his feet in surprise and nearly tripping over himself. Has he been awake all night, trying to get through, waiting for me to wake up?

John tells himself to read nothing into that. It's logical that Sherlock would be trying to talk to him after he'd stormed out. It doesn't mean that he understand why, John cautions himself. Maybe he just wants to make known his disdain for having to sit out last night's kaiju attack.

Yeah, John replies dismissively.

It takes all his concentration to try to parse the layered chaos of emotions he can sense from Sherlock, especially from such a distance. There's anger — why? — regret — well, he'd bloody better regret a lot of things he's done lately — confusion — I've no idea what could be unclear to him — hope — I'm glad one of us still has some of that — relief, profound worry and something John had not expected: a deep sense of hurt that's not different to how he feels. There's shame, even, but not for getting caught or for hurting John. No, it's…

Somehow, Sherlock is as surprised and shocked as he is over what had happened. He's not just upset because John had blocked him — he's upset over Moriarty's sudden appearance.

It makes no sense. John had been so certain that what had happened yesterday was Sherlock's fantasy being played out, using him as just a warm body. Why would he be so surprised by what had happened if it was just him thinking of Moriarty?

Then again, he wouldn't put it past Sherlock to get carried away, to not realise that's where this brain had floated off.

Sherlock can sense his prying and starts closing off by shielding. John is insulted by this — a little honesty could go a long way right now. Then, he senses Sherlock second-guessing himself and reopening all of their connection tentatively.

Can we… talk? Sherlock asks after an extended silence.

Wallis has disappeared into the ensuite, and John is glad for the privacy.

I didn't know where you were since I couldn't feel you, Sherlock comments.

In John's head, his tone sounds like the bastard child of astonishment and accusation.

Yeah, I can shield now.

John decides there's no reason to tell Sherlock what he'd been doing last night, especially since he can't even remember all of it

Did you go to him? he asks.

The answer to 'can we talk' wholly depends on Sherlock's reply to this.

Not like that. Wait––

John nearly slams the proverbial door, but Sherlock's desperate plea makes him halt.

I went to see him only to do what I should done right from the start.

And what do you think that is?

To tell him I'd rather rip the implant out of my own head with pliers than have anything to do with him.

Flattered, was he?

Residual anger makes John resort to such snark before he realises that Sherlock still isn't shielding at all — how that means he's being completely honest about his encounter with Moriarty.

Still, John doesn't entirely understand the need to even go there. James wasn't there in the moment, because how could he have been? It was all just in Sherlock's head, it had to be.

You didn't answer me, Sherlock reminds him. I'd rather do this face to face.

So would John. He can feel and hear Sherlock well since Wallis' room isn't physically that far away from their own, but to be able to really read every nuance of Sherlock, he'd need to be within spitting distance.

Or punching distance.

I need to see Colleen at ten. Will I find you home after that? he asks.

Yes. Sherlock's unadulterated relief floods their connection.

On principle, John blocks their connection again and decides to keep to himself until then.

When Wallis re-emerges from brushing his teeth, John asks if he can borrow the shower. He plans to throw his boxers and vest into Wallis' laundry bin. The thin, woollen dress uniform should still be in good enough condition even if his undergarments are a bit ripe. "Can I borrow a shirt?" he asks Wallis, who nods and passes him a crisply pressed white T-shirt from a cupboard.

Sherlock didn't ask where I am, John realises. He doesn't know what to make of that.

"What have you got on, then?" Wallis asks. "You're welcome to join me and the cadets."

"No, I'm… I've got some work to do with Colleen." He squares his shoulders. "Then, I'm going to talk to Sherlock."

"He called me last night. He knew I'd been the one to report you unavailable, so of course he put two and two together." Wallis snorts. "And no, I'm pretty sure he doesn't think you were with me last night. He knows I don't… do blokes."

After John and Sherlock's relationship had become common knowledge, Wallis had stopped making his old jokes about gays. John has never thought of the man as properly homophobic, just typical of military organisations in his attitudes. John has no idea whether Wallis still comments unfavourably about such things when he and Sherlock aren't present, but he likes to think Tom is a friend and wouldn't do those things.

"He called you and said what?" John asks.

"He was just worried, I think. I thought you two knew all the time where the other one was with that thing you do––" Wallis points at his head, then spins his finger downwards in a spiral that John cannot decipher.

"That supposed to be Ghost Drifting?" John chuckles. "It can be switched off, too. You think I want to have Sherlock bloody Holmes in my head twenty-four-seven?" John omits the fact that he's possessed the ability to block his partner for less than a day.

"You'll be alright?" Wallis asks. "Both of you?"

"I don't know."

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

Even though John had been grateful for the distraction of work, by eleven in the morning he's getting irritated: Colleen seems to be dragging her feet to even get started with their project.

"Well?" John prompts cheerfully, aware of how forced it sounds. "Do you want to put me in a sim to test things out, or…?"

She hasn't given him anything to do yet and even now, instead of replying, she glances at the wall clock with a pained expression. The long hand jumps to exactly eleven.

"Got somewhere to be?"

"Lunch date, but that's not until noon. Yeah, you should get in," she relents and nods towards the simulation room. Through the armour-plated window glass between the space he's in and Colleen's control room, he watches her rises from the chair and go to the door connecting the control room to the corridor. She slides a new-looking ID card on the console, and the lock indicator light goes red. She then deflates into her high-backed chair, glances at John nervously, then averts her eyes.

"Colleen?" John asks. "What's going on?"

She reaches towards the door separating the two of them, flashes the ID card. The lock goes red. In all the years John has worked with her, there's never been a reason to lock it.

Through the glass, she gives him a pained, apologetic look the likes of he's never seen before from her. He spreads his arms, his whole form a question mark. She can't hear him through the sound-insulated wall and thick window; that would require her using the loudspeaker or being connected through the system. Why would she lock the door? Why isn't she starting the simulation?

"Colleen!" he shouts, and he knows she must be able to recognise the familiar word even without sound.

She shakes her head in an apologetic warning.

What the hell us going on?

He activates his console so that he could try to call her, but there's no signal, no connection to the server. The console is useless.

John turns his back to the window, pinches his eyes closed and seeks Sherlock out. He finds the familiar presence, but instead of reaching Sherlock he finds his partner distracted by something else. Sherlock is surprised, John realises. Soon, that surprise shifts to alarm. Then, it evolves into a looming panic. There's someone in Sherlock's presence — someone he doesn't want there. It's as if he shines as bright as a beacon in that invisible space between them.

John calls out for his name, hears his own in response. He whips around to face Colleen, tries the door handle that won't let him through. He slams his palm on the window and shouts Colleen's name.

"I'm so, so sorry, John," Colleen says quietly through the microphone system she has finally activated. Were the PONS simulation on, she could speak directly into his mind. Now, it's as if she wants the distancing effect of speech to protect herself from his anger.

The panic John is sensing from Sherlock blooms into full-on fight or flight. It's akin to a microphone creating sudden, ear-splitting feedback on the line. Sherlock is calling out to him, needs him.

Sherlock is in danger, John's senses are screaming.

And it is becoming obvious that the person who has locked herself and John into this lab and John further into the simulation room must know something about what's going on.

"Colleen?!" John shouts again, pointing at the loudspeaker to get her to activate it. "What do you think you're––"

"They knew he'd kick up a fuss. That you would," she admits, sounding defeated.

"Who did? What the bleeding hell is going on, Colleen? Hm?" John tries the handle again, to no avail. He can barely keep up with what's going on with the alarms going off in his head in the form of Sherlock's screeching panic.

"They gave me an order, John, I had to do it," she pleads.

"If you don't open this door right now, I swear to God––" John starts to threaten, then his overworked brain screeches into a halt as suddenly, the familiar and utterly terrified presence in his mind is silenced.

"Sherlock?" he asks, realising he's speaking out loud instead of projecting in his head when Colleen grimaces again.

"John––" she tries.

"Let me the fuck out right now."

"John, I had to," she still tries to excuse, "You know I've got a family, I can't––"

"Where is he, Colleen?!"

Her shoulders sag. "Med Bay."

"Med Bay? What's wrong with him? And how could you know beforeh––" John gapes, the wind knocked out of him with the realisation of what has to be going on. "They can't be–– He said no, Colleen!"

"We all signed away the right to say no," Colleen reminds him. "The vaccinations, the medicals, none of it is voluntary."

"You lied to me!" John bellows, and slams a fist on the bulletproof glass between them. It vibrates a bit but does not crack. "You fucking lied to me! We've trusted you for years and–– and––– OPEN THE FUCKING DOOR, COLLEEN!"

So completely gripped by a fury that is whiting out his brain John is that it frightens her more than whoever has made her do this. When he kicks the door for good measure, she flinches and unlocks it.

"Unlock the other one," John forces out through clenched teeth, hand on the door handle. "I swear to god I will hurt you worse than whoever did this if you don't."

Once he sees the corridor lock go back to green, he bursts through the simulation room door and points a finger shaking with rage at her as he prepares to break into a run out of the room. "I'll deal with you later!" He shouts over his shoulder, pushing into the corridor through the second door with such vigour that he nearly stumbles.

A singular thought fills his consciousness as he bounces violently off walls taking corners too fast: he needs to get to Sherlock, needs to find out what's wrong, needs to fix it, needs to protect him, now!

His steps screech to a halt when Sherlock's presence begins flickering like a bad TV connection, fading in and out. John can tell it's not Sherlock causing the distortion.

Sherlock! he calls out. I'll find you!

He gets no coherent response, just senses Sherlock grasping desperately for him.

Then, it feels as if he's gone deaf. His knees nearly buckle as Sherlock's presence is ripped from him, the connection that's been always humming reassuringly in between their minds snuffed out like a candle, switched off as with the click of some supernatural remote. Sherlock's roaring, overwhelming second-hand fear and alarm has disappeared, leaving its place a loneliness John hasn't known in years. Sherlock isn't blocking him, John realises, but gone, somehow. Since they'd been desperately trying to reach each other instead of shielding, it feels as if half of John's mind has been being ripped out, unplugged and shorted out. He's left bereft, the silence is so complete, so jolting that John realises that even when blocking one another a very low hum of a connection has always remained, and this is how it feels when even that is shut off.

And it's too sudden to be natural.

He sags against a wall, palms on his heels, eyes pinched closed, trying to comprehend.

Colleen catches up to him, breathing hard from the run. Her touch on his shoulder reorients John to both his surroundings and her betrayal, and he shoves her away, hard.

"I'm going to Med Bay," John snarls

She grabs his arm insistently. "They won't let you in. John, look, it's alright. He's not gone, gone, just… I'll show you," she promises in a pleading tone, tugging him back towards the simulation suite like a child trying to get a parent's attention. "Please, John, I can show you he's alright. I'm not trying to keep you away! Well, I did because they––"

"Who's they?" John lets her hang on to his limb but makes no move to follow her. He needs to get to Sherlock right now, not let her waste more of his time.

"The order came from Global Command. I verified it with Hammond; it's real."

"The command to do what?" he asks venomously, still suspecting she's playing time, trying to keep him from reaching Med Bay. "To lock me in while they do what? Kidnap him for reimplantation?"

Saying the words out loud makes it all sound so ridiculous, so unlikely, yet it's the only logical scenario John can come up with, since that whatever has happened to Sherlock is something Colleen has been informed of beforehand.

And she doesn't deny it. He pulls his arm away, glaring murder at her. "Why the hell would they do that after giving everyone a thick wad of consent papers to sign? Why pretend to give him a right to decline?"

"He's going to be alright, John, they promised me that."

"No, he bloody well won't be! He said no, Colleen!"

"They said neither of us has a choice. He's a war asset, and they threatened to court martial me if I disobeyed the order. I've my kids, John, I can't–– Please let me show you on his vitals feed that he's alright, the last thing they want is for something to go wrong with the procedure! They won't let you into Med Bay right now. There's nothing we can do now," she pleads.

"You made damned sure of that, so there's no we here, is there?!" John snaps.

The sense of urgency deflates as he studies her face. He is inclined to believe her reasoning that trying to storm Med Bay right now isn't going to help.

He follows her meekly back to the simulation lab, feeling as though he's doing it against his better judgement, overwhelmed by the sense of losing a battle before it has even started.

When he was still a medical officer, John had access to the vitals feeds of all Rangers. It's been so long since he had such a privilege that it hadn't occurred to him to turn to that data to see what is going on. LOCCENT officers have that accent since they need it to monitor pilots in battle.

They return to the simulation control room and Colleen brings up Sherlock's vitals feed, and John shoves himself between her chair and the console to see better.

The ECG is showing sinus rhythm, no signs of ischaemia. There's a steady but slow heartbeat registering both on the ECG and the pulse oximeter, slower than Sherlock's usual resting rate. She leans to the side and reaches around him to bring up more feeds: oxygen saturation a full hundred, blood pressure a bit on the low side but gradually rising in a pattern indication vasoactive medication. According to the trends window Colleen brings up next, the blood pressure had skyrocketed along with the heart rate just as John had sensed Sherlock's panic. There are a few harmless extrasystolic beats within the next minute, the likes of which even healthy hearts produce by the hundreds a day.

He's fine, John breathes out. Well, physically.

While Colleen is an expert on reading EEG, John only has the rudimentary skills acquired through the LOCCENT control module part of the rather old-fashioned training regime he and Harry had gone through. They used to train Rangers and people sharing Colleen's role through an identical stem until separating those service groups. Even with John's limited understanding of the brain waves on the feeds, he can tell that Sherlock's EEG had gone near-flat when John had sensed his disappearance, indicating a very low level of consciousness. There is still little baseline activity, but Colleen points out a form of infrequent blip, tracing it on the screen with her finger. "Persistent alpha-spindles within slow delta waves."

"Asleep? Unconscious?" John demands. Did Sherlock knock his head on something and lose consciousness in the scuffle? Or have they sedated him?

"Both. Deep general anaesthesia, practically burst suppression at first before they titrated it to the desired level," Colleen summarises. "They'll take good care of him, John. I know he didn't want reimplantation, but––"

John scans the EEG feed. Sherlock seems to have woken up somewhere in the middle. They must've have knocked him out when they went to get him, and then he returned to consciousness as they were preparing for the surgery. Jesus fucking Christ. He must've fought them hard.

It's still near-impossible for John to even believe what has happened, and that Colleen — their Colleen had been forced to participate.

"He wouldn't have even been fasted properly," John accuses. "They put him under while he's an aspiration risk. It can't have been more than a minute since he found out what was going on before they knocked him out!"

"I hope you're proud of yourself, now, obeying that order," John snaps at her because there's no one else available to rail against right now.

Or is there? Going to Med Bay would probably be useless, but he could go up the chain of command. Could he still stop the surgery? It seems unlikely, since there's already a slight rise in Sherlock's blood pressure and pulse, indicating the body responding to stress and pain even through deep anaesthesia.

He remembers when Sherlock had first arrived at Chard. He'd been adamant never to set foot in Med Bay, convinced all who worked for the PPDC's science and medical services were a bunch of butchers ready to vivisect him. Now, the Science Division is certainly playing their part.

They've forced this on him. He said no, and they did it anyway.

John is going to murder the lot of them with his bare hands. They've ambushed Sherlock, sedated him right where he stood or dragged him to Med Bay kicking and screaming before putting him under. It must have been a brutally efficient, pre-planned operation. And they used someone both John and Sherlock had trusted for years to make sure John's resistance wouldn't make the operation even more challenging. He's livid with Colleen, even if she thinks she'd been blackmailed into participation.

He must've been glaring daggers at her, since she reminds him again: "They gave me an order, John."

"If they tell you to jump off the cannon tower, will you do that, too, hm?" John inhales through his nose, chest expanding as he juts out his chin. This is not over. They wanted me locked into the sim lab because they thought I was going to kick up a bloody fuss? They have no idea.

He slams the door on his way out and runs to the stairwell, knocking shoulders without apologising with staff meandering down corridors towards the canteen; it's lunchtime. John won't be hungry, won't feel tired, won't be anything to anyone, least of all to himself until he's with Sherlock.

Once he's at the Med Bay entrance, he uses his wrist console to activate his access rights only to find that the locks refuses stubbornly to let him through just as Colleen had predicted. I had to try.

He needs to go up the command chain, then. Colleen said Hammond confirmed it was a real order, which means he knew about this.

He runs to the administrative wing, takes the lift up to the command deck. The other staff members in the lift give him wary looks as he practically vibrates with rage, impatient for the metal cage to climb to his destination.

In the Base Commander's office quarters, he meets a wall as impenetrable as the Med Bay doors when he tries to demand an audience with Hammond.

"I'm afraid the Commander is in a meeting," his secretary tells him firmly, refusing to buzz him through.

"The fuck he is. Tell him I need to speak with him now. I guarantee it's more important than anything he might be having his so-called meeting about."

"He left orders that he's not to be disturbed this afternoon."

"Not even if a member of the Corps is in danger?"

She regards him suspiciously. "We have received no reports of missing or injured staff."

John peers past her but all he can see behind her desk are the blastproof doors to Hammond's large office, firmly closed with a red indicator on the lock. "Is he even in there? Or was he a part of the firing squad? Leading the commando team to kidnap one of his own Rangers, hm? That why he's not taking visitors? Because he doesn't want to fucking man up and explain himself?"

She rises to her feet, glancing at her desk and then fixing her exasperated gaze on John. "Ranger Watson. You're out of line. I'm sorry, but the Commander is unavailable," she informs him again.

John grits his teeth together, snaps his posture into one of military precision, and stomps off, seething.

There's one more channel he could try, one he uses even more sparingly than Sherlock does. After enduring another endless lift ride back to the aviation deck level, he sprints to the main Shatterdome and up the stairwell to their dorm room.

He turns on the computer terminal and brings Mycroft Holmes' contact details up on the computer. On second thought, he scrolls through his personal contact list and finds the man's private number.

For this conversation, John would prefer a video feed, but only the audio connects. John curses under his breath when he only gets the man's personal assistant.

"Good morning, how may I help you?"

"I need to speak with the Marshal. Tell him it's very urgent, that it's about his brother and that it's Watson calling."

That should be alarming enough.

"If you were to call, he advised to tell you he is aware of the situation."

"Aware? What does that mean?"

Mycroft, who spent years protecting Sherlock from recruitment. No, John decides. Mycroft Holmes may be a massive arsehole in some ways, but he is fond of his little brother. He had tried for years to protect Sherlock's right to choose the way he lived his life. He won't have given the order to force him into reimplantation, but had he stepped aside, let it happen?

There is a polite but firm silence at the other end.

"Please," John forces out, "please let me talk to him. No one else will tell me anything. They've shut me out; Sherlock is all alone. I don't care if he knew––"

Yes, I do, and I'm going to scalp him, too, for this.

This seems to break through the ice. "I will see if he's available."

The line goes quiet, and John is glad not to have to endure queuing music. His nerves couldn't take such a banality right now; he'd probably end up shooting the screen with the service pistol in his gear locker. Sherlock had once shot a figure of a smiley face onto the ceiling when boredom had got the better of him. That was a mound of paperwork neither he nor John want to ever repeat.

"John." Mycroft's tone is sombre when he replaces his assistant in conversation and turns on the video.

"I need access to him. I need to make sure he's alright. They kidnapped him!"

"I'm aware."

"You're aware, you're aware, but what the fuck have you done to try to stop it? Too little or nothing, that's obvious."

"You have to appreciate the precariousness of the situation," Mycroft says. "I did not know until the plan had been initiated. I'm trying to trace the origin of the order Hammond pushed through––"

"Tracing the order–– Why didn't you stop it?!"

"Because it came from above me."

John hears a clink; he suspects Mycroft is having a whiskey and has just put the glass down on a table. Whisky in the middle of the day? He's upset, too, John realises, and his anger deflates a little.

John longs for a whisky now, too, but he needs all his wits about him for Sherlock's sake. "But isn't there some kind of whistleblower channel, someone you could contact when there's an obvious human rights violation?"

"Implantation does not fall under the rules of healthcare with the Corps," Mycroft explains in a bitter tone. "It's a strategic decision, and during the planning stage of the reimplantation program, certain countries with long histories of human rights issues argued that consent should not be asked for or required from officers under contract. I've had to tread more carefully than ever trying to protect the interests of the Atlantic subsection, since a post-colonial division of power, favouritism and misuse of allocated funds for frivolities instead of upgrading weapons systems are now the standard-response from China and Russia whenever the rest of the governing countries suggest something they don't like. If I was to interfere personally in the decision-making at Global Command, especially on behalf of my brother, I might lose my last chance of getting to the bottom of what seems to be creating a dangerous rift in the Corps. I cannot help anyone, least of all Sherlock, if my mandate is stripped. The way I had his record sealed for years has already been brought out in certain… negotiations."

"Never mind what's going on at Global Command; why the hell would Hammond play along? How could he confirm an order like that?"

"I am certain that doing so was not a decision Commander Hammond took lightly. His first priority has always been the Rangers under his command."

Hammond knew this would be a betrayal of all the principles he's spent years pretending to uphold. No wonder he made so damned sure no one walked in today to question his decision.

"You let Sherlock get hurt because of politics," John accuses his brother-in-law. He understands why Mycroft couldn't help, but he doesn't have to accept it. "Good to know you'll only interfere when it's safe for you." John can think of several examples of such interference, including Mycroft getting Sherlock assigned to the more demanding Cadet training group.

"I did not let him get hurt. I simply could not interfere with a step deemed necessary for the war effort. And even if I could, it was too late. I found out minutes before you called. Hammond sent me a heads-up as a courtesy."

"You know who could have used a fucking heads-up?! He's called Sherlock, and he's your brother! You made him join, knowing full well he'd hate the very idea if implantation, and now he goes through that trauma again."

Mycroft's eyes darken at this accusation, and his voice is gravelly as he responds. "I spent years risking my career to protect him. I burnt bridges, used up many a favour, did all I could to give him as many years as he had outside the Corps. I risked out family legacy to give him a chance at a life outside the Corps. And what did he do with that chance? He injected it into his veins. Do you have any idea how hard it was to keep secret the aptitude of someone of his pedigree? Should I remind you who our parents were?"

Mycroft makes it all sound as though he's been Sherlock's great protector, practically a step-parent, but John knows he's the very same older brother who'd abandoned Sherlock at a boarding school where he had been mistreated. All because he needed to build his own career in the PPDC. He may have tried to keep Sherlock out of the Corps, but there's no excuse for the way Sherlock had spent his youth, parentless and brotherless.

Mycroft continues, visibly still provoked by John's accusations. "The choice he was given may well seem like choosing between a rock and a hard place. After all, it was prison or the PPDC. But, in the condition he was in, with his drug use spiralling out of control, he wouldn't have lasted long in this world, anyway. We both know his bloody-mindedness; he would not have elected to join the PPDC if deep down, he didn't see at least some kind of a chance in that choice, a possibility he might carve some kind of a meaningful existence out of it."

"I'm not so sure about that." When Sherlock had arrived in the throes of withdrawal from a formidable cocktail of narcotics, John had learned quickly how deep his distrust and hatred of the PPDC ran, for understandable family reasons.

"It was a good choice. He turned his life around and became the hero of the Reichenbach Ravager," Mycroft concludes, and John hears pride there he's not picked up on before. At times, he's even suspected Mycroft is jealous of his brother's star status.

"The Corps asks a lot of its Rangers. It asks for everything: even the ultimate sacrifice, if a battle ends badly."

"It's still a two-way street," John points out. "I don't think many Rangers would serve an organisation that treats them as cannon fodder or meat puppets to be experimented on."

"And that is not the Pan-Pacific Defence Corps I serve," Mycroft declares. "I tried, John. And had I known sooner about this plan to force reimplantation, I would have used the means I have available to interfere."

"They betrayed me, too. They're pushing me out without asking how I feel about it or what Sherlock wants."

"Sherlock raised that very issue last night when he called me."

"He called you? Are you sure it wasn't a pocket dial?"

John is taken aback. Normally, Sherlock would rather chop off his own toe and eat it than speak to Mycroft voluntarily.

"For lack of a better word, he was upset. I got the impression that you two had an argument and he worried about the repercussions. Something to do with a Ranger by the name of Moriarty, I believe?"

Sherlock called Mycroft to talk about that? John is astounded.

"He wanted the Ranger in question removed from Chard's Rift. He seemed to believe he is connected to certain unfavourable developments in the Corps. His arguments did not follow a wholly logical chain of reasoning. As I said, he was most distressed both by whatever happened between the three of you and by the fact of your being denied reimplantation."

Oh, Sherlock. John finds himself even more inclined to believe that what had happened between them was not all Sherlock's doing.

But what the hell was it, then? Moriarty wasn't there with us.

"There's still something you can do," John tells him brother-in-law. I need access to Sherlock, right now. He hates anything having to do with medical care. He wants me there. I need access to Med Bay."

The Science Division had been limiting even the regular Med Bay staff's access when the reimplantation project started, but re-instating John's access rights to the facility can't be that difficult or require contacting high Global Command, can it?

"Yes, I think I can assist with that, but it may take a moment," Mycroft warns him.

John itches to ask how long a moment is, feeling as impatient as a child demanding to know how much of a car ride is still left.

"Yes, he will certainly want you there when he wakes up," Mycroft confirms, perhaps to placate John so that they can end this exhausting conversation.

"They just… took him," John shakes his head. He's always been, well, mostly happy with his choice of serving in the Corps, but there are aspects of the organisation that give him just as much pause as they do Sherlock even if the latter has always been more vocal about it. And when they decide to hurt the man John loves and would protect with his very life, he knows where his highest loyalties lie, and they sure aren't with the PPDC.

"At least he was not in distress for long. Better for him not to have time to fret in advance if this was unavoidable," Mycroft suggests.

The word fret makes John's blood boil again. Mycroft had not been there, had not been profoundly connected to Sherlock when it had happened. He hadn't felt that abject terror, that desperate clawing for John to help him, to be with him. John bites his tongue so hard he tastes copper since it won't help to yell at Mycroft.

"Access to Med Bay. Now," he threatens.

"Of course," Mycroft confirms. "And Ranger Watson? Please refrain from ruffling any more feathers while I see what I can do. A formal note of your behaviour at the Command Deck filed by secretary Rossum will be withdrawn; surely, Commander Hammond will be willing to chalk your outburst at his secretary up to spousal distress."

Chapter 20: The Abyss

Sherlock claws at the dark, finding nothing to grip as he floats in nothingness. His feet won't find solid purchase, his eyes fail to locate even a single photon of light. He can't tell up from down, cannot hear even his own breathing in this echoless, suffocating blackness. He doesn't know how long ago he'd been cast here; it's just as hard to get a grasp on time as it is on space.

There are no dreams; this is not normal nighttime rest. Something is keeping him separate from himself, but what is even more frightening is that he cannot feel John. When they block each other or are separated by a vast geographical distance, their connection can become dim, like trying to see the faintest glow of a nebula in deep space, perceptible only when one stays quiet, still and focussed. This is not that: Sherlock knows for certain that their tether has been completely severed. This bereft, this alone, this without he has not felt since his and John's first neural handshake through the PONS system.

Is he dead? Is John dead?

Oddly enough, though such speculations are deeply distressing on a cerebral level, he feels neither anxiety nor pain. He feels less than nothing, and there is something alien and artificial about this void. It's hard to organise his memories; he has no idea how he's ended up in here, how he could have misplaced John like this.

It's as if someone has yanked out the cables to his consciousness, and put only some of them back — and in the wrong order.

Without answers, he sinks back into the dark.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

An unquantifiable amount of time later, the vacuum of space into which he's been cast begins to gain some data flows. They pass him by, mostly beyond reach; the only things he can latch onto are occasional echoes that must be words, but they aren't really connecting into sentences that would convey any meaning.

'calibration'

'distress'

'microhemorrhage'

'access'

'neural dampening' — Sherlock knows this one, it's something Colleen adjusts for him to prevent him from getting overwhelmed by the sheer amount of data the Ravager feeds to him.

He doesn't need more of it! He needs his senses to be turned back on!

He wants to scream to protest, but without any connection to his body, his vocal cords are unusable, wherever they are.

Is he still in his body?

He's mute, deaf and sees nothing but an emptiness.

He's a brain in a jar down an infinite well.

John. Where is his John?

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

Finally, some sensory input begins to register that proves he must be still attached to his body. But why must it consist of nothing but pain and chaos? Just as he thinks he might be approaching the very first inklings of awareness of his surroundings, the things his brain is trying to parse together turns into a cerebral storm, a searing headache ripping through his skull as though dagger-like icicles were sprouting from his brain stem, skewering his cortex. His hands must be clawing into fists and he may be screaming from the pain but cannot hear himself in the midst of this river of pain that won't let him grab onto the shore of his consciousness and pull himself to safety. Explosions of blinding white light fill his visual field like supernovas detonating in his optic nerve. This isn't what he'd longed for as a replacement to the black limbo.

"Turn up the inhibition of excitatory transmitter release," someone says, but the words only register as gibberish since Sherlock is too far gone, submerged in the maelstrom of pain to process them.

"The old one couldn't regulate sensory gating at all," says another voice proudly, "idiotic to make the factory settings on this one none on that inhibition," they complain.

Something seems to slow down, perhaps the onslaught of visual information. The pain is still there, making him arch his back and curl his fingers into whatever he's lying on. He tries to focus on the tactile information he finds there: natural fibre, linen, crisp, cool. It's reassuring evidence that he still exists on the mortal plane.

"Brains on the autism spectrum have a deficit in the number and myelination of those fronto-posterior connections, so what if he needs more input there to regulate the data feeds and not less?" A third voice. How many tormentors has he been assigned?

That same voice has more to say and Sherlock wants to cover his ears, but though he suspects can now use his fingers, he can't lift his hands to his head. He's too afraid of the pain getting worse to open his eyes.

"What if we increase signal re-routing through those areas?" suggests the first voice.

What if. What if. Are they playing a game, pushing buttons on his brain to see what happens?

"Should we increase sedation?" The second voice asks, sounding alarmed.

They should be alarmed. Can't they see he can't take much more of this?

"Not yet. We have to do the calibrations at some point. He can take it."

No, Sherlock wants to scream. I don't want to. I can't.

The assault on his vision stops, leaving just ghost images superimposed on what he recognises now as cold, white light filtering through his lids. The pain hasn't stopped, but its intensity is diminishing. He tries to still his breathing, slowly opens his fingers.

He hears his last name, but isn't sure if they're just continuing to discuss him as though he was an insect pinned under glass, or trying to get him to react.

Opening his eyes in case that brings on more pain and sensory assault remains too daunting a task.

"A rougher ride of it than we expected. Best do another PET-MRI to make sure he didn't tear any of the connections or get a bleed."

Sherlock is too exhausted and overwhelmed to pick apart which of his captors is speaking this time.

"We should microdose with haloperidol, probably. That amount of traffic on the visual cortex could predispose someone like him to psychotic after-effects. We saw that last week, remember, and that Ranger wasn't even neurodivergent?"

Soon, Sherlock's limbs begin to feel heavier, and his thoughts grow lethargic. At least the pain is now subsiding. It's nothing but distant ache, now, at the base of his skull. He's starts to feel as though he's lying on warm sand, the pull of the waves of a vast ocean lapping nearly at his feet irresistible after what he's just gone through. He knows he should probably be trying to fight his way to consciousness, to start putting the pieces together of where he is and why, but the pull of the oblivion is getting more intense.

He holds on for a moment more before letting himself drift into what he now knows is not the ocean but sleep. At the very moment of succumbing, he resists just long enough to feel the gentlest touch of another mind. It's a question, a caress, a presence he's been desperate for. It's not very close but it's there, reacting to him with a relief that matches his own. It's two vines twisting around each other, two auras of colours meeting like ripples on calm water, two sounds intermingling and their frequencies fusing.

It's familiar. It's his safe place.

John. John has found him.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

A message from Marshal Holmes flashes on John's wrist console seven hours after he had dragged a chair down the hall to in front of the Med Bay doors. He hasn't tried to storm the castle in the wake of staff passing through those doors since such a trespass would do exactly what his brother-in-law had warned against: get him into trouble and bury hopes of seeing Sherlock as soon as possible. Thus, his vigil is about signalling everyone walking through these doors that some is going on that shouldn't be. He wants to rush in the second Mycroft delivers on his promise.

'Your access privileges to the Medical Bay have been re-established,' the communique says.

John is on his feet before he's even finished reading the words, his arm already extended for the access panel.

This time, the doors open.

He knows where the recovery room is and tries there first, but it's empty. Next, he jogs to the high dependency unit reserved for acute patients awaiting transfer to a civilian intensive care unit and ones needing extended close monitoring of their vitals after surgery. Chard doesn't have a proper intensive care unit; patients needing such treatment are airlifted to Lisbon.

The HDU has several isolation rooms to be used during epidemics and for restless patients. In one of these, he finds Sherlock.

He looks to be awake but is blinking blearily, eyes reaching barely half-mast at most. He tugs a bit at the padded restraints on his wrists, a sight that twists instantly at John's heart. There's a bruised bump on Sherlock's forehead John cannot work out the cause for; when Sherlock turns his head a bit John spots the actual surgical incision covered by white gauze and surrounded by a round area of shaved-off hair. They haven't sheared away more than they absolutely had to, John realises, but that doesn't mean he's stopped wanting to wring their necks.

He hesitates at the door, closes his eyes. He can sense Sherlock, can sense a tentative contact between them, but it feels one-sided: as though Sherlock knows he's close but cannot parse together anything coherent to communicate.

At the sound of footfall, John turns towards the nurses' station. A familiar face has arrived: Navendra Mohamed, the head nurse who's worked at Chard almost as long as John has served at the Shatterdome.

When she spots John, her expression shifts from initial puzzlement to alarm.

John raises his arms his begrudging supplication. "Not here to cause trouble. They returned my access rights. What's done is done, eh?" He grits his teeth through this attempt to put her at ease. He loathes pretending he's if not fine then at least made his peace with this barbaric incident, but if he kicks up a fuss right now, he won't get to be with Sherlock.

"We're still under Science Division temporary control for the reimplantation programme," she warns him conspiratorially. Tread carefully, it means.

"I'm here for Sherlock," John promises, "that's all. Doesn't he have 1-on-1 obs?"

"I'm his 1-on-1 for the evening shift, just stepped into the loo," she explains. "He's doing well but is still a bit out of it."

"Why?"

It's been hours since the surgery ended, as confirmed by Colleen when John had stomped back from his quarters after speaking to Mycroft to find her. They had waited together until Sherlock's vital sign feed began to indicate his anaesthesia was being lightened, tapered away. After that, John had taken up his position by the Med Bay doors and knows nothing about how his partner's recovery had gone. He'd felt stirrings of the return of their Ghost Drifting, but it has felt like a bad TV signal, flickering on and off.

"Sedation," Navendra explains. "He had a tough time at first, after waking up I mean, when they tried to find the right settings. They've not put the new implant in a lot of people like him yet," she lowers her voice.

John can deduce what she means. Sherlock's brain must be unique even among people on the neurodiversity Spectrum, and even with his first implant, a lot of finetuning had been needed. The initial settings had even caused epileptic brain activity.

"But they got it to work alright? He's fine?" John takes a few steps back from the nurses' station so he can see Sherlock again through the isolation room's open door. Navendra has a camera feed and his vitals open at the nurses' station, but for John seeing just those is hardly reassuring enough.

Sherlock's eyes are closed, and his hands rest lax on the bed.

"Yes, he's fine. They did a metabolic and anatomical MRI to make sure," the nurse explains.

John inhales, swallows. Do they do all those routinely, or was there something worrying going on? He knows anything could have happened with such a delicate brain and a most experimental new device designed to manipulate neural information traffic.

Did they do all that imaging because they thought he might have brain damage.

He forces himself to exhale. It takes all his willpower not to start shouting or flipping chairs and demanding to speak to whoever's responsible so he could kick them off the aviation deck.

"You know they don't tell us much, but I overheard a lot when they were adjusting things," Navendra tells him, her eyes dark with concern over his weighted silence. "They can manipulate stress hormone regulation, make your adrenals pump out stuff for an extra kick. But calibrating that so the limbic system doesn't overload…" She shakes her head. "I didn't envy him." Her pointed look sends shivers down John's spine.

I'm so sorry, he tries to send to Sherlock. I'm sorry I wasn't here. I'm sorry I didn't stop them.

"Thanks, Nar," John says hastily over his shoulder and goes to Sherlock's bed.

He opens the restraints on Sherlock's right hand and gives his fingers a squeeze. His hair is plastered to his forehead and John wonders if he'd had a fever or if it's pain-provoked sweat. Navendra's words come to mind about not envying Sherlock when they'd been calibrating his implant. At least he doesn't look uncomfortable now.

John reaches out for a chair, reluctant to let go of the listless hand he's holding. He drags the seat next to the bed, plants himself in it and leans over the railing to rest his forehead against Sherlock's.

Hi. Found you.

If Sherlock is aware of his presence, being so physically close should make it easy to connect even if he's not ready to wake up yet.

He knows Sherlock's mind after visiting it for years. If it were a physical space, a room or a palace, it would be in disarray right now: papers fluttering about, furniture missing and broken, Sherlock's awareness shifting through those rooms not even sure where to start in putting everything back.

He can sense a lingering alarm in Sherlock, worry that whoever has done this will come back and hurt him again. Even John's presence seems to unsettle him at first before he seems to recognise it.

It's alright. If they want to get to you, they'll have to go through me.

John?

John encloses the fingers he's been holding in both of his own palms, gives the back of Sherlock's hand a kiss.

The form on the bed tenses, shoulders shifting. Slowly, Sherlock's eyes begin cracking open and long fingers gain enough muscle tone to curl slowly around John's.

Navendra has noticed the movement and comes to stand in the doorway.

"It's alright, I think," John tells her.

"We're still running some sedation," she reminds him. "He's needed massive doses."

"Best taper it off slowly," John tells her. "It's alright to let him wake up?"

"No orders to the contrary. I'm right here if you need me," she promises and returns to the nurses' station.

Sherlock's eyes are still half-mast, unfocussed. "Bit awkward, this," he mutters. He drags his eyes open, frowning lop-sidedly as he tries to focus his gaze on John. "Come to join me?" he slurs.

He's not quite in full control of his facial expressions and John wonders if it's from the sedation or something more sinister.

"Not for surgery, that's for sure," John scoffs. "Mycroft got my access back. They shut me out before, that's why I wasn't here." It's a sad excuse of an apology, but John reminds himself he has little to apologise for: it's not as if he has in any way facilitated this. He'd worked harder than anyone to stop this, considering he has no idea how much effort behind the scenes Mycroft has actually bothered to put in.

He decides against explaining how even Colleen had helped keep him away. It wouldn't do Sherlock any good to get more upset than he might already be.

Without asking the nurse if it's allowed, John unstraps the restraint on Sherlock's opposite hand. Sherlock is calm, why would he need them anymore? They're not the sturdiest sort, the locking mechanism just a bit of velcro that Sherlock in his right mind could have undone in seconds.

He places a palm on Sherlock's cheek, strokes his jawline with his thumb, smiling for the first time after Colleen had locked him in the lab. "I was so worried. How are you feeling?"

"Headache's gone, mostly," Sherlock assesses.

John can both hear from his sharper pronunciation and feel it in their mental connection how the cobwebs of Sherlock's sedation are dissipating. Maybe Navendra has shut off the infusion.

John raises the head of Sherlock's bed up to a beach chair position. "That's good, headache getting better," he agrees. "Anything else?"

"A bit of nausea. I…" Sherlock starts blinking furiously and his breathing picks up as though he's just realised something. "I…" his gaze locks with John's and, to the latter's surprise, Sherlock's eyes fill with heavy tears. "John…"

Suddenly, Sherlock is sobbing — terrible, gasping breaths, tears squeezing out from under tightly wrinkled lids. "I don't––– know what's–– wrong with me," he manages to get out.

John rises to his feet, perches on the edge of the bed instead of the chair and pulls Sherlock to a fully sitting position and into his arms. "It's alright. There's nothing wrong with you, it's just that you had a bit of brain surgery, remember?"

"I couldn't–– I couldn't find you," Sherlock gasps, struggling terribly to get his emotions under control. "I didn't know––"

John shushes him, tries not to disturb the head bandages as he slides a hand up the back of Sherlock head to hold him tighter. "I'm here. They just took you — us — offline for a moment."

The reassuring, belittling words taste like bile on John's tongue. He knows it's the implants, the PONS system that has allowed them this connection in the first place, but it's so unfair that the people who have done this to Sherlock also hold the power to remove their Ghost Drifting like this, leaving them bereft and desperate for each other.

He's never seen Sherlock like this. This sudden overspill of emotion speaks volumes of how much he's gone through even though much of it has been dampened by anaesthesia. John even wonders if some of this lack of self-restraint could be a side-effect of adjusting to the new implant.

A tinge of rosy embarrassment begins taking over Sherlock's face. He sags back against the bed, hand gripped at John's collar, making him lean downwards a bit.

"I don't know what came over me," Sherlock mutters, averting his eyes and peeling his fingers off John's shirt.

"They flooded your lizard brain with stress hormones by the sound of it. Anyone would get maudlin. I promise I won't tell a soul."

"I've an international reputation that shouldn't be ruined," Sherlock jokes feebly.

"You secret's safe with me, you ridiculous softie," John knows his smile must be anaemic. They're both still reeling from the shock and the separation.

"I didn’t want it, I told them no," Sherlock pleads, still not looking at John. "I never signed the papers."

"You don’t have to convince me because Jesus H. Christ, I had such a fright when they came for you. I felt it."

John hates them, loathes with a white fury those who have reduced the formidable Sherlock to a quivering wreck.

"How long do I have to be here?" Sherlock asks, gaze wandering around the space his bed is parked in. "Whatever here even is."

"Med Bay. You came out of surgery…" John realises he hadn't asked Navendra when Sherlock had been delivered to the HDU. "It was two days of obs for an implantation back in my day. Might the same for you since it didn't––" John realises it might not be a good idea to tell Sherlock in his brittle stage that it sounds as though it had been a complicated operation to get his brain to co-operate with the implant. "Since it was a reoperation," he concludes.

"Can you stay?"

"I'd like to see them try to remove me. Mycroft told me to behave, though."

"You've talked to him?" Anger slips into Sherlock's tone. "Did he––" he starts accusing, sitting up in anger but John pushes him back to lean against the bed again.

"He didn't condone this, I don't think. I can't be sure, but… it is Hammond's jurisdiction to make such operative decisions, and I even found out that some of the related orders came from Global Command. It would've been hard for Mycroft to intervene since it would jeopardise his––" John realises this still sounds just as infuriating as it had coming from the horse's mouth. At least he'd been day-drinking out of probably some form of emotional turmoil over how the organisation he's dedicated his life to serving is treating his brother.

"Mycroft's upset over this," John concludes reluctantly. "He didn't want this to happen to you, either."

"It did, and how can you even be sure he wasn't involved?" Sherlock laces his fingers together on his stomach. "What happens next?"

John had been so preoccupied with the now that worrying about the long-term repercussions is only occurring to him now. "When the Ravager upgrades are done, they'll be compatible with what it's your head. But not with my implant."

"We are indispensable. I couldn't have done any of this without you. If they've forgot about that, I will remind them," Sherlock threatens, "in less than polite terms."

John rises from the chair to which he'd retreated, restless from having to consider these implications. "They want you. You're indispensable."

"I'll hardly be indispensable if I refuse to pilot."

John can relate to the bloody-minded statement. He doesn't feel like lifting a single finger ever again, either, to serve an organisation that treats its assets this way.

There remains, however, the small detail of Jaeger pilots being the last barricade against Armageddon.

Chapter 21: Post-disaster

Notes:

Whenever I write a scene with LJ Marais in it, I hear her voice in my head, and it's that of Podfixx in the brilliant podfic version she made of Drift Compatible, including training herself to do a credible but not stereotypical French accent. Check the podfic out, it's such an ingenious work of art.

When the door to their room clicks shut behind him, John's shoulders sag. He feels like a wrung-out dishrag, desperate for a moment's peace from the stress of trying to handle Sherlock in his current state.

Three days ago, instead of being discharged, he'd been released into John's care. This unorthodox solution had been created due to Sherlock being the worst of all menaces at the HDU, hyperactive as he was from the corticosteroids administered to bring down brain swelling to the point of bouncing off walls. It also didn't help that he kept having frequent, bloody-minded shouting matches with the staff and refused to co-operate with any further calibrations of the new implant regardless of how many times the Science Division representatives attempted to explain to him how it was a matter of safety and good recovery to find the best settings for him. The rationality of Sherlock's responses to those attempted conversations did not reach much above flinging cups of tea at the wall. All in all, he wanted to be left alone and refused to let anyone touch him, save for John and a few select nurses he was certain were not working for the Science Division.

While much of his volatile mood might have been be due to pharmacological effects, John suspects that a part of it had been a stress reaction intermingling with a hunger for vengeance over the forced surgery. And that reaction continues still, albeit in different forms.

After a tense meeting with the patient in question in absentia, it had been agreed that continuing his recovery at home might be the best course of action.

It is not, however, a good course of action, but as suggestions for a better one go, John has none to offer.

At Med Bay, Sherlock's reactions had been carnevalistically blatant. Now, he's become a lethargic hermit. When asked what Sherlock thought of an early move from HDU to their dorm room, he'd promised that he'd be willing to get the implant adjustments done once he'd had a proper night's rest in his own bed. John was hardly surprised when, once returned home, Sherlock had dismissed all attempts at delivering such care by now allowing John to open the door to anyone. The only times John gets a moment to himself is when he manages to convince Sherlock he needs to go get food or they'll both expire. Being cooped up in the dorm is getting rather claustrophobic, and it doesn't help that there is a guard from Base Security posted constantly just outside their door. This is due to Sherlock trying to abscond from Med Bay when he was told he couldn't self-discharge against medical advice.

Instead of the painful restlessness he'd experienced at Med Bay, Sherlock's mood has turned inward. He has nightmares and his sleep rhythm is still wholly messed up by surgery. He sleeps a lot during the day when he isn't plagued by a headache, and stays up through most nights. The sense that his thoughts are more sluggish than usual is a cause of frequent concern: several times a day he gets so worked up about it that John, feeling like a broken record, sits him down to remind him that anyone would feel a bit slow after brain surgery.

The anger at the Med Bay staff continues in the form of paranoia directed at everything and everyone at the Shatterdome. Sherlock gets visibly anxious if John gets out of sight, insisting that he should accompany him even on the short smoking breaks in the fire escape stairwell. The guard follows them dutifully, of course; the brass clearly does not trust John to keep his husband in check.

John worries that the evident situational depression might become a longer-lasting one. He knows Sherlock, knows what a massive blow it has been that whoever signed the order had walked all over the shreds of autonomy he's clung on to so hard through his years at the Corps.

It also doesn't help that John has started to battle a similar black dog. It's a familiar one, a long-term companion from the days after losing Harry. He doesn't see a way out of losing his place in the Ravager, he's worried about Sherlock's future, and they still haven't talked about what happened with James. At his lowest, awake in the middle of the night because of Sherlock's agitated tossing and turning beside him, John wonders grimly if his partner might be using recovery as an excuse to postpone that discussion. His thoughts always sober up fast, though, when he reminds himself of what Sherlock has gone through. Not once but twice now, fate has shoved him into the hands of the Corps and made it damned clear that he has no choice in the matter.

Just like John has no choice but to face whatever meagre role the Corps might offer him. Again. While Sherlock is very likely coaxed, even forced to partner up with someone else.

Not him, John thinks, leaning on the wall and trying to muster the energy to drag himself to Mess Hall. Not that snake bastard Moriarty.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

Though he doesn't want to leave Sherlock alone for any length of time, he decides to not take his own food to go. He doesn't have much of an appetite, and the gnawing feeling at the pit of his stomach just might be a stress ulcer in the making, but perhaps sitting down at a Mess Hall table, surrounded by people and the usual flow of life at Chard might cheer him up, lend him a sense of normalcy that has been in short supply lately.

The secluded corner table Sherlock prefers is occupied, so John finds a two-person table close to the large windows at the opposite end of the hall. The sea is clay-grey today, clouds hanging heavy. Two pilot whales chase fish past the window and John watches them until they disappear into the white-crested waves, sipping a water he wishes was beer. Drinking alone at noon on a Thursday would not be a good look for a Ranger. He's technically on active duty but doesn't have to be prepared for a Jaeger deployment since Sherlock won't be allowed to pilot until he's been given an all-clear by a Science Division physician. And since he's not letting any such professionals get within spitting distance…

He's startled when a form slips into the edge of his visual field, blocking the light from the ceiling lamps. When he shifts in his seat to face the intruder, he comes face to face with James Moriarty, haloed by the brightness of a hanging lamp behind.

John is on his feet before realising. He crinkles his nose, stares down his unwelcome colleague.

James is holding a plump, red apple the likes of which John has not seen being sold here or served at meals. He is wholly unaffected by John's bristling. "Watson. How's the form?"

"Morning." John's greeting is icy, and he straightens his back, shifts his boots to a firmer, wider stance. "Not looking for company. In fact, we never were."

James raises his hands in supplication with a wicked grin, holding the apple up high. "Not here to cause a scene. Just hoping for a chance to give Sherlock my well-wishes."

"I'll be sure not to pass them on."

James cranes his neck behind John even though he must have registered earlier that Sherlock isn't present. "I hope he's not so poorly as to have misplaced his words. Or perhaps you like to think you're supposed to speak for him. Such loyalty," he drawls, taking a theatrical bite of the apple. "Like a sheepdog. I was kind of under the expression that it was the other way 'round," Moriarty drops his wrist backward, indicating John with the apple, "That he keeps you alive and well, the prize stallion he is. Won't pretend to know much about your relationship, of course." Moriarty drawls in mock-supplication.

John forces a deadly calm into his voice. "That's right. You don't know the first thing about him or us."

He bites the inside of his cheek hard. He wants this man gone, now, but punching a fellow Ranger in the middle of Mess Hall will land him in the Brig and Sherlock all alone in the dorm, so John cannot afford the satisfaction. Besides, he's already had it once at the dojo.

"How's the nose?" he asks pointedly.

"Sturdier than you think," James grins. He leans back a bit on his heels, takes in the sight of John's increasing ire. "You do remember who the real enemy is, John? About a house tall, radioactive, you get the idea. Fairytale stuff, really."

"I am certainly getting some ideas, yes," John answers. The fingers of his right hand are still curled into a fist.

It's so tempting to blame James for everything that's gone wrong, lately, but that wouldn't be honest, would it? John hasn't wanted to consider it, but in his tanking mood of late he can no longer keep at bay the question of whether there has been something lacking in their relationship, lacking in him that has made Sherlock so fascinated by Moriarty. John still doesn't know what role, if any, James had played in how their lovemaking had ended right before the reimplantation. All John knows is that Sherlock isn't blameless.

"You look tired. He must be a nightmare when poorly," James observes. "I am truly sorry it had to happen like that."

John adjusts his feet, puffs his chest. "Like what?"

"I am on his side, you know. I told him there would be consequences to not toeing the line. This is a military organisation; please is not in their vocabulary."

"You're on this side because you want him," John snaps.

"You think this is about that? Is that what loverboy told you? I can take a no, and perhaps it'll warm those raised hackles of your sweet old heart to hear that a no is what he told me. What I don't like accepting is the Corps wasting his talents. Surely you want what's best for him, too."

"What's best for him is not being kidnapped and traumatised." John feels uncomfortable discussing this with James of all people. "How do you even know they forced him into it?"

"Quite the spectacle it was, him being dragged to Med Bay kicking and screaming. Shame you couldn't be there. Story of the week at the rumour mill. You really haven't been out much, have you?"

"Sorry to have caught you in such a bad mood," James laments. "I'll be on my way. Going on my first Chard's Rift shore leave!" he exclaims in mock enthusiasm. "Any bar recommendations in Ponta Delgada?"

"Ask a tourist."

James' expression changes in a heartbeat. He leans a bit closer to John, reading his features with the keenness of a cobra deciding on when the strike. "Sherlock is going to enjoy the new implant. Enhances a great many abilities."

"I'm sure he'll ignore your endorsement."

"Some of us are appreciative of technology has done for us. Fixed problems, bridged our shortcomings."

What Sherlock has told John about Moriarty's past seems to contradict this statement. He doesn't seem like a man who'd be very grateful to the Corps for anything. Something about the statement makes John file it away for future reference.

Moriarty places the apple he's taken a sharp bite out of on the table next to John's plate of lasagna. "An apple a day should keep the Science Division away," are his parting words.

John watches him make his way past arriving punters by the sales counter. It is only after he has disappeared that John can draw a full breath not quivering with tension.

He manages to swallow half of his lunch, returns his tray and goes back to the sales counter to pick a few items to bring back to the dorm for Sherlock. On his way to the lifts he's greeted by a few familiar faces heading for lunch. He doesn't stop to chat and derails all attempts of inquiry into Sherlock's health with a curt 'we're going alright'.

He hates lying to his fellow Rangers. Some of them know him so well they can probably read the effects of sleep deprivation and stress on his features just as easily as James.

Once he exits the lift at their dorm level, John instantly picks up on some commotion from the direction of their hallway. When he clears the last corner before their room, he nearly drops his food loot, startled by the sight.

There's LJ Marais at their door, accompanied by who John suspects is a Science Division physician, judging by his work clothes. They look extremely wary; Marais has her hands in front of her, palms down as if trying to calm down someone.

John takes a step closer and sees the Base Security Officer… pointing his gun towards the open door.

"What the hell is going on?" John asks.

Everyone but the guard, whose attention and weapon are still firmly fixed on whatever is going on inside the room, whip their heads towards him. Marais looks extremely relieved at the sight of John. Her mouth drops open, but she seems lost for words as how to start explaining the commotion.

John glances at the doorway. "Sherlock?" he asks carefully.

Marais cocks her head towards the room.

"Ranger Holmes, the guard commands. "Lower your weapon, now."

"Not unless you escort them out!" Sherlock snarls. "Out of this entire goddamned floor."

John puts down the food and jogs to the doorway, slotting himself between the guard and Sherlock, who he can now see with his service pistol pointed at the guard. His hand is shaking hard, and he lowers the muzzle the second he realises it's now pointed at John's chest.

John swallows. "Care to fill me in?" he tries to keep his tone light, unaffected, and fails.

"They want to drag me back. They're not touching my head again," he warns.

"That's not what––" Marais starts, but John silences her with a stern glance.

"Give me the gun." John extends his palm. "No one is dragging you anywhere. Over my dead body, hm?"

"I wouldn't put even that past them," Sherlock curses between gritted teeth.

The guard is leaning his head towards his shoulder and is about to activate the radio clipped to a strap. He must be about to call for backup.

"Don't radio the cavalry in," John calls out. "It's fine. Just a misunderstanding," he emphasises, giving Sherlock a warning look to keep quiet. "Right, Ranger Holmes?" He would never normally use Sherlock's service title.

"Give me the gun, now," John orders, and Sherlock finally complies. John re-engages the safety, removes the bullets, slips them into his pocket and puts the gun on the floor beside where the guard is standing.

"He threatened a senior officer and a civilian employee," The guard points out, but lowers his weapon. After eyeing John and Sherlock for a moment more, struggling visibly to decide how to approach the situation, he leans down to retrieve Sherlock's pistol. "Are there any other weapons in the room?"

"Mine," John replies earnestly. "But it's in my armour locker, which requires my console to open."

"Whether this requires backup depends on whether he'll co-operate in being taken to detention," the guard explains, digging out a pair of handcuffs.

"You know perfectly well that an officer on medical leave is exempt from disciplinary action, and any incidents requiring Base Security are to be assessed first by their treating physician or another base physician on duty. Right now, that's me. So you're going to back the hell off and let me–– us handle it," John warns, nodding towards Marais. "I assume you know who that is."

"I'll still need to file a report with Base Command since a Ranger is involved," the guard explains.

"That would require leaving your post, wouldn't it?" Sherlock pipes up. He'd been oddly quiet. "You can't have more than ten minutes left in your shift. Filing anything would mean overtime."

Marais joins John in the doorway and faces the guard. "I will personally make sure Commander Hammond is made aware of the situation. Good enough?"

"I guess." The guard holsters his weapon and returns to his usual spot off to the side of their door.

"Give us a minute," John tells Marais and the wary-looking Science Division doctor. He could probably also claim to be in charge of the medical side of this incident, so John is grateful that he hadn't interfered.

"Of course, John," LJ replies gracefully.

Once the door is safely closed between him, Sherlock and the rest of the world, John cards a nervous hand through his hair. "Sherlock, what the actual fuck? You can't go waving a bloody gun––"

"We can't trust anyone. Not even her. She's in charge of the simulation unit, ergo she oversees Colleen's work. She must've known. And now, she shows up with one of them." Sherlock spits out the last word as if it tasted physically foul.

He drops into a chair, the wind out of his sails now.

"We can't go on like this, acting like we're under siege. No, I won't ever trust Colleen or Hammond after this, but not everyone at Chard is a part of some conspiracy."

"You don't know that."

"Just… just take a moment to think rationally. Please."

Sherlock, who'd been hanging his had in defeat, looks up at him now, and the listlessness in his gaze hits John's heart like a jackhammer. "Even Mycroft is afraid. There's something going on in the Corps, and I can't shake the feeling that what happened with my–– that it's all a part of it."

John has been listening to this for days, now. He's sick of it. Even if Sherlock was right, it doesn't change the situation or help them in any way. All they can do is pick up the pieces of their life and try to glue them back together. It won't be the same as before, but at least they'll be together.

If only there was a way to get rid of James Moriarty, John remembers suddenly. Everything else in this crisis they could probably manage, talk through, cope with somehow, but if the endgame here is to force Sherlock to pilot with someone else, it's…

Not him.

And James Moriarty is one of those parts in this whole mess that John also believes might be connected to something bigger.

The conversation he'd just had with James…

"When they took you, where were you?" John asks. "Where did they sedate you?"

The sudden deer-in-headlights look tells him Sherlock hadn't expected such a question and finds it very unsettling.

"It's important," he adds. "Did anyone see them take you?"

"I was having a smoke in the back stairwell. The shortest way to Med Bay would have been to take me down to deck level and then through the service corridor. That area doesn't get a lot of foot traffic."

Someone could still have seen it and told other people. Anyone would pay attention to Ranger Holmes being dragged forcibly somewhere.

John racks his brain for other potential clues. Sherlock would probably be so much better at picking apart James' potential slip-ups.

He inhales when he remembers one thing from that conversation he'd ignored in his anger. "How the hell did he…"

'Shame you couldn't be there'. That's what James had said, instead of "shame you weren't there". Anyone sharing a story after being a witness would have probably been asked what John did when it happened, and they would have answered that Ranger Watson wasn't present, but it's James' specific word-choice that might just be a slip-up.

"He knew," John curses. "The fucker knew I'd be kept away."

Sherlock is frowning, looking a bit insulted, even, that there seem to be facts of which he's not in possession. "What do you mean?"

John glances nervously at the door; Marais and the doctor are still waiting. "We need to get into this better later. Right now, we need to let them in."

"No."

John has tiptoed around the topic earlier, but he's angry and startled by the gun-pointing incident that he's in no mood to spare his husband's blushes.

"That implant needs to be adjusted. You promised them, and you have to understand they need to do it."

"No."

"They told you some of the neuromechanical connections could overheat and short out if they don't get to check them once the swelling has gone down since that changes the conductivity in the surrounding tissues."

"They just spout out that nonsense to get access. It's an experimental device, John, so they're bound to want to experiment. They won't tell us all of what they might do with those adjustments. I had quite enough of that after they woke me up."

"It doesn't seem like nonsense to me. We've had the older implants for years and they've worked fine because they have been adjusted. They know what they're doing."

"They certainly did when they knocked me out."

"Can we at least let LJ in?"

Sherlock massages his temples, sighing heavily. The headache must be picking up steam. "Fine."

John goes to the hallway to explain that Sherlock isn't feeling well enough for any medical attention related to the implant. It sounds utterly backwards even if it's a partial truth.

"I will be in touch tomorrow," the Science Division doctor tells John.

"You should contact me rather than him," John tells the man and forces himself to shake his hand. He shares Sherlock's anger at what he thinks fulfils easily the criteria for a human rights violation even if the Corps justifies it with the war effort, but the Science Division is the only entity with the tools to make sure Sherlock is medically safe with his new implant.

John lets Marais in. She shows no trepidation in facing Sherlock even if he's just pointed a gun at her. She knows him well enough to understand the stress he's under.

"I am filing no report," she tells Sherlock curtly. "I wish you'd had that gun when they came to take you."

John is surprised by the statement. "Sure doesn't seem like she knew," he points out to Sherlock.

"I did not know. If I knew, I would have opposed. And I've said this to Hammond."

"He wouldn't see me," John says, crossing his arms. "Didn't even have the fucking balls to explain himself."

"It appears that certain parts of operative decision-making have been moved from Shatterdome level to Global Command," Marais muses, taking a seat opposite Sherlock. "They are even sidestepping the Marshal."

"How are you?" she then asks Sherlock.

"If you didn't know, and if you would have opposed, what the hell are you doing here with a Science Division mountebank?" Sherlock asks.

"My duty is to Rangers. John mentioned yesterday that you haven't let them do the adjustments and recalibrations. I remember how you delayed the implantation decision when you first arrived. You've never trusted them, and you may think of the Division what you want, but they do not have the power to authorise what was done. They executed it, but the ultimate blame lies elsewhere. And I don't want to see you come to harm. The Corps cannot afford that."

"The Corps does not care about us, just about what we can do."

"And making sure you are safe and well serves their interests. I know you distrust them. That's why I wanted to offer my help, alongside John's, in keeping a weather eye over the proceedings, if it puts you more at ease."

As a training officer with duties related to making sure that the PONS system works as well as possible in battle, it does befall her duties to help make sure that Rangers' implants are working correctly.

From where he's standing, John can see how white-knuckled Sherlock is, gripping the edge of his chair due to anxiety he's trying to conceal.

"No," he finally says after licking his lips. "I'm not doing it."

John gives LJ a glance that's half a plea for help and half a prompt not to push the issue. "We need some time. And what even happens after?"

Raising the subject might not be a good idea right now, considering how upset Sherlock might be getting, but John needs to take the opportunity to address this with her. It's even more obvious than before that he can't leave Sherlock alone for now, so having this conversation with her at another time might be difficult to arrange.

"My implant won't work with the Ravager after the upgrades are done," John reminds her. "I'm done, aren't I?"

Her lips tighten apologetically, and it's enough of a confirmation.

"The Corps wouldn't have forced him through any of this if they weren't going to re-pair him."

"John." Sherlock is breathing heavier, looking anxious. "Don't."

"Have they picked someone?" John presses Marais, pinning her with his gaze. "Is that another one of those decisions that Global Command used Hammond as a rubber stamp for?"

The look Marais gives him is one of profound sadness. "John––"

All present are startled when John's fist hits the table hard. "Tell me, LJ! If you know, and you don't tell me right now, you and I are done, you hear me? I'm not trusting you again. And neither is he."

"No, I have not been told of any specific choice for a new partner for you," LJ tells Sherlock. "But I know that they're looking to assign three new Rangers to the Ravager. And you know as well as I do that they're going to come to me for names."

"And since there's a record of Moriarty training with him, a lot of questions would be raised if you didn't add him to the candidate list."

"We have only two unassigned Rangers at the base with high enough scores for the Ravager. James Moriarty and a German cadet from last year. Leaving a single name out…"

"…would put the spotlight on you, and if there is someone playing puppet master here, that would put you in their crosshairs," John concludes.

Sherlock drags himself off the chair goes to lie down on the bed, facing the wall.

"What the hell can we do, LJ?" John asks. "I've talked to the Marshal and like you said, they're rerouted decision-making and left him out. And Hammond is…"

She shakes her head. "There's something wrong with Hammond. He doesn't seem to be just… how did you say it… rubber stamping things? He's not really doing much of anything. You said he wouldn't see you, but I've hardly spoken to him in weeks, either. Tom said the same. Saw him in the hallway once, that was my only chance to give him a piece of my mind."

"And his answer was?"

"None, really. He said, 'thank you, LJ', and it was so strange… It sounded like he meant it. Like he was thanking me for telling him his decision was wrong."

Chapter 22: Ranger 2.0

You're fighting an endless war
Hunting a miracle
And when you reach out for the stars
They just cut you down

Looking through the glass
Cannot recognise the ghost that you're seeing
Every step you take on the burning sand
Slowly sinking deeper

— Within Temptation: Endless War

 

Once Marais has left, John kicks off his boots and joins his husband on the bed. Sherlock doesn't turn to face him but scoots closer, the curve of his back nestling against John's front. He drapes an arm around Sherlock's waist and holds him tight, kissing Sherlock's neck just below the curls surrounding the clean-shaven, no-longer gauze-covered surgical wound site. The stitches, sewn neatly inside the edges of the wound, are of self-dissolving silky polymer with an antimicrobial coating, according to the instructions John had been given.

John tries to pull up the duvet bunched up at the foot of the bed, but Sherlock pushes it back down and it falls onto the floor. It's a military-issue woollen one covered by a thick, stiff cotton cover a bland shade of light blue.

"Too warm?" John asks.

"I've told you before, that thing is itchy as hell even with the cover on."

There have been several conversations about buying their own bedding when shopping at Ponta Delgada; John has opposed because they'd have to sort out washing those things themselves. Now, he second-guesses his protests. Many Corps-issue clothes and other gear make the sensitive Sherlock deeply uncomfortable; who is John to deny him a bit of relief where possible?

Always a special case, he thinks fondly and rearranges some of Sherlock's ringlets so they're not tickling his face.

John sincerely hopes that the guard doesn't report the incident. Whatever the consequences, they would complicate severely an already precarious situation. He realises the guard had taken Sherlock's service weapon with him. Bringing an extra gun into the Base Security HQ will definitely warrant some paperwork, John realises.

For some time, they lie in silence, both acutely aware of the other's presence and how they're both still processing what has just happened. John can tell Sherlock is now embarrassed by the incident. Maybe it'll make him realise we can't go on like this, barricading ourselves in the dorm.

The air conditioning is giving off a bit of a rattle again; the sound reminds John of the colourful beads put on bicycle wheel rungs that were a fad when he was little. Mum had brought him and Harry one packet to share.

It's Sherlock who breaks the silence first. "What was the epiphany you had about Moriarty?" he asks quietly.

Of course Chard's Rift's most observant man would be still thinking of that.

John decides honesty is the best course of action since a lack of it hasn't done wonders for their relationship lately. "He came to talk to me in the mess hall."

The muscles in Sherlock's back tense. Though he's shielding his thoughts to some extent, John can sense how alarmed he is by the notion of John having a conversation with Moriarty. Is he embarrassed, worried about what claims James might make about the depth of their involvement even before the incident?

"He pretended to be interested in how you were doing, but I think he just wanted to have a dick-swinging contest," John summarises.

"You're in his way," Sherlock says bluntly. "Not that Rangers aren't in a constant pissing contest over kaiju scalps, but this is different."

"You used to excuse your interest in him with the fact that you think he's a part of some… thing going on in the Corps."

"The same thing that's got Mycroft in a tizzy. There are too many things that slot together for it to be a coincidence. The universe is rarely so lazy." Despite the light turn of phrase, Sherlock's tone is serious. The urgency in it must mean he's desperate for John to believe his theory.

He's trying to prove that there wasn't anything serious going on between them, John deduces bitterly. Should have thought of that a bit earlier, hm? He's being careful to shield his thoughts from Sherlock because he has a hunch that they're not ready to really talk about James yet.

John is enjoying being able to shield and is getting better and better at it. He can now drop the veil almost reflexively when he wants to have a think during a conversation. Being able to do so has made him wonder how many unsavoury thoughts Sherlock might have of him that he has been shielded from through the years. Probably everyone has some about their spouse on occasion. Best not reveal all of them; everyone thinks shitty things when they're angry that they'd regret later and never want to say out loud.

"I never trusted him," Sherlock insists.

Then you should have stayed the hell away.

"I think you're right that his arrival is a part of something bigger," John concedes. "He knew about your reimplantation. Before it happened, I mean. And he knew I wasn't there. Whatever is going on at Global Command, he's in the loop," John concludes.

"Proving it may be difficult, though, since all we have is his words, and he's proven to be good at establishing plausible deniability."

"He could get a Jaeger assignment without messing with us. Why the hell is he gunning for you like this?" And why did you let him?

John can tell Sherlock is teetering at the brink of shutting him away. It confirms that he shouldn't confront his partner about his part in all this today. John's only option for keeping the conversation going is to focus on Moriarty's role in whatever big is going on. Even though Sherlock might like to absolve himself by making it sound like it's all just some massive conspiracy, for John the willingness to engage in James' weird seduction game is a separate issue from the internal churnings of the PPDC.

"He's not the type to be willing to stand in someone else's shadow," Sherlock points out. "As long as we have a Ravager assignment, the popularity contest is non-existent because clearly, you and I are unmatched, and we have years of fame as a head start. He's a loner, and not exactly very endearing to the public."

Might say the same about you, John chuckles to himself.

"He doesn't entirely lack the potential for popularity, though."

"Many people secretly like a bad boy," John confirms, then wants to shove a sock in his mouth because he hadn't realised how this would also infer to the man in his arms.

It's a shame you don't think I can fill that need for you.

John is aware that Sherlock thinks of him as some rule-abiding goody-two-shoes despite the many grey-area things he's done in his career to help people and win battles. After all, doesn't he nearly always agree to Sherlock's madcap plans even if he might gripe about them beforehand? Between his piloting assignments, he'd bent the rules many times to arrange medical care for Chard staff and officers in a way that ensured their safety and privacy. He has bad days.

This also boils down to how Sherlock sees himself, John realises. An honourable officer of the Corps, ready to serve — no. More likely a misunderstood rock star who shouldn't be expected to toe the line, ever. No wonder someone like Moriarty was able to stoke his ego.

John realises he's too angry to discuss this even if such a conversation was an option. He needs to bite his tongue because laying it all out on Sherlock when his mental state is still so precarious and his health is still compromised would help no one. The elephant in the room is going to have to sit down on the floor and wait.

There are other, more practical things they need to discuss sooner rather than later. The reimplantation has changed the game board, removed the leverage they had in Sherlock declining it. They must pick up the few pieces of a joint future they have left and see what could be built from them.

"I was always going to be retiring before you," John starts.

"Nope." Sherlock pops the P. "My plan — the only plan — was to retire together, and only after we kicked the kaiju to the kerb permanently."

"That's the hope, but the reality is––"

"The reality is that nobody does it better than you and I. Not me, but us. The other Rangers know it, the Corps know it. Even the bloody brass must know it since all they do is toss off at statistics. Strategically, the decision to reimplant me and not you might make sense, but benching you completely does not. You were out of active pilot duty for years; surely, you're not that rickety yet. If we could be a great team in the Ravager, we could be a great team in another Jaeger. The only thing that would make sense strategically with the current setup is putting the two of us in an upgraded but older model where our skills and my new implant would maximise that Jaeger's performance."

The imperious confidence John hears and senses makes it sound like Sherlock has it all worked out. John isn't so sure: he suspects much of this reasoning stems from stubborn denial or the direness of John's situation.

"The Corps is full of young and hungry cadets and officers without an assignment," John reminds his husband. "You heard LJ; there are other people suited for the Ravager besides us. And they'd be idiots if they didn't still want you in it."

"Out of the older models, I'd prefer to avoid Cherno Alpha," Sherlock declares as though he hadn't heard a single word John has just said. "It may be a key part of Corps history, but it would be like fighting kaiju dressed in a stack of cardboard boxes with a nuclear reactor taped to the back."

He projects a wildly inaccurate image of the old-school Russian Jaeger to John's head, making them both burst out laughing.

"Maybe they'll dust off Diablo Intercept for us. You'd come full circle," Sherlock suggests next.

The long-ago scrapped Intercept had been John and Harry's Jaeger.

Sherlock is skirting around the facts, John grimaces, realising he needs to be the sombre voice of reason yet again.

"Moriarty must have the new implant?" he asks carefully. He recalls the man's words that Sherlock was going to enjoy having one.

"It would make sense that he does; why would they even consider his transfer here to be a Ravager candidate since Global Command must have known about the planned upgrades ages ago. Unless Hong Kong wanted to shuffle out their more useless or dangerous Rangers. Wouldn't be the first time a dodgy pilot became a perpetual trophy, and you know how the HK Shatterdome has always thought itself as above the rabble. Someone like Moriarty who is clearly ambitious and recently placed in a new unit might well want to spread a rumour that he's got all the newest toys, regardless of whether he has them or not." Sherlock huffs. "No, whoever is behind this will have sent him here specifically to gain a Ravager assignment, and he'd need the new implant for that."

John brings up the Ranger work roster on his wrist console. "The only leave he's marked for is a short shore leave. If they were going to reimplant him here, I think there would be a slot on the calendar that would show a longer medical leave since they sent out all the surgical appointment info already."

"Since the Frankenstein Division HQ is right there, HK's Rangers must've been the first ones in the reimplantation programme," Sherlock reasons.

"Moriarty said that the new implant enhances many abilities." Even if it had been forced of Sherlock, John hopes that his partner gets to enjoy the perks.

"It's not a very great logical leap that a new implant would be better than the old one," Sherlock points out rancorously.

John's throat constricts from what he's about to say, but it needs to be said out loud. If they're to scrape together their future, Sherlock needs to get more realistic. "Even without some conspiracy… you heard LJ. Moriarty's already Ravager-trained, and so are you. When the Ravager upgrades are done, I'm effectively out. Even if they find a few more eligible candidates, the two of you will be the only battle-ready Ravager pilots for some time."

"I won't Drift with him," Sherlock announces flat-out.

If John sidesteps his personal feelings, he can see the strategic side of assembling a Ravager team for the ages: two extremely competent Rangers still well within service age and fitness in the flagship Jaeger, one being Sherlock Holmes, the biggest star of the Corps. Everyone knows John and Sherlock make a great team, but from the PPDC's perspective it would be logical to see John's expiration date closing in and wanting to replace him with someone promising and younger. Sherlock had not said all that much about his training sessions with James, but John has inferred enough to know that they are Drift Compatible as well as formidable together, even just in a walled-garden training setting.

Would they be a more effective battle team than Sherlock and I? Certainly more ruthless.

"We have to decide what to do," John pleads. "I'm at the mercy of what they decide regarding my active piloting career, but since they're keeping you in, you have some power left."

"I'm not Drifting with him."

"What about someone else Ravager-capable? They can't force you to work with Moriarty, but aren't you curious what two new implants in the Ravager could do?"

He's taken aback by the force of Sherlock's reaction: a tidal wave of hurt and confusion rushing in between them, within them.

"You… want me to Drift with someone else?" Sherlock finally asks.

John senses that his partner is blocking their connection fully, now, self-protectiveness taking over after being insulted by what John has just suggested. "I'd never want you to Drift with anyone else. I specifically don't want you to go anywhere near Moriarty."

"He'll still be living here."

There seems to be quite a lot behind that statement that John can't pick apart. Can't they just stay away from James?

"There's our personal feelings and then there's the war effort. I think the chances are pretty slim that they'd reunite us for an older Jaeger. If they can force you to get reimplanted, it shows they don't have empathy for what we want. Why not make the most of the situation and continue at least your career?"

"You know how well I can shield. I can kick anyone out of a neural handshake if I want to. That's why they brought you in for my training in the first place: if it's not you in there, I'm not Drifting."

It sounds like that's Sherlock's plan, then. To refuse any and all forms of co-operation with the organisation that has betrayed him.

"You have years and years left on your service contract," John reminds him. "They might even see that as refusing an order." Such pessimism sounds more like Sherlock, but the forced reimplantation has made John abandon his old notions of the Corps wanting to invest in the well-being of their own. "What's done is done and I'll forever want to wring their necks for it, but why not try to make the most of it?"

"I'm not about to give them the satisfaction. You managed after Harry's death ended your run."

"That wasn't living, Sherlock. I kind of blocked out how badly I missed piloting. And I'm less tolerant of boredom than you."

"I'd rather mop the aviation deck for thirteen years if that means we'd continue working together."

"You think they're about to send me to the cleaning squad?" John grins. "Doctor, remember? I'm sure I'll find ways to be useful. Again."

"You'd work for Med Bay?" Sherlock makes it sound like John is considering joining the Illuminati.

"I love you, you great idiot, and you're not going to be mopping floors. I don't want you to share even a packet of cigs with anyone else, least of all a creep like Moriarty, but I want you to get the best of still having to be in the Corps. And though I hate what they've done, I want us to win this war. There's so many counting on us that I'm too scared to even think about those expectations but they're there. Think of the backlash if you could pilot but wouldn't."

"I don't know how much expectations anyone had of me until I enlisted. Mycroft certainly wasn't holding his breath. And I don't give a rat's arse what some idiots think I should or shouldn't be doing with my life."

"I want to crush the windpipes of every single Corps brass fucker who forced you through this, but what wartime general would leave their greatest weapon without a significant upgrade?"

"They are upgrading the Ravager," Sherlock points out, perplexed.

"I'm talking about you, you lovely idiot."

"You're one third of their greatest weapon. You, me, the Ravager. They could have just done a bit more coding to make sure the Ravager systems could still employ older implants, and we wouldn't be having this conversation. 'Thank you for your service'", Sherlock mocks the Science Division physician.

John has loved his time serving with Sherlock, but he's had to make peace with the fact that while they might be a team and he knows he's good at what he does, Sherlock is the one with even more talent and the ability to channel it into exceptional battle prowess.

"Let's face it, I'm… not quite the sidekick, but sometimes just trying to keep up with you," John says, schooling bitterness out of his voice. "You deserve to pilot, and you deserve a partner who helps you do your absolute best. I am your partner, always, in other things, but we always knew our careers would not last the same."

Even before the forced reimplantation, John has mulled this in his head for many a sleepless night, clawing for another solution, wishing desperately that new Corps tech could give him his youth back. One good thing this crisis has achieved is making him face reality. The best and the only right thing he can do for humanity, of which they are both a part of, is to help Sherlock find a way forward.

"They might still just give us another Jaeger," Sherlock dismisses. "Why wouldn't they? You're older but not that old. You've done great in recent kaiju engagements. There's no reason to bench you."

Am I talking to a brick wall? John wonders, eyes widening and lips pinch-tight in frustration.

"I was a Specialist Medical Officer for the Corps for years," he points out. "That's a position I could easily take up again and enjoy this time around."

"It was a self-invent job. You were the only Specialist Medical Officer at the base. When you started piloting again, they never replaced you with anyone. They could have just named it Consolation Prize for Dead Sister."

John takes a deep breath. Sometimes Sherlock's utter lack of tact leaves knocks the wind out of even him. "Last time, they didn't know what to do with me and I didn't know what to do with myself. Now, it would be different."

"Why?"

"Because I'd get to watch you march off into battle and bring home a kaiju head. Because I'd have you in my life here even if our great run in the Ravager was over."

"You're not a sidekick. You're my partner."

"I'll remain your partner, just be a bit different than what it used to be."

Sherlock pushes away John's arm from his waist and sits up. He's angry, now. "They've forced me to go through all this, but told us nothing about our assignments, yet you sound as if you've already given up!"

"Just trying to be a realist. Come here," John pleads, opening his arms where he's still lying down. "I'm just saying we'll always have this. Even the after-battle sex. Once they radio in that you're headed back to base, victorious as always, I know I'd get so hard just thinking about it, thinking about you, coming home all sweaty and happy. It'll drive me mad in a good way, waiting for you to burst through the door so I can strip off your Drivesuit."

"Don't distract me with sex," Sherlock scoffs and climbs out of bed.

He goes to the kitchen unit where John had deposited the food he'd brought. He grabs one of the plastic triangle sandwich packets. "You know I hate egg salad."

"Lowery grabbed the last ham and cheese."

"You let a LOCCENT officer abscond with my sandwich? Maybe you should be decommissioned," Sherlock berates dramatically. "Serves you right. Instead of fighting for us, you're willing to just keel over and let them destroy what we've built." He grabs his uniform jacket.

"Where are you going?" Now, John does feel rather defeated.

"I need a cig. Don't get up, I'm sure GI Joe of the week will be happy to shadow me. Can't let me fall into the sea since I'm such an important war asset."

It appears that even just John presenting the option to accept that they might not control the Ravager together any longer is too painful for Sherlock to consider, and that he's unable to see it as anything but John giving up on them.

Unable to see it as anything but faithless perfidy.

This is Sherlock, John reminds himself. He doesn't operate with realism but the idea that he's invincible and immortal. And he wants to desperately believe that I am, too. He drops his head back on the pillow, listens to Sherlock's angry stomping down the corridor.

Sherlock has battled for years the lack of decision-making power Rangers have over their own lives. He has used the media to blackmail his brother into allowing them a wedding and cohabitation, and in battle has shown little regard for anything but his own enjoyment.

He doesn't see himself as serving anything or anyone, thinks John, and not for the first time. Sherlock has always seemed to believe he's owed an endless number of concessions and exceptions because he was forced into joining the Corps. But didn't he commit a crime? John wonders. They offered him service instead of prison? He's done so well for himself, and we met serving together, so the past few years haven't been quite the torture he likes to pretend it is.

He recalls the Marshal's sobering comments about what Sherlock had been doing — or not doing — with his life in London.

Whoever had ordered his reimplantation had committed an unforgivable and traumatising deed. But has Sherlock ever truly understood what service to the Corps means?

Every Ranger signs off their life to protect humanity. They have all joined for different reasons, some unsavoury or arm-twisting, but no one is ever forced to fight like hell to gain a spot in the Jaeger Corps. Sherlock could have just done so-so in basic training and joined the ground crew, but instead he wanted the Ranger stripes.

Did he ever really stop to consider why he wanted it, and how being a Ranger means you can't always put yourself first?John wonders.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

Though John doesn't think he's managed to get through to Sherlock about much regarding their future, the conversation seems to have achieved at least something: the anger it has sparked seems to have resolved at least some of Sherlock's novel agoraphobia. He now has his smokes alone on the fire escape stairwell, and the next morning he's even willing to join John for breakfast at the mess hall.

He doesn't have much of an appetite, though.

John had told him that if he decided at any time that he wasn't up to being out and about, they could bring food back to their room. John can tell he's been embarrassed to let other Rangers see his in a recovering state. The shaved patch on his head signals clearly his condition and he'd been struggling to conceal it with the surrounding hair.

"There are plenty of Rangers walking around with similar hairstyles right now since many got reimplanted before you," John had reminded him as they were getting ready to leave the dorm.

It hasn't kept Sherlock from giving venomously discouraging glares at anyone who tries to greet them. They go to their usual table in a secluded corner.

"I need the loo," Sherlock declares after only a few sips of tea. He's gone a bit pale.

"Want me to come with you?" John eyes the space; the only other person there is the young man behind the mess hall sales desk.

Sherlock shakes his head. "I'm just going to splash some water on my face. Headache. Mild," he stresses when John can't help worry twisting his features.

He rises from his chair to let Sherlock slip out of the corner seat. He then watches his partner making his way out to the hall.

Any Ranger could be found at Mess Hall looking a bit sleep-deprived, a bit haggard since that's pretty much the standard state after battle. What Sherlock looks like, however, is completely worn out and anaemic. He's slow, deliberate in his movements in an odd way — as though trying to re-learn being on solid ground after a long sea journey.

He takes a long time in the gents.

John checks his console: it's been five minutes. He reaches out and finds Sherlock calm but tired, his presence oddly distant. He uses the tracking function and finds, to his surprise, that his partner has gone back to the dorm.

Maybe it had been too early in his recovery to be out and about, John thinks in defeat. Then again, many other Rangers seemed to have bounced back after their operations. John has seen many of them in the Shatterdome's public mere days after their reimplantation, looking well. He wonders if the difference has to do with Sherlock refusing to get his final calibrations done. After scarfing down the rest of his eggs, he returns his tray and heads home.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Once standing by their bed, a loot of a soda, a takeaway coffee and a plastic-packed set of two ham-and-cheese sandwiches in hand, John appraises what he sees.

Sherlock opens his eyes tiredly where he's lying on his usual side on their meagre-width double bed. He's discarded his uniform jacket on the table and after retreating to bed with his boots still on, drawn the much-maligned blanket on his lower half. John can see goosebumps on his bare arms. His eyes glisten oddly, and he looks a bit out of it.

"Fever?" John asks. He reaches out to press the back of his hand on Sherlock's forehead and is surprised to find it of normal temperature.

This doesn't rule out an infection, though. There's lethargy and a subjective sense of wonky body temperature, but Sherlock hasn't seemed confused and there's no altered consciousness, is there?

"Talk to me," John prompts. "Any neck pain or stiffness? Light sensitivity?" Meningitis is a risk with brain surgery. The incision had looked fine yesterday; John hasn't caught a glimpse of it this morning.

"No. I've just circling between freezing and feeling hot all morning. And keep getting a very sudden and insistent urge to pee. Generally achy. Not hungry," he shakes his head at the food John is carrying.

John drops all the food on the desk. "That sounds like a urinary tract infection." Less worrying than an implant side effect or meningitis.

"You've not been eating or drinking much, and you had a catheter in on the first day at least, that's a risk factor." He activates his wrist console. "We need to alert Med Bay. They can probably send someone to draw blood and collect other samples from here."

"What other samples?"

"What do you think?" John smirks.

"I need to pee in a cup."

"Full marks for Ranger Holmes."

"Can't you sort this out?"

"I don't have access to antibiotics, and I can't really just march into Med Bay to use their gear. I'm pretty sure my user rights to their lab and imaging systems are expired even if Mycroft did manage to return my basic access to the unit."

"Fine," Sherlock growls. "Just make sure they don't send some Science Division henchman."

 

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

Despite John making it clear when he contacted the base's medical services that there was no reason to suspect an issue with Sherlock's implant, it is not a regular Med Bay employee who knocks on their door some forty-five minutes later but a woman the wearing sleek, minimalist and very form-fittingly tailor-made Science Division garb. There is no name tag, and she doesn't ask to verify if she's in the right place. This doesn't surprise John; the extent of the Science Division's access right to information is classified but everyone knows it must go well above the lower levels of classified. Anything Med Bay knows, the Science Division knows.

"I called for Med Bay, not you," John says amicably. There is no way Sherlock would co-operate with this person. "Thanks, anyway." He reaches for the door activation mechanism.

"Ranger Watson," the woman interrupts his retreat. "For three months post-implantation, all medical matters are officially delegated to us for evaluation. We allow the local medical staff to handle most of them, but since Ranger Holmes has not been discharged yet, I'm afraid I'll need to perform this assessment."

"Give us a minute." John slaps the door pad, leaving the woman in the corridor.

Sherlock is sitting up in bed, blanket half-covering his lab. He looks like something the cat dragged in with his curls sweat -plastered to his forehead. "You should have told her to get lost."

"I don't think we have any options right now but to let her in. Better than having to go to Med Bay."

"That's your new theme song, is it? Just bend over and take it."

John pinches the bridge of his nose. "I'm trying to help, Sherlock. Want to just ignore this and get sepsis? Not on my watch. I can't fix all of this fucking mess, but I'm doing my best to make sure we survive it." …while you just live in fantasyland or throw your toys out of the pram.

Getting Sherlock assessed for whatever infection he's fighting will be step one in getting the fuck on with their lives. Getting him to agree to have his implant checked and calibrated will be the next hurdle.

Sherlock averts his gaze, lips petulantly pursed.

"I'm not letting anyone hurt you, ever again," John snaps. He doesn't care if the woman outside hears him. Maybe it would be good if she did. "I'm going to watch her like a hawk, and if she does anything she's not supposed to, there will be hell to pay, you hear me? I don't care if I have to swim to bloody Hong Kong to make damned sure the Science Division won't ever force you to do anything you don't want."

Not allowing Sherlock enough time to protest further, John goes to open the door before stepping aside and leaning the backs of his thighs on the desk. He crosses his arms and follows the woman with his gaze. He's going to hover as close as he can to signal that he's not having any bullshit or putting up with funny business from her.

"Ranger Holmes?" She calls out, a large-ish pad now raised to waist level. She digs out of her pocket a pen-shaped object for faster control of the device. John had seen a similar console being used at Med Bay to tweak Sherlock's implant.

Shoulders hunched, Sherlock regards the woman with obvious distrust.

"I don't think it's an implant issue," John points out sternly. "Fluctuating body temperature, probably fever that comes and goes, malaise, urgency to void. Sounds simple." Sherlock had mentioned feeling both cold and hot.

She starts tapping away at her pad. "It takes approximately three weeks for the body's thermoregulatory systems to adjust to the implant. The default setting is that of slightly enhanced heat tolerance. We all know how it gets in the Conn-Pod," she says matter-of-factly.

"Do we?" Sherlock asks in mock-innocence. "Silly me, thinking the Science Division stuck to the, well, science side of things and left piloting to Rangers."

"You're showing no signs of immune cell migration, and there are no elevated inflammatory markers detected except for around the implant in low levels, which is normal at this point," she rattles off, eyes fixed on her screen.

"You can tell all that just from checking his implant readings?" John is astounded. He rises onto his toes so he can take a seat on the desk, boots dangling.

"The new implant has quite impressive medical features," she confirms. "None of the adjustment modules that were supposed to be completed before discharge have been signed off. Why?" she presses, glancing up at Sherlock.

"I've completed none of them," he replies venomously. "I wasn't told they were a requisite for discharge," he claims.

"You must have been," she insists.

John finds it perfectly understandable how Sherlock had refused to listen to any of the briefings they tried to administer after his surgery. He wanted nothing to do with the people who forced him to go through this.

"Ranger Holmes," she chides. "While we pride ourselves in providing as much information and assistance to Rangers as they need, you have to do your part. This is not an acute medical issue, simply a part of the adjustment period. You'd have known this if you'd complied with your post-operative instructions and the recovery programme. There's an extensive information packet given to every Ranger who undergoes the procedure."

"Now, look––" John plants his boots on the floor again, straightening to his full height. Some bedside manner, lecturing your patient as though they're schoolchildren.

"You said this is all part of an adjustment period," Sherlock starts, trying to stand but this seems to cause a quickly passing wobbly spell and he sits back down on the edge of the bed. "Adjustment to what?"

"The new medical features allow us to advise pilots even when at great distance from the Shatterdome about their illnesses and injuries, and to better assess when evacuation is necessary instead of trying to continue fighting, but the new monitoring possibilities are only a small part of what has been upgraded. The old implants were designed to create an interface between humans and Jaegers, that's all. The technology and knowledge were not there yet to enhance human abilities to control said Jaegers, to withstand battle better, to survive in extremely harsh conditions if they had to evacuate from the Conn-Pod."

Sherlock's brows hitch up to prompt her to continue. John can both see and sense how this has piqued his interest; he wants to hear more, too. He grabs a chair, spins and straddles it, leaning his arms on the back of it to take in the continuation of her explanation.

"Hormones of the autonomic nervous system play a large part in our combat abilities. Too great a surge of them results in a fear reflex taking over. Too little, and we may not get the push we need to exceed our usual strength and resilience. We've all heard anecdotes of mothers suddenly having the strength to lift a car off their child; this proves we have untapped abilities to produce these hormones for an extra boost. There are also hormones regulating the strength and repair of tissues, including bones. With the new implant, we can add more trabeculation and thickness to skeletal matrix, reorganise it to a mathematically better geometry, resulting in Ranger bones that can withstand blows that would normally shatter them. As for survival, dehydration is a killer when floating on the ocean in an evacuation pod. There is a sea water desalination device in those pods, but just as dehydration can kill, excessive hydration can lead to problems, too — even mild hyponatraemia can compromise cognitive functioning in insidious ways. The urge to void you have been feeling is your body's new way of telling you to drink something that won't dehydrate you. Coffee, tea, caffeinated drinks can have the opposite effect to water when you're already depleted."

"He'd mainline coffee if he could," John chuckles.

It's all starting to make sense, though he can't shake the idea of how frightening it is for the Science Division to be able to regulate so many of Sherlock's physical responses.

"Him feeling unusually cold or hot is the thermal regulation system adjusting to the implant?" John verifies.

"Correct."

"And feeling like my bladder is about to explode but being only able to void half a thimble is supposed to do what?" Sherlock scoffs.

"Make you drink an optimal amount of water," she repeats.

John huffs in amusement. This is something he's been harping on about at Sherlock for as long as they've been together — that a balanced diet is not black coffee with three sugars and a ton of treats. He's certain Sherlock will demand that novel implant feature to be turned off permanently if and when he's willing to get the calibrations done.

The Science Division doctor has more to impart. "You may also experience certain hypoglycaemic symptoms just as a diabetic would, but they are designed to manifest before your blood glucose levels reach a point where they start impeding on motor or cognitive function. It's a warning system to make sure Rangers won't run out of proverbial fuel during battle."

Once again, John is both impressed and horrified. Perhaps a bit envious. Who wouldn't want to be human 2.0? It's just that having to do so with the rules and control of the Science Division does not entice.

"Since we can't eat during battle, what good would that do?" Sherlock questions.

"If you're feeling those symptoms as you're getting your armour on, you'll know it's time to scarf down a few chocolate bars," John pipes in.

"One aspect of the implant that is highly classified––" she glances warily at John, then likely decides that since he has medical clearance to look after Sherlock, he should be allowed to hear this. "––is that we can slow down the wear and tear piloting causes in the brain. This is something the Science Division has worked hard on for over a decade. Well, it's something we've researched right from the start of the Jaeger programme, really."

"It's hush-hush since millionaires would pay anything for an implant that slows down neural degeneration," Sherlock deduces. "If the Corps is short on money, that's one way to get all the leaky toilets fixed." He shrugs.

"That would just make the gap between the haves and the have-nots worse globally," John points out. "A lot of the world doesn't even have safe drinking water. And I bet that the tech will leak at some point, anyway. Maybe it should. Couldn't it be used to treat diseases, too?"

"We're looking into that," the Science Division physician replies with disinterested before returning to her explanation. "The new features are based on protecting the brain during battle instead of just repairing damage better. And there are many other benefits and enhancements, including early detection of infections and certain cancers, stimulation of cardiac muscle conditioning, and the prevention of harmful hormonal feedback loops in many cardiovascular diseases. But I won't get into that now."

I sure could have used some of those brain wear-and-tear repairs and other fancy new features, John thinks. I need them more than Sherlock does.

The Science Division physician seems to be scrolling through menus on her pad. "I'll send a memo to your LOCCENT officer to reserve time in your upcoming simulation modules to cover the most pertinent parts of the post-operative debriefing. A representative from the Science Division will be in attendance to make you get all your questions answered. All will be explained as long as you're willing to listen, Ranger Holmes. And to have those calibrations done. I don't have all the things with me that are required for it––"

Sherlock flicks a dismissive wrist. "Doesn't matter. I'm not consenting to any of it today, anyway."

At least he said 'today', John thinks with an eyeroll he conceals from Sherlock.

I heard that, Sherlock points out tiredly in his head.

"Are the any risks to delaying the final calibrations?" John asks.

"I'm afraid so. Some Rangers who've had postoperative complications necessitating postponing the calibrations have experienced epileptic episodes."

John recalls the seizure Sherlock had suffered after his first implantation.

"All those reported have been partial seizures, thankfully," she explains. "Mild, fleeting symptoms lasting no more than thirty seconds such as eyelid fluttering, stopping suddenly what they were doing, staring blankly, losing concentration."

Blank stares when he's not interested in what's going on, eyelids fluttering when he's confused or caught off guard are standard Sherlock responses. How could I even tell he's having a seizure and not just being, well, himself, if those are the symptoms?

"Do you think you might've been experiencing something like that, Ranger Holmes?" she asks matter-of-factly. She does some tapping on the console. "According to your records, your implant has not been adjusted once since the initial settings were established right after your surgery. No one else has gone this long without the necessary adjustments."

Sherlock, please. You heard her. What's done is done with the reimplantation; you're taking a risk waiting even longer, John pleads.

Since you don't have any of those things in your head, I'm not taking your advice, Sherlock replies coldly.

"How much work do you think would need to be done on the implant?" John asks. It's Sherlock who should be asking these questions, not me. It's his brain.

She squints at her pad. "It appears that the neural protection function has been set to the highest level, perhaps because your initial calibrations were a challenge." Her brows then rise. "Odd. They established that your motor cortex signal processing works best when there is little filtering or dampening used. That's a lot more data than the average cortical grey matter should be able to handle. It would probably be best in the long run to tone it down––"

Sherlock looks insulted by the suggestion that anything about his brain ought to be toned down.

"Typically, it's a quick process, but with the way his brain function deviates from standard… I'd say two hours."

The look Sherlock gives her signals that it's 120 minutes more than he'd be willing to endure.

"Once the calibrations are done, will he start to feel… normal again?" John asks. Sherlock isn't normal, never has been, especially not after whatever this new implant has upgraded him into, but she'll know what he means. "Feel healthy, I mean?" he corrects. Surely, it's not good for battle prowess to be feeling creaky as though in the throes of a urinary tract infection.

She flashes a plasticine smile probably designed to be encouraging. "Nearly all of the 74 Rangers already fitted with the new implant have returned to battle service within a month. Exercise is beneficial and so is rest and good nutrition."

Sherlock makes a face. "You said nearly all. What happened to the rest?"

"We haven't had to bench anyone permanently. Neurodivergent individuals such as yourself tend to have longer recoveries."

"How long?"

"Some autism spectrum individuals have reported diminished ability to concentrate and fatigue for up to nine weeks."

Sherlock leans back in his seat, groaning theatrically.

"So, we just hope the kaiju will be polite and wait until then?" John jokes joylessly.

She does not see the humour. "This program could not be delayed since it would have meant being unable to make use of the upgrades to Jaeger battle systems. Rangers should know better than anyone how hard we struggle to keep up with kaiju evolution."

"What is the fastest anyone has returned to piloting after reimplantation?" Sherlock asks.

"Two weeks, but that was during the early phases of the reimplantation programme. The experience we've amassed since has told us a longer rest period is beneficial. Initially, we relied on self-reporting of symptoms and well-being, but it turns out Rangers often under-report symptoms so that they could get cleared for duty faster."

John snorts. "Not surprised." He glances pointedly as Sherlock.

"We now have a specially designed simulation sequence designed to verify optimal implant function and to measure whether cognitive ability has returned to baseline."

"Baseline?!" Sherlock disapproves. "Wasn't this thing supposed to enhance the brain?"

She ignores the comment, clicks a button on the side of the pad, lowers it and then regards Sherlock patiently despite him having averted his eyes to stare petulantly at the ceiling. "I don't understand your reticence to comply with the final assessment. You have served the Corps several years with great success. Would you not prefer to have the best weapons to do so? The Science Division has allocated a great deal of funds to allow you to do your duty as best you can."

Sherlock rises to his feet and towers over her, anger sharpening his features. "Servitude has meant a great many things throughout history. Including slavery. Oh, and there's an even better word for taking people to remote locations and keeping them there, to force them to do your bidding. Ever heard of human trafficking?" His eyes have narrowed, and he is pinning her down with his gaze. Even in his current state, he is a formidable presence.

"You accepted the tenets of military life when you joined the organisation," she points out, unrattled by his intimidation tactics.

John wonders if she knows about the conditions of Sherlock's so-called voluntary enlistment. He's already signed off his life to the PPDC once under duress and now, they've stripped away thoroughly what little choice he ever had. This level of insensitivity is exactly what John has always known to expect from the Science Division. Now, he needs to accept it may be more symptomatic of the Corps at large than he's wanted to believe.

"We are all grateful for your service — and I also mean you, Ranger Watson," she comments dryly. "Under your care, I am sure Ranger Holmes' recovery will be speedy. Once that implant has been adjusted, of course."

Neither man thanks her as she leaves.

 

Chapter 23: Thank You For Your Service

A priceless glory

Memento mori

All for nothing now

— Within Temptation: In Vain

 

"It's good to see you, John," Hammond offers eagerly, with a smile that would make any salesman proud.

He seems to have been hovering by the door, waiting for the visitor he'd summoned. Every time John has seen the Base Commander at his office before, he'd been at his desk or sitting in one of the three armchairs by the large window.

John studies his commanding officer and fellow Ranger's expression. The smile Hammond is wearing signals oddly and insensitively that he's pretending to be oblivious of John being livid with him. Something about the man seems on edge, nervous, almost exaggerated.

John grips his hand harder than necessary and keeps the shake brief. "Funny you should say that, since I've been trying to get an audience for weeks. You're a hard man to reach these days, Prentiss."

He makes a point of using Hammond's first name. He needs to remember he was once one of us, and that's why he has no right to make the kinds of shit decisions he's been manufacturing lately.

"Please," Hammond indicates the group of armchairs. Instead of tea, he has poured them both a few fingers of whisky.

"Celebrating, are we?" John asks venomously, cocking his head at the glasses. He takes a standing position by one of the chairs. "Or are things in the Corps so gone to dogs that daytime drinking's warranted?"

He remembers his conversation with Mycroft Holmes. It had been at night, but seeing his brother-in-law downing Scotch looking so hag-ridden had been… disconcerting.

Hammond takes a seat, looking expectant. Reluctantly, John drops down into the chair that is as worn as everything else at Chard and leans forward.

"You have questions before we get to the reason for this meeting?" Hammond prompts. "I'm listening."

Oh, I have questions. Maybe even an upper hook. "I tried to see you the day Base Security kidnapped Sherlock. Yeah, Sherlock, not Ranger Holmes. He's one of us, Prentiss. You had no fucking right––" John takes a deep breath before he really does end up punching his superior. "He should be hearing this. You should have told him, asked him, instead of dragging him kicking and screaming into Med Bay. What was it you said in your first speech back in the day, hm? 'We are the heart of the Corps', hm? Where the fuck was yours when you signed that order?"

Hammond's expression has tightened into a rictus. He looks tired now that he's not trying to project that almost giddy positivety with which he'd received John at the door. None of that charade that now seems slightly hysterically tinted is at all like the Prentiss Hammond John has known for years, anyway.

"When you become a boss, a part of you starts being a friend with people you used to serve with. I didn't sign that order, John, I merely ratified it. I don't know if you're aware of this but there is a classification for the members of the Ranger Corps. It's classified; usually the details are not even revealed to the officer in question. The highest class in that system is that of a Critical War Asset."

"And Sherlock fulfils that criteria." It makes sense to John. Rare is the Ranger capable of piloting the Ravager, and even rarer someone with Sherlock's talent. "I don't, then?"

"The classification is done by Global Command. Bases merely supply personnel details and battle statistics."

"And a Ranger receiving that classification is then stripped of all their rights without even being informed personally?" John suggests indignantly. "Why even send him the reimplantation paperwork, then?"

"We hoped he's sign. In fact, we were certain of it."

"And who's 'we'?"

"I was speaking figuratively."

"You didn't realise he might exercise the free will he didn't know he no longer had?"

"The order came after he failed to submit the paperwork and show up for his booked surgical appointment, not before."

"And did you try to overturn that order, argue on his behalf?"

"I know you won't like hearing this, but my duty is, above all, to try to win this war. Whatever Ranger Holmes' reasons, they cannot be more important from a strategic standpoint than defeating the kaiju. Global Command examined the issue and PPDC’s legal experts concluded that the consent slips signed by Rangers upon their original consignment can be construed to cover reimplantation since it is a necessary upgrade and a means of preventing neural decay complications. That creates an argument that reimplantation is a preventative health measure as well as an armament-related operative decision. Preventative health measures have been mandatory in military organisations globally for a long time," Hammond argues.

"It’s hardly equivalent to getting a bloody meningitis jab! And you could have just talked to him, hm?"

"I considered that, but if you had been unable to change his mind then, knowing his… peculiarities, I doubt I'd have had much more luck."

"Why would you assume I tried to get him to do it? He didn't sign the papers because I wasn't offered reimplantation. He didn't want the procedure if I wasn't getting it. Was that another decision you merely ratified?"

Hammond averts his eyes, lets his gaze linger on the ocean outside the window. "Many things are out of my hands these days, John. There are things… we may see big changes in how the Corps is run." He grips his knees with his palms, squaring his shoulders and regarding John with that strange, phony joy again. "In fact, change is what I asked you see you about. Positive change. For you. I've some new you must've been looking forward to for years, now."

John feels whiplashed. This must be about the end of his piloting career. What is Hammond on if he thinks that's a positive change, going back to some supporting role at Chard?

"Retirement, John. You have earned it. Rare is a career as decorated as yours; truly, it's such a joy to send you home to England on such a high note, especially considering what happened to Harriet. There is a new stipend fun started a few years back by the Marshal that helps long-serving Ranger settle back. I've already drafted my endorsement; I'll sure you will be eligible."

John's jaw drops and he blinks, feeling rather like Sherlock when faced with a completely incomprehensible emotional dilemma. "Back to…? Why would we go to England? There's no Shatterdome there, and Sherlock still has years and years on his contract."

"It will be an adjustment, but family leave will offer you two much more quality time together without work duties than the amount of shore leave we've been able to grant during the past few years. Take it from me, it might actually be easier to maintain a good relationship with a spouse when you don't have to juggle the stress and duties of being in active service together."

John is still not fully understanding what's going on. "I'm… retiring?"

"We're not renewing your contract, and you have enough unused holidays that your honours ceremony will be held on the nineteenth. You're going home, John."

"This is home. I live with Sherlock."

"Everyone understands how difficult this transition may be, especially to Ranger Holmes. It’s a lot in a short period of time. We are going to make counselling available to him with a PPDC-affiliated therapist—”

John bursts out laughing. He feels whiplashed, incredulous, still not quite comprehending what the hell is going on. "You must know him well enough by now to know he’ll eat any therapist for breakfast."

"As you know, for safety reasons civilian family members are not allowed to live on base," Hammond reminds him, and the c-word is what cuts through the haze of John's confusion.

Civilian.

"I want to renew my contract. If I'm not piloting any more, I'd like to return to my medical duties."

"Starting in three months, we're contracting daily medical services and the occupational health services of non-Corps staff at Chard to a Spanish private medical conglomerate. The Ranger Corps' services will still be provided by specially trained physician officers."

"Then sign me up for that. Who'd be a better occupational health officer than someone with first-hand experience?"

"The roster is full, and I assume you haven't attended any continued medical education courses in years. We're sending you home, John," Hammond reminds him like a broken record. "You've gone above and beyond in serving the Corps and humanity, John. It's more than an honourable time to enjoy your civilian life again."

"My life is with Sherlock."

"For reasons I explained to you, we cannot let him out of his contract early."

He realises he hasn’t talked to Sherlock about Colleen. He’s angry at Hammond for her part, too.

"Are there any other bases where a civilian spouse can live together with a Ranger in active service?"

"Yes, but the Ravager is here."

"Then keep me in," John growls. "The Corps did it before, after Harry died."

"You had many years left in your contract and you were a young man, then."

"I'm not even bloody fifty! Hardly about to keel over yet! The Ravager is here, and Sherlock won't work with Moriarty. He's the only other viable candidate besides me," John argues. "It's not going to happen, that partnership, regardless of whether Global Command or whoever is pulling your fucking puppet strings these days pushes for it or not."

John expects Prentiss to pull rank, to remind him that he's insulting his commanding officer. Instead, the resistance he offers feels weak.

"We have a German cadet with exceptional aptitude scores––" Prentiss starts excusing.

John sniffs and shakes his head, his expression a warning for his adversary not to insult him further with such nonsense. "If there ever was a remote chance Sherlock would work with anyone else, you ruined it by destroying his trust in anyone but me by allowing him to get reimplanted. You're the Base Commander, Prentiss. Act like it, and you were a Ranger like us. You know what's at stake, and you can fix this."

The shift is subtle, but something seems to shift, to break in the Commander's resolve. When he speaks after taking a pause, he's pleading, grasping at straws. "Many officers, Rangers and Ground Crew, live at bases while their families reside elsewhere. It'll be a big transition, but––"

"I said I don't want it. And after what you lot did to Sherlock, you owe us not to do this."

"That's not how this works, John. You must realise that. I'm here to protect more than just your and Ranger Holmes' interests. I can't just bend the rules like that––"

Excuse after excuse. Prentiss Hammond is not a man John would have ever described as powerless. He's enjoyed a long reign in the helm of Chard's Rift respected by his fellow Rangers. What the hell happened to him?

Hammond downs his whisky. "There are things, John, things you don't–– You might thank me later when you're out of the shitshow that's to come. I might be saying too much," he muses, looking into the distance past John and through the salt-specked window glass.

"And you think I want Sherlock here, alone, in whatever the hell is coming?! You're supposed to write the rules when it comes to Chard. If you can't change them, then what is the point of you?!"

Hammond seems to scrape together a bit of composure again. "In my shoes, would you retire your most skilled officer from duty, one who possesses the rare level of aptitude required for our most important weapon, for family reasons?"

"In your shoes, I wouldn't be break apart my best Jaeger team if they are both still willing to serve, and I sure as hell wouldn't destroy my best officer's trust in all that the Corps is supposed to stand for! A Ranger barely willing to leave their dorm room hardly sounds like the PPDC's best war asset."

Is Sherlock still willing to serve the Corps? John isn't even sure.

"John," Hammond pleads, and finally a part of that strange dismissive and overly positive mask he'd been trying to hide behind is slipping. "Like I said, there are things that are out of my hands—"

John springs to his feet, eyes blazing with fury.

"I hope that helps you sleep at night. I sure won't, with my husband thousands of kilometres away getting himself killed in battle since I'll no longer be in that Conn-Pod to keep him safe!"

John has nothing more to say to a man he'd once mistaken for a friend. He storms out, slamming the door in his wake.

 

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

By the time John reaches their dorm room, his blinding anger is breaking apart. Now, a sense of defeat as heavy as a rug sack of stones is setting in. The invisible current that had swept them away from the helm of their own lives seems to have reached an endless, grey ocean and spat them out.

He's not just being pushed out of pilot duty. He won't even be a Ranger anymore. And he'll be sent away from Sherlock.

Civilian.

His fingers shake as he reaches for the keypad. His bad shoulder twinges as if trying to remind him that he's been here before, feeling like he's lost everything.

He's scraped his life back together once into an existence resembling a purpose. He has no idea if he has it in him to do it again. After Harry's death, there was no option. She was gone.

This time, his partner isn't dead. Sherlock will be here, and the war will go on, while John sits in a garden swing somewhere counting for days until the next shore leave, worrying about what will happen to Sherlock and if whoever is in the Conn-Pod with him will have the skills and the will to protect him like John always has.

He opens the door. What the hell do I even say to him?

Sherlock's head snaps in his direction the second he enters. John can tell he's been pacing, and though he has no idea what devastating news he's about to be told, somehow he's already seething with anger.

"Have you seen this?!" Sherlock demands, pointing at the computer screen. He turns on the large screen on the wall and stabs his forefinger on the online newspaper headline there. "Whoever's behind all this are starting to make their moves, rearranging the game board."

It's a British tabloid on screen, declaring that: 'Atlantic Marshal under investigation over accusations of PPDC fund misallocation, including payments to high-end escorts'.

"The only perverse pleasures Mycroft has are with whatever his favourite bakery sells him," Sherlock scoffs. "Oldest trick in the book to shame a politician, make them sound like a corrupt womaniser."

"Are we sure he hasn't had any… nightly hobbies like that?" John hardly needs to remind Sherlock that he doesn't know his older brother very well as an adult, and vice versa.

"He would never be so stupid as to create a money trail like that. I'm sure they pay him enough to procure whatever perverse services he requires. He must've got too close in his investigation."

Sherlock switches to another tab, and this time it's The Times: 'China calls European leadership of Atlantic subsection "a Western capitalist farce", demands Global Command direct crisis oversight'.

"Why would China care about what the Atlantic Marshal does? They don't tithe to the subsection." John is grateful for the distraction. What he needs to tell Sherlock is going to be… he can't even imagine the fallout, considering Sherlock's precarious mindset after the reimplantation. It's been four days since the Science Division officer's visit. Any attempt by John to raise the subject of getting the implant finally recalibrated has been met with angry silence.

"Europe and the US have traditionally held a power majority in Global Command even if China's influence has increased over the last decade. Anything to grate European credibility plays into their hands," Sherlock points out. "I'm sure there is someone in the European brass China could buy or bend to their will to gain a bit of political foothold here. Gives them more power over the global distribution of Jaegers, for instance."

Sherlock shuts off the wall screen. "I tried to call Mycroft. His secretary says he's been placed on administrative leave. We all know how often politicians get to return from such death marches."

Speaking of, John thinks grimly. "I saw Hammond."

He doesn't want to have this conversation. He wants to wake up again, repeat this morning like ground hog day as many times as it takes to change what's now inevitable.

"Oh?" It appears that Sherlock had either forgot about John's appointment to see the commander in his anger or not been listening when John had told him this morning about the strange summons. "Colleen was looking for you, by the way."

"Colleen? Why?" The name raises John's heckles. He's not seen her or spoken to her since reimplantation day.

"Because he's our LOCCENT officer?" Sherlock reminds him, in a tone very familiar to John that signals he's an idiot like most people, a fact that is a constant bane of Sherlock's existence.

I told him, didn't I, about what happened at the sim lab––? John wonders, then realises he still hasn't.

Colleen hasn't been in touch because she fears how her communique should be received. For good reason.

John has considered telling Sherlock about her involvement many times, but has kept retreating from doing so because he hasn't wanted to upset his still physically recovering and traumatised partner any further. Sherlock is already highly paranoid of what's going on within the Corps, and a person they have trusted their lives to for years betraying them is going to wreck whatever little remains of his sense of safety at Chard.

"He messaged me," Sherlock explains and opens his wrist console to read out loud. "'I'm sorry about what happened. I need to see you and John so we could talk.'"

"I've nothing to say to her, and I doubt you will, either, once I tell you why." John drops into a chair.

Sherlock takes the seat opposite, looking wary.

John had thought he was coming home to deliver one massive blow. Now, he's got to add another as an appetiser of destruction. He reaches out, gives Sherlock's palm a squeeze. Sherlock stares at their joined hands, alarmed.

"Well?" he presses, extricating his long fingers and crossing his arms.

"They twisted her arm to do it, threatened to court martial her if she didn't obey the order."

"The order to what?"

"They knew I'd try to stop the reimplantation. Colleen called me into the simulation lab and locked me in to keep from interfering because they, whoever worked through Hammond, gave her the order. She probably let me out sooner than whoever's behind this would have wanted, but it was still too late."

Sherlock curses under his breath and John can sense that already depressingly familiar maelstrom of rage and lust for vengeance building within his partner. It's been exhausting, being marinated in it second-hand for weeks now.

His eyes narrow. "It now makes sense why she hasn't been in touch until now since my surgery. It didn't seem characteristic of her not to ask after my well-being."

"They threatened her with prison, and since she's got her kids she–– Fuck. I don't know why I'm defending her. She knowsyou. She helped train you; she must've known how difficult it was right from the beginning for you to expose yourself to the PONS system."

"Are there any real allies left in this hellhole we can trust not to turn on us?" Sherlock asks.

John has no answers for her. Tom Wallis? LJ Marais? Sherlock is right: how can they be sure of anyone if even Colleen can be turned against them?

John swallows. "There's more. And it's worse. The reason Hammond finally deigned to see me is because they're giving me an honourable discharge. One I can't apparently decline. Ceremony's a week from now."

"What? They–– what?"

"After the ceremony, I'll be sent off home to England." He's forced to look up and blink hard, because saying it out loud brings forth such a tidal wave of emotion that he feels as if he's been punched in the diaphragm.

Maybe a part of him wants to return, wants to leave behind this crumbling stronghold with eyes and ears everywhere, even inside his skull. But he would never leave without Sherlock. Things between them might not be all good right now, but all that needs to wait. There are bigger problems to solve.

"Home? What home? This is home!" Sherlock is on his feet, arms raised with the palms up in incredulous shock as he indicated the room.

John shrugs. "England. Family members–– civilians can't live on base."

"You're not going," Sherlock declares incredulously. "Hammond must've forgot about your medical duties, about your Special Ranger designation–– He can't just––"

"It's not exactly negotiable, Sherlock. My service is concluded. They're not renewing my contract. I can't stay at Chard. So, we need to work out––"

"Special dispensation," Sherlock spits out. "We'll get special spousal dispensation from Mycroft." He turns on the wall screen, activates the computer console… then remembers what they had just talked about. "Administrative leave," he whispers.

"We had to fight even for a joint room when we got paired together for the Ravager, remember?"

Sherlock's mouth tightens in stubborn determination. He activates the computer console and brings up a menu. "The PPDC charter," he explains to John. "I bet there really isn't such a rule about co-habitation pertaining specifically to retired Rangers. You already have the security clearance to be here, you know how to look after yourself.

He scrolls feverishly through the long document. Unfortunately, he finds what he'd feared. "Shit. It is here. No exceptions."

"Even if they hadn't benched Mycroft, could he change the charter?"

"He has, but that process takes years since it needs to be taken through the full global summits–– We could use the media again, tell everyone how badly they are treating one of their most decorated veterans."

"Not all people would probably understand why I don't want to go back to our homeland. Why I'd want to stay here where the kaiju danger is higher than anywhere else. Sherlock… if there is something larger going on behind this, I don't think they'd allow us to use a loophole even if we found one. It's obvious the plan was all along to take me out of the equation."

"But why?! It doesn't make sense! Moriarty can't possibly be the one pulling all the strings, and while it might make sense for him to make going after me some twisted pet project, how the hell would it add up to some grand plan to tip the power scales within the PPDC?" He's shouting, now, and there is nothing John can come up with to offer logic where there is nothing but chaos and ashes..

Sherlock's eyes well up now, too. He blinks furiously, drinking in the sight of John as though he'll never see him again. "You can't go. I can't stay here alone."

Then, he finds a well of rage again, starts pacing and tugging at his curls. "And what about the Ravager?!"

"I don't like it any more than you do, but let's face it: Moriarty's going to––"

"You've spent months wanting to deck him, now you're shoving me at him?!" In his incandescent rage, Sherlock is not thinking straight and is jumping to conclusions.

"Of course not! And I made damned sure Hammond knows you'd never work with him. They've some German cadet who might be able to pilot the Ravager. It doesn't have to be Moriarty," John tries to promise.

"It's not going to be anyone, because they can't force me."

"If you have to stay, it'll be less bad if you still get to pilot."

It feels like a vice around John's heart, having to do this, but they have both sworn an unbreakable oath, and while for many people saying humanity depends on them would be egotistical hyperbole, for a Ranger it's real. "We can still see each other when you get family leave, and I could fly in for your longer shore leaves. And we could see each other some more when you do recruitment events. They bring the circus to London at least once a year."

It's a pathetic attempt at consolation and John knows it. He needs to be the brick wall against which Sherlock needs to pound his head until he accepts reality. The facts appear crushing: there is nothing they can do to change what's coming. Sherlock is needed here, his service orders unbreakable unless he's injured or otherwise rendered incapable of service. Declining to pilot will not fulfil those descriptions and would only expose him to severe disciplinary action as a deserter.

Watching his partner, his beloved work his jaw in the throes of shock, cogs turning behind those beautiful eyes trying to find a loophole, John wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock was currently considering administering a mallet to his own kneecap to achieve early retirement.

"Not a lot of Rangers live to see a discharge day," John points out, "especially if they've done two piloting tours and reached my age. We always knew our run in the Ravager would end before your piloting career."

"But you'd still be here! You were supposed to be here!"

"No one promised us that. Remember what Mycroft said when you asked at Christmas? This is what they asked of us when we joined: to put the war before everything else."

"I didn't know I was going to have to put it before us! I didn't know there was going to be an us!"

"It's as if someone is doing a very thorough job cleaning up shop, eliminating all the chances of me staying here to make room for something else. You know how they've brought in those civilian contractors to handle all non-combatant occupational health? There's nothing for me to do as a medic here; I asked."

The path has locked around their feet, the road has become a river with only one destination.

"I can't stay here without you. I won't stay here without you."

"You can't refuse service," John reminds him. That would only land Sherlock in the PPDC's disciplinary unit — a nice little euphemism for a Chinese prison complex constantly in the teeth of Amnesty International for its lack of transparency and the gruesome reports of mistreatment by investigative journalists.

"Moriarty's had his sights on the Ravager right from the start, his service history has parts missing and he knows Russian."

"Lots of people know Russian. Including all the Russian Rangers." John doesn't understand why this would be worrying. "And it's China who's gunning for Mycroft, not Russia. Why would either plant a Ranger here to get a Ravager assignment?"

John is irritated. Why are they discussing this? Even if someone might want to push John out as part of some internal PPDC scheme, he doesn't care. They need to decide how to manage their future, not play detective.

"And why not just get him a Ravager assignment with any candidate? Why not with someone easier to manipulate?" Sherlock thinks out loud, pacing again.

You were easy enough.

"Why me?" Sherlock demands the empty air, hands moving animatedly as if he's organising invisible hints. "He can do things that are… Things we know are rare. He shields better than I do. And he can Ghost Drift," Sherlock mutters to himself.

John's eyes go wide. "What?"

The images he'd caught from Sherlock when they'd been–– Oh God.

He had suspected right. It wasn't Sherlock's fantasy, it was… Jesus Christ on a stick, he was there. In Sherlock's head.

All the fear, all the anger and the betrayal come flooding back. Even if Sherlock hadn't wanted that to happen, he opened the door. He could have just left well enough alone, stopped trying to pretend to solve some riddle he thinks Moriarty is in the middle of. Even if you didn't want him, why did you let him in?

"He's been in your head. He knows everything about you now," John said plainly.

The look Sherlock gives him is that of pure hurt. "He can shield, but he can also breach shields. Including mine. You know how other Rangers can sometimes pick up on when someone's having sex in the same dorm? I think Ghost Drifting on a very low level of connection is more common than we think, we just call it intuition. We're all in the same system, all the time, connected by the implants. Moriarty can manipulate that connection, track those threads to their origin. Namely, me. He wants you out, and he's been––"

The haunted embarrassment on Sherlock's features as his words trail out and he turns away momentarily make John's anger dissipate. This doesn't seem like Sherlock making excuses; through their connection, John can feel his partner's desperation to explain, his sincerity.

"I didn't want to let him in, but he never cared about that," Sherlock admits quietly, looking at his shoes.

John stands up, goes to him. He lifts Sherlock's jaw with two fingers, makes him look at him. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wasn't convinced you'd trust what you felt from me, since you know how well I shield. I wanted to find evidence, wanted to prove to everyone else but most of all you that I wasn't spending time with him out of some idiotic attraction, wasn't letting him in but that he just… knocked down the wall."

"There's something amiss with the PPDC, but it appears both Mycroft and I have run out of time to prove it. I really did want to find out what I could about Moriarty and to pass on the info to Mycroft who could actually do something about it, but they've forced my hand. Our hand."

"What do you mean?"

"If you're leaving, I'm leaving. We'll have a home, wherever we decide it should be." He reaches out for John's hand, laces their fingers, and instead of devastation, John finds there a determination he hadn't expected.

"They think they'd closed the exits, check-mated us. They're wrong. We don't have to know what their plan is to stop it — we just need to eliminate ourselves from the game board because that's what they don't expect. If you wanted a quiet retirement in plain sight as a decorated war hero, I'm sorry to shatter your daydreams. I'm coming with you, which means we'll have to stay under the Corps radar for possibly the rest of our lives."

"You mean… you'd become a deserter?" Sherlock would be a fugitive fearing arrest and deportation to China for God knows how many years until his contract expired. "I can't do that to you. Sherlock, it's… no. I won't let you."

"You don't get to decide for me. Nobody gets to decide for me anymore, that's the whole point. I'm not serving something that's not serving me. I'm done, John, if they won't even let me have you while expecting me to risk my neck and wreck my health fighting kaiju."

He leans in to kiss John, takes his time crushing their lips together, sucking John's lip gently between his teeth.

How could John have ever doubted Sherlock, his loyalty, their bond? John is embarrassed, now, for letting Moriarty live rent-free in his head, too.

There is no question whether he would choose Sherlock a thousand times over a quiet existence in England. Even if he must walk into a Chinese gulag with Sherlock for aiding a deserter, he will do so gladly as long as they're thrown in the same cell.

I would follow you into hell and back. Every time they had been sent to stop a kaiju attack, they had been prepared to die together. Compared to those risks they have taken so many times without a moment's hesitation, going on the run together is nothing.

"We need time to plan it," John points out, just as Sherlock speaks on top of him: "We need to leave before your honours ceremony."

"Why?"

"We can't let them suspect anything. We need to make them thing we're playing along, accepting our fate. I will do everything that's needed to spin that fiction, but I won't stand on a podium in the Underdome looking like some widow. I'm not their meat puppet anymore, I can't play my part in such a pomp and circumstance carnage of your career. We're not giving them the satisfaction of a spectacle made out of shoving you off a cliff."

"We need a plan, fast."

"I have one, but it'll be dangerous," Sherlock says soberly.

"We've fought kaiju," John points out, "compared to that it'll be a stroll 'round the garden to leg it from the Corps. But… how, exactly, are we going to do it?"

"Easy," Sherlock replies without missing a beat. "We're going to die."

 

—— End of part II of Drift United ——

Notes:

It's the rule that you live by and die for
It's the one thing you cannot deny
Even though you don't know what the price is,
It is justified
— Within Temptation: Where is The Edge

Our Ranger boys have cooked up their version of the Lazarus plan, then — but unlike their canon counterparts, they are doing it together.

Stay tuned for part III of Drift United, "Exile".

Chapter 24: Goodbye Stockholm Syndrome

Part III: Exile

 

In the land of gods and monsters

I was an angel living in the garden of evil

Screwed up, scared, doing anything that I needed

Shining like a fiery beacon

— Lana del Rey

 

Chapter 24: Goodbye Stockholm Syndrome

 

"How did I escape? With difficulty. How did I plan this moment? With pleasure."

― Alexandre Dumas: The Count of Monte Cristo

 

"You'll need to act a bit more devastated," John tells Sherlock, taking a seat beside him on a bench on the scenic deck on top of the Shatterdome.

There are surveillance cameras by the defence cannons nearby, but it is common knowledge that this spot has no such security coverage and is this a popular spot for couples.

The lack of prying eyes and ears also makes it a useful place for hatching sinister plans. And Sherlock seems to be having fun doing so. He's been in a better more ever since he declared his intention of following John out of Chard, and his energy levels are bordering on hyper, assisted by the tapering off corticosteroids he's taking due to the surgery.

It's almost as if Sherlock is treating their plan like a game, bulldozing on with non-existent emotional affect. Whenever John tries to pry into how he feels leaving behind the life they've build together, his inquiries get promptly and brutally shut down by a sulk or a frantic change of subject.

"What do you mean, 'more devastated'?" Sherlock demands. "Should I start wearing a black veil over my uniform?" he scoffs.

"Reincke, that new Austrian engineer, came to talk to me at lunch, a bit shocked at how she'd overheard you commenting to Wallis that it was 'nice while it lasted' when Tom asked how you felt about me leaving," John continues with a crooked smile. "She said she hopes you were referring to our run in the Ravager and not our marriage."

"It astounds me how much time people have on their hands if it can be wasted on being interested in our private business." Sherlock's eyes are narrowed as he looks out where the sunlight is gilding the waves.

"She might also have been trying to gauge whether you were open to… new propositions after I left. She's never talked to me before."

Sherlock's brow hitches upwards. "The fact that I'm married to a man should discourage such ideas."

John chuckles. "Hasn't stopped you from having legions of female fans. Remember that one who found out the hotel in Paris you were staying at on that recruitment tour and stuffed her knickers under your room door?"

"The vultures are circling, John. Just goes to show that the Corps' assumed noble values are just surface paint."

"People talk, because gossip is a way to pass the time," John points out, wanting to prevent yet another rant about the state of humanity and the PPDC.

"People should mind their own business. What should I have said or done, then? Cried on Wallis' shoulder?"

"Well, yeah," John admits. "We don't want anyone to think we're up to something, shrugging the whole thing off like that."

"Marais tried to tell me it might be a good idea to 'talk to someone' after you leave," Sherlock shakes his head with amusement. "Her diagnosis seems to be that I'm in denial." He digs out a packed of cigarettes and his lighter. It's hard to get the flame going in the brisk wind.

"If you keep refusing to talk about my retirement, act as if everything is normal but refuse to step foot in the Ravager or the sim lab, it's a logical theory that you're…."

An unfeeling machine. That you only cared about our partnership as far as it benefited your piloting career.

John knows neither of these is true and doesn't want to say such things out loud even as false, projected assumptions. "They probably think that you're only going to start reacting once it's actually happened, and I won't be here to help with that."

"That was Marais' point, although she was more circumspect about it. She has nothing to gain from any of this, so I'll accept she was just trying to help so that our situation wouldn't interfere with the training work."

John is grateful that Sherlock is still on medical leave and thus not obligated to report to any kind of simulation training. He's also grateful that Moriarty is off base for five more days; they have enough on their plate even without having to dodge his presence.

Every day that passes makes it harder — makes it feel more like a petty afterthought for John to try to address what happened with James. Sherlock probably hopes he never will, but John has promised himself he won't let his partner off the hook that easily. He wants to know why. He needs to know why.

Why I wasn't enough.

Why you let him close enough to get into your head like that.

"That's what it sounds like to people, that you're not ready to face reality, if you keep making light of the situation," John insists. "Or that you're some kind of a psychopath, just shrugging off losing your husband save for a couple of days here and there."

"Me being a psychopath probably wouldn't surprise all that many people here. Besides, they can't know what kind of a husband you were. Maybe you were terrible, and I'm relieved to get rid of you," Sherlock jokes.

He notices soon that John finds no humour in the idea, and hurries to explain himself: "I'm more concerned about our plan than keeping up appearances. People are generally oblivious and don't see a scheme even when it's staring them in the face. Did you find out anything useful at the commissary?"

"I did. Had to pick a fight with Elona over it, complaining about so many things being out of stock, but she did tell me there's a ship bringing in a lot of cosmetics tomorrow evening." Elona is the commissary's longest-serving employee, a formidable matron very few Rangers would want to anger. "She promised it'll restock your hair wax."

"That should confirm to people I'm staying." Sherlock takes a luxuriously long drag from his cigarette. "We'll be long gone by the time the commissary opens the next time. Those ships don't hang around for long; I watched two getting in and out within six hours when I was sunning on the aviation deck."

"Six hours? No wonder you look a bit red."

Sherlock had dragged his deck chair to a deck where the supply ships dock to watch the proceedings. He's still wearing the shorts and short-sleeved linen shirt instead of the uniform John has on.

"I still have no idea how we're going to keep the Corps from tracking us," John points out.

"We need to make them believe that we haven't absconded. We need them to think we did something desperate."

Sherlock's calculated, razor-sharp and triumphant expression tells John his partner has work out all the details and is rather proud of his plan.

"We dump the wrist consoles off the deck just as we leave," Sherlock explains with enthusiasm. "They can track those, at least to a moderate depth. Once we're gone, they'll look at the data and think it's us there at the bottom."

"That still leaves the implants. The consoles being at the bottom of the ocean won't convince them of anything if our implants can be tracked to a ship on the Atlantic," John points out.

"Not if they stop signalling at the same time the consoles drop into the bottom."

John's lips form a soundless oh when the other shoe drops. It's certainly a plan, and quite a bit more… dramatic than John had expected. He recalls his partner's words about death during the first time they'd discussed laving Chard behind together, but he had assumed that was all figurative.

"They'll think we––" John starts to confirm.

"Lover's pact," Sherlock confirms proudly. "I couldn't serve or live without you, and you couldn't live with your career ending and having to leave me behind. Logical. Legendary. People adore a tragic love story; why else would fiction be full of them?"

"That's why you're not that concerned about people thinking you're acting unhinged."

"Correct." Sherlock then feigns a slightly hysterical tone: "Why would I worry about John leaving if that's something that will never ever happen? They'll assume that when I finally realised that we'd be separated, we decided we'd rather meet a watery end than be apart. They'll all believe it because the truth is so much more tedious. That’s what makes it so clever. A lie that’s preferable to the truth."

"How are we going to conceal the implants' tracking signals? I don't have the kind of access to Med Bay that would require — never had, since all implant-related stuff was only for high-clearance people," John points out. "I wouldn't even know how to hide our signals from the network."

"Regular Med Bay physicians may not have the clearance to manipulate what implants do or execute their emergency shutdown and reboot, but there is one type of officer who can."

"LOCCENT," John realises. Those officers can shut off and restart an implant even mid-battle if the systems get too scrambled to be fixed by a partial reboot. It requires verbally confirmed consent from the pilot unless they're unconscious.

"It's too risky, asking one of them to help us. They could report us, and this would be all over in an instant. Aiding and abetting a deserter would get them booted, probably imprisoned."

"It might not be too risky if they think they owe us," Sherlock points out wryly.

He stuffs his cigarette butt into the stainless-steel container reserved for the purpose beside the bench and shoves his hand in his shirt pocket to retrieve the packet for another, but John snatches it first and stuffs the whole thing in his trouser pocket without even checking which end was open. He'll probably be cleaning ground-up tobacco from his pocket tonight, but Sherlock is jittery enough without a nicotine overdose.

"You've gone through nearly the whole packet today. Isn't smoking banned on the aviation deck?" John points out.

Sherlock shrugs. "Civilian crew or the flight technicians would never dare to tell me off."

"No, but igniting an aerosolised puddle of kerosene might discourage you more effectively." John shakes his head. "You're a bloody menace."

"Your bloody menace."

"Who from LOCCENT would think they owe us a favour?"

Sherlock gives him a look that says as usual, you're missing the obvious. "Colleen."

The way he says his name is telling. While not quite a vengeful growl, every syllable is infused with disdain.

"She owes me," Sherlock adds.

"I wasn't fond of being locked in the lab, either, but they threatened to court-martial her," John reminds his partner. "She wouldn't have done it otherwise."

"Her career and thus the income she needs for her family, potentially even her freedom and access to said family versus my reimplantation. In her shoes, I would have made the same choice. In fact, I have made it: lose all of my freedom, or just some of it by joining the Corps. Not that I've retained much of the freedom I assumed that would preserve," Sherlock muses bitterly. "I might understand why she complied, but I don't have to approve. Or forgive. Stop defending them. You've lived here for too long to see things objectively."

"And you've always been overly sceptical of what this career could offer," John argues half-heartedly.

"Oh, I'm perfectly aware of all its fantastic offerings. One of them was just shoved into my brain after they drilled a hole for it."

There won't ever be a reasonable conversation about the Corps, then, John concludes. Then again, what they did is not reasonable, either.

"Helping us now might court-martial her," John points out.

"Not if she doesn't get caught. And if she does, all she has to tell them is that it was under duress."

"How would that work?"

"She needs to say is that we forced her at gunpoint. We can stage that in front of security cameras if need be. We'll ditch our service weapons in the sea along with the wrist consoles."

Every Ranger has a service pistol. If a kaiju managed to reach a Shatterdome and attack it, a pistol would do very little, but it remains a standard part of every Ranger's battle gear. John has always suspected the guns are both for ceremonial purposes and for shooting oneself in the head because it would probably be preferable to becoming a kaiju's hors d'oeuvre if they ever overtook an entire Shatterdome.

"You think you could guilt-trip her into doing this?" Sherlock presses.

"She needs to know we won't really jump overboard; she won't do it if she thinks we're really going to die. You think they might interrogate her?"

"There will be an internal investigation, yes. The media attention alone will force their hand to execute one. It'll be down to Colleen's acting skills whether that process will become an international manhunt or just a coroner's inquest. If the latter, then I hope they'll pin some of the blame on human rights being trampled on in the name of military advantage."

"I don't think she'll raise hell over that. She's already demonstrated her priorities," John says sourly.

Even if John's piloting career could somehow continue, he would not accept Colleen Dunne as his LOCCENT officer anymore.

He hasn't managed to coax Sherlock to air his feelings about her betrayal, but whenever she is mentioned, John senses the shock and resigned hurt Sherlock carries. Sadly, instead of righteous anger, what she had done seems to just confirm a lot of Sherlock's assumptions about other humans in general.

"She'll need to contact Mycroft to signal this is a ruse. I know what to tell her to say that won't trip alarms, but Mycroft will be able to deduce enough from."

"Nice of you to spare him from thinking you're dead."

"We're going to need his help getting out of Portugal," Sherlock explains quickly.

Far be it from you to spare your brother's nerves, John thinks to himself, amused.

"He's been useless for thirty years. It's high time he changed that."

"We're really doing this, aren't we?" John marvels.

"How many times do you require it to be repeated: yes, we are doing this," Sherlock replies irritably. He's jiggling his legs now that he's lost the calming distraction of holding the cigarette and dousing his brain with nicotine.

Someone who doesn't know Sherlock as well as John does might think the man is approaching their plan pragmatically, his massive intellect homing in on the concrete details of how to execute this lover's pact caper. John appreciates his partner's laser-sharp focus but wonders if Sherlock really has taken the time to consider thoroughly what they are about to do.

"So, we go to Lisbon first, assuming the info I fished out of Elona's about the inbound cargo ship is correct. Another coastal city will do in a pinch. Then what?" John asks.

"England."

"How the hell are we going to get back home?"

"Mycroft. He'll have ways."

"Then what? We're really recognisable, especially in England. Can't really risk walking around London and getting spotted."

"For all intents and purposes, we'll be dead, which discourages anyone from thinking it's really us. And people are depressingly unobservant. A change of hairstyle and colour, some makeup, glasses, perhaps even a bit of back-alley plastic surgery…"

John is horrified by the prospect. "I'd have thought you of all people would steer clear of dodgy medicine from now on."

"Just listing possibilities. Mycroft probably has an entire Rolodex full of favours he can call in from his chums in the intelligence services. New, legitimate and watertight identities shouldn't be an issue to acquire for a former high-ranking spook."

"Rolodex?" John is confused.

"One of those contact card indexes one flips around? Yes, he still uses one. He thinks old-fashioned is code for having class."

Sherlock is gripping the edge of the bench, drumming the metal with his fingertips. The nervous energy in him hums through their connection like static.

John rests his own palm on top of his partner's, gathers the long fingers within the cathedral of his own. "You don't have to do this. You don't have to leave the Ravager. You've got the implant, and you have over a decade left in active duty. Yes, I want us to leave together, but I don't want you to pay the price if it's too high."

Sherlock is staring at him, and John can feel his surprise, then disappointment.

"We don't have any good options here, I know that––" John starts.

"And that's why this is the only viable plan," Sherlock insists. "In all the other scenarios, during those many years that we'd be mostly apart, nobody knows what'll happen. Maybe we win, maybe the kaiju do, or we continue being stuck in an endless war. I could get killed, and who can guarantee they'd release me from service after my contract ended, if things with the kaiju remain dire? They already got your best years, and they sure as hell won't get all of mine. We've done enough. I've done enough, especially since I never asked for any of this."

"Some people might argue that having done enough is not an excuse to walk away from war," John says quietly, withdrawing his hand.

"Some people? Who people? The sycophants willing to still serve the Corps even after it has proven to treat its greatest asset as expendable cannon fodder to be experimented on.

Sherlock cards his fingers through his hair, looking haunted. "I can't stay because after what they did, I won't, can't do a neural handshake. I won't trust myself, my brain, to their system," Sherlock tells him adamantly. "Don't tell me I haven't gone through enough for this so-called service to humanity."

"I won't."

But has anyone in the PPDC ever done enough until we've won?

Sherlock is right, though. The price they exacted from him is too much. Even dead Rangers used to be treated with more respect. We used to be treated like they were people, not puppets or pawns in a game.

This isn't the Corps John has known for twenty years. Whatever is going on has changed things, probably irrevocably.

"I hope being a fugitive is going to be feel like some of our best years, then," John says, but instead of encouraging, it sounds resigned.

"It'll be different, but it'll be with you."

The unwavering certainty in Sherlock's tone is flattering, but John is unsure whether to believe it. Will you really be with me, in return, instead of feeling like you have lately, slipping away, distracted and frustrated with me and our life?

The signs were there, and John has realised he'd ignored them because he hadn't wanted to believe Sherlock's happiness waxed and waned while his own flourished.

"The same goes for you, too: you don't have to do this," Sherlock points out. "You stand to lose more. Instead of a peaceful retirement living as yourself, you're choosing me, whatever that choice will mean."

John is very aware that he's making a choice between Sherlock, regardless of where that takes them, or a nice, cosy retirement in England without his husband. John closes his eyes, nods with determination. He hasn't hesitated before, and he won't hesitate now. He's faced his worst fears with Sherlock, for Sherlock. They have a lot to fix, but walking away was never going to be an option. Being away from Sherlock was never going to be an option.

"I choose you. Every time."

 

 

Chapter 25: Secrets and Lies

He lives in the darkness, he's calling my name

He's keeping me up, keeping me up, I'm wide awake

He feeds on my ego, he swallows my pain

So figure it out, figure it out, stay away

— Of Monsters and Men: Vulture, Vulture

 

"They won!" John whoops from where he's sitting on the desk, watching the battle feed on the wall screen.

He can't keep his enthusiasm in check. While it's hardly surprising that the already quite experienced pilot team in charge of the Sentinel Tempest have been victorious over the kaiju that had triggered an alarm three hours prior. The Jaeger's carapace-piercing capacities are next to none, so it had made quick and flashy work of this particular quadripedal creature, codename Sanrin, 'forest on a mountain', due to the staghorn-like protrusions on its back armour.

Every kaiju defeated might mean one less threat to humanity. Unless there's an unlimited supply, somehow, and this never ends.

"I can see that," Sherlock comments equably, picking up his combat boots from under the desk and shoving them into his gear locker by the door. "Soon, we won't have to care anymore. We'll be far away from all this, living like most of humanity has done through this crisis — as hapless idiots far from danger."

"There's always a risk that––"

"There's always a risk of being run over by a car, getting hit by lightning, having a blood clot kill you in your sleep. Many people on this planet have never had to really fear being stomped on by a kaiju."

John shifts where he's seated to face his spouse. His lips part to protest once again, since Sherlock's sudden nonchalance about the kaiju seems so ludicrous, but he has the good sense to feel out his partner's mood before pushing this conversation further towards an argument.

What he senses from Sherlock is acute, painful and complicated. There's anger — unsurprising and still smouldering fiercely — but also loss. They're both losing their chance to pilot ever again, just for different reasons. The two Rangers behind the eyes of the Jaeger that a drone is currently zooming in on won't ever be them again.

John is surprised to find regret there, as well. Sherlock isn't really blocking him out, so John trails behind him cerebrally into that train of thought and discovers that the regret isn't about leaving — it's about things having gone the way they have and his potential role in it.

Sherlock stops picking up his clothes, having realised they're both focussing on his thoughts, and turns to face John, looking tired. "Yes, sometimes I may have wished I'd joined earlier so we could have had that for longer," Sherlock admits, nodding towards the screen where the transport helicopters are attaching their cables to the shoulders of the Sentinel.

"It's not your fault. They pushed me out."

"Whatever their plan is, I…" Sherlock sighs, then hides inside the constant white noise of competing thoughts in his head.

Whatever he'd almost said, he'd decided against, and is now trying to distract John from it.

'I' what? Played into it without realising? Got too curious about Moriarty and opened the door to something you weren't ready for?

"I want to go to the lounge," John decides.

The Rangers' lounge is where everyone gathers after two of their own return victorious — and sometimes also when they don't, but of course the atmosphere is very different, then. Not every pilot wants to see their peers if they've let a kaiju breach through humanity's defences. When a pilot is lost in battle, then getting together for a wake of sorts seems to be something Rangers feel a need for — unite and camaraderie and some heavy drinking. Nobody cares about alcohol dose rules on duty at those occasions.

John doesn't have to prod at Sherlock's mood to find out whether his partner wants to join him since Sherlock's default is to avoid human contact.

That's why he's surprised when Sherlock grabs his uniform jacket. "Transport won't take long; I'm sure there's already a crowd there."

"One last toast with friends," John nods.

"I don't have 'friends', I just have you," Sherlock replies bitterly, checking his hair in the mirror on his locker door and carding his hands through some locks to rearrange them.

"You'd be surprised," John counters.

"I certainly hope Colleen doesn't think she has any business showing up."

"She only comes to these things when it's us returning from a deployment."

"Then she should consider her Ranger's lounge -partying days concluded, too."

"Even if we won't be here, it doesn't mean they'll retire her. Everyone knows she's good at what she does, so they'd be idiots not to give her another Ranger pair. She did what she was told so they have no reason to demote her from the Ravager since she knows it like the back of her hand." A flash of anger from Sherlock makes him add: "I'm not defending her, just…"

"Her continuing her career requires assuming no one finds out what she's going to do for us. And it's not going to make it even. Nothing will. Let's go."

John follows him out the door and down the corridor.

He'd been the one to speak to Colleen about their plan since Sherlock has refused to deal with her after the implantation. He had explained to John that making sure everyone knows how furious he is with her serves their cover story of being too heartbroken about everything that has happened to go on, but John knows there is genuine emotion behind the decision. Sherlock understands cold rationale, and John wouldn't have put it past him to begrudgingly accept Colleen's act, but the last few days have demonstrated that such acceptance, let alone forgiveness is unlikely to transpire.

Sherlock is done. Done with the Corps, done with decisions being made for him, done with his body being a playground for the Science Division. Done with their marriage being a perk allowed by the Corps rather than the union of two free men.

John had met with Colleen up on the scenic deck. He had no idea beforehand whether she'd even consider helping them since it exposed her to the very same consequences that she'd wanted to avoid by obeying that order. At least this time there's a good chance no one will find out about her part. The only thing that could expose her are the LOCCENT access logs. Sherlock had a theory that Mycroft might be able to help them purge those, but his brother's ability to help them depends wholly on the outcome of the corruption investigation. If he loses his position as Marshal, he loses all power and access within the Corps.

Much of Sherlock's grand escape plan seems to hinge on Mycroft helping them out. John isn't quite sure what to expect from the extremely duty-bound Marshal. He seems to have a lot more brotherly goodwill towards Sherlock these days, but he'd also be the first to remind Sherlock of his importance to the war effort. Could he even turn the two of them in instead of helping them escape?

Mycroft, Colleen and whoever helps them travel from Chard to the European coast will be the key figures in achieving their afterlife. It's an uncomfortable thought, having so many weak links.

Even though Colleen has effectively betrayed them once, John doesn't think she'd do it again. If she isn't prepared to do this, to risk her neck to make up for what happened to Sherlock, John assumes she'd just say no. She'd gain very little from letting the plan go ahead and then turning them in.

Up on the scenic deck, John had barely got to the end of his bare-bones explanation of what they are scheming when Colleen had already volunteered to assist. John wonders if he, too, had been too angry before to recognise how much it had hurt her to betray the two Rangers she has served and protected for years now. John has considered her a friend rather than a co-worker, and John doesn't have to underline her role in Sherlock's reimplantation at all before she tells him she'd do anything to repair the damage to their working relationship even if it's coming to an end.

"I just couldn't figure out how to get out of it, out of what they told me to do, John. I should have come to you and Sherlock, maybe you could have––"

"They would have known where the intel came from," John had reminded her. "They would have probably done it to Sherlock, anyway, and you'd have lost your job and your pension."

"You'll do the fake gun-waving?" She winked. "Sounds like Sherlock might want that part."

"Not really. He gets it, gets why you had to do it," John lies without even understanding why. He doesn't owe her anything. If she feels immensely guilty still for what happened, then that's a punishment she deserves, John had reminded himself as he shook the hand she offered.

"Tell him I'm sorry."

John had given her what he hopes is a consoling smile. "You know Sherlock. He doesn't do apologies or other social nonsense."

"You two are the best I've ever had. That I will ever have."

"Oh, he certainly knows that bit," John had grinned.

"How do we do this, then?" Colleen asked hastily after tucking her hands in her jeans pockets; they were meeting late in the evening. She was getting visibly emotional but trying to not show it to John.

"The ship Sherlock has picked docks here twice a week from noon to eight p.m. We'll try to find a crew member to bribe to help us get in and find a hiding spot when the same ship comes in three days prior. According to Sherlock's surveillance, the crew's dinnertime seems to be from six to seven. Since the decks are pretty much empty then, it's a logical time to do something we don't want people to see. At exactly half-past six, we drop the consoles and the guns down. Three minutes after that, you cut the connection to our implants."

"Why seven minutes?" Colleen had asked.

"That's Sherlock's calculation of how long someone optimistic might think we'd be able to be submerged without inhaling water, passing out and getting terminal brain damage from hypoxia," John had concluded soberly. He'd helped Sherlock create that estimate. Someone who's fit but not a free diver might be able to hold their breath for two minutes, but not much beyond that. It takes only minutes after the oxygen in that single breath runs out for hypoxia to start destroying brain cells, and after six to seven minutes from cessation of oxygenation reviving a drowned person starts to become impossible.

'And why would a person committing suicide by jumping into the ocean even hold their breath in the first place?' Sherlock had mused callously.

"They're going to go through everyone who could have known. Can we trust you to tell them a good story?" John asked Colleen.

She was hugging her cardigan to herself since the night wind was blowing cold. "Advanced RTI training, and I've even had to use those lessons once," she revealed to John.

She had worked for the CIA before being recruited by the PPDC.

"I ran tech for several big ops in the Middle East," she explained after glancing at him and seeing his intrigue and surprise. "They won't get anything out of me except a damned good story of how I was concerned for weeks over your and Sherlock's state of mind. In fact, I'll tell everyone who's listening what it was like to find out what the two of you did. I'll probably need Corps-issue therapy," Colleen grinned, tapping her nose. "I'll make sure I phrase things in a way that won't make me contradict myself if I have to use the gunpoint footage."

"We can record that right before I meet up with Sherlock on the back deck. It'll be more credible that way."

"They might ask why I didn't just promise you I'd do it and then sound the alarm once you headed down to the deck. I should probably do it right when you've me in the crosshairs to convince everyone I had no choice."

John bit his lip. "That's the thing. Sherlock can't be alone when you–– when you cut the cord. It's… it's hard to explain why it's going to be such a big deal when you haven't experienced it. He won't agree to see you, so he won't come with me, and someone needs to keep an eye on the ship––"

"It's alright, John. We can't eliminate all the risks this has for me. Once they see that footage, why would they be so specific about the exact minute it happens? I'll pretend to do it right then and there."

"And we hope to get the logs erased, anyway, so you wouldn't ever even need that footage. But what if you do?"

"I'll keep an eye on the investigation as much as I can — it's logical I would, since I'd be devastated if my team suddenly disappeared like that. If things start to point towards me, I'll make sure Base Security holds on to all the footage and spill the beans on you threatening me."

All surveillance camera footage from the base is erased every five days.

"I know it's up to me that this won't backfire. You never blow the cover of an asset in the field," Colleen had added.

"We won't be assets any longer, that's the whole point," John pointed out even though he was aware that what Colleen was referring to was collegial loyalty rather than thinking she's somehow serving the Corps by doing this. "It's mostly up to us to make sure we don't get recognised. There's a huge list of things that could go wrong," he'd added.

He is still pretty sure Colleen isn't going to be one of them.

"Thank you for everything. I mean it," John had said to her, then turned to leave.

"It's been an honour, Ranger Watson," she called out after him.

John turned back to face her and gave his best officer's salute, which she returned. "Likewise."

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

As always after a triumphant battle, the Ranger's lounge is buzzing. Getting a drink requires martial arts -level evasive manoeuvres to avoid bumping into people, the conversation level has reached boisterous, and the air getting a bit stale from too many Rangers crammed into the limited space.

Still, John loves it. Always has, even during his years of feeling sidelined. He goes to congratulate the victors first, toasting them with a sweating beer someone shoves into his hand. Sherlock trails behind him like a shadow, speaking to no one except when directly addressed. He looks haunted and anxious, and John wonders how much of it is his genuinely dislike for crowds and people in general, and what part an act to bolster their cover story,

Unsurprisingly, it is the pathologically honest and direct Maria Groenewald who offers Sherlock a hook to grab.

"Who will be your next partner, then, Holmes?"

Sherlock gives John a pointed look. When Sherlock senses his confusion, he reaches out inside John's head.

Make it seem like you're trying to protect me from that topic.

John gives Maria an apologetic, urgent and joyless smile. "We're not really… Um, best not get into all that."

"John is my partner," Sherlock insists, staring down Maria with a somewhat unhinged look on his face. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

She gives John a wary sideways glance. "Alright…? I thought you were retiring."

John pretends to wince when he hears that word as if wanting Sherlock not to hear it. Sherlock pretends to ignore the conversation, having said his bit.

"We're still trying to contest that decision," John tells her. He's made sure everyone knows that he's being put out to pasture against his will. "But it's not looking good." He hands his head dramatically and takes Sherlock's hand for a brief squeeze. They rarely perform such public displays of affection, especially not at the Rangers' lounge, so John hopes this will offer yet another detail people will remember. Maria is a gossip, so she is the perfect stooge for this trick.

"Good luck with that," Maria adds, sounding quite earnest, and slips into the crowd.

With Sherlock as his silent, personal ghost, John then goes to clink beers together with Tom Wallis. It's a relief when he doesn't raise any personal topics, simply sticks to discussing and appraising details from today's battle. It's often Wallis who commandeers the remote control to the large screen in the lounge at these occasions, switching between news channels and replaying the Corps' own drone footage for analysis. John recalls many conversations with him over their Ravager; they're the rare kind of conversation during social occasions that even Sherlock is willing to participate in. He's even come out of his shell a bit sometimes when receiving praise for his decisions and Jaeger performance from their peers like this.

He pretends he doesn't have friends, but that's not true, John decides. Even if it's his skills that endeared these people to him at first, they don't all dislike him. Sometimes it seems that Sherlock is morbidly proud of his self-appointed loner and black sheep brand and doesn't want to accept that those don't entirely describe his everyday reality anymore.

How lonely would someone have to have been all their life to be practically afraid of even trying to deal with people?John wonders.

When they leave Chard for their great escape, John will be all Sherlock has.

The responsibility feels suddenly rather crushing.

John glances over his shoulder; Sherlock is now talking to LJ Marais on the other side of the lounge, out of earshot if not Ghost Drifting -shot.

Sherlock wants us to pretend we're sad and wrecked by what's going to happen to our careers. Well, I don't really even have to pretend, do I?

"It's a great Jaeger," he tells Wallis, his throat dry and eyes stinging. "The Sentinel. We're getting old, Tom. Soon it'll be the juniors running this place."

Wallis gets it, because he's also gone through the ending of his pilot career. "Hard to watch?" he cocks his head towards the screen, where the kaiju's neck being nearly cut cleanly through by the Sentinel's sword causes its head to loll sideways and send a huge wave crashing against some rocks jutting out of the ocean.

"Us winning? Never."

"But wanting to be in that Conn-pod never stops," Wallis concludes.

"We're addicts, aren't we? Doing it for the humanity and all, but there's so many ways to serve the Corps that don't involve risking our lives like that."

Wallis chuckles. "Why settle for less, though? Nobody born to be a Ranger would want to be supporting cast."

"Are we born to be Rangers? That makes it sound like the kaiju were destined to show up, and human evolution has somehow been directing itself towards us." John snorts. "That sounds so egotistical." And it's certainly a theory Sherlock would enjoy.

If there ever was a person born to be a Ranger, it's got to be Sherlock bloody Holmes, though, right down to the surname.

"Thank God you're so modest," Wallis laughs. "If both of you were like him, you'd be unsufferable." He raises his can of beer across the room at Sherlock, who gives a nod but keeps his hands tucked behind his back since he's not holding a drink.

John realises Sherlock must've been looking in their direction since he senses John was thinking about him.

I swear it was nothing bad. Well, nothing that bad.

He expects a reply but suddenly Sherlock's head whips in the direction of the door and he stops listening to whatever Marais had just started telling him. Since the crowd is blocking John's view to the door, he can't see what had caught his partner's attention, but it can't be good, since Sherlock is now blocking their connection. He's dropped such an iron veil that not even John can get through. It's more intense than his usual level of shielding, and John wonders if this is something new that Sherlock has been practicing. It's an iron veil, an impenetrable bullet-proof cerebral glass. John has to really strain to even find him in their invisible connection.

There is only one person Sherlock would ever need to shield from like this. John doesn't need to see who has just arrived — he can deduce it.

James Moriarty. Back from shore leave.

Why the hell hadn't it occurred to John that the man might show up? Had it occurred to Sherlock, who is so dedicated to formulating and controlling even the smallest details of their escape plan and cover story?

A blackest thought occurs: had Sherlock been willing to join him, because he wants to see James one more time? Is he somehow blocking John but leaving open some sort of communication with the other?

No, John decides. The only emotions he's felt from Sherlock whenever James has come up in his thoughts or in conversation have been negative ones. At times, it has even seemed that Sherlock is afraid of the man. That should serve as further confirmation that what had happened during their lovemaking had not been a voluntary daydream, but since they've still not cleared the air about that incident, John can't help these knee-jerk green-eyed reactions.

I'm only human, and that fucking arsehole is circling my Sherlock.

If there's one thing John won't miss from Chard, it's this whole entire James Moriarty -shaped mess.

John is startled to realise Sherlock is now looking at him and pleading with his eyes for John to… what?

To not get angry?

To leave?

To do something?

He's not going to make a scene. Not giving that bastard the satisfaction.

He grabs two beers from a table, meanders to where Sherlock's gaze is tracking a familiar figure. Before James notices either of them, John marches right up to him and shoves a non-alcoholic beer into the man's face.

The beverage had not been a deliberate selection, but considering it's of a brand the taste of which John knows to be vile, he feels a small amount of petty joy.

"Good shore leave?" He asks, keeping his tone oddly pointed.

"There really isn't much to do in Ponta Delgada, is there?" James opens the beer but doesn't try it. "Come to pay your respects to today's heroes?"

"You make it sound as if they're dead," John scoffs.

James schools his features into something resembling sober. He carefully places the beer can on a side table. "I've been meaning to have a word, actually. I know we're not… on the best of terms, but I can assure you that I intend to look after Holmes. You won't have to worry. He and his career will be well taken care of."

John thinks such statements would have been the perfect opportunity for James to gloat, to shove it in John's face that he's being shipped out while James remains here, ready to pounce on Sherlock the minute his husband is out of the picture. But he's looking infuriatingly earnest, now. John can't shake the feeling there is more behind those words just like there always is when it comes to James Moriarty, but at least the man has the good sense not to taunt John right now in the middle of a crowd of officers more loyal to a familiar veteran pilot than to a newcomer.

"I just want him to see his own retirement day," John says. And it's tomorrow, you absolute wanker. You're not getting your hands on him.

John can't keep James Moriarty from scoring a Ravager assignment, but it sure as hell won't be with Sherlock. "You haven't even been given a Jaeger assignment."

"I doubt they'll leave the Ravager without a pilot team for any longer than they have to. His medical leave is already compromising base security."

"Only if there's a kaiju no other Jaeger can handle. We have some great pilots here besides me and him," John says venomously.

John knows it's logical for the Corps to pair Moriarty with someone as soon as possible. No other pilots have been given the requisite training yet, so it would have been him with Sherlock. And John ought to lean into that so that he won't raise suspicions.

"We need a Ravager team. I'm sure you and Sherlock will do your best," he lies through his teeth.

"We'll be the best," James comments dryly. "You'll see. Everyone will see. Such a pity about the Marshal, though. Let's hope he pulls through." He leans conspiratorially closer to John. "You know him well. You think he might've have made sure Hammond never reaches that hearing?"

John is taken aback. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I'd have assumed you two followed the news. Hammond left Chard three days ago, was due to testify yesterday. No one can find him. He's the only serious evidence they have, apparently, since they've suspended the entire process until he's found."

John breathes a sigh of relief. That means Mycroft is still the Marshal. If they didn't suspect him when the accusations came to light so surely, they won't suspect him before the hearing can happen.

John breathes a sigh of relief. "I know him, and he'd never betray the Corps."

"Such an exemplary family, the Holmeses," James coos with a devilish smile. "It'll be such an honour to serve with Sherlock." The way he pronounces the name makes John's blood boil. It's as if James is relishing every letter like sips of vintage wine. His gaze is sweeping up and down Sherlock now, since the crowd had parted to reveal him.

"I know you're going to worry about him once you're gone," James tells John without peeling his eyes off Sherlock.

John plasters on a hyena smile and plants himself in the man's line of sight. "You hurt him, and you'll have to worry about me."

James looks him in the eye, looking bored. "No need for pedestrian threats, Watson. As if I'd want to Drift with someone inferior. His survival benefits everyone. Surtout moi."

John steals a glance at Sherlock… who has disappeared.

Without a single word more to James Moriarty, John leaves the lounge in search of his partner. He finds Sherlock behind a corner by the lifts, standing by a window flicking his fingertips anxiously, looking up at the ceiling and breathing hard. He flinches when he hears John's footsteps, head snapping in their direction, eyes wide.

Are you alright? John asks.

It's no use trying to speak through their connection.

He's still being blocked out completely. Trying to speak through their connection feels currently like shouting alone in a dark sensory deprivation chamber.

"Hey? You alright?" John asks out loud, reaching out to rest a hand on Sherlock's tense shoulder.

"We need to get the hell away from here," Sherlock comments, glancing over John's shoulder even though there's nothing there but the end of the corridor.

"We are," John reminds him. "What's wrong? Did he do something, try to–– Sherlock, can he Ghost Drift with you right now?"

"No, I can block him. But I don't know the range of his abilities. He can't do it unless he's close to me."

"Close to you how?"

"Physical distance. If he's in the same room, he can try. But would I always know if he's close enough? I didn't realise he was when–– I can block him, John, but I have to know he's there to do it!"

John licks his lips nervously, lets his palm slide down and drop from Sherlock's arm. "You mean… he was in the same dorm level, he was in our dorm, when we were––"

Are we ever going to say the words out loud?

Then again, what the hell could they even call it?

"You Drifted with him once, and it can't have been more than a couple of minutes," John accuses. "How the hell could he Ghost Drift with you just based on that and without you even noticing?"

"I don't know!" Sherlock's arms shoot up in distressed confusion.

John takes in the sight of his partner. Sherlock seems thoroughly spooked even though he hadn't even talked to James tonight. His hands are shaking, and he almost looks to be at the threshold of a panic attack.

Even if he'd invited James' attention at first, it's now obvious that Sherlock does not want to go anywhere near James Moriarty after that night when he'd become a third wheel in bed.

"I can't go anywhere on base, because he might be there," Sherlock admits quietly, voice higher-pitched than usual.

It's a revelation. John has thought that Sherlock's new hermit life is just about the reimplantation. "But you went to talk to him right after!"

"To tell him to stay the hell away from me. From us. It hadn't properly sunk in what he… What it meant."

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asks. He moves to block Sherlock from view as the lifts nearby open and some staff members exit to head for the Rangers' lounge.

Sherlock draws a shaky breath. "You'd have told me it's my fault. That I invited him in."

John tries to find the right words, the honest words, to reply, but ends up mute.

You did invite him in, and that's exactly what I would have probably said.

John realises this is what Sherlock has been trying to deal with on his own, on top of the reimplantation. "Then tell me now that you didn't want him there with us. Drop the shielding and tell me." And I'll believe you.

"He's still right there," Sherlock reminds him with another fretful glance towards the turn in the corridor. "Are you saying you won't believe me unless you get to rip the truth right out of my head? That you think I lie to you so much that I'd lie about this?"

"That's not what I meant."

But is it what John had insinuated, demanding that Sherlock should drop his guard with James still prowling about to prove to John what he should be reading well enough from the sight of his anxious partner right now?

This isn't the time to confront him about what happened with James before that night.

Will it ever be the right time?

And is it John's fault that it happened? Will Sherlock blame himself, both or John for whatever had driven him to playing with fire?

John isn't sure he wants to hear those truths. He has imagined so many of them late at night, tossing and turning next to a sleeping Sherlock.

'You're boring, John.' 'You always obey the rules and limit me.' 'You're an idiot and it's tedious.' 'You don't understand me and complain about things I can't change.' 'You're old, decrepit and I want to pilot with someone younger and hungrier and less conformist.'

He knows it's all an exaggeration, and that all couples have little grievances that sometimes spill over into arguments during which people say things they don't mean, but he can't shake the feeling that Sherlock is dissatisfied with him and with their life. John has no idea whether those things that are wrong are truly about him or about something in Sherlock's past, and a part of him doesn't want to know because he has no idea how to fix any of it.

Getting away from Chard and the Corps might fix some of it, at least.

John decides that he needs to treat tonight as a sobering reminder of why their life in the PPDC is even more broken than their marriage.

We need a new start.

John realises Sherlock might be waiting for him to continue, to explain himself since he'd just denied his interpretation of what John had been trying to demand.

"I know you didn't want him with us. I know that," John promises, practically pleads. "I'm sorry." He offers his hand and Sherlock shifts stiffly closer, allows John to wrap his arms around him and press their ears together. "It'll be over tomorrow. All of it."

Chapter 26: Breathe In, Bleed Out

If your love were taken from me
Every light that's bright would soon go dim
It would be as dark as the world before Columbus
Down the waterfall and I'd swim over the brim
— Suzanne Vega

There are two ways of seeing: with the body and with the soul. The body's sight can sometimes forget, but the soul remembers forever.
― Alexandre Dumas, The Count of Monte Cristo

When John walks to the edge of the water and rests his arm on the safety railing, the Atlantic horizon is already enveloped in darkness. The lights of the Terceira coast shine in the opposite distance, too far to cast illumination on this small service deck at the back of the Shatterdome.

After glancing at his wrist console he leans over a railing, watching barracudas circling large concrete pylons in search of prey. The water is hundreds of metres deep here since the base has been built well clear of the shoreline, and the currents are punishingly strong.

They should carry two wrist consoles well out to sea.

Will they believe the story? John wonders. Sherlock is convinced they will, because a soppy, melodramatic lie is more tempting than the truth even for a bunch of politicians. His words.

John shakes his head incredulously. This is not how he imagined the swan song of his active service career, but when has Sherlock ever not surprised him?

Romeo and Romeo of the Pan-Pacific Defence Corps. And you still insist you're not a romantic.

Sherlock had declared that he is merely solving the problem of their escape. 'You're not a problem-solver, you're a drama queen', John had replied with a laugh, and Sherlock had proven his point with a brief but theatrical sulk.

John has arrived early at their rendezvous point since there was little to discuss with Colleen before they performed the agreed-upon little stage piece for the security cameras. It felt profoundly wrong, waving his service pistol at her, and John doesn't even want to wait for Sherlock's arrival to get rid of the weapon. He digs it out of where he'd stuffed it against the small of his back under his jeans, and drops it over the railing into the depths, holding it with two fingers as if it was tainted.

He glances at his console — a habit he'll need to kick unless he wants to buy a wristwatch.

Sherlock is going to meet him here at a quarter past six. He still has some ten minutes to wait, assuming his partner will arrive on the dot.

Maybe I should have grabbed a drink at mess hall, John wonders. My last one at Chard.

There have been a lot of lasts in the past few days, and John has felt rather pathetic getting maudlin at such inconsequential details as picking up laundry or visiting the commissary. If anyone had noticed him getting emotional, it was just as well: they would all just think he was saying goodbye to the place before hopping on a plane towards retirement.

He clears his throat and taps the railing with his palms to ward off excess nervous energy. In the middle distance, the Piedade lighthouse on the island of Pico is sweeping the grey seas, and stars are coming out. He's going to miss the Azorean scenery, all the natural wonders. Seeing the archipelago from the Conn-Pod as a chopper airlifted them back and forth to a deployment is a sight he'll never forget.

Still, there's no evading the fact that it's time to leave, one way or another, and there is no accepting an option where he'd be leaving without his partner. John had spent too many years alone before hurricane Holmes upended his life in all the best ways, and Sherlock could die in battle while they wait to be together again, if they accepted the fact that his service contract won't expire for over a decade.

This is the right decision, even if it is a much bolder one than John would have dreamt up on his own. Sherlock never takes anything lying down, so why should I? He had been living only half a life after Harry died. He won't do that again. It would be merely existing, sitting in some cottage for years like some sailor's wife, waiting for Sherlock to come home.

Wherever they go from here, it's going to be a life they built together, on their own terms.

John had hoped he could have persuaded Sherlock to get his implant checked out. Even if it's going to be deactivated, John worries there might still be side effects due to the final calibrations remaining undone. Even deactivated, it'll still be a foreign object lodged in both their brains.

Sherlock's knee-jerk refusal had hardly been surprising: 'It’s just another thing they want to force on me. Enough. I’m not making any of their choices, I’m creating my own.'

One of the base's boat transports is making its way back to the drop-off on the aviation deck, probably returning staff from shore leave on Terceira or Ponta Delgada.

Thinking of shore leave reminds John of his final conversation with James Moriarty. Even if Sherlock's insistence that they could just ignore everything Corps-related from now on had been rather naive and in denial, John is relieved that it will no longer be their problem whatever fishy is going on within the organisation since it means that James bloody Moriarty won't be their problem ever again, either.

John had been surprised — shocked, even — to witness Sherlock's reaction to the man last night. It was a complete one-eighty from earlier. Sherlock hadn't seemed so rattled earlier by what had happened with James but then again, John hadn't been present or even telepathically privy to his conversation with James right after he'd intruded on their private moment. Had Sherlock gritted his teeth through the same panic John had witnessed last night? If they had stayed, Sherlock would have had to be constantly vigilant not just of James' physical presence, but the associated threat of the man being able to literally haunt his thoughts.

And to make matters worse, the Corps would have been pushing Sherlock to join forces with him, to open himself up even more through Drifting in battle.

John glances down where the underwater floodlights are lighting up the thick plankton in the water. A barracuda emerges from the shadow of a pylon and darts after a mackerel, catches it in its jaws. The smaller fish wriggles, struggles to free itself while the razor-sharp teeth just cut deeper. The mackerel is gaping, wide-eyed, as the barracuda starts swallowing it whole. The seawater around it turns a silt-smattered pink from blood. John shudders.

Once they'll have performed the final rites for their identities as Rangers Holmes and Watson, the coast should be clear to traverse a small metal walkway suspended attached to this back deck just above the water to the back of the larger shipping dock where Sherlock has confirmed a Lisbon-bound cargo hauler named the Lobo Soares is waiting for its crew to return from dinner so it can head back to Portugal. Sherlock had snuck onto the ship three days prior and managed to converse in private with one of the pursers. Thankfully, the man is willing to hide them in his cabin in exchange for a considerable wad of cash and a pile of signed photographs of the famed Ranger Holmes. Most importantly, the purser has also promised never to tell a single soul that he knows something about what had happened to the two famed Rangers.

They can't leave wearing any of their official PPDC garb. John's passport is currently tucked into the breast pocket of a black windbreaker he'd bought last year for hiking, and underneath it he's wearing a black, long-sleeve T-shirt and a worn pair of jeans. They also can't take many belongings with them since that would cast doubt on their staged disappearance into the depths. They'll leave with nothing but the clothes on their back, the meagre wad of cash they've been able to scrape together, sunglasses for concealing their identities, and their passports. Sherlock had argued against the passports since someone might notice their absence and think it suspicious if their owners truly intended to die. After careful consideration, John had still insisted on bringing them. He'd argued to Sherlock that, in a tight spot, they might have to reveal their identities as a last resort. Sherlock hadn't fully agreed with that logic, but perhaps he'd sensed how important it was to John not to leave his behind that he'd yielded.

John tenses when he hears steps from the spiral staircase connecting the small deck to a service building on the side of the Shatterdome's air control tower. He pushes his palms against the railing for a quick step away from it and straightens his back, piecing together an excuse if the intruder asks what he's doing here.

When the figure emerging from the shadows takes a familiar shape, John lets out a relieved breath.

Sherlock is wearing a black leather jacket, white T-shirt and the new pair of black jeans he'd picked up on their last shore leave. His passport is peeking out of his jeans pocket, together with a lighter and a new packet of cigarettes. They had both made a point to drop into the commissary earlier for some purchases to keep up the ruse John had created for his earlier conversation with Elona over supplies running out.

John realises it'll be strange to be able to go buy what they need whenever they want after living on base for so long. That is, of course, assuming they'll be able to change their appearance enough to pass for, well, not the famous Rangers Holmes and Watson. Will they have to settle into some remote, small community to diminish the chance of being recognised? Or would it be better to disappear into the heaving masses of people in some metropolitan city?

Sherlock gives him a nod and joins him by the edge of the pier.

John glances at the time on his wrist console before opening the locking mechanism. "It's time."

Sherlock's long, nimble fingers has already detached his, and he's dangling it from his right hand over the railing. "I hope Colleen's ready."

"She is. Are you?"

Are we? is what John really means but doesn't want to alarm Sherlock by revealing how nervous he is about what's going to happen in the next few minutes.

Sherlock has refused to talk about losing their Ghost Drifting. The closer this moment has crept, the more bloody-mindedly practical he's been acting, focussing on making sure they've covered all the bases they can in making it seem believable that they would have chosen such a tragic end to their joint piloting careers.

John knows his partner well enough to recognise that Sherlock sidesteps things he doesn't understand or know how to process.

There's no telling how Sherlock will react when their implants are shut down. John will need to lend him the strength he needs if this is what finally deals a decisive, crushing blow through his defences.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

John is stalling. Sherlock can feel the hesitation, and it irritates him. The decision is made, the plan ready. John can't still be wondering if there is some way to fix things, to avoid having to do this?

"You're too slow," Sherlock complains, reaching out to help John unhook the clasp of his wrist console. "We'll miss our time window."

"There's still five minutes to go," John points out. He uses his thumbprint to unlock the console screen and checks his messages for the last time, then brings up the internal news feed. "Hammond's still AWOL. Turns out he filed an order to name Marais as acting Base Commander before he left."

"He only ever names anyone to stand in for him for longer holidays."

"And he's certainly not on holiday," John concludes. "He was due back yesterday since there was a batch of new recruits arriving."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Fresh cannon fodder. Hammond's disappearance has got to have something to do with Mycroft's hearing."

John lets out a hollow chuckle. "Looks like we're not the only rats leaving this sinking ship."

"Why appoint Marais?" Sherlock wonders out loud.

She's a senior Ranger but has never shown any desire to move up the ranks from her position as head of LOCCENT and Ranger simulation training.

"Yeah, why name someone he's just had a major disagreement with?" John asks.

It's a pertinent question. "If he's been forced to act as someone else's stooge, then maybe it's an act of defiance," Sherlock offers, aware of how this might just be wishful thinking that they're not the only two people here willing to stand up for the totalitarian turn the PPDC has taken.

John gives him a resigned smile. "Like you said, we won't have to care about any of it soon, hm?"

Sherlock knows it'll take time to detach themselves emotionally from the microcosmos that is the Corps, and that the transition will likely take much longer for John. What happens within the PPDC affects the whole of humanity. We may be leaving the Corps, but we'll still be a target for the kaiju just like every other poor sod on this overcrowded planet.

He can sense John is working hard to be encouraging, and that he's worried about what they're about to do. John can afford to be worried, since he is the one who had another viable choice left in this mess. He doesn't have to do this, I do.

He is embarrassingly grateful for the fact that John is willing to follow him into the unknown. Though he doesn't want to rob his husband of a peaceful retirement, he's too selfish to let go.

He doesn't want to be without John Watson.

They forced our hand. I've given up a lot for the Corps, but I won't be without John.

"It's time," John comments, shaking Sherlock out of his reverie.

They lean over the railing, the consoles that have been practically glued to their forearms for years held between thumb and forefinger.

"One, two…" John starts.

"…three," Sherlock completes the count.

They let go, and the devices fall into the sea, sending a shoal of silvery fish darting every which way before disappearing into the murky depths.

Sherlock feels nothing, because what they have just let go is nothing but armour-plated glass, metal and circuitry. The hard part is what they need to give up next.

John has been trying to breach the subject with him of what Colleen deactivating their implants is going to be like, but what's the use of talking about it? Will yapping on about such things make them easier? Sherlock very much doubts it.

It's a rational necessity to do this. And what does an absence of something even feel like? The only way to do this is like ripping a plaster. Quick, brutal, and then we move on.

They'll never Drift again. They'll never speak without words while in the Ravager, never know exactly what the other is feeling, never share all their thoughts and memories, never again meld together their very beings in the neural handshake. There's no guarantee that even any of the Ghost Drifting will continue. It has always operated between the realms of the implant system and something more aethereal, so Sherlock can't help carrying a faint hope that not all of it will be gone. He knows how unlikely it is that the connection might remain once their proverbial cords have been cut to the system that has enabled it, but he's so used to having a sense of John, a ghost of his presence in his head all the time that he can't help but cling to that desperate hope.

He reminds himself that there is no alternative path where the Ghost Drifting could have continued. John's honourable discharge would have meant the Corps deactivating his implant. Shutting down Sherlock's implant will also bring the reassurance that James Moriarty will never again have a back door to his consciousness.

It needs to be our choice. This is the only way.

Standing side by side, arm against arm by the railing, they shift their gazes across the night-draped sea. Sherlock closes his eyes, opening himself up fully to John's reassuring presence. He tries to imagine John's determination pushing out every bit of his resistance, hesitation and anxiety, but there is doubt in his husband, too, as well as the same fear of the unknown that Sherlock has struggled through many a sleepless night to keep at bay.

John takes his hand, raises it to his dry lips.

Sherlock is certain that they're both feeling the need for physical contact right now to make up for what they're about to lose. He laces his fingers with John's, squeezing tight as if that connection could prevent another one from disappearing.

I guess this is a sort of goodbye, John says in his head.

That sounds too final. We'll still be the same, just not…  Sherlock scrambles to belittle, but the words in his head trail out when he realises that they cannot even begin to cushion what is about to happen.

He's tempted to shield since his rising panic embarrasses him, but the idea of doing it at a time like this feels so wrong. As much as he wants to spare John from the despair that has gripped him, he doesn't want their final moment of Ghost Drifting to be marred by secrecy.

Why does he still hesitate to show John all that he's thinking, all that he's feeling? John has seen so much of him and is still here.

He bites his lip so hard he tastes copper. He's been trying not to think about those years before John, years before this consoling, reassuring, emboldening presence in his head, this invisible safety rope between them. Before John, he'd always been so alone in his own head, alone in a world where others have adamantly failed to understand and appreciate him.

It's ironic to the point of a cruel joke that the very thing Sherlock had resisted and feared so much had given him this, a telepathic closeness with John that would make any couple envious — and perhaps a little fearful.

I've not used it very well, have I?

John must be sensing the old ghosts that are trying to claw at his very being since he circles Sherlock's shoulders with his arm and holds tight.

When they first got together, Sherlock had hoped John's presence might banish some of them but with time, he's had to accept that they're his to carry and to deal with and not his partner's.

Leaning their heads together, Sherlock reaches out and finds that John isn't shielding, either. Somehow, he's managed to push away some of the dark by focussing on Sherlock.

I'm here, John whispers in his head.

Not for long, Sherlock replies.

I love you.

John wouldn't have had to say it, not even in their heads, because at this very moment, Sherlock can feel it intensely. He knows they've been struggling lately, and what happened with James had dented their union like a sledgehammer hit, but despite all that, John's dedication for him burns bright and frighteningly fierce within their connection.

If John can love me like this, still, then maybe…

Sherlock knows fighting the tears is useless. They're not just for the future, not just for this moment, but for what he assumed he could never have. They're for what he believed was destined to be a lonely, useless, short adult existence.

John changed all that. And that's why walking away together is the only reasonable choice even if it tears at both their hearts more than Sherlock had expected.

I was so alone, he pleads John, the universe and himself.

Me, too, John tells him quietly. I never expected you, and you never expected me.

Sherlock's exhale is ragged as he battles the onslaught of loss and panic.

Don't go.

John kisses his cheek, and Sherlock feels the tear that has escaped his partner's eye and moistened John's lip.

I'm right here. Now and after, John promises.

John, I–– 

love you, Sherlock completes in his head, realising the words feel different. Instead of speaking them in the privacy of his mind to the warm presence of John, they are now nothing but a thought in the now-endless solitary confinement in his brain.

Even though he's standing right beside Sherlock, arm tight around his waist, John is no longer there, inside him.

Colleen has done what she promised.

John, he tries to call out in his head, but there is no recipient.

"I know," John replies quietly just as Sherlock's knees buckle and they hit the hard concrete deck painfully hard. His palm hits the deck as he loses the shreds of control he'd had and dissolves into wracking sobs.

John leans down on his haunches, leans his cheek on Sherlock's shoulder and pulls him close.

"I know," John tells him, and he is now choked up, too. "We can't stay here," he reminds Sherlock.

It takes all of Sherlock's will power not to lash out screaming. How can John sound so calm, think so rationally at a time like this?

They are Rangers Holmes and Watson no longer. Now, they'll be ordinary. Normal. Just two men, each other's thoughts a great mystery.

John is trying to be rational, because someone has to stay sane here, Sherlock tells himself. The intensity of his own reaction had blind-sided him.

He'd worked hard not to think about this moment, tried to keep it from sinking in what the favour they'd asked of Colleen would really mean.

He tries, to no avail, to get a hold of himself, be all he manages is to barely keep from hyperventilating.

John, that fixed point in a life changing faster than Sherlock can even comprehend, has stood up and is offering his hand. "Come on. We need to get on board."

Feeling completely listless, Sherlock takes the hand offered and drags himself onto shaky feet. He expects John to start towing him towards the walkway to the ship, but John turns instead to stroke a hand down Sherlock's cheek before curling his fingers half under Sherlock chin to bring him closer for a kiss. They take their time tracing paths of differing angles on each other's soft flesh as if memorising every physical detail now that they can no longer gauge each other's reactions through their connection.

This isn't the way they usually kiss. Often, it's just a minor checkpoint of arousal, a box to check before the impatient Sherlock insists on moving to more interesting and intense things. Now he feels lost as sea instead of knowing what he wants, hesitant to even imagine moving further than this even if they were in a time and a place where they could prolong the contact. He realises he'll need to learn a whole new way of being with John, of trying to find the right things to do and say. And how will John know now what he wants, what he likes in return?

Sherlock pushes firmly away the disappointment of how different it feels, touching John without the Ghost Drifting. He can't start analysing how blind, mute and deaf losing the implant has left him or crumble again on this cold deck and never make it to their transport.

The thoughts come, regardless of how he tries to shove them away.

John has always had at least average skills of reading people while Sherlock, due to his particular neurodivergence, has next to none. How the hell could he even begin to navigate a relationship in this state?

How do people do this?

A crushing thought: what if he's doomed to fail without the implant? What if the Ghost Drifting was his only chance of ever managing a long-term relationship, even if it's with John who knows him so well?

As they pull apart from the kiss, John seems to read the panic in his eyes. "I can tell you're trying to think yourself into knots."

"I can't just turn it off and on," Sherlock snaps. "You know what I am," he adds, self-loathing bringing bile up his oesophagus. "And you chose me, so you can only blame yourself."

John's eyes widen in shock. Even without the Ghost Drifting, Sherlock is unsurprised John can pick up on waves of emotion strong enough that they're threatening to drown him.

"This was always going to be the tough part," John tells him, withdrawing his hand from Sherlock's neck. He gives Sherlock's arm a squeeze before letting his hand drop to his side. "They didn't leave us a choice. If I retired, they would have––"

"––shut off your implant. I know," Sherlock cuts in angrily.

He's still not following John down the walkway. It all feels so pointless, now. Why even try, if his chances of being happy with John were always going to be marginal?

"It's nearly seven," John pleads. "We need to go."

Eyes welling up with burning tears again, Sherlock growls in frustration and turns his back to John, lifting his chin up as he breathes deep to try to control his nerves.

There's no guarantee of what awaits them on this path.

"Sherlock, please. It'll be alright," John pleads.

Sherlock turns to face his husband. He drinks in the sight of John's earnest worry and the love he can still read on John's face even without having access to his thoughts. It's still there. He's still there.

"I don't know how, and I've no idea when, but it'll be okay. It'll be different, but it's still us," John promises.

It's just words, and it's pathetic how such reassurances that have no basis on factual reality could help. But because it's John saying them, they break through the darkness.

Sherlock breathes out, and follows John down the walkway towards the waiting ship.

Notes:

Want to see our now ex-Rangers in their exile chic?

Chapter 27: Cast Adrift

"Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore."
— André Gide

 

In the next forty-eight hours, John learns two things. One: Sherlock, confined in a small cabin without a window and very little to engage his brain, is bad. Two: Sherlock confined in a small cabin without a window and no longer bored because he's dreadfully seasick is even worse.

It will take three days for the cargo ship to reach Lisbon. Paulo, their accomplice, says this is typical of the season, and that sometimes it takes up to five days in rougher seas. For Sherlock, this timeframe assessment had been sulk-worthy in its vagueness. They are staying in the man's one-person cabin, the bed of which is barely wide enough for two grown men. It's located on the bowels of the highest below-waterline deck, which means it doesn't rock as much as some of the higher ones, but the lack of window eliminates the chance of looking at the horizon to orient one's balance organs.

During the first eighteen hours, the waves aren't too big to cause much of a commotion, which means Sherlock has the energy to get stir-crazy. He can't smoke since that would trip the sprinklers, and he can't go do it outside since they can't risk anyone seeing them. John curses the fact that it hadn't occurred to him to bring nicotine patches. For the first four hours, Mister Are-We-There-Yet paces the tiny space in a state of triumphant rage over the PPDC, then shifts to a long rant of how he cannot possibly understand why anyone would go on a cruise for fun, since ships are clearly designed for maximum torture. The chemical smell in the bathroom makes him nearly retch every time the door to it suite is opened, especially since and the cabin's air-conditioning leaves a lot to be desired.

For sustenance, Paulo delivers them sandwiches and other treats from the staff canteen and gives them some items from the staff wardrobe such as thin, black beanies they can use to disguise themselves. The sunglasses they'd brought will also be necessary for that purpose.

It still might not be enough: their photos are on the news. A small TV is the only entertainment available in the cabin, so they end up watching a lot of Portuguese TV. Sherlock has picked up basic skills in the language and translates the news to John. On the second day after their disappearance, Mycroft takes over the airwaves with a press conference. He manages to appear so heartbroken and angry that John asks Sherlock if he really knows this is a ruse. Sherlock, watching his brother carefully on screen, tells John he's convinced the man is playacting.

"He couldn't have achieved such a career without at least a modicum of Macchiavellian thinking and thespian skills. He even played Lady Bracknell in college. Besides, the message you gave to Colleen to relay cannot have failed to convince him."

"It sounded so ominous, though. Anyone would think it's a suicide note," John had pointed out.

"'I’ll be in a casket just like Father,' Sherlock singsang. "They never recovered his body, only Mother's. Why give him that specific pointer before disappearing, and not delivering it myself? If he doesn't put two and two together, he must have developed sudden and very intense dementia."

"If you say so," John had relented. Sherlock knows his brother better than he does.

"I did just say so, what are you on about?"

On screen, Mycroft addresses a sea of reporters at the London headquarters of the Atlantic subsection. "This is a tragic example of the shortcomings of Global Command's recent pivots in treating Rangers as machines, not human. When a Ranger — make that two decorated Rangers — may have seen no other escape from a personal and career dead end than to–– to–– than self-termination––" Mycroft stumbles over the word, "––then the Pan-Pacific Defence Corps has failed to look after their own. I demand a full investigation into the sequence of events and administrative decisions and internal politics that may have led to the loss of my only living family member."

"He's milking it for all he can," Sherlock commented, audibly impressed. "Might change the current optics within the Corps in a way that'll allow him to fight back against the corruption accusations."

"That's what it sounds like he's trying," John concurred.

This is what the Corps knows: Rangers Holmes and Watson have disappeared in the late hours two days prior. John's wrist console has been recovered from the seabed by a remotely operated submersible, Sherlock's is missing, as are their bodies. The high shark activity reported recently by local scuba diving operators has given cause to suspect their bodies may have been consumed by sea life. The search will continue for three more days, however, on the Marshal's orders.

"Mycroft knows they won't find anything so it's safe to continue it, and he probably realises a longer search gives us more of a head start."

"Does he want us to have that, though?" John has no idea what the Marshal actually thinks about their scheme. He doesn't know any details, just that Sherlock is alive, and that's assuming he has even understood the message correctly. John knows his brother-in-law isn't going to be happy that they have abandoned their service posts and may well be furious that Sherlock is embarrassing their family name by becoming a deserter.

Sherlock, in his typical problems-don't-exist-if-I-deny-they-do manner, hadn't seemed so concerned. All inquiries by John as to the next steps in their plan had been waved off as though they didn't concern him just as much as they do his partner.

About an hour after they had watched Marshal Holmes' crocodile tears on the telly, the seasickness had set in. It turned out that this was Sherlock's first-ever experience of any kind of sea voyage, and John's similar experience is also quite limited. The ginger tea, biscuits and salty butter than Paulo tried to help Sherlock with did nothing, and he spent nearly a whole day suspended in that horrid state of not-quite-vomiting but still being very green around the gills. Late at night, under Paulo's watch to make sure there wasn't any foot traffic in the crew corridors, they walked Sherlock to an open deck so that he could get some air and see the horizon. He hung like a wet towel off John's shoulder, and John was acutely reminded of their first days of acquaintance. Sherlock had been in a quite similarly dreadful state then, albeit due to a different cause. They watched the foamy backwater plowed by the ship onto the waves in silence for over an hour before Paulo ushered them back into their — his — claustrophobic little cabin.

John both wanted the journey to end — and didn't. In some strange way, the world shrinking to this small space of just Sherlock and him, is something he'd needed. A liminal space to gather his thoughts, an in-between, lost at sea to allow to truth of their predicament to sink in.

Not our predicament, he kept reminding himself. Our choice, wherever it might lead, he promised himself, Sherlock resting so warm and pliant against his side, head on John's arm. John couldn't help but kiss his hairline and shoulder so many times that Sherlock swatted him away, half-asleep.

On the morning of day three, after a mostly sleepless nights crammed into the small bunk on the rocking waves, Paulo delivers relief in the form of seasickness tablets he'd got from an Egyptian crew member in exchange with a packet of cigarettes. John had read the package insert that was mostly in Arabic and broken English, and concluded that since it contained things that one couldn't buy over-the-counter in the UK or at all, it would probably work.

It did, with the side effect of making Sherlock quite hyper. In fact, an hour after taking it he was in the throes of shaking, incandescent, near-uncontrollable rage at everything and everyone, and John had no idea how to help him start unpacking any of it. Once the effects of the first tablet waned and the nausea returned, he gave Sherlock only half a dose, and that settled things down considerable.

Free of the sea sickness, starts planning what to do with his hair once their get to Lisbon. John has decided to get a crew cut and go darker in colour, but Sherlock is agonised over the fact of having to change it at all.

"Not cutting it. Not doing that ever again for anybody or anything else. Dark won't be too different, red would be too distinct, so it's got to be blonde."

"Christ," John chuckles. "That'll be… something." He sits up where he's been lying smushed against the wall.

Now that John has climbed out of the bunk to stretch, Sherlock makes use of the extra space to drop onto his back and raise his arms above his head, stretching his wrists. "One would think long-term crew would at least get a window. How do people live like this?"

With their accomplice's broken English and Sherlock's rudimentary Portuguese they had established that Paulo comes from a long line of sea professionals. He even boasted that one of his ancestors has sailed with Vasco Da Gama.

"Oh, how the mighty have fallen if that tall tale is true," Sherlock had commented when the diminutive forty-something man had disappeared off in the evening to sleep on a sofa somewhere.

"He's been clever enough to keep his mates from noticing we're here," John had pointed out. Paulo had told everyone that there was a sewer leak and thus a terrible smell in his cabin.

John now picks up Paulo's loot from a plastic bag by the door: juice cartons and plastic-wrapped ham sandwiches. "Want some?"

Sherlock shakes his head, closing his eyes again. "No. I'm a bit…"

"You can admit to being a bit seasick again, you know. Won't think less of you, I promise."

"It's not that, it's…" Sherlock blinks.

If they were still Ghost Drifting, John would reach out and try to gauge his partner's mood and thoughts that way. Now, he needs to coax things out with words, and that's not something either of them excel at. "Nervous?" John suggests.

"Just restless. No appetite."

Were they still at Chard, John would have dug out some of the treats they keep in their cabin. Sherlock is a picky and finicky eater, and anxiety always erases his ability to get anything down.

"You were in the loo when Paulo brought all that in. He said we're about ten hours from Lisbon."

John raises his brows. "That's… great?" he suggests hesitantly since this revelation seems to be giving Sherlock no joy.

Sherlock swallows. "I haven't quite…"

"…finished a sentence lately?" John jokes and gets a dirty look. He tries to sober up his expression while pulling Sherlock close and giving him a brief squeeze after slipping his arms under Sherlock's and around his torso.

Now that they no longer have access to each other's thoughts, they must rely on expressions and tone just like they have all along with other people. It's a strange kind of blindness for John after years of knowing with clarity how his partner is feeling. What makes things even more challenging is that Sherlock seems a bit shy of this new scrutiny, evasive and private as though he wants to sort out his own thoughts before sharing them with John.

It'll be an adjustment period. It's not surprising he'd lean on the way he was with people before enlisting, is it? John wonders. Yes, he'd known Sherlock for some time before they'd began Ghost Drifting, but he hadn't known Sherlock before his PPDC career — before that major decision between prison or the fate he had fought against all his life after enduring a childhood soured by their parent's prioritising of the PPDC over their children.

John needs to get to know his husband all over again. He'd managed quite well once, already, even if it had been with the help of the Ghost Drifting. It'll be alright, he tries to reassure himself.

He can tell that Sherlock is embarrassed by something right now, which is a rarity. He needs to get to the bottom of this and hopes that Sherlock is willing to try to explain.

"Sorry," John says after he lets his partner go. "You were saying?"

"I was focussed on getting us this far. I'll need to contact Mycroft from Lisbon, but that's all I've managed to plan," Sherlock admits sheepishly.

"That's fine," John promises. "I need to pull my weight too, hm?" He's been to Lisbon, Sherlock hasn't. Paulo has pilfered them an old map of the city from somewhere on the ship since their phones are back at Chard.

"We don't have a lot of cash, and we can't be sure how much it will have to last. And anywhere we go, we risk recognition."

"Then we stay out of sight. We go where no one would expect us," John says resolutely. "Hotels are probably out of the question."

"I'd avoid hostels and bed and breakfast -types places, too, since their typically younger clientele is likely to be able to recognise us."

A thought occurs to John. "There was a thing on the Times online edition about this homeless shelter in Lisbon, a temporary one, at a school close to the Tapada Necessidades park. I remember it because I once stayed at a hotel on the street. They did a report on it because it used to be overwhelmed by refugees but the recent kaiju incursions have all but stopped immigrant boats from wanting to try to cross over. We can walk there from the Doca de Alcantara Port. It's opposite where the cruise liners dock; let's hope there's not a lot of idle tourist foot traffic around the time we arrive."

"Maybe we could hide out until dark."

"Paulo said that port authorities do inspections once the stevedores start their work, so we do need to get out by then."

"Most of the crew roster is Portuguese and the ship docks here several times a week, so it's unlikely the authorities will be all that enthusiastic with passport controls. And if they do, we ditch them and pretend to be homeless stowaways."

"They'll take us to the police."

"Paulo says they might not as long as there's no drugs involved. It's happened before. The police have enough to do without dealing with strays. We don't look like refugees, and they wouldn't have a reason to assume we're any of the typical migrant worker nationalities coming here by boat, either."

"That sounds surprisingly flexible of Lisbon police."

"Paulo says the system is corrupted and since there's less paperwork that way, the authorities might be inclined to not give a toss. He said that it's unlikely they'll stop and search us if we walk out wearing as much staff gear as possible."

Sherlock's confidence is reassuring, and John hopes his information is correct — and Paulo's optimism justified. He'll get to keep his promised reward regardless of what happens to his wards. He'd promised to help John and Sherlock in exchange for a hefty sum of cash and a wad of signed official photographs of Sherlock and John that will probably go up in value now that they're supposedly dead.

"Shelter for the night. And then?" John presses.

"I write a letter to Mycroft. That's the safest way to deliver further instructions for contact. For an actual conversation with him once he's received it, we'll find an internet cafe. Turns out Lisbon has quite a few, used by individuals who've adopted a career in cheating people out of their money in romance scams. Nigeria used to be the hub but there are European more and less organised gangs doing that now since it's highly lucrative. Using rent-by-the-hour gives them a better chance at anonymity and plausible deniability. Rates are high, though. That's one more reason to use what little cash we have left sparingly."

"You'll get in touch with Mycroft?"

"I know his private contact info by heart. I'll create a throwaway email address that has an associated online chat account and tell him to do the same."

"What if he won't help us? He's risking his career, isn't he, if he does?"

"He started his career as a lobbyist, then moved to intelligence. He knows how to run a covert op, and if he was as affected by my kidnapping by the Science Division as you claim, I might just be able to appeal to his sense of guilt over that and some other things to twist his arm."

"And if it doesn't work?" John asks.

"Then being two of Lisbon's homeless will stop being just a disguise."

Chapter 28: Lisbon, part one

We could talk about sex
We could talk about love
But all I want to know is what you're thinking of
Are we really who we pretend to be
I don't know you and you don't know me
— Say Lou Lou

Glory may be fleeting, but obscurity is forever.
— Napoleon Bonaparte

 

The boat docks late in the afternoon at Lisbon's main port in the neighbourhood of Alcântara. They slip out of the ship and past customs without being bothered by the officials just as Paulo had predicted, walking in the middle of a crowd of crew members. Soon, they are standing on the Tejo sea boulevard, looking for a crossing in the heavy traffic, their own coats stuffed into plastic bags hanging from their wrists. They won't want to linger for too long amid the throngs of cruise passengers and other tourists walking towards the Belém area housing its namesake guard tower and a world-famous Monastery that John remembers visiting on a longer shore. A year had passed from Harry's death, and it was becoming obvious he wasn't going to be re-paired with another Ranger even though he'd been relocated to a new Shatterdome. He'd just arrived at Chard, and a few friendly Ranger colleagues had invited him along to a long weekend in the Portuguese capital. Tom Wallis had been one of them. John cannot recall the company that weekend, only the aching loneliness he'd felt and the sense of those wonderful cultural sights being wasted on him in that mindset.

Sherlock is looking over his shoulder towards the ship they've just left, shielding his eyes from the glaring sun. John spots first the pedestrian light turning green and tugs the sleeve of Sherlock's ship crew windbreaker to get him to move along away from the crowds. They're both wearing sunglasses and black baseball caps delivered by Paulo to their cabin, but Sherlock is dangling his sunglasses from his fingers for some reason.

"You should put those back on," John comments in a low voice as they jog across the wide Avenida Brasilia. There is a park there with a map of the neighbourhood which Sherlock boasts to be able to memorise quickly. John doesn't doubt it, just hasn't witnessed this skill of his partner's before. He wonders if Sherlock could have transmitted such a map in detail to him when they could still Ghost Drift and nearly jokes about not having realised that he had a live-in sat nav.

Paulo had promised to mail the letter Sherlock had penned to Mycroft first thing. John hopes the nightlife of Lisbon doesn't tempt him before he fulfils that promise; they have so little cash funds — most of them now in the pockets of their accomplice, who had possessed some haggling skills — that they can't afford to wander the streets for too long. If they're frugal, they'll survive at least a week if they find accommodation free of charge.

They ditch their crew garb; no one will believe they are in need of a charity shelter if they walk in looking like they are employed. A poster they spot at a bus stop listing services from human trafficking victims informs them that the shelter opens daily at seven in the evening.

They pass Hospital Egaz Moniz, named after a notorious neuroscientist and neurosurgeon who invented not just an important way to image the brain but also the lobotomy procedure later considered unethical. A plaque and a statue in the main lobby commemorate his work.

"I'm surprised the Science Division isn't named after him. They are, after all, using his methods and his ethical playbook," Sherlock comments as they sit under a Jacaranda tree and sip cheap coffee John had bought from the hospital's lobby cafeteria after making use of the free loo facilities the potential for which had enticed them onto the premises.

"I know you've been to South Korea. Where else?" John asks after telling Sherlock what he remembers about his prior Lisbon visit.

Sherlock shrugs. "We were always left with relatives in England when our parents travelled. Even before they started their crusade to create the Corps, their scientific work took them to conferences all over the globe."

"You didn't travel during or after uni, then?" John suspects Sherlock's family to have enough means that he could have afforded to see the world.

"What I'd seen didn't entice." Sherlock pours the rest of his coffee, admittedly, abysmal, under a rose bush.

John hums empathetically in reply. He doesn't want to make Sherlock think about the terrible time he'd had in the boarding school. "Did you enjoy uni?"

"Could have learned the same things on my own with less hassle and much less social exhaustion."

"Did you ever consider continuing with academia?"

Sherlock gives him an unimpressed glance from over the rim of his sunglasses. "I barely got my degree scraped together since they started closing down everything that wasn't conducive to the war effort," he mocks. "You can thank the second Breach for some of the world's best universities becoming nothing but PPDC think tanks."

"You read chemistry, didn't you?" John asks to keep the conversation going. He can sense that Sherlock is withdrawing into his own brain, teetering at the brink of getting lost in thought. "Maybe you could have found something in the private sector––"

"What are you implying?" Sherlock's tone is so sharp John is nearly startled.

"I'm not implying anything, I'm just––"

"Trying to engage me in some sort of witless babble to pass the time."

"Oi!" John crumples up his cardboard cup and shoves it into a bin. "It just occurred to me we haven't talked about that part of your life much." And it's kind of embarrassing I don't know these things about my husband.

The Ghost Drifting had made them feel as though they knew each other so well that there was no need for these kinds of conversations. John always assumed Sherlock knew how he was feeling, knew what he was thinking, so why talk about the past?

And why does he feel a strange need to get to know Sherlock all over again right now?

"There's nothing to talk about," Sherlock insists. "I'm not in the mood for you channelling Mycroft and lecturing me about what a prodigal son I was, wasting my potential. Believe me, I've heard every possible iteration of that characterisation."

"I just want to know what happened, I guess."

"That wording implies there was a more promising state of affairs from which some manner of failure or downward spiral began. There wasn't."

"I want to hear your version, not Mycroft's."

This seems to break through some of Sherlock's defences, and though he hardly looks welcoming of more inquire, at least he stops bristling visibly. "We were always going to be measured against the legacy of the legendary Holmeses. Mycroft always strove to do the things that would lead to such achievements, I never did."

Before John asks what it was, then, that Sherlock wanted instead, his partner continues, dropping down from his perch on the edge of the backrest of a bench down to the seat. John sits down next to him.

"I didn't know what I wanted. I was convinced I knew what I didn't want, until some idiot managed to convince me the Ranger Corps might not be such a terrible idea, after all." Sherlock nudges John's shoulder pointedly, making the latter flash a crooked grin.

"I've never claimed that I made very sensible choices in London, but they were my choices, and I like to think have owned up to them. Paid for them."

"At least the Corps was better than prison," John confirms.

Sherlock's lips tighten. He has ranted at John so many times during their sea journey about the Science Division and Corps that perhaps he's finally run out of steam. "Just like the choice we're making now. It doesn't have to be a good one, but it's ours."

John gets it. If his agreement to follow Sherlock to wherever this would lead had been a solely rational one, he wouldn't have stepped on that ship without insisting to know the whole plan and to participate in creating it. He'd left it mostly to Sherlock because he'd seemed to need it, need the brainwork and the sense of control that hatching their grand plan seem to be giving him after the trauma of being forced through reimplantation.

Sherlock snorts. "It's such a strange expression: 'taking one's own life'. Taking it from whom? Death happens to the people who are left behind, not the person kicking the bucket. They won't feel a thing, after. It's the living that suffer."

The bitterness in his words seems vengeful and smarting, like a wound that has never quite closed. It's as if he thinks he's exacted vengeance by this plan of making everyone think they're dead.

"If the Corps had never existed, if the kaiju never arrived, what would you have done with your life, then?" Sherlock asks.

"Well, there was always medicine," John offers without delay. "I think I would have wanted to do something surgical, orthopaedics maybe."

"To serve humanity selflessly and tirelessly," Sherlock muses dramatically. "You were the perfect fit for the PPDC."

"Except for the gay bit."

"Well, we fixed the Corps in that regard," Sherlock dismisses haughtily, which makes John laugh.

"You won't be able to practice," Sherlock then points out, sounding slightly alarmed as if he's suddenly realised this is yet another thing they have walked away from by becoming dead men.

"Maybe there's some small village somewhere in the… I don't know… Amazon, that could use a doctor and wouldn't ask for paperwork."

"Is that where you think we should be going?"

"No, that was just…"

"If we stay in England long-term, you can't adopt any kind of a public role, not even in a small village," Sherlock presses.

"I know. I have thought this through, you know. I understand what we're doing and what the cost is."

"For me. You're doing this for me," Sherlock says quietly, eyes cast down as he's leaning his palms on his knees.

He sounds… guilty?

John covers his hand with his own and gives it a brief squeeze before retreating as a group of elderly women is walking past. It's a knee-jerk reaction; he's still not used to public displays of affection with a man being safe. "I won't do retirement without you, and that's my selfish choice. I know it wasn't realistic for you to stay at Chard, not if you'd have to put up with Moriarty?" John can't help that it ends up sounding like a question. Giving up piloting is a terrible thing, walking away from what Sherlock has described as so addictive it has practically replaced drugs in his life. If they hadn't forcibly reimplanted him and offered a new partner, instead, who wasn't Moriarty, what would Sherlock have chosen?

Sherlock doesn't reply, nor does he lift his eyes from the gravel path to look at John.

Even just the name of James Moriarty remains like a poison dropped into a well when it comes to their communication. John realises Sherlock needs to know he understands better, now, what had happened — that it wasn't wholly Sherlock's fault, and that he hadn't invited that kind of attention from the man. If Sherlock is assuming he's still jealous and angry, he might never breach the topic on his own. John is certain that it's something that needs to be lanced so that they could put it all behind them, and considering Sherlock's ostrich tactics when it comes to emotional problems, the task to bring it up will undoubtedly fall on him.

But what the hell could he say to open that Pandora's box? 'Sorry I overreacted' — but did he, really? There was a third wheel in bed with them as the end result of Sherlock playing with fire. 'I know you didn't want him like that' — at least not after James had effectively Ghost-molested them both, but what about before that? Even bloody Mycroft seemed to think there was something going on between them.

In order to move on, John needs to understand not just the sordid end but also the beginning of Sherlock's game with James.

"When––" John starts, then clears his throat, "When James got transferred to Chard––"

Sherlock digs out his lighter and packet of smokes and lights a cigarette, then meets John's eye with a dormant, dismissive fury. "This your idea of small talk? A thorough survey of my fuck-ups?"

"We kind of need to make sense of everything that's happened," John tries to reason. "The Corps won't stop existing just because we're no longer at Chard."

"Isn't the point of leaving that we don't have to be stuck on any of that anymore?"

"I'm just… I just want you to know you can talk to me, Sherlock. I didn't really know what went 'round in your head at the best of times even when we were still connected, and now…"

John bites his tongue, realising how dismissive it sounds to say that they were 'connected' before. It implies they're not at all now.

"Not understand what happens in my brain doesn't differ from anyone else's experience of dealing with me," Sherlock dismisses sourly.

"You know the Ghost Drifting made a difference," John snaps. "You know how much it did."

Sherlock's hands fly up in frustration, cigarette held between his finger drawing spirals in the air. "Of course I bloody know it made a difference! It made all the difference to me!"

A young couple pushing a pram walking past them stop conversing at Sherlock's outburst, looking alarmed. John gives them a plasticine smile, and they hasten their steps towards the edge of the park.

"Sherlock," John says quietly to get his husband to look at him again, but Sherlock keeps his lips pinched tight and his sharp gaze fixed on a tree stump on the opposite side of the walking path. "Sherlock. This is hard, hm, what we're about to do, what we're doing? I don't know why you seem so angry with me. I know you're probably not, but I don't get what's got you like this."

Stress? Exhaustion? Everything he endured at Chard? All his past and present somehow coming back with a vengeance even though this was supposed to be us, walking away from it?

John sighs and leans back against the bench, letting his head loll back. It's just typical Sherlock, isn't it, lashing out at everything and everyone when he doesn't know how to solve a problem. But we can't move on if he keeps lashing out at me like a cobra every time I try to talk about anything more serious than the weather.  

He tries again. "We're still a team, the only team we might ever have from now on, but it feels like you're pushing me away."

This seems to dissipate the worst of the storm clouds John can imagine hovering over his partner's head. Sherlock is now blinking, alarmed. "I'm… not. I don't know how to do any of this, John, I never did!" He wafts his hand in the empty air between them to signal their relationship. "I often felt like I was stumbling blindly even when we were still Ghost Drifting," he admits, "I knew how you were feeling and what you were thinking but I never knew what to do about it, how to fix it when you weren't happy, when you needed something from me."

"Nobody gave me a guide to the care and feeding of Ranger Holmes, either," John jokes feebly. "Ghost Drifting or not, I always feel like I'm one step behind on the speed that your brain operates."

"I haven't got everything worked out to the detail you might want. I hate––" Sherlock bursts the word out through clenched teeth, "––having to rely on Mycroft but it's the best option."

John realises he might have not realised before what a massive pressure Sherlock must've put himself under to create even this less-than-perfect plan. He leans the side of his head against Sherlock's bony shoulder even though the smoke from the cigarette he's holding close to his head from but not putting on his lips threatens to make him cough.

"I don't know what the fuck I'm doing, either, but maybe we'll learn together, hm? After all, we have the rest of our lives for that," John reminds his partner.

He's relieved to feel the tense shoulder under his cheek relax at least a little bit.

 

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

 

They arrive at the shelter for refugees and the homeless just as the sun flickers it last rays above the hilly cityscape. The facility is housed in a former school gymnasium the furnishings of which consist of rows of mismatched bunk and camp beds and a line of thrifted armchairs facing a misbehaving television. They're not given much of a third-degree upon arrival, though the clearly new-ish leather coat Sherlock had changed into after they'd ditched the crew windbreakers may have raised some brows. John's coat is still in his plastic bag; it had been a surprisingly warm evening, salty humidity from the sea clinging to their skin.

John is glad they're not carrying more important belongings since they might have to worry about theft since all the lockers are occupied. They'll have to stuff their passports and cash under their pillows.

They are given two camp beds close to the toilets and told to put the clothes they won't be wearing to bed into. Large plastic bags limit the spread of bedbugs and lice. Sherlock asks the attendant in pretend-bad English if that's a big problem, and gets a shrug in reply. John shudders.

They try to speak as little as possible to anyone, and to make their English heavily accented. John isn't sure what kind of an accent he's even attempting to emulate; he thinks Sherlock's sounds vaguely South African. It's a clever choice: the country had been plunged into economic chaos and then civil war by a brutal kaiju attack some ten years ago. A Caucasian refugee from there isn't an outlandish concept at all.

The showers are a disaster: too few stalls for too many people. Hot water has run out, the lights are dim and flicker. John wonders if the school had been unused for long before it was repurposed. There are still some children's drawings taped to the corridor walls, but they are yellowed by the sun and stained by fly droppings.

Dinner is chicken soup from massive pots brought in from someplace else. It turns out to be the only pleasant surprise: still hot, well-spiced and rich with vegetables and meat. They empty their bowls with a side of fresh bread.

John wonders if the physical after-effects of the seasickness still linger since Sherlock nods off the minute he lies down on the old, grotty cot stamped with a Portuguese army logo despite the coarseness of the woollen blanket supplied for each guest or that fact and the bed is too short for him.

He doesn't sleep for long, however. John can't have sat on his own bed, lost in thought, for more than fifteen minutes when Sherlock stirs with a jerk and starts fishing beneath his bed in a flaily manner.

"Your stuff is still there, I've been keeping an eye on it," John tells him quietly.

"Couldn't really sleep on that tin can of a boat," Sherlock mutters without opening his eyes. "It's too noisy here, too."

The shelter has become packed to the gills in the late hours of the evening. Even though the lights have been turned off, many new arrivals are chatting or watching things on their mobile phones.

John digs around his pocket, gives Sherlock a small, plastic-wrapped item. Earplugs. "They were giving these out when you were brushing your teeth."

They'd been given small toiletry bags with a cheap razor, a generic, cheap bar of soap, a toothbrush and toothpaste. Sherlock is always very particular about what cosmetic products to use so this must have added to the sense of this being his personal hell. He hasn't been complaining about anything out loud, though, which John respects and appreciates, but how long will Sherlock's nerves and endurance hold out?

How long before he starts thinking that Chard's Rift was better than this at least in terms of living conditions?

John tries to tell himself that they'll hardly have to stay holed up hiding here forever, that surely Mycroft will help them get to the starting line of a new, anonymous life. Maybe that's what's helping Sherlock keep his spirits up, too.

He goes to sit at the edge of Sherlock's bunk in the space created by his bottom being tucked back where he's lying on his side. He rests his palm on Sherlock's hip on top of the blanket. "Go back to sleep. I'll keep watch."

"That coat's now my most valuable possession," Sherlock reminds him.

"I know. I'm good at sentry duty. I've way more patience than you."

"That's because so much less goes on in your brain than mine."

"Prat."

"That's your genius brat, thank you very much."

John's gaze sweeps their strange surroundings, his lip twitching with hysterical disbelief. "What… are we doing here, Sherlock?" He bursts out laughing. Three days ago, he was a war hero awaiting orders for battle. Now, he's… no one.

"Going on the run. I hear it's supposed to be romantic, at least according to the Count of Monte Cristo and Les Misérables are to be trusted."

"You've read those, then." John remembers reading both at school. Perhaps that posh but brutal boarding school Sherlock had been sent to in Korea had favoured such classics, too. Even if it hadn't, John realises it's hardly surprising that Sherlock in his youth would have enjoyed stories of escaping prisons, of making his own luck, of leaving behind oppressive families and wrongful expectations. Monte Cristo isn't the best example, though, is it? That guy got so hung up on vengeance that there was very little romance going on.

"You think we'll get our own version of an Inspector Javert trying forever to catch us?" John teases.

"I'd like to see them try." Sherlock's lip has curled into half a wicked grin to mirror John's.

John pats his hip, grateful to the point of getting emotional for this brilliant, ridiculous man who — at least right now — doesn't seem to give a rat's arse if he's stuck in a grotty Lisbon school gym as long as they're together.

 

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

The night shelter lives up to its name — all who have spent the night there are told to leave the premises after breakfast. The facility will re-open in the evening.

After a surprisingly varied breakfast with good tea brewed in proper pots, they walk into the courtyard, carrying their coats the pockets of which have been stuffed with the toiletries they'd been given. Sherlock has shoved their passports into the right front pocket of his jeans and is keeping a protective hand there as well.

One of the elderly women volunteering at the centre is giving out pastries from a cardboard box to all the departing visitors.

"How long do you think it'll take for your letter to reach Mycroft?" John asks, passing Sherlock one of the two pastel de natals he'd received.

"Shouldn't be more than a few days," Sherlock mumbles, mouth full of pastry.

"Maybe we could risk finding a B&B or something similar?" John wonders out loud, giving the shelter one more glance over his shoulder. He knows they can't really afford the expense since there is no telling how long it might take to contact Mycroft.

"Even the smaller establishments are subject to the law of copying foreign guests' passports," Sherlock comments. "I don't think my Portuguese — or my face — would fool them into thinking we're locals."

"I bet there's some seedier places that wouldn't care." John recalls hearing about something about the red lights world of Lisbon from the other Rangers. They seemed to be just rumours, not personal experience. There is a long history of army bases fuelling local sex trade, but perhaps the couple of crackdowns the Corps had performed on its staff in some Asian cities has made officers, in particular, mindful of the risks.

"Seedy or not, hospitality staff might recognise us," Sherlock sighs. "Case in point," he growls quietly and cocks his head towards a newsagent's they're passing.

Their faces are plastered all over the headlines of both Portuguese and international papers.

"Who even reads the paper editions anymore?" Sherlock grumbles, tugging at his black cap and readjusting his sunglasses.

A sudden pang of desperation hits John. Will they be hunted forever? Can even Mycroft fix this with his connections?

Someone could have recognised us last night — probably the only thing preventing it was that no one would expect to find us at a place like that. A Moroccan teenager had been watching an animated series about the Jaegers as John walked past. Several such fictional pieces of entertainment exist have been created in collaboration with the Corps since they are seen as a potential means of future recruitment.

Even just a few years ago, John would have thought it endearing to see a young person idolising his world. Now, he hears Sherlock's voice in his head, scoffing at the fact that the Corps is trying to indoctrinate minors into throwing their lives away in service.

"What if Mycroft turns us in instead of helping?" John asks. There is little love lost between the two brothers so John can't help but wonder if it's desperation that has so convinced Sherlock that the Atlantic Marshal wouldn't hand them back to the PPDC.

Sherlock's forehead knits into a V as he's thinking. "No. I know him. He seemed convinced enough that there's something going on with the PPDC that I hope he might see me, us, as an asset as long as we're AWOL. If I can convince him that we have intel he needs, he'll be motivated to keep us hidden until whatever kind of scandal is brewing blows over."

"And do we have such intel?"

"Does it matter? All we need is for him to think we do."

John is not surprised Sherlock just might be willing to lie to his brother to get his way. Jesus Christ, those two.

"And then what?" John has lost his appetite and drops the rest of his vanilla custard cake into a street bin because it had started to taste like defeat. As much as he tries to keep optimistic, he's beginning to see how much luck and how many hail marys their plan will require. Maybe we should have taken more time at Chard to think this through.

He's horrified to realise Sherlock might've picked up his moment of self-doubt and despair, then remembers, once again, that their connection has been severed, that all he has are words and expressions. Had he stopped reading those when they started Ghost Drifting? Will he learn how to interpret his mercurial partner without that privileged shortcut?

At least Sherlock seems to worry about the same thing.

They stop at an intersection of small alleys, and Sherlock seems to select one at random to stroll down.

"What would happen if they realise we're not dead?" John asks. He has a solid estimate, but wants to hear Sherlock's thoughts.

"They would want to find us, but they won't want to hear what we have to say if we're caught. PR disaster. Mycroft's made sure of that."

"So, they'll definitely want to throw us in prison. Deserters and all," John concludes.

He can tell the statement alarms Sherlock. His steps hasten as he eats the rest of his pastry.

"Best make sure, then, that it never comes to that. Today's agenda: hair dye," Sherlock declares.

Chapter 29: Lisbon, part two

You're fighting an endless war
Hunting a miracle
And when you reach out for the stars
They just cut you down
— Within Temptation: Endless War

 

“What would you not have accomplished if you had been free?"

"Possibly nothing at all; the overflow of my brain would probably, in a state of freedom, have evaporated in a thousand follies; misfortune is needed to bring to light the treasures of the human intellect. Compression is needed to explode gunpowder. Captivity has brought my mental faculties to a focus; and you are well aware that from the collision of clouds electricity is produced — from electricity, lightning, from lightning, illumination.”

― Alexandre Dumas, "The Count of Monte Cristo"

 

Haggard and fuddled, John jolts awake from a nightmare. His ears pick up a baby fussing somewhere in the darkness, but what the hell would a baby be doing at a Shatterdome? Trying to focus his eyes and adjust them to the low light, he grips his left arm but finds no wrist console strapped onto it. He begins feeling around for it below the bed and finally, as his knuckles meet an unfamiliar and dusty floor closer than it should be and his hand begins smarting from the impact, the dregs of sleep leave him, and he remembers where he is. He drops his head back on the pillow and lets gravity pull out a long breath before straining his torso muscles to glance around the space.

Only the emergency exit lights and a dim, yellow glimmer from the communal bathrooms draw the shapes of the current guests of the shelter tucked into bunk beds and camping cots in the large, draughty gymnasium. Sherlock is snoring in the cot next to John's, wrapped tight in his bedding. He'd asked for an extra sheet to insulate his sensitive skin from the woollen blanket.

Feeling hag-ridden still, John starts reaching out for his partner's shoulder but withdraws his hand just before making contact. It had been a struggle for Sherlock to fall asleep; the melatonin they'd found in the free medical supplies had done nothing. John needs to let him sleep or there's a risk he'll be in a dreadful mood come morning. Normally, he functions well even when sleep-deprived, save for being more short-tempered than usual, but John can tell the sea journey and yesterday's aimless wandering around Lisbon under the pressure they're under have taken a toll. Sherlock had gone out like a light after brushing his teeth. He seems to have appointed himself head of planning, acting as though John is expecting him to take care of everything. There seems to be a complicated mixture of guilt, anger and God-knows-what-else fuelling that impulse, and result is that John isn't quite feeling as though they're in this together. While John keeps trying to talk so that they could make sense of this new, strange reality of their relationship, Sherlock is acting like a tetchy tour guide to hell.

Last night, when they were lucky to get the grotty men's communal bathroom all to themselves for a few minutes, John had caught Sherlock looking at him via the mirror. He'd looked sad when he thought John's attention wasn't on him and had shifted fast when their eyes had met, moving to the neighbouring sink so that John could no longer see his reflection. Sherlock keeps talking as if what they've left behind was rotten to the core, nothing to miss, but it's not just John who had treated Chard's Rift as home for years. It wasn't all bad, and Sherlock must be aware of it even if he has a need to shove even the good memories away right now.

John shivers; his nightmare had brought on a cold sweat that's making his bedsheet clammy since it sits on top of durable but unbreathing cot material.

It had been nighttime in his dream. Sherlock had been standing on the edge of the aviation deck at Chard, falling over the edge into the black cauldron of waves before John could reach him. He'd leapt in after Sherlock, but a strong current close to the surface had swept him out to sea without giving him so much as a glimpse of his partner sinking into the depths. He'd tried to shout but just got his mouth full of seawater.

He tucks his hands back under his own blanket; the night in the former gymnasium is surprisingly cold after a hot and humid day outside. He tries to recall the landmarks he'd noticed on maps they had surveyed yesterday; perhaps he could come up with an activity to suggest instead of following Sherlock's lead.

Yesterday hadn't been all tense even if the sum total had left John concerned about his husband's frayed nerves and exhaustion. After the conversation in the park, John had managed to shed his worries and playact tourist for several hours as they explored atmospheric back alleys and climbed hills to find scenic outlooks. John could almost imagine they were on shore leave and not in exile. Maybe they could reach that mindset again today and shed some more of the heaviness they've been carrying ever since that night James Moriarty had turned incubus.

Most likely achieving that would require talking about it. John doubts there will ever be a good moment to do that since Sherlock avoids emotional conversations like the plague, but the longer that boil sits unlanced, the more chronic John fears it will become.

He'd almost breached the topic yesterday after Sherlock had distracted a guard and they'd slipped into the lush inner courtyard gardens of the Centro Cultural de Belém. Such antics seemed to give him a smug sort of joy, and John can tell that even through the filter of stress, Sherlock is enjoying exploring this vast city and practicing using his meagre Portuguese. He had impressed John several times with his geographical recall and sense of direction. Its seemed as if he could instantly download any map he saw into memory and navigate based on it. That's how they had found this side entrance to the cultural complex. He'd splashed his face from a drinking fountain by a lily pond water feature and looked so boyishly handsome that John had wanted to pin him against a stone pillar and kiss him breathless, but didn't want to raise too much attention from the other patrons exploring the garden. In that moment, John had felt so dizzyingly lucky, so ready to forgive Sherlock for anything and everything.

But the moment soon passed, and the shadows returned to Sherlock's features, bringing back that invisible veil between them, worsened by the loss of the Ghost Drifting.

First things first, John had told himself. They need safe passage forward, everything else can wait. After all, they'll have the rest of their lives to sort things out between them if all goes well.

As far as they know, no one has recognised them. It helps that the media is having a field day reporting on their tragic deaths — who would expect two dead men to show up in Portugal? People are even bringing flowers to the embassies of the Union of Former British States, including the one here is Lisbon. Sherlock had suggested going to see this spectacle, but John had thought it too morbid and too risky. He hardly wants to attend the equivalent of his own funeral.

They have two more days to whittle away the hours until Sherlock will attempt to contact his brother via an anonymous online chat. By that time, they hope that even old-fashioned mail will have reached London. They need to make their funds last for those two days and perhaps even beyond that if Mycroft cannot arrange for a fast money drop.

God, how John wishes that they wouldn't have to spend any more nights here at the shelter. While he might be fine with such surroundings, his heart bleeds for seeing Sherlock in this place. It feels so unfair that Sherlock, who had narrowly escaped a Chinese gulag by joining the Corps, is now sleeping in what might not be much above a PPDC prison block. In some odd way, spending a second night here makes John feel like he has failed to protect his partner even if the shelter had been a mutually agreed-upon plan.

He turns to his side and watches a woman who might well be a West Saharan console her skittish baby sitting on a cot in the corner. She has two other young children with her but no adult companion to share the burden. Many West Saharan refugees have been trying to get to Europe in the past three years; the country had barely gained its final independence before a kaiju attack decimated its coastal population centres and what little industry had been created out of post-colonialist corrupt chaos and infighting between tribes who didn't appreciate the governments of far-away lands drawing borders in the sand without caring about local culture or centuries-old ties and feuds.

Yes, the arrival of the kaiju had united mankind, but it had also strengthened old inequalities. Those who had the money to pour into the war effort reaped the power to control it. Sherlock had once asked John what, exactly, the 'humanity' they are defending even means? He'd argued that humans were hardly a harmonious collective, and especially since there were people who wanted to welcome the kaiju as a sort of a rapture — cults who saw them as a spiritual cleansing of the planet by physical force — it seemed like a rather thankless task helping people who didn't want to be helped.

John had no good answers for his partner. 'I just do what I think is right,' he'd told Sherlock. 'No, you're not thinking — you're making an emotional commitment for emotional reasons,' came the snidely superior counter-argument, at which point John had tackled Sherlock onto their bed and teased him about thinking emotionally and with his cock since clearly, John's prowess on that front must've been the reason Sherlock had chosen to serve. 'I like you and my cock does, too,' Sherlock had declared and then lost control of his limbs as John began sucking his earlobe as a premonition of other things he planned to do with his mouth.

Despite his exhausted and sour mood, John's lip quirks up as he remembers that afternoon. He can't recall all of the instances of their lovemaking since there have been so many, but he remembers that one because it had been interrupted by the only Breach alarm they've ever ignored. They were off duty, hours away from leaving for Ponta Delgada for a flight to Amsterdam and then London. Still, John had felt how tempted Sherlock had been to call Colleen and volunteer to sign in for deployment. John had insisted that they don't, since what they were flying to London for was their long-awaited chance to tie the knot. They had made their flight and their wedding: a quick little drop-in at the registry office, followed by an admittedly fantastic meal arranged by Mycroft at some old money establishment and then one night at the best hotel John has ever stayed in before catching an early morning PPDC service personnel flight back to Chard out of Northolt.

It hadn't been much of a fairytale event, but at least they finally got what they wanted after struggling to get the requisite trip to London and the permits arranged. The kaiju just wouldn't let up that year, nor did Mycroft with the PR duties he kept hoisting on the Ranger Corps since recruitment was stalling.

It had been a wedding, but not really their wedding. They'd made do with the circumstances instead of being able to really plan things the way they would have wanted. The longer they are away from Chard's Rift, the easier John finds to quiet that voice inside his head that says he should be grateful for the PPDC for all that it has done for him. If the kaiju had never come, John would have had options in life, careers he could have pursued. This isn't the only thing he could have ever done. Most likely he wouldn't have met Sherlock, but who knows? The universe works in strange ways.

Sherlock is right. We gave up so much for the Corps, and what did we get in return?

"John?" comes a familiar whisper from the neighbouring bunk.

What had woken Sherlock up? He hadn't stirred when the baby had been at its loudest and now, the gymnasium is much quieter.

"Yeah?" John whispers back.

"Where was your sister buried?"

John blinks, then snorts. Sherlock is an Olympic-level performer at apropos of nothing, but this is an odd topic to raise in the middle of the night even by his standards.

Whiplashed by the question, John scrambles for a sensible answer. "Um… Burial at sea. They asked me if I wanted her repatriated to England, but I thought that she'd want to stay where she'd been the happiest. Why?"

"I had a nightmare, then… it shifted to something else. You were there, the landscape islands I didn't recognise. I don't think it was the Azores, and it certainly wasn't anywhere more northern. I knew, somehow, that it was a funeral, even though there was no coffin and ashes weren't being scattered, just flowers and a few personal items dropped into the sea. People were in Corps uniforms, including you."

John has never told him about Harry's funeral. Not in words, at least, and he's not sure that associated memories have ever come through in the Fade. The funeral had not been the traumatic part of her death by far and John hasn't thought of it much because it had merged so fully into that grey sludge of John's mood and experience that lasted for months, perhaps years after her death. Just another inconsequential day without her, without his Jaeger.

John can't be certain how accurate, how close to reality what Sherlock had seen had been. Maybe he'd been thinking about something related, and that had triggered such a peculiar dream?

"What about your parents? Have they got a gravestone somewhere?" John recalls Sherlock's explanation that their bodies had never been found, either.

Even without the Ghost Drifting, John can feel the walls go up.

"I don't remember."

John has a strong suspicion, now, that Sherlock had been thinking about someone's funeral recently, triggering the dream. But why Harry's? He can't have been dreaming about Harry and forgetting about it, since Sherlock must've had that dream just now while John was already awake. It's just a coincidence, he tries to tell himself. Sherlock knows a lot about her, and dreams can be so damned random.

"You wore her boots to the funeral," Sherlock then says plainly.

John's jaw drops open. "How the hell could you know that?" He had worn her combat boots because his had taken a beating from hiking and she had just got a new pair. They were only one size apart and it had somehow felt good to have something of hers with him that day.

Sherlock worries his lip. "I'm not sure."

John shakes his head in the dark. He hadn't been thinking of or dreaming about Harry, so this has got to be something Sherlock had learned but ignored a long time ago during the Fade? It's just that John really doesn't remember Harry's memorial service popping up during the neural handshake. John wonders if both pilots always see the same things from one person or if information could float through without the owner of those memories realising what they're revealing to their co-pilot.

"What was your nightmare, then?" John prompts.

Sherlock has flopped onto his back, dropped the hands previously tucked under the blanket and sheet on top of both. He's looking at the ceiling; in the low light, all John can see is the edge of his eye reflecting the emergency exit light. "I was on the aviation deck, then falling into the sea. You dove in after me, but something just pulled me deep and I was choking on water. Couldn't try yelling for you, but I could hear you screaming for me from the surface."

John has sat up without realising. "That's… Sherlock, that's exactly what I woke up from. What I saw. It didn't happen, so it's not a memory. How could we have both––"

Sherlock sits up, too, making the bunk bed groan, and John suspects he's frowning. "Water is a common element in dreams, as is falling. The sea played a part in our plan, so I wouldn't get too excited. We're not connected to the system any longer, which means we're not connected to each other in a way that would allow the transfer of images."

"We used to share dreams all the time," John reminds him. He knows he shouldn't get his hopes up: most often they had just influenced the tone of each other's dreamscapes instead of sharing specific details, and it seems so unlikely that they'd be able to share a nightmare with such clarity now that the tether between their brains has been severed.

"Not like that. At least not very often," Sherlock argues.

John grins in the dark, recalling several instances when his partner having a raunchy dream had led to him waking up hard as a rock, much more desperate for release than he ever is from a regular morning stiffy. Since the cause had been Sherlock's arousal, those mornings had often begun with an energetic fuck before breakfast.

"I know it's a long shot, but what if––" John starts, afraid to say it out loud as if speaking the words might magically erase the chance that it might be real. What if we're still Ghost Drifting?

"It's probably a statistical impossibility. There is little science to explain Ghost Drifting in the first place."

"It exists, regardless of whether there's only a few vague articles or a whole library written about it. It was unlikely to start with, but it still happened. And what if some of it sticks if you do it long enough and intensely enough. You've told me that what little has been written and studied about it tends to describe something much less intense than what we used to have. Your brain is an anomaly, and mine is… if not its perfect match, then at least damned close. What if we're the anomaly that created a more intense version of it than anyone has had?" John realises how egotistical this sounds and is embarrassed by the naked enthusiasm in his tone in the face of Sherlock's stoic scepticism, but he can't let the possibility go. Sherlock has been an exceptional Ranger and for years, the two of them were the only ones capable of piloting the Corps' flagship Jaeger.

"And what if we just need to give it a bit of practice to get better at it?" John continues, "I learned how to shield when I thought I'd never be able to do it––"

John realises he's just brought up that dreadful day and raised Sherlock's hackles. Even in the dark, he can make out his partner's suddenly even more dismissive expression now that they're still sitting and the light from the toilets reaches their features.

"Even when not Drifting, active implants retain a low-level connection to the mainframe," Sherlock explains, his quiet voice a carefully controlled blade of steel. "That's what creates the connection and enables Ghost Drifting: technology. What you're suggesting would require our implants to be working still, on some low level. If that were true, the Corps would already have found us. We'd be in handcuffs on a PPDC air transport to Xinjiang."

"I know you're probably right––"

"So do I. And drop the probably."

It sounds almost as if Sherlock is afraid of the possibility, scared of hoping that they haven't lost all of the connection they used to enjoy.

"I recognise the temptation of retaining some futile but romantic hope that things could still be the way they were," Sherlock offers, but to John it sounds condescending.

It stings, the way Sherlock looks down on him because he thinks he is being naive and emotional. "I'm only human," John defends himself.

"'Hope in reality is the worst of all evils because it prolongs the torments of man,'", Sherlock quotes.

"Mycroft?"

"Friedrich Nietzsche."

"A fan, are we?" John teases.

"I'll have you know I read many of his works at uni," Sherlock defends himself, audibly scandalised that John would mock the author or anyone who enjoys their writings.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?" John is no expert in Western philosophy, but he knows the guy had been quite the wet blanket. He can imagine easily a young, lanky Sherlock shunning others and finding company in the literary works of pessimistic intellectual. "We should try to get some more sleep."

"I wish I could just sleep until Thursday," Sherlock sighs. "And that's assuming Mycroft gets my letter and is willing to help and we manage to connect online." He huffs in frustration.

"See? Pessimism isn't fun. Before you get a hold of him, we don't know that he's not going to help us, so we might as well live as if he will. Let's just try to enjoy tomorrow, have some time out of mind?"

"Schrödinger's Mycroft," Sherlock summarises. "I'll admit it's better than dwelling on worst-case-scenarios."

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Five hours later, the sun basting the streets is making sweat pearl at their foreheads, and finding shade is getting harder the closer midday inches. The streets all seem to be blending into one: old, meandering alleys of cobblestone, light-coloured stone facades with balconies sporting ornate iron rails.

Despite their joint decision to try to enjoy today's sightseeing, it's hard to enjoy the sweltering city, feeling so out of place and in limbo as they are. Underneath the black cap John is still wearing, his scalp has developed an itch he suspects has to do with the cheap hair dye they'd used last night. His colour isn't that different, just darker — the big difference is the cut. Without access to an electric razor, he'd asked Sherlock to cut it as short as possible. The end result, created with a somewhat blunt pair of scissors borrowed from the shelter staff, had made Sherlock burst out laughing in horror and amusement. 'I don't think anyone will recognise you in that," he'd managed in between chuckles.

Sherlock's hair looks even more different, now, thanks to another packet of some cheap supermarket brand hair colour, allowing him to ditch his cap, which John worries will add to the risk of heat exhaustion.

I'm never getting used to a blonde Sherlock, John thinks, watching the back of a straw-yellow head disappear around a corner.

"You want to duck in there? Must be air-conditioned," John nods towards a small museum across the street advertising some archaeological exhibition once he's caught up with his long-strided lanky husband.

"You think we can spare the price of a ticket? I'd rather save it for a meal," Sherlock scoffs. He looks irritated but the way he's forcing himself to be civil might mean that it's not John he's annoyed at. "In there," he declares, and heads resolutely down the street towards what looks like a shop.

First, John mistakes it for a bookseller's but getting closer, he realises it sells musical instruments. The window mostly has sheet music and books on display, but a cello sits in the corner, bow suspended from a wire in the ceiling.

He knows Sherlock loves classical music, but he does his listening like everyone else there days: through buying the rights to tracks online. Not that their old streaming collections will be available any longer now that their old identities must stay dead, and they certainly can't use the implants for streaming things directly into their auditory cortex. He wonders if Sherlock has realised this and wants to go in because he suspects this shop might sell headphones. Then again, they can't afford to spend their meagre cash reserves on such a purchase right now.

What are we doing here? John wonders as he follows Sherlock in, an old-fashioned bell ringing as the door swings open under his hand. John had played the clarinet as a kid in the school orchestra after a few years of lessons but his mother had bought him the instrument and the school and his teacher had provided the sheet music; John cannot recall ever setting foot in such a shop.

Inside, the air is slightly musty like old books, with an added scent of something pine-related. While John cranes his neck wondering at the purposes of all the strange equipment filling the high shelves, Sherlock peruses with no hesitation, acting as though he's spent a great deal of time at such establishments. John watches as he goes to a section of high shelves stacked full of papers — sheet music of individual compositions. Sherlock finds the string section, slides something out from a shelf. His eyes narrow as he focuses on what's on the page, sharp gaze scanning the rows of notes. The fingers of his left hand, holding the item, begin shifting a bit and he looks now lost in thought but focussed, slipped into a world into which John cannot follow. His fingertips drum the music until he reaches the end of the page and slips it back to its spot on the shelf. Out comes another piece of music, and that reverie is repeated.

John feels akin to a voyeur. His mouth is dry in the heat; there's no air-conditioning in this old shop, and they're yet to see a salesperson. Perhaps they're at the back; John hears footsteps a few rooms away.

"You know that music?" He asks dumbly after Sherlock has returned the second piece to the shelf.

Idiot, John chides himself. Of course, he knows that music, why else would he have picked those particular ones out of all that's on the shelf? Sherlock hadn't just been pulling things out at random; his finger had trailed the alphabetised collection until tapping on the edge in joy when he'd located what he was looking for.

Sherlock hums, a non-answer, and walks deeper into the bowels of the shop. Thankfully, the next space is larger and airier, with a large window facing the shaded side of the street. Here, the scent of pine is more intense and sharper. There are string instruments on stands and hanging suspended by wire from the ceiling.

Their entry summons a staff member, perhaps the only one since it's rather quiet in the back once he appears. The person joining them is an elderly, soft-mannered Portuguese gentleman whose English is broken but understandable. He prompts enthusiastically towards the violins on a table when Sherlock asks, "May I?", and passes Sherlock a black bow after tightening its hairs. "Choose any. Please, sir, be welcome to try them."

Before picking up any of the instruments on the table, Sherlock inspects every single one carefully. He doesn't touch but leans close, tilting his head to see the light reflected off the warm colours of the wooden tops. John hasn't realised before how many shades of reddish and deeper, purer brown and even near-black violins are made. One of them looks a bit more worn that the others, and when Sherlock picks it up, John steps closer and gets a glimpse of the price tag — several thousand euros. He doesn't know what an average — if such a thing exists — violin costs, only knows that the best ones go for millions.

With practiced, fluid movements, Sherlock lifts the instrument to his shoulder, rests his chin on the smooth, curved rest and arranges the bow into his right hand.

"Shoulder rest?" The Shop attendant asks. "You use?"

"Yes, please," Sherlock replies, and the attendant opens a drawer and produces a plastic-packaged contraption. He rips off the cardboard label, fished out the item and presents it to Sherlock, who clips it to the violin with practised movements.

John is barely registering the depth of this revelation from his fascination of watching the scene unfold. It's obvious Sherlock knows violins, knows how to play one. How else could he be doing all these preparations from such effortless muscle memory?

He lifts the instrument to his shoulder, the contraption John now recognises must be the shoulder rest against his collarbone. He plucks every string, tightening the black pegs when he deems it necessary. Then, he grabs the bow and plays the same strings, using the small, black screws near his neck to further adjust the tuning.

Then, he starts playing.

If John was given a clarinet now, after so many years out of practice, he doubts he could wrench out even the simplest melody without making a hash job of it. In contrast, once Sherlock raises the bow to the strings, what flows out is work of utter beauty. What starts as a mournful, simple, lullaby-like melody blooms into something virtuosic, two strings being played at once making it sound as if two violinists are playing. After the sorrowful start, the melody changes gradually to a full, decadent, lingering major key, then quiets down for an interlude alternating between content and longing.

How did I not know he plays this well? John is working hard not to keep his jaw from dropping open. How did I not know he plays, period?

What Sherlock is performing is not a long piece, but it has left John mesmerised. He looks completely lost in the music, occasionally closing his eyes even. He must have played this piece many, many times, John realises.

He glances at the shop attendant who is listening with intent, fist clasped in his palm held to his chest.

The music ends with a hauntingly lingering note that diminished into barely a whisper of bow against string. Sherlock's expression changes from rapturously focussed to dismissive, near-haunted as he puts the violin back on the shelf.

"Bravo!" Praises the shopkeeper. "Look to buy, sir?"

"I'm afraid not. Not within my current budget," Sherlock answers curtly, and slips out of the room.

John gives the shopkeeper an apologetic look, but the man seems unfazed by the interlude that has left John feeling so wrong-footed.

John is careful not to knock anything off the shelves as he jogs through the maze-like rooms to follow Sherlock all the way out onto the street. What had prompted such a fast retreat?

Sherlock averts his eyes when John joins him where he's retreated all the way across the street. He's just standing there, shifting his weight as if unsure where to go but feeling the urgency to flee.

"What… was that?" John breathes out in awe. "I didn't know you play."

"I don't, not anymore. They don't sell violins at the Shatterdome commissary." Sherlock sounds angry, now, making John feel whiplashed. Story of my life with this man.

When he'd played, John had sensed such naked emotion on display that it seemed uncharacteristic of Sherlock who keeps his walls firm and high, especially in public and in the company of strangers. But that barely contained pain and the sense of redemption that had flowed out through Sherlock's fingers as they danced on those strings just now has been pushed aside, replaced with his standard-issue tetchiness.

John isn't having it. This is how Sherlock keeps at bay those who aren't and never will be close to him. But this is me, John wants to shout. I'm your bloody husband, let me the fuck in for once!

Never has he missed Ghost Drifting — that vibration of an invisible neural spider's web between their minds — more than at this moment. He needs to understand what he's just experienced, and the only one with any answers is Sherlock.

"I need a cigarette," Sherlock says, now sounding more bored than dismissed, but John can tell he's struggling to keep still and feign being unaffected by what has transpired mere minutes ago. He can try to school his features carefully into nonchalance, try to gaslight John into thinking what has just happened was inconsequential, a hallucination borne out of John's propensity for romanticising things, but John isn't going to let him.

"Cigs are out of our budget," John reminds him. "You've been without for days, surely the worst of the withdrawal is over."

"You've never smoked, have you?" Sherlock gives him an unimpressed glance over the rim of his sunglasses. "For some things, the craving never ends."

Somehow, John knows he's thinking about the Ravager. But he shouldn't let himself be distracted from the mystery he's just been presented. "Violins aren't banned at the base, so you could have brought yours from London," he points out. He knows several Rangers with guitars that sometimes get brought into the Rangers' lounge on a Friday evening for a mildly drunken jam session. A Spanish Ranger with some flamenco guitar skills used to be a crowd favourite before he was transferred to Peru.

"Hard to bring in something that lies in pieces underneath a pile of bricks," Sherlock replies, visibly uncomfortable with the conversation.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock replies nothing, gives the music shop a disapproving glare, then starts down the street. John hurries to catch up, and grips his bicep to make his stop. "Sherlock."

"It was a bad idea, going in there. Give it a rest." He makes a feeble attempt to shake his arm out of John's grip.

"I just want to understand. Clearly, that all meant something to you." It's plain as day that Sherlock must've once loved playing.

"And what if it did? Just one more thing I lost, thanks to the Corps. If Mycroft had done his job of keeping my records sealed, I could've just served my time, a few years, tops, at some HMS Whatever as a first-timer I'm sure. I could have gone back to London and got myself another flat and a new violin."

"Or, um, you could have just skipped the crime bit? Then Mycroft wouldn't have had to get involved at all," John suggests sheepishly. "We all do stupid things when we're young, I guess, but––"

Mycroft had made it sound like Sherlock hadn't been doing much with his life in London after university, and that joining the Corps had saved him from a worse downward spiral into drugs and parasuicidal behaviour. But even if he'd been drifting through his life in London, drowning whatever issues had tormented him in various illicit substances, it had all been his own doing instead of following someone else's orders. Even if it was a troubled life, it had been his and his alone to ruin.

Sherlock swallows. "I'm not trying to sidestep my own role in how things went. I never felt as if I had much of a choice. Whatever I tried, whatever I studied, I had this sense of foreboding that the family into which I was born meant that the universe would eventually shove me into the vice grip of the Corps whether I wanted it or not. I didn't want to start living my life, because I was just waiting for it to be taken away. In a way, it happened year before I became a Ranger. I think it started when Mycroft sent me to South Korea, perhaps even as early as when San Francisco happened. I never had a choice, so what does it matter what I loved or what else I could do besides enlist?"

"That doesn't sound like you, believing in some weird force pushing you onto some inevitable trajectory. That's way more irrational than you tend to be."

"I go by the evidence presented, John."

"Then isn't it just as much fate that we found each other? You could just as well say that the universe wasn't shoving you into the Corps, it was pushing the two of us together? And look what we did with that," John boasts, cocking his head towards the window of a bookies they're passing where news headlines scrolling on the telly.

'The death of iconic PPDC Rangers Holmes and Watson ruled a suicide'

'A shocked world mourns its heroes'

'Atlantic Marshal Holmes demanding an in-depth investigation into the death of the Reichenbach Ravager team'

"That doesn't fix the past," Sherlock points out. "I just… I wish I'd done something with those years that I had before the Corps. While waiting for the path to lock around my feet, for the trapdoor to open, I forgot to live."

Chapter 30: Lisbon, part three

‘Cause your soul is on fire
A shot in the dark,
What did they aim for when they missed your heart?
I breathe underwater
It’s all in my hands
But what can I do?
Don’t let it fall apart
— Within Temptation: Why Not Me

“I have forgiven the world for the love of you” 
― Alexandre Dumas: The Count of Monte Cristo

The internet cafe is named Alfa Tagus after a river passing through Lisbon. Sherlock had chosen it based on secluded booths, lax rules about showing identification for booking time on their laptops and endless coffee refills. To minimise the chance of someone identifying them he's come alone and is now staring intently at three black dots that indicate that a message is being typed up. He'd instructed Mycroft to use a remote rerouter server to sign up for an anonymous chat.

Finally, a message appears, and Sherlock's heart does a somersault. He'd been relieved to see another person join the chat, but until they exchange a few words he can't be sure that it's really his sibling and not some intelligence forces agent — or worse, the PPDC's internal investigations service.

Since neither is going to mention any real names, word choices, tone and answers to questions will have to do in establishing they are who they claim to be and that the other can be trusted. Sherlock has used his birthday and what Mycroft should recognise as a bard towards the Corps as an alias.

Antarctica_Nelson: Brother mine?

tin_soldier_0601: Yes, brother yours. "Nelson"?? Still a fanboy to your childhood heroes, I see.

Sherlock isn't about to give his brother the satisfaction of expressing how relieved he is that he's got the letter and is willing to talk.

Antarctica_Nelson: I see it is you. Have you any idea what a mess you've made? Especially at a time like this.

tin_soldier_0601: Mess? You know as well as I do that we delivered you a PR wet dream to divert everyone's attention from that little corruption scandal. I assume the lurid accusations are all nonsense to derail your covert little investigation?

Media outlets around the world have been relishing the details: the Atlantic Marshal allegedly using PPDC funds to finance his habit of a female high-end escort known for her BDSM services.

Antarctica_Nelson: You really need to ask? And no, I don't find pretending that my only living family member is permanently indisposed an enjoyable task.

tin_soldier_0601: You should look into whether fake memorial services are tax deductible, then. Permanently indisposed? With that level of sop, no wonder even some of the brass call you the Iceman.

Sherlock had overheard Hammond joking about the nickname once when he assumed only other high-end officials were present. He finds it rather fitting, considering all the lifelong things for which he remains angry at Mycroft.

Antarctica_Nelson: Contrary to your assumptions, your loss would break my heart.

Now that is a statement the likes of Sherlock had never expected to hear. But it's too little, too late, and anyone can pluck up the courage to sound like a soap opera in a faceless chat.

tin_soldier_0601: Just admit you like mopping my messes, makes you feel useful. I hope you can put enough pressure on Global Command to make then disinclined to investigate our fate any further. The media says it's been ruled a suicide, so I assume they have stopped raking the seabed?

Antarctica_Nelson: The two of you are presumed dead and thus the official rescue mission is concluded, though I did speak to the person acting in charge of the base who has… if not doubts then at least she was deeply shocked by your decision and tried to extend the search period.

Sherlock would expect no less from LJ Marais than to consider all possibilities. He has always thought her clever and a person of integrity.

Antarctica_Nelson: Without concrete evidence to support her petition to continue and expand the search, it was declined. Sea currents are still being analysed to narrow down a search area for your remains but of course that will turn out to be futile. Your technology officer is making a very convincing case for a joint suicide, I must say.

tin_soldier_0601: Our ex-officer. She should be court-martialled for what she did along with everyone else in that command chain.

Colleen is doing what she promised — and doing it well. This reassures Sherlock that they might pull this off.

Antarctica_Nelson: Your subjective disdain for her obedience might be understandable, but may I remind you that she did exactly what any officer of the organisation would have been expected to do?

tin_soldier_0601: Expect everyone to jump off a cliff without a parachute if the brass says so, do you?

It's useless arguing about this. Mycroft is Mycroft, and above all, Mycroft is the Atlantic Marshal.

tin_soldier_0601: As long as no one recognises us in this country we should be in the clear, at least for a while.

Antarctica_Nelson: The risk of being recognised will remain indefinitely.

tin_soldier_0601: It will diminish with time. The organisation will find new stars to promote, and people will stop caring about us.

Sherlock has a hunch who one of those new stars might turn out to be and grits his teeth. The thought of James at the helm of the Ravager makes his blood boil. He doesn't deserve it, and I pity whoever is forced to Drift with him.

Antarctica_Nelson: I see you've deprived your better half of his well-earned retirement.

The stab hits home hard — Mycroft must have known it would. Perhaps he's said it because he truly is irate at having to deal with his flesh-and-blood's disappearing act while trying to duct tape the PPDC back together.

tin_soldier_0601: Unlike you, he prefers my company to military cults and a brain-numbingly dull and lonely retiree existence watering flowerpots in some sleepy village.

Antarctica_Nelson: I do wish you'd come to me when things began getting so dire as to make you consider such a dramatic exit.

tin_soldier_0601: I did come to you about an individual you should still consider a person of interest in your investigation. You pooh-poohed me. My partner came to you about my abduction, and you were either so out of the loop with what's going on in your own playground that you couldn't have done anything, anyway, or you didn't care and feigned ignorance to hide that.

Antarctica_Nelson: Disinclined as you may be to believe me, I would have intervened if I'd found out in time.

tin_soldier_0601: Not my fault that you have a lifetime of betrayal to make up for.

Antarctica_Nelson: You've always been so resentful. All I have done is try to balance family and duty.

tin_soldier_0601: What about duty TO family?

Antarctica_Nelson: I will do everything I can to assist you and your beau, I promise. I am sorry about how things turned out for you both.

tin_soldier_0601: Isn't this where you remind me that my bad choices are at fault here and not you?

Antarctica_Nelson: You've shown little willingness to own up to them in the past, and the shorter we keep this conversation, the safer it is for you.

tin_soldier_0601: Then stop extending it and get us an extraction plan. We need safe passage to your country of residence. Under false identities.

Antarctica_Nelson: Assumed as much. You do realise what a massive risk returning here is in terms of the two of your being recognised?

tin_soldier_0601: Where else would we go?

Antarctica_Nelson: Everyone knows your faces here.

tin_soldier_0601: Not in some remote village with more sheep than people they won't. This will blow over, you will make sure of it.

Antarctica_Nelson: Will I?

Sherlock can see in his mind's eye the aristocratically raised brow.

Antarctica_Nelson: And what will you do with your time in this hypothetical village that's living without any knowledge of the global war effort?

tin_soldier_0601: Keep bees. Preach the apocalypse. Whatever one does in the back of beyond.

Their grandmother had kept bees. Sherlock suspects she was a lot like him, especially when she was younger, always preferring the company of those insects to people.

Antarctica_Nelson: And what if you do get recognised? And caught?

tin_soldier_0601: We can always threaten to speak our minds about the way Rangers are treated. The global media would lap it up after juicing this tragedy, and the organisation would have an unprecedented scandal in their hands.

Antarctica_Nelson: An even grander scandal might not be conducive to what I am trying to achieve. Besides, you'd never see a news camera once they caught you. They'd make damned sure of it.

Sherlock swallows. The statement is sobering.

tin_soldier_0601: Then you'd better have climbed the rest of your remaining career ladders at the Corps so that you could get us out of trouble.

Antarctica_Nelson: It's a tall order, exoneration from desertion.

tin_soldier_0601: I will never ask for anything else from you after this. You get us safe international passage, we disappear, that's it. We won't darken your doorstep, won't cause any more disturbances in your global dominance plans. You owe me this and you know it — you AND the organisation. If you betray us, I'll be sent to where I was due originally, the disciplinary unit in China, and my death will be on you because nobody walks out of those places so, instead of carrying on a delusion of being a passable big brother, you would become the Cain to my Abel. You need to decide whether you want to spend your days knowing you tried to do what you must realise is the right thing, or that you really cashed in your family to be one of the political sycophants you pretend to loathe.

Antarctica_Nelson: You would choose prison over re-enlisting?

tin_soldier_0601: Why would they ever let me back in?

Antarctica_Nelson: I think it highly likely they would. There would be disciplinary action taken against you for some time, of course, but you know as well as I do how great an asset you are.

tin_soldier_0601: Maybe John could murder someone; I know he's got it in for a certain other organisational ASSET, so maybe we'd end up in adjoining cells in Xinjiang at least.

His lip quirks up when he remembers John's well-aimed punch to James' face.

Antarctica_Nelson: This is serious.

tin_soldier_0601: Agreed. Which is why you should stop spluttering indignantly and get to it.

Antarctica_Nelson: There is a contractor I know from our school days well enough to trust him, and he owes me a favour. He holds a diplomatic status, which means his plane won't be searched. He can bring in your new passports and transport you. I will see you once you arrive and we'll consider the next steps.

tin_soldier_0601: Good enough.

Antarctica_Nelson: An understatement.

tin_soldier_0601: We need funds.

Antarctica_Nelson: This escape plan of yours seems rather ill-planned.

tin_soldier_0601: You try hatching one in a matter of days after having brain surgery in the equivalent of Victor Frankenstein's lab. We got ourselves out of the base and all the way here, didn't we?

Antarctica_Nelson: A courier will deliver means to cover your living expenses to the Hospital de Sao Francisco Xavier main entrance lobby at six hundred hours. The details of your exit plan will be delivered there in two days at the exact same time. Take care.

tin_soldier_0601: Will do.

Neither types anything for a while, yet both linger on the connection.

tin_soldier_0601: One more thing.

Antarctica_Nelson: ?

tin_soldier_0601: I still think you should be looking into James Moriarty.

Sherlock gives up trying to avoid the name. They are taking a huge risk with the communique, and no one is assuming Moriarty is deceased or on the run, so mentioning him shouldn't add that much extra harm.

Antarctica_Nelson: Do elaborate.

Sherlock tries to sound as neutral and factual as he can as he recounts all the concrete evidence he has that Moriarty is connected to something beyond his own ambitions.

Antarctica_Nelson: And what if he did go to Russia? What would that prove?

tin_soldier_0601: He came from poverty and spent only about two years at university. I doubt he would have had a chance to travel then. If you could track down the seller and prove he was there during his absence from the Corps, it might mean something. The way he's reenlisted is a bit too convenient to be just the result of a string of unrelated organisational decisions.

Antarctica_Nelson: I shouldn't elaborate since this is all highly delicate, but I will say that, as pressed for time I am in trying to get to the bottom of what's going on within the organisation before they find another way to oust me, I can't afford to overlook any tips.

tin_soldier_0601: I'm rarely wrong.

Antarctica_Nelson: Rarely does not equal never. Fugitives don't necessarily make very good informants, they're too desperate. Is this all you have on the individual?

tin_soldier_0601: there's a scar on his thigh

Sherlock had spotted it twice on James and thought little of it, assuming it couldn't have much significance when it came to a conspiracy within the Corps, but he'll give Mycroft all that he can, no matter how marginal. He'd meant to mention it the first time he had told his brother about James, but in his shock so soon after the man had intruded on him and John, Sherlock had tried to push all thoughts of the man's physicality out of his mind.

tin_soldier_0601: no, correction: it looks like a tattoo, but more frostbite-like, a spiderweb inside what looks like a shooting target print.

Antarctica_Nelson: Bruce Partington.

tin_soldier_0601: ????

Antarctica_Nelson: You've just described the most important distinguishing mark for Bruce Partington's body. It was described in the APB of his missing person's report from the Sydney Shatterdome.

tin_soldier_0601: it is a type of tattoo, then

Antarctica_Nelson: I recall looking at it in the photo and thinking it looked odd. No pigment. Apparently, it is a particular type of tattoo created by exposing the skin to liquid nitrogen. A cold branding tattoo I believe the technique is called.

tin_soldier_0601: Can't be a coincidence. Did Partington have ties to HK or Russia?

Antarctica_Nelson: Not that I am aware of. He was the global head of the organisation's training programs. He planned the original overhaul of the training system to emphasize early Jaeger assignments and finishing cadet training with Jaeger-specific modules. The curriculum is still referred to as the Bruce Partington plan. We may be onto something here, brother mine.

tin_soldier_0601: Waddle off to investigate, then. As you said, we've been at this for too long, need to limit exposure.

Antarctica_Nelson: Indeed. You might have chosen a less crowded location than a major European capital for the first stop on your little escapade.

tin_soldier_0601: And you could have fixed the damned Corps sooner so we wouldn't have had to do any of this in the first place.

Once the system informs him that the other conversant has left, Sherlock empties the browser history and whatever else traces of the conversation he can come up with to diminish chances of being tracked. He then goes to find John, who has settled into an armchair in a corner of the reception area, a glass of water on the table beside him instead of waiting outside.

Sherlock glances at the attendant booth and is relieved to find it empty. "You should have stayed outside."

"I was outside, but then the salesperson ran to the store across, and I saw you'd finished."

Sherlock starts for the door, but then the TV screen mounted on the wall flashes to a new story in the news, and an image of James and a younger man Sherlock can't recognise are projected behind the presenter. He's glad that the channel is BBC World and not a Portuguese one.

The Corps has assigned a new Ravager pair. James, and a cadet trained last year. So startled is Sherlock by the sight of James now live from a press conference on the Chard aviation deck that he forgets to memorise the name of the other new pilot.

Despite the warm weather, James is wearing his leather coat as he stands beside his new partner and LJ Marais. It's the first time Sherlock has seen her in Base Commander stripes.

"I'm glad it's her," John comments, but Sherlock shushes him.

"We're all devastated by the news about Rangers Holmes and Watson, of course," James drawls, projecting as molasses-thick an emotional affect as he can. Sherlock sees past it. He's gloating.

"I admit I was hoping for a chance to work with Ranger Holmes; I have always had the upmost respect for his work and was privileged to be trained by him for the Ravager. I can only hope to make him proud. It's so hard to understand what could have led to such a choice — all speculation, of course, until the investigation concludes––" he hastens to add when Marais gives him a pointed glance. James then shakes his head. "This does make me wonder if the fraternisation rules of the Corps should be changed. Emotional attachment can make things soooo complicated. Ranger Watson's fate is so particularly tragic since I hear he was about to start enjoying a well-earned retirement. We'll have big boots to fill." He's looking straight at the camera, now, and Sherlock feels as if he's staring right at him. He barely avoids shuddering, and his heartbeat is sounding in his ears as if he's stuck his head close to a massive seashell.

He stands transfixed by the screen for so long, trying to get a hold of his nerves, that he doesn't even notice the news story changing.

John has climbed to his feet. "Have a look at this," he prompts, making his way to a notice board by the window.

Sherlock clears his dry throat. "What?"

John's attention has been caught by a flyer about the local Anglican parish, advertising church services and support and assistance for UFBS expats.

Sherlock blinks, unable to parse together what John means.

"What they might be able to do for us sounds a hell of a lot better than going back to the shelter," John suggests.

"Could be something," Sherlock confirms, scanning the notice. "I assume they wouldn't turn us over to the authorities even if they recognised us?"

"That's what I hope. Come on, I think the clerk's done his shopping."

They slip out the front door and find a tree close by for shade.

Sherlock is surprised John would suggest going to a religious organisation for help; it had taken John decades to shed the emotional baggage of his upbringing in a Catholic fundamentalist sect. A church is the last place Sherlock knows his husband would probably want to go, but beggars can't be choosers and that description isn't very far from their currently homeless status. Even though John seems to be coping fine with the shelter environment, he's been antsy to get out of there. It's as if he wants to protect Sherlock from it, doesn't think it suitable for him.

Does he think me so spoiled that I can't cope staying at a place like that?

John waits until they've left the premises and are walking in the scorching sunshine again to ask how the chat had gone. "I assume you got hold of Mycroft?"

"Yes, and he'll do what I asked. Cash delivery to a local hospital's lobby at six, and in exactly two days from that, he'll deliver the details of our travel plan. He knows someone who has diplomatic status and owes him a favour."

"Long conversation. Was he pissed off?"

"Yes and no."

John glances behind him at the shop, looking suspicious. "You looked like you saw a ghost. Still do."

"Very amusing," Sherlock counters, unable to keep bitterness out of his tone. He had hoped that John wouldn't notice the effect of seeing James, even just on TV, has on him these days. It makes him feel as though James has won — pushed Sherlock out of the Corps when he wouldn't join in whatever he was planning. The thought of having to leave things like that, James at Chard with an assignment to <i>their</i> Jaeger is unbearable, but there's nothing Sherlock can do about it. James had played dirty, and checkmated him out.

When John realises why Sherlock would take offence at the word 'ghost', tight lines of anger appear on his features.

Sherlock scrambles desperately to steer John to another rail from whatever has brought back that seething fury that John has been carrying. He has kept trying to breach the topic of James and Sherlock has no idea why. John has expressed that he knows what the man did wasn't consensual. John does really understand that, doesn't he? If he does, then why is he still so angry? And why does that anger seem so focussed on Sherlock instead of the real culprit?

"I told Mycroft again that he should look into Moriarty," Sherlock tries.

"I thought you were supposed to keep the conversation brief for security reasons? And what do you mean, 'again'?"

"I tried to convince Mycroft once before that Moriarty's not what he pretends to be."

"A psychopathic bastard trying to bed you? I'm pretty sure he's exactly that."

Sherlock regards him tiredly. "Whatever he's up to, it's more ambitious than seducing me." He starts for a park at the very end of the street. It's one they've been to before and not very well maintained, but it's a better choice than this cramped corner in scorching heat.

"Have you considered that you might just be trying to see a pattern where there is none to justify your interest in the guy?"

"We know from Mycroft's stress levels and whatever hints he has dropped that the PPDC is in crisis mode, infighting between funding parties escalating. All of them must have the sort of back-channel influence within the Corps needed for steering things behind the scenes, and any of them could be hatching some self-serving plan to take over the running of the org."

"How would Moriarty be a part of that? He wants to pilot the Ravager, and he wanted to do it with you. But how much proof do you have that he wants anything else?"

"The question is: who wants to put him in that Conn-Pod? Who made sure he gets to Chard to gain a Ravager assignment? Who's pulling the strings over his reinstitution as a Ranger, his transfer? He's not the only Ranger with very high aptitude scores in the PPDC. Why him? He has ties to Hong Kong, including outside the org since he was out of service for a long time. He has no logical connection to Russia, yet he speaks the language." Sherlock grimaces. "Yes, he claimed to have studied literature and all that lark at university, and I do realise this is all circumstantial, but I just can't shake the idea that there's a pattern here."

"Or you just need an excuse to keep thinking about him. Still."

Sherlock screeches to a halt on the pavement. He faces John, back snapped straight and tone clipped. He doesn't want to talk about or look at James ever again, hates the effect the man's very existence has on him. Why can't John see that and if he does, why isn't it enough to bury this conversation? "I'm here. With you."

"You were with me at Chard when you and him were having your little––" John spins his finger in the air, mouth a tight line, "––thing," he spits out.

"Eloquent. Why don't you just say what you think it was, then, instead of circling the issue?"

"I get it, we've been married for some time, and you get bored. Why not get a friend like I suggested, hm? But then, it got a bit more, didn't it? You were attracted to him, and he came at you as subtly as a freight train. It's flattering, another Ranger wanting you when people usually steer clear of you. And this was someone as talented as you, younger than me." John sniffs and crinkles at his nose at Sherlock, looking at him as though he's deeply disappointed at how Sherlock could fall for the oldest and most pathetic party trick.

Sherlock sighs, starts walking again, shoving his hands into his pockets. He hates the squirmy feeling of John putting him on the spot like this. Half of it's wrong, but only half. He doesn't understand it himself how he'd kept going back for more when James made him feel so unsure of himself, so wrong-footed in all their interactions.

John is far from done. "You never liked being a hero because that's too bourgeois for you. No, you'd fancy yourself a bit of a villain, and I was too conformist, too nice to be your wingman for that. You wouldn't be the first posh bloke to like a bad boy."

Sherlock's breath hitches. He slows his steps, opens his mouth to defend himself, but John's anger makes him feel some wrong-footed, so exposed, so frightened that a single wrong word would lead to disaster — to the kind of irrevocable damage he's always feared he could easily inflict on the only relationship he's ever had that's been worth the trouble of trying to deal with people.

John has even more to say. "Couldn’t get into the Ravager often enough to stay entertained, so you latch onto some–– some–– psychopath for a little flirting, hm? Never mind that the world’s been ending for years and we're under attack, what’s more important is that Ranger bloody Holmes doesn't get bored! You think there are too many rules in the Corps, maybe even too many rules in marriage, but it's because you can't see how everyone always lets you do whatever you want! And yes, that was one thing that got us into this mess! There are consequences for playing with fire even for you; you can't just dip a toe in with someone like Moriarty!"

Sherlock huffs in frustration and marches on.

"You know I’m right," John calls out.

"You’re always right <i>and it’s boring</i>!" Sherlock retorts, eyes firmly on the pavement ahead. He knows he got burnt, he knows he opened the door to what James did, but he didn't want it, not the end result. But he has no idea how to convince John of that when he's this angry.

"So you won't even… <i>Sherlock, stop</i>!" John shouts, ignoring all caution over not calling attention to themselves.

Sherlock swirls on his heels and forces himself to look his partner in the eye. As much as he tries to meet John with equal confidence and righteous rage, his hands are shaking, and he feels so brittle. The panic that's driving him to escape is nearly impossible to control. "You've obviously made up your mind about what I feel and what I think, so why should I even try to contradict any of that?" he snaps at John. "I can't let you into my head anymore to show you that I'm being honest, can't prove it anymore because all I have are words, and you've just demonstrated they're not enough. Not when there's an idea you've got in your head that's taken root––" he stabs his temple with his forefinger for emphasis, "a doubt I can't put out because you don't trust me anymore." He huffs a ragged breath, then tries to turn to head for the park, but John grabs his arm.

"What was I supposed to think when you started shielding every time Moriarty was around and when I picked up on you thinking about him while in bed with me? What would you have thought if it had been the opposite?" John demands.

It's a startling question. Sherlock realises he would have had the same crushing doubts as those being presented to him right now. He would have assumed his undeserved luck of having John in his life had run out as he had suspected would happen eventually.

I caused his. I let Moriarty in too close. It is my fault.

"I didn't understand my own fascination with him. I knew it was… a bit not good," Sherlock tries.

"You can say that again." John's tone is accusatory, but at least he lets go of Sherlock's arm.

"I never got to explain what happened that night when James–– Before I could explain, before I understood it myself, you stormed out, and then they came for me before we saw each other the next day," Sherlock tries to reason, retreating towards the park, albeit slowly, because he can't bring himself to face John. "I wasn't thinking of him when we were having sex. He barged in. I can shield, but somehow, he can crash right through those defences. All it took was one neural handshake, and he could Ghost Drift with me."

"So, while you can shield well, he can breach shielding?" John's tone still hasn't softened even though Sherlock is doing his best to explain. "I suspected as much," John adds.

Sherlock stops walking again, arms dangling helplessly at his side. As much as he wants to avoid eye contact, he forces himself to meet his husband's eye again. These kinds of forced displays of honesty projected through gestures is all he has without Ghost Drifting. "I swear to God, John, he invited himself. Yes, I spent some time with him. Yes, he occupied more real estate in my thoughts that he should have. But I promise you it wasn't about not wanting you anymore. I was a shocked as you were when he did it, and I was close to coming, and I don't… I didn't hate the look of him before that, and he knew exactly what buttons to push. I don't know how he was so good at it, but… I tried to keep it from you because I knew what you'd deduce from all of it. He timed everything so well, he must have followed us to the dorm, and when he––" Sherlock doesn't even have the words for what James had done. "I was too close, and I couldn't keep it together to push him out. I came, and that was… I can't shield when that happens. I just can't."

"I doubt anyone could." John sounds marginally more lenient now.

"You saw what you thought was just me daydreaming, but what was really happening is that he was there. And I had no way to explain that even to myself, how I couldn't just tell him to fuck off, to cut the connection. I've never experienced anything like it, didn't think it was possible to do what he did."

"Well, Rangers do sometimes pick up on when someone's having sex in the dorms, but…"

"But it's just a faint sense of something, not a two-way high-definition broadcast!"

"How the hell did he do it?" John marvels furiously. "It's so… creepy. Christ, makes me want to ask Mycroft if they could make the Science Division erase his memory."

"He has the new implant, but… he can do things with it even in battle that I couldn't get mine to do, at least not my old one. I never even did a single simulation with the new one, so I don't know what it could–– That's one reason why I think his official story has holes, deliberate ones — he can do things no one should be able to do."

"You think he's got some turbocharged version of the implant? How do you know that if you don't have any experience of what the new model can do?"

"Colleen commented something to the effect of certain parts of the interface showing stuff in Chinese when he was tweaking things and that she couldn't get access to the code the way she had with mine or yours. He assumed it was because he was implanted in Hong Kong." She'd mentioned this after one of Sherlock's training sessions with James.

"Still, maybe yours is like that, too," John reasons.

"But why would they put effort into enhancing Ghost Drifting abilities? It has never been a research priority. What use would it be in battle? I told Mycroft that everything I have on the guy is circumstantial. But that doesn't mean it can't be correct. Someone with higher clearance than me needs to look into it. If it turns out to be nothing, then there's no harm done."

"And if he's part of some conspiracy…"

"Then he's more dangerous that anyone could have imagined, me included, but Mycroft might be able to use what he finds to fix things."

"Even though you just deserted the PPDC, you care about what happens to it." John seems surprised.

"It is the best defence humanity has. I don't fancy our exile ending with the kaiju destroying England, do you?"

Sherlock is proud of himself for having managed to steer the conversation away from his dealings with Moriarty.

But John seems to have had the same realisation about their discussion. "So, you agree that I had reason to be suspicious? And disappointed?"

"I won't pretend to be good at reading people, but I know you and disappointed seems like an understatement. Wouldn't you rather say jealous? And hurt?" Sherlock grits his teeth through that last word.

Their steps have slowed from being propelled by anger and dismay to something more in sync.

John huffs bitterly. "The timing couldn't have been worse. I was worried about being taken out of active service, you kept joking about my age, and in walks this handsome, dangerous guy hell-bent on stealing you for himself. Not exactly my finest moment of self-confidence."

"Then I'm sorry for not reminding you why that confidence never has reason to waver. I was never comparing the two of you."

"Then why, Sherlock? Why wasn't I enough?"

The question, spoken with a broken sort of miserable certainty he's never heard from John, shakes Sherlock to the core. "What are you talking about?"

He's genuinely perplexed. There has never been anything wrong with John except the things Sherlock doesn't understand or always appreciate because it's Sherlock who's so different in all the wrong ways. "I was never good enough," he admits. "I was never going to adopt the sort of mindset that seems to come naturally to you. I could walk the walk of a Ranger, but my heart was never going to be in it. It was always going to go wrong, I was always going to go wrong, and you deserved better. So much better."

"So you… think you punished yourself, somehow, by playing whatever game he had going with you?" John sounds sceptical and confused. He looks the part, too, carding his hand through his hair and staring at Sherlock with his brows raised. John looks older than his years right now because of me. He struggles to put up with me just like everyone else.

Sherlock swallows, trying to keep his breathing even. The anxiety is rising again, and he needs to try to explain this to John again before it turns chest-crushing. "I was always going to fail at this, us, and it was exhausting waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was a good, no, great Ranger, but only in the Conn-Pod. When I wasn't piloting, I was a burden to you and everyone else. I thought that James was like me and somehow, he had managed to carve himself a place in the Corps, adjusted to that life. I didn't think it was possible for someone like me, but he also… he saw things in me, things I don't like thinking about, but somehow those were the things he thought I should put first, that I should stop trying to something I'm not. I know those things are there, and they were always going to ruin things in our marriage eventually, but… There was a time when you met someone who believed you should steer clear of but couldn't help your own curiosity. Instead of doing your doctorly duty and disappearing back into the woodwork, you decided to move your chair closer to the action again. You pretended for years that you were haunted by the war when in fact, somewhere along the way, you had started missing it even more than you missed Harry. But you thought it was too late to do anything about it."

"Then some handsome idiot barged into my life puking their guts out from a drug binge."

"I said danger, and here you are."

"God, yes." John laughs despite himself. Sherlock can't tell if John is understanding what he's trying to say or just as confused as he's always been when it comes to understanding how Sherlock functions.

"You keep me right, John, when — as you said — Moriarty wanted to steer me wrong for reasons I'm more and more convinced had little to do with me. I wanted to believe they had little to do with me, but if he is a part of something bigger… Perhaps he decided that I should be a part of it for some unfathomable reason."

"It felt like I didn't count anymore when you didn't seem to care how seeing you with him made me feel. I'm human," John shrugs. "I'm just human, and I've never had your charisma or your confidence as a Ranger. Someone who matches your arrogance walks in, and you were like a moth to a flame."

"You're wrong, you know. You do count, and not just to me. I've always trusted you and so have the other Rangers. You don't need to exercise authority because it's so evidently there. Even when you believed they all looked down on you, thought you were a shadow of yourself after your first pilot duty period ended, they respected you. It was plain to see even to someone who's as bad at reading people as I am: when you stepped up again, no one questioned that or even seemed surprised. I don't think many of them even questioned whether you could measure up to me even though you sometimes joke bitterly about being a sidekick. In fact, since I was the newcomer and you were the legend who solo piloted a Jaeger for longer than anyone at Chard ever has, I think they were probably giving me the stink-eye at first, thinking I had no right to serve with John Watson."

"You make it sound as if a lot of your strutting and peacocking has been to prove to people that you're worthy of me and not the other way around," John marvels. "You were the newcomer, but you were also a star right from the start. The redeemed junkie who impressed even Tom Wallis; the offspring of the legendary PPDC Holmeses with an astronomically high aptitude score; the Ravager pilot. Maybe we should stop comparing ourselves to one another, too," John points out. "The kaiju never cared which Rangers got sent out to say hi and chop their heads off."

Sherlock recognises this is forgiveness, an olive branch, an admission that they can both stray from sense when emotions take over.

John's expression then gets steely again. "You do realise you can't start sabotaging our relationship just because you think you don't have what it takes to maintain your half of it? You get that, don't you, that you can't make those kinds of decisions without consulting me? You think we're somehow doomed because of who you are, but you keep forgetting that that's the man I fell in love with. Not just the parts where you try to be a good officer but all of you. I've seen the worst of you, and I'm still here."

"Have you, really?" Sherlock isn't sure. John hasn't seen what he could have been like if he had fully embraced all those parts that James was trying to drag into light and get him to embrace.

"Why do you sound as if you <i>want</i> me to think worse of you? If it was just about the sex it would've been easier to understand but if I'm honest, some of your explanations just sound like excuses."

"Sex? What sex?! There was no sex!"

"I was speaking figuratively. The attraction between you two."

"I didn’t want it to exist."

"But it did, and you got curious. And even if what he did was some deliberate ploy, he couldn't have done it if you hadn't given him all the ammunition. You did, right from the start, and it hurt to watch that."

"I am sorry. I truly am, John."

"That’s… I wanted to hear that, but I also needed to know why. Like I said, I get the physical attraction, it's everything else that made me feel like I was losing you. Like you were about to cheat on me right in front of me. I was worried about him right from the start, Sherlock, because I could tell he wasn't a good guy, and I had no idea you thought… that you worried you too were so alike. You always keep yourself distant from everyone else besides me, but suddenly you seemed like that's the person you want to… I don't know, get to know better? That show he put up on the aviation deck when he got here, that was so ridiculous, and I was sure you could see right through that and think he was ridiculous. But he got you, hook line and sinker. And I could do nothing but watch."

Sherlock can't deny what John has just said, can't counter it with a lie or a truth, because John is right. He had clung to excuses. He had played James' game even when he should have known better. He hates the look John is giving him, so disappointed at Sherlock falling for such a pathetic little party trick.

All Sherlock can do is offer two words that feel deeply inadequate, but hopes John might accept them and believe them. "I’m sorry. I can't prove to you that I never–– that I didn’t want him… like that, at first. I don’t, now, and you have to know that already. Forgive me, John, for all the hurt that I've caused you. If I'd stayed away from James, maybe you'd still have some kind of a future with the PPDC. You'd have your retirement, at least.

"Look, I find it difficult, I find it difficult, this sort of stuff," John stammers, visibly affected by what he's just heard. His right hand coils into a fist but Sherlock can tell the anger is gone, now replaced with weariness. "I can see the effect he has on you now and I… I know what he did was wrong, and that nothing you said or did to encourage him before it justified what he did. Nothing." John is looking down, shaking his head. There is a long pause before he speaks again. "Yes, of course I forgive you," he breathes out.

Sherlock's knees nearly buckle from relief.

John continues, meeting his eye now. "And I'm sorry too, for not stopping to listen and understand what happened instead of just assuming the worst of you, but it was… it was just too big a shock to the system. I'm sorry if you were going through something when he arrived at Chard, having all these thoughts about not being good enough when everyone else thinks you're the greatest Ranger in existence, that's… That makes me feel like I failed," John admits. "I could read your bloody mind, but I had no idea this is the sort of thing that made you think that––– that–– thing was some kind of a fucked-up kindred spirit. I did sense it was maybe about more than just attraction with him, but that just felt worse. It felt worse, because I didn't want to believe someone else could understand you better than I do, give you something I couldn't." John sighs.

"What if I really wasn't meant for that existence, living from one battle to another, dying of tedium and the claustrophobia of this damned haven of rules and regulations such as shoe polish colour etiquette? You like that, you think it's safe, but it's torture," Sherlock tries to explain.

"It doesn't make you a bad Ranger. Or a bad husband. You're just… you. And shouldn't all that prove that you and that fucking weasel aren't similar at all? He didn't have any trouble adjusting to those things, did he?"

"That was one thing I wanted to find out," Sherlock admits. "How the hell does someone like James Moriarty seem to slip into such an anal-retentive organisation so effortlessly? I was convinced he had to be pretending since someone like him — like me, as I assumed — could never be perfectly content dedicating their life to protecting everyone else, playing by rules invented by those who've never set foot in a Conn-Pod and faced a kaiju." He's still not sure if he's managed to fix what he had allowed to break when it comes to James Moriarty. "If I knew what was going to happen, I would never have Drifted with him. Wouldn't even have set foot in the sim lab with him," Sherlock pleads.

"I believe you. I promise I do. You're right: you're here with me, no matter the cost, and it can't be just because you want to prove my fears about James Moriarty wrong."

Relief washes through Sherlock so intensely that he nearly sways. God, he misses the Ghost Drifting.

"I am sorry, John. I never meant for you to become collateral damage to my faults."

"You didn't force me into retirement or transfer Moriarty to Chard, and you're sure as hell not at the helm of some international conspiracy, so I think we can exonerate you from what's going on."

Sherlock is terribly tempted to apologise again, since it clearly seems to work in making John feel better and more forgiving.

John starts walking for the park, striding close to Sherlock and leaning their arms against each other momentarily. The touch feels grounding.

"I forgive you, you idiot, I just wanted the why and not just the sorry," John tells him quietly as if he'd known what Sherlock was about to say yet again. "Now, I don't think I've ever said this to you before: shall we go to church?" he chuckles.

Sherlock grins. "Let's see what Jesus has to offer to some burnt-out Rangers. Maybe we could put in a request to tone it down with the kaiju."

John snorts. "I'd think you'd want the opposite, Mr I'm-So-Bored-I-Need-A-Breach."

Sherlock gives him a mock-shocked look. "If I can no longer fight the kaiju crawling out of one, I sure as hell don't want to give that satisfaction to anyone else."

Chapter 31: Sanctuary

"It's very pink," John points out.

Sherlock crinkles his nose at the sight, squinting in the bright sunlight. "Light colours are practical in this climate."

They're standing in front of St George's Church — Igreja de São Jorge as the map at the bus stop had declared — Lisbon's Anglican house of worship. Surrounded by the leafy, lovingly tended Estrela gardens and a British cemetery off to one side, it's a quiet haven of green-upon-cobblestone.

"Looks old," John concludes. "Rose window and all."

"Can't be older than late nineteenth century. Romanesque revival, tacky if you ask me. And not just because of the pastel colour."

"I didn't know you were interested in architecture," John admits. When he could still read his husband's thoughts it was easy to imagine he knew all that there was to know about Sherlock. Since their exile began, he has realised there must be countless things Sherlock hasn't thought about, hasn't indulged in during his time at Chard's Rift. They would have been hidden from John despite their intimate mental connection.

"I was compelled by my mentor at Cambridge to spruce up my education with some humanities. Architecture seemed concrete enough to be tolerable. We're not here for that, though," he dismisses.

Sherlock has been quiet, broody during their long walk to the Anglican Parish. It had seemed like their gruelling conversation about James had mended some bridges, but it hasn't abated John's worries regarding what comes next. John suspects that his husband feels that he needs to be in charge since he'd been the one to first voice the idea to leg it from Chard before John's official departure. Sherlock seems to have appointed himself travel guide and escape planner, which John doesn't mind, but he's concerned about the pressures associated. Sherlock had admitted there are gaping holes in his plan, and neither he nor John are fond of the idea of relying this much on Mycroft.

Sherlock is looking at him expectantly.

"After you," John prompts, cocking his head at the church door. There's not a soul in the courtyard besides them so he doubts the church will be crowded, either. He can't recall ever hearing about it before, so it doesn't seem to be much of an item on tourist circuits.

The heavy wooden door is unlocked, and when Sherlock pulls it open, they can hear music from far ahead. A choir looks to be practicing there. There is a small sales and information desk in the entry hall currently unmanned.

Sherlock goes to a notice board and stabs his finger on a printed sheet featuring the names and photos of permanent staff. The first one on the list is 'Reverend Canon Anne Harper' with office hours listed. An old grandfather clock sporting the name of a British company behind the desk tells them the Reverend should be available right now.

"Is that her?" John asks, spotting a woman stacking hymn books in the main hall.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. "Only one way to find out."

He marches into the church proper, paying no mind to the convivial surroundings and heading straight to the woman. "Reverend Harper?"

She turns, offering a pleasant smile that seems not rehearsed but natural after years of service to people. "Good day, gentlemen. Welcome to the parish; what can I do for you?"

"Is there somewhere we could talk?" Sherlock asks.

"In private," John emphasises.

"I was just about to return to the office. We can speak there." She seems unfazed by the request; perhaps they're not the only people speaking with a British accent who've ever showed up asking for help.

She takes them back outside and to an annex building separated from the church by a small courtyard with an empty stone fountain.

They accept her offer of tea, delivered by a parish clerk. Once the trolley has been parked beside her desk and the clerk has returned to her duties, the Reverend goes to close the door. "I don't believe I caught your names?"

John breathes a sigh of relief; the woman not recognising them gives them a chance to choose how to spin this tale.

"We'll get to that in a moment," Sherlock says curtly. "We need temporary shelter. We're British citizens."

"Are you here on a holiday? The embassy is on Rua de São Bernardo; they can lend you money for a flight ticket home if you've lost your belongings. Pickpocketing and room break-ins are a major issue in Lisbon."

Her explanation is so fluent that John now suspects even more that people have sought help here many times before.

Sherlock straightens his back and schools his features into a haunted expression. "We're not here on holiday. We were a part of an organisation where we were treated badly. We've contacted someone who will arrange official whistleblower status and protection, but that will take several days. Until then, we don't have a secure place to stay to protect our identities. We can't go to any hotels or more around freely in Lisbon because we might be recognised."

"That sounds terrible. How did you end up with such an organisation?"

"We joined under coercion," Sherlock answers before John can even try to come up with an explanation. "And were forced to stay. We have information about infighting within the organisation, and that puts a target on our back."

The best lies have a grain of truth in them, Sherlock had insisted when they had discussed what to reveal once they found someone to talk to. We need to keep it vague. You can spot a bad liar from too many details, he had added. John had asked who'd given him such advice. Sherlock's reply had been a sardonic brow and a 'who do you think'?

Sherlock might think his brother is an uncaring arsehole at the best of times but clearly, there is some appreciation for the man's Machiavellian skills. Without such abilities, John doubts he'd ever have risen to the rank of Marshal.

John hopes that the good reverend won't ask for more details. He's not sure what the Anglican church's official relationship is with the PPDC; there are hired representatives at each base for several major world religions to provide pastoral care, but John has always steered clear of them. Not even Harry's death had driven him back to religion.

"You said it will take… days, was it, to arrange some manner of asylum?" Reverend Harper verifies.

"We're expecting our transport out of Lisbon to be arranged for Friday," Sherlock promises her.

"Is there are other type of assistance you require besides a place to stay out of sight? Medical assistance? Legal help? Should I contact the Embassy for you? They usually operate by appointment only, but this sounds important, so they might––"

"No, no, we're alright," John assures her.

She sips her tea and leans her elbows on the desk. "May I ask what organisation it is?"

"It's best you know as little as possible." Sherlock's expression turns even sterner. "If any of the staff here happen to follow the media and see us here, we might be exposed. Keeping our presence secret is imperative."

"I'm sorry to hear what you're going through, gentlemen. We have a house at the back that used to be the staff living quarters but since our current employees are all locals, it's been empty but kept in good condition for the occasional visiting dignitary. You are welcome to stay there until your passage is organised. What about food?"

"We have some money left but would prefer not to risk recognition by going to a grocery store."

"I'm sure Fernanda — who you already met when she brought in the tea — will help you with that. I'll explain the situation to her. I've known her for a long time; she will keep your confidence."

"Thank you. You may call me William. He's John," Sherlock reveals in a careful tone. "Our real names are too recognisable."

John's lip quirks up. Giving John as a fake name is genius — it's common enough and once again, 'the best lies have a grain of truth'. Sherlock would make a good spy. Or a private detective, he thinks and rises from his chair to follow Sherlock and the Reverend to their new hideout.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Were the 'house at the back' located in England, it would be called a cottage. Unlike the church, it is built in local style with a red brick roof, white walls and turquoise painted lines around windows and doorways. There is a kitchen, a dining area and two bedrooms, all sparsely decorated with antique furniture but comfortable. An old tabletop computer sits on a desk in a small office space, and the password as well as the internet connection account information have been jotted down on a note tacked to a cork noticeboard. The fridge is empty when John checks it, but the kitchen cupboards carry dry necessities such as sugar, tea, coffee and spices. With a repeat promise of groceries to be delivered, the Reverend leaves them to get settled in.

The dining area is decorated, unsurprisingly, with a large and rather, graphic wooden crucifix. The artist has used copious amounts of lurid red where the thorn crown and the lance have drawn blood.

"Nothing better than a bit of vintage torture to whet one's appetite," Sherlock snarks, walking past it. He goes to the larger bedroom and drops onto his back on the double bed covered with a heavy lace bedspread without bothering to remove his shoes.

John cracks open a window since the air inside the building is stale and very warm. He then joins Sherlock on the bed, dropping down with a groan and making the mattress shudder under their combined weight. He extends his arm, pats the empty space between them and Sherlock settles tight against him, head on John's bicep.

"All we can do now is to wait for Mycroft to deliver on the extraction plan," John comments. "Let's just take it easy for a few days."

"There's nothing to do cooped up here", Sherlock complains.

"Except all of the internet, without Corps-enforced limitations. Assuming that old computer works."

Sherlock considers this. "Maybe I'll be able to dig up something about Moriarty. It really sounded like Mycroft could use all the help he can get."

"Can we stop talking about James, please?" John tries not to sound as irritated as he is. "We left the PPDC. It means you have to let go of all that."

"You're annoyed with me."

"Bloody astute observation."

"You said you forgive me."

"That doesn't mean I––– I forgive you, yes, absolutely, but I don't want James to have any part in our lives anymore. You're still giving him your time and energy."

John tries to remind himself that Sherlock struggles with these kinds of things, social finesse and understanding how his actions and thoughts affect others. He doesn't do it on purpose to hurt me, John tells himself — and believes it. During their conversation about James, Sherlock had seemed genuinely remorseful about the way things had gone, and John finds it easier than he would have assumed to believe his husband. He'd never doubted that Sherlock loved him, just feared that Sherlock might want someone else, too.

"What else have I got to make time pass here than trying to help Mycroft? Like you said, I've left the PPDC," Sherlock argues. "The Corps was our only job and only hobby."

Sherlock sounds so frustrated, so forlorn, that whatever might remain of John's anger abates in an instant. "Come here," he says quietly and pulls Sherlock even tighter against him, planting a kiss on his temple. "I wish I could just turn off your brain sometimes. I know it's like a hamster in a wheel and can drive us both nuts, but maybe we could still try to focus on us instead of being useful or solving crimes or whatever?"

"How does that work, 'focussing on us'?"

John kisses his cheek. "I've a few ideas."

"John Watson," Sherlock mock-chastises, "we're in the house of God," he chuckles.

"I'm pretty sure God has seen way worse. Even heard way worse than what you sound like when you really get into it," John teases, sliding his palm down the front of Sherlock's jeans.

It startles John how the thought of taking a male partner's cock in his mouth at a parish house no longer causes even the slightest residual feeling of conflict and guilt. Before he met Sherlock, he was convinced he'd stay in the closet for the rest of his life and could never have imagined meeting someone who could help him shake off the last tethers to an upbringing he recognised as harmful but was still clinging to because it was all he knew. Now, after John had let hurricane devil-may-care Sherlock rearrange his priorities, the thought of having sex on these premises just feels delectably naughty — triumphant, even. John doesn't know if he believes in God or an afterlife, but he's convinced that wherever a God might be, it's not in religious organisations built be people, and he never wants to join such a thing again.

He hopes Sherlock could learn to do the same about his past — to abandon the harmful parts and learn how to reconcile with the rest. His extreme knee-jerk responses to Mycroft speak of open wounds rather than old scars.

Sherlock raises his torso onto his elbows, pretending to ignore the fact that John has now slipped his palm between his jeans and underwear. "That woman was supposed to bring us groceries. What if she walks in just as we're getting into it?"

As if on cue there is a knock on the door. John sighs, removes his hand, climbs off the bed and goes to receive their visitor. It's the parish employee they had met earlier, Fernanda, with a plastic bag and a cardboard box filled with still-warm pastries. John thanks her with the scarce words of Portuguese he knows and gives her enough money to cover food for several days. She departs with a promise to bring more tomorrow.

The bag turns out to contain milk, fresh bread, butter, fruit and canned tuna as well as onions, canned tomatoes, dried pasta and olive oil. Biting into one of the half moon -shaped pastries John discovers they're filled with meat and peas. Half of the cardboard box is occupied with pastel de natas, the vanilla custard -filled round pies John knows Sherlock loves. He brings one wrapped in a piece of tissue from the kitchen roll to the bedroom where Sherlock is still horizontal, fingers steepled on his stomach. He accepts the offering without sitting up and scarfs it down in three bites.

"Better than mess hall offerings," he comments.

"I can make a pasta later with the rest of what she brought."

"Any wine in there?"

"No. Tap water's drinkable, probably."

"There's a twelve-pack of large bottles of still water in the dining room."

John pushes Sherlock's hip until he shifts towards the wall from the middle of the bed. John lies down next to him, spooning him from behind. They rest there quietly for a while, but Sherlock's breathing doesn't even out and deepen to signal he's succumbing to a nap.

"I can practically hear you thinking," complains John affectionately, stroking his palm down the back of Sherlock's head and carding his fingers through neck curls, relishing the shudder this produces. Shifting his torso backwards for a bit more manoeuvring space, he trails his hand down where shoulder blades join the spine, then starts drawing letters with his finger.

‘I love you’, he writes.

"Pedestrian cipher," Sherlock complains. "You're the worst sop of any fugitive ever."

"Oi!" John slaps his arse gently. "Berk is what you are."

"The berk that ended your celibacy. You'll fit right in here since you lived like a monk for so long."

"I was doing perfectly okay before you barged in," John jokes.

Unfortunately, Sherlock takes this at face value and not for the jest it was. "I hope you're not expecting me to feel guilty for your homosexual panic when we met," he mutters.

It's still jarring for John to hear his life being described in such blunt terms. In hindsight, it's a bit perverse how much pride he'd taken in such self-denial — as though someone was going to reward him for not acting according to his orientation and for keeping it a secret. The PPDC was not the most tolerant of places, but coming out turned out to be much less traumatic than he'd expected.

"I didn't mean that, no." John perches his palm on Sherlock's hip and shifts closer. "I'm glad you showed up and made me get over all that." He buries his nose in Sherlock's curls; their scent is different from usual since Sherlock had left behind his usual hair products. "You didn't exactly have suitors lined up at the door in London, did you?" he points out, leaning his cheek on Sherlock's T-shirt covered shoulder. "I bet there would have been takers, though, if you didn't frighten them away the moment you opened your mouth." John knows he can joke about this — Sherlock is usually the first to point out that people aren't usually very endeared by his unwillingness to adhere to social expectations. If it was anyone else calling him out of this, he might be offended and conceal it well, but John saying so doesn't seem to bother him.

Or does it? John wonders suddenly. What if he's just hidden it well? Would he have always noticed when Sherlock was erecting an invisible wall between them by shielding? So much of Sherlock's past seems to be just an bottomless well of hurt.

"There were… offers in Cambridge, but I wasn't interested," Sherlock muses. "I didn't know what I was looking for back then, but it wasn't any of the men or women who showed interest in me during university. Or after."

"And you know now?"

"I know now, yes, that my type is a short, blonde Corps physician-turned-back-to-Ranger with an admirable-sized cock, yes."

John grins. "And you have a lot of other cocks to compare it to?"

"I've done some estimates based on scientific sources. You should be proud."

"Oh my God," John laughs and plants a wet kiss on the side of Sherlock's neck with the help of a bit of tongue. "You're such an idiot."

Sherlock wipes the spot with his palm which he then rubs theatrically on his jeans. "I'm a man of science and you think that's idiotic?"

John reaches down with the hand he'd held on to Sherlock's waist and starts unbuckling his belt. "Fernanda's gone, now. We're safe."

"Not entirely. We should avoid getting kicked out."

"You'll just need to be quiet, then," John tells him deadpan just as he manages to shove his hand down Sherlock's boxers and coils his fingers around the developing hardness he finds there. "At least the kaiju can't interrupt us ever again."

It's a marvellous thought, being able to do this whenever they want and not be interrupted by wailing sirens.

Being able to have a glass of wine when they want.

Not having to ask permission to go somewhere.

Being able to eat whatever and wherever they choose, wear whatever clothes they want.

It is only now that they're no longer Rangers that John realises how much he'd given up and for how long for service to the Corps.

I don't owe them anything anymore.

He owes himself this: a life with Sherlock. What form it takes, he cannot know yet. All he knows is that Sherlock is in his arms where he belongs, warm and alive.

John starts stroking down the shaft, tightening his grip on each push down and flicking his thumb on each pass close to the tip. Sherlock's back arches against him and his chest expands with a ragged inhale. John slips his hand out, spits in it and returns it to Sherlock's cock, now fully firm. When he slips his fingers down, he finds Sherlock's balls tightened against the base of his cock, the skin pulled taut by the now so engorged erection that the sensation of his hand on it must be straddling the line between exquisite and nearly painful. He knows Sherlock can get overwhelmed and over-sensitised at this point so, as he returns to stroking the cock, he loosens his grip and avoids the fraenulum, focussing instead on a steady rhythm. Sherlock grips his wrist to regain some control of sensation, and John can tell from a tensing of his fingers when what he's doing is threatening to be too much. Before, John would have known without such a physical signalling system how to alter his ministrations since he could observe the buildup of arousal within their mental connection. Now, he needs to learn a new, more corporeal language of how to get his partner off.

It never takes long for Sherlock to climax unless he is very distracted at the start of sex. Now, he appears to have taken to heart John's advice to trying to take his mind off the PPDC and their worries since John can tell he's already past the point of no return, the cerebral side of his formidable brain shut off and instinct taking over. His eyes pinch shut as his breathing becomes heaving, and though John can tell he's trying to be quiet, a groan escapes deep from his chest. He's shifting his hips as if trying to evade John's hand, still relentlessly pumping his shaft.

"Too much? Tell me what you need," John whispers close to his ear.

"The tip––" Sherlock answers breathless, then swallows.

John doesn't need further instructions. He slides his hand closer to the tip and makes sure that every stroke, gentler but faster than before, reaches all the way to the sensitive tip. He hears his name, strangled and desperate, escape Sherlock's lips and knows what it means. He grabs the tissue he'd used to bring in the pastry and shoves it down Sherlock's boxers, ready for when Sherlock comes to spare them of a laundry day. Sherlock arches against him with a strangled cry, and John holds him tight through the aftershocks. His partner seems so blissed-out for a moment, unmoving and boneless, that John doubts he even notices how he wipes off the spent cock and drops the crumpled-up tissue on the floor. He lifts the edge of the boxers gently to cover the softening erection, then wraps his arm around Sherlock's waist again.

Sherlock tugs at his arm until it's against his chest. He sighs deep, boneless against John. "I needed that," he admits quietly.

I need you is what he doesn't say but John knows.

Even if they can't read each other's thoughts any longer, John knows.

 

 

 

Notes:

The Igreja de São Jorge really is pink.

Chapter 32: The Weight of The World

Oh, England, my lionheart
I'm in your garden fading fast in your arms
The soldiers soften, the war is over
The air raid shelters are blooming clover

Oh, England, my lionheart
Dropped from my black spitfire to my funeral barge

— Kate Bush

 

"Sherlock?" John calls out from the front door of the house they've borrowed for the past four days.

There is a car with black-tinted windows waiting for them outside the gates of the church gardens.

Sherlock had claimed to linger behind to use the loo, but it's been over ten minutes since John has last seen him.

Instead of heading for the direction of the bathroom, something makes John turn at the corner of the living room and head for the bedroom they had used. It's as if he's following a subconscious beacon instead of the plan he'd made consciously. This is how he used to find Sherlock when they were still Ghost Drifting, and it's far from the only sign of some of it lingering behind that John has spotted in the past few days. It shouldn't be possible, and Sherlock remains sceptical, but John sees no harm in being open-minded.

He finds his husband in front of the old computer he'd switched off over an hour ago. It's back on, and indulging in Sherlock's lingering obsession with keeping an eye on the Ravager through news reports.

"We need to go," John reminds him. "Whatever you're doing can wait––"

Sherlock flaps a distracted hand in his direction to silence him. He's transfixed by the news playing on the online streaming channel of one of Portugal's commercial channels. John leans closer to see, and it takes him mere seconds to recognise that it's their former Jaeger on screen, a drone filming it as it wades in coastal waters towards where two heavy-duty transport helicopters are waiting. At first, John suspects it's archival footage, but there is a large, dramatic gash on the Jaeger's right chest panel that wasn't there before. The timestamp on screen tells him all this happened an hour ago.

"There was a Breach three hours ago," Sherlock's tone is clipped, edged with irritation. "And they sent him."

John wouldn't even need whatever remnant of Ghost Drifting they might be experiencing to sense the jealous rage emanating from his partner. Sherlock is practically shaking with it, unable to tear his eyes from the scene on the screen. The broadcast switches to another drone, giving a bird's eye view of a kaiju corpse leaking blue into the shallows. Boats are approaching; presumably an environmental clean-up crew.

"Is that on Vila do Corvo?" John frowns. He thinks he recognises it as the island next to the one housing the capital of the Azores. "How the hell did they let a kaiju get so close to habitation?"

"It was fast, faster than any recorded before. Not very big, though. They should have deployed one of the smaller Jaegers. Takes too long to deploy the Ravager for anything that nimble."

"Did they say why they picked it?"

"No, but it's obvious," Sherlock snaps, "they want to prove it's still operational after our deaths. Marais needs to prove she can defend the Atlantic."

"Nothing you can do about that now," John tells him. "Car's here; we need to go."

It's as if Sherlock hasn't heard a word. His fingers coil like claws on the back of the chair he's standing in front of.

The footage changes to Chard's Rift where a podium has been erected on the aviation deck. LJ Marais is standing there, and soon James Moriarty and a younger Ranger John has never seen before are escorted onto the stage. Not every deployment warrants a post-battle press conference, but John isn't surprised that the Corps is giving James the limelight again since this is his and his new partner's first battle and they need a new hero to divert attention from the tragedy of losing two well-known Rangers.

Sherlock's theory of wanting to prove the Ravager is still operational through going public with a new team does make sense. His accusatory tone towards the new interim commander of Chard seems unfair to John, though, since LJ Marais looks sombre rather than triumphant standing behind her new Ravager team as they take the microphone.

Sherlock clicks the mute button, perhaps unwilling to hear what James has to say to gloat about his first victory in battle. Even without sound, John can't help but be in awe of the man's charisma on screen. For a moment as brief as his still simmering but now mild residual anger allows, John imagines Sherlock standing beside James on that podium, his white battle armour complementing James' graphite grey with black embellishments. The devil and the angel, John thinks, aware that Sherlock would protest loudly such a designation.

"Did we make a mistake––" Sherlock starts, his back to John where he leans against the chair, shoulders now slumped in defeat, "––when we didn't stay to fight for the Ravager?"

It's a rhetorical question. They had no choice, as Sherlock had insisted. John had been pushed out of service, and after James invaded their bedroom and Sherlock's brain, there was no way in hell that he'd be willing to Drift with the man. No one can have it all, but he's exactly the type to die trying, John sighs within himself. Is this how it's always going to be? he wonders. Is Sherlock going to be forever obsessed with James and skyrocketing his blood pressure every time something reminds him of the Corps?

The Ravager was never going to be a forever deal. They'd always known that John's expiration date would come sooner than Sherlock's. Perhaps the latter had never quite accepted the idea and used his typical tactic of denial and stubborn anger to pretend that the end of their joint piloting was never going to happen.

Sherlock flinches when John rests a hand on his shoulder. "Come on. You have to let it go. We knew he'd probably get the assignment and, once that happened, it was only a matter of time before they took the Ravager out."

"We can't go back," Sherlock tells the wall and the TV screen in front of him. "It's over." He sounds like he's trying to convince himself.

"No, it's not." John gives his bony shoulder a squeeze. "This isn't the end, it's a new start for us. We had a good run, yeah?"

He wonders if leaving Lisbon, putting more geographical distance between them and Chard is making Sherlock hesitate like this. Leaving Portugal behind is making John, too, feel like their departure is truly becoming final.

"And Mycroft thinks I'm reckless with his toys," Sherlock scoffs as the footage changes to the Ravager being choppered in, the large gash a kaiju codenamed Imperator had cut on its chest plate now even more visible. There are short-circuiting cables hanging from the hole, emitting sparks, and one of the Jaeger's shin guard plates looks a bit loose.

John allows himself a moment to watch the battle footage that plays next before clearing his throat. "Sherlock. Turn it off."

Sherlock switches off the computer and follows John out of the house without a word. He says not a word en route to the airport, but John doesn't have to ask what he's thinking about.

Sherlock, bored and frustrated at military life at Chard was a handful. Sherlock, aimless, vengeful, and without a Jaeger may well be even worse, John realises.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

They are taken to the private terminal of Lisbon's international airport. There, they are promptly escorted to a conference room by a young man in a black suit who conveys "greetings from Marshal Holmes". Two large suitcases are waiting by the window, containing clothes and new identities: passports, credit cards to a Swiss bank Sherlock says is known for its discretion and thus used by Mycroft as well, some bits and bobs of housing and insurance paper trail to make things more credible that they are English expats returning to home soil. Mycroft's contacts have made an admirable job tailoring their photos to their current hairstyles. John wonders how the Marshal even knows what they look like now — he hopes it's because Sherlock had conveyed the information during their second covert online chat and not because his brother-in-law has been able to track them through surveillance cameras in Lisbon. That would mean other officials could do that, too.

They'd showered at the house, so slipping into their new wardrobe requires no preparations. Sherlock shoves the black leather jacket he's been carrying around into the suitcase and pulls out a long, woollen and sharply tailored dark blue coat with a subtle herringbone pattern and red stitching around the buttonholes. In his suitcase, John finds a navy-blue mid-length oilskin jacket from the same brand as Sherlock's coat. It has a military feel to the cut: boxy, practical and durable, while Sherlock looks more like a City banker headed for lunch in his flouncy number. John decides this new coat suits his partner perfectly: it's an almost theatrical statement piece, but Sherlock is the kind that can carry that without looking comical. Is it dangerous to draw attention to him like that, though? John wonders. Sherlock looking so imposing will turn some heads.

"Impractically long, but at least there's a deep back vent, so I won't feel like I'm wearing a wraparound dress," Sherlock appraises in front of a mirror by the doors to the conference suit bathrooms.

John realises he has no idea what kinds of clothes Sherlock had liked to wear before joining the Corps. Something tells him his husband had been more formal than casual, perhaps a bit of a show-off. Why else would his brother have supplied such a coat?

The man from whom Mycroft had collected a favour in the form of transporting two former Rangers discreetly to the Union of Former British States comes to greet them briefly. He introduces himself formally as Alexei Konstantinovich Verezhnin and says he knows Marshal Holmes from their university days. He's returning his two children to a boarding school in Scotland and spending a few days in London with them en route. Once he's left them alone in the conference room again, Sherlock gives John a knowing glance.

"Arms dealer," he comments bluntly. "One might even say oligarch. Old Russian money, some aristocratic blood. Supplies us with cheap missiles most welcome since home soil defence budgets are minimal thanks to the Corps eating up the rest and gets diplomatic immunity in exchange."

"Mycroft told you that?" John asks, parting the heavy, grey curtains to see whether a plane is already waiting on the tarmac, and spots a long-range Gulfstream being fuelled.

"I had a hunch he's the one Mycroft might go to. I knew of his acquaintance with Verezhnin and remember a deal he brokered between the Portuguese government over certain… supplies to their coastal defence before he became Marshal. He wasn't in a role back then where such a deal would have been problematic, but if such a tie came out later… Thankfully Russian oligarchs are not very fund of publicity or political scandals. It was a bit of a giveaway that he said he might not have that favour available soon, anyway, since this contact might be a bridge to be burned if what he suspects is true about the Corps."

"I don't know if I'm surprised that he'd be willing to have dealings with such people," John muses. "Maybe no one gets to the top in politics without getting their hands dirty."

"Mycroft is a pragmatist. If someone he knows could be useful to him, he's willing to look the other way."

"Unless they start to threaten the integrity of the Corps."

"Stealing his toys is certainly not on," Sherlock chuckles. "He told me once that thinking of people in such black-and-white terms is childish, and that it was best I stuck to my dragon-slaying since I failed to understand the concept of necessary evil."

"The dragon-slaying part is quite literally true," John laughs.

"I asked him who history tends to remember, St George or his accountant?" Sherlock smirks.

John glances at the new, practical watch he'd found at the bottom of the bag and strapped to his wrist. It feels grounding to wear something like that again after having to ditch his wrist console. They have less than thirty minutes before departure, so he tells Sherlock he needs the gents'.

When he returns to the conference room, Sherlock is nowhere to be seen. As minutes pass, John begins getting quite nervous but finally, another glance outside reveal Sherlock has slipped into a glass-walled smoking enclosure outside the front entrance to the small private terminal. John wonders if there had been a packet of cigs shoved into the pocket of his new coat. Mycroft Holmes just might be that considerate. He doesn't know his brother in adulthood that well, but John is certain the older Holmes knows how high-strung Sherlock gets when nervous and has picked up on his smoking habit to curb that anxiety. A few times, John even found the two brothers indulging together.

He goes to the foyer where Verezhnin is helping his children organise their hand luggage. He gives John a curt, polite smile.

"Newspaper, sir, for your flight?" offers an attendant, presenting to John a tray of different international editions.

Even in the day and age where the news lives largely online, some legacy media outlets have kept publishing daily paper editions. Perhaps it is the likes of Verezhnin who keep them afloat — traditionally schooled people with money.

John picks up a copy of the Times and thanks the attendant. He means to shove it in his bag when a front-page headline catches his attention: 'Base Commander Prentiss Hammond found dead'.

According to the story, Hammond had been discovered in a hotel room in Thailand with a high blood alcohol content and an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head. There were no signs of forced entry, and he had sent a suicide note by email to his wife as well as left a short hand-written note in his room, the contents of which were classified as tactically sensitive, according to the head of Global Command's internal investigations.

Why would a suicide note contain tactically classified information? Who had Hammond hoped would find it? wonders John. And was it even a suicide?

If Prentiss Hammond really had killed himself, what was the reason? Not wanting to testify against Mycroft Holmes?

All the decisions the man had made lately, acting very different to the Hammond John and LJ and every other seasoned Ranger has known for years… John can't help but wonder if someone had forced Hammond's hand in those odd and unfair decisions and if that is the reason why he'd eventually decided he couldn't live with himself.

There is also the possibility that Mycroft Holmes is ruthless enough to eliminate someone who might threaten his position, especially since the Marshal had been struggling to shake off those corruption accusations.

No, John decides. His brother-in-law might be a poncy berk who's made a lot of mistakes, especially concerning his family, but John can't bring himself to believe that he'd resort to commissioning murder, especially since Hammond's strange behaviour seems to be connected to so many other things that have been worrying both Holmeses. Hammond's witness role is a late development in the mess, and the accusations seems like a knee-jerk response, a diversion tactic from whatever is really going on, at least according to Sherlock. Maybe Mycroft was getting closer to the truth, and that's why they tried to destroy him?

Sherlock saunters in, coat unbuttoned and breath reeking of chain-smoking. John shoves the newspaper at him.

"Mycroft needs that note," Sherlock concludes after devouring the article. "It says Hammond called the police from the hotel fifteen minutes prior to being discovered after gunshots were heard. He wanted the local police to find that note instead of whoever the Corps would send. Whatever is on it, he was afraid to even discuss on the phone."

"You think he really killed himself?" John asks. Sherlock's deductions have hammered it home that a man he'd once thought of as a friend and comrade really is dead, no less than by their own hand, because they had ended up in a situation they saw no way out of.

"Someone must've been forcing him to lie against the person who practically made his career. He wouldn't have been Base Commander without Mycroft. He didn't have a pristine enough service record to please Global Command, but Mycroft thought he would be the best fit for Chard — and someone who wouldn't oppose his command. He lobbied hard to land Hammond in the spot."

John is relieved to hear this. It feels like evidence against the theory that Mycroft might be behind Hammond's death. "How do you know all this?"

"Mycroft insisted on brotherly visits when I lived in London. He tries to control everyone and never got over that inane responsibility complex over me so he kept showing up to disapprove of me and bored for Britain over tea about his work. No matter how clear I made it that I wasn't interested, that I wanted to hear nothing about the PPDC, he lectured me that these were matters that were of great importance to the safety of the entire human race, not to mention our family legacy. Hammond owed him a lot, and there never was any conflict between them. Hammond must've felt that testifying against Mycroft would be a personal betrayal."

"Not to mention all the other things he's been doing," John scoffs. "He was never just a rubber stamp but lately, he just kept doing what Global Command wanted. Marais gave him a piece of his mind over your reimplantation, and he thanked her for being angry with him, for telling him he'd made a rubbish decision."

"There's also a possibility that someone silenced him because he was about to start talking about what was really going on behind the scenes," Sherlock points out. "Either way, they tried to mow Mycroft out because he was getting close. If he gets access to that note, perhaps he can blow this whole thing wide open."

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

They land at London's recently built private Hammersmith Skyline airfield at such an early hour of the morning that it's still dark. Built on a large platform on top of the Thames, the facility provides discreet and customised VIP service if navigating the four large commercials airports near the capital takes too much time and fuss. The Union of Former British States army uses Hammersmith frequently for ferrying dignitaries in and out.

As they step onto the tarmac after a short set of steps down from the plane, John stops to admire the lights of the metropole's skyscrapers glittering in the surprisingly clean, clear night air. There had been a brief period before the first kaiju incursion where humanity had attempted to care about climate change and London, among other large cities had banned most of private vehicle traffic. Though Britain's old imperial powers had dwindled due to internal conflicts leading to Northern Ireland and much of Scotland leaving the United Kingdom, the City's banking sector is still a driving force in keeping the Union of Former British States a formidable global finance player even in the age of a lot of global GDP needing to be funnelled into the PPDC.

John has only been to London a few times in his teens and early adulthood. He's never lived here and wonders how Sherlock feels returning to his former haunts. Not that they can stay here to explore. Here, the risk of people recognising them must be the highest anywhere.

Once they've walked from the plane to one of the small terminal buildings sitting in a neat row, they are asked to present their passports to a border control official. He barely even glances at John's before a curt 'thank you, sir' before moving on to the next person. The same happens with Sherlock, and it's an even bigger a relief since he's more distinctive looking than John even with his hair dyed.

"What now?" John asks quietly, leaning close to his partner's ear. The other passengers of the private flight are barely even acknowledging their presence as they head out to where their luggage is being lifted onto a small conveyor belt. He and Sherlock have no luggage; they'd left their old clothes in the suitcases which still sit in that Lisbon airport conference room.

"Big brother will have sent a car," Sherlock replies quietly, and heads towards the exit. He must be avoiding using Mycroft's name deliberately.

He'd been quiet on the plane, watching the darkness above the clouds with his fingers curled around the handrest upholstered with soft, cream leather. When that tight hold had changed to incessant, manic finger tapping, John had hailed one of the two stewardesses and requested two whiskies neat. Sherlock had tried to request an espresso as well, but John had shut down that request, pointing out that he was keyed up enough even without caffeine.

The Bruichladdich Port Charlotte 10 delivered by the stewardess tastes like manna from Heaven after the cheap blended whiskies John had drunk at Chard for years. He doubts whatever kind of life they will build for themselves will allow for a lot of expensive food and drink so he's grateful for this indulgence. The last time he's had whisky this good was at their wedding dinner at Mycroft's expense.

John doesn't like the idea that their privacy and their funds come at the expense — and mercy — of Marshal Holmes, but the old saying that beggars can't be choosers is sordidly apt. John has little savings since the PPDC doesn't exactly pay a generous wage, and he remembers Sherlock saying his trust fund had whittled away. That he had whittled it away.

What the hell are we going to do to get money? John wonders, and not for the first time. Live off the land in some small village?

Sherlock hadn't been very forthcoming in Lisbon about what was going to happen once they got to London safely. If they got to London. John had asked if Mycroft had arranged for a place for them to stay and had gathered from Sherlock's mutterings that the answer was yes, but that he was reluctant to discuss the matter further.

Marshal Mycroft Holmes is the sort of man whose gifts come with hidden agendas — Trojan horses of loyalties, favours, and emotional manipulation. Relying on his brother must be like pulling teeth for Sherlock, so why isn't he letting John help with sorting things out for their future? A part of John cannot help but wonder if this is about Sherlock trying to prove something to him. Loyalty? Love?

He could have just stayed away from Moriarty and things would be fine, John catches himself thinking, but such thoughts have lost their prior cutting edges. It's now just a statement of fact: Sherlock's dangerous game with the man had contributed, if not quite caused, their current circumstances. But everyone makes mistakes, and John believes his partner truly regrets the ones on his tally when it comes to their relationship.

Sherlock is here, with him. Not at Chard with James Moriarty.

Sherlock has always been an enigma, a challenge to understand, even when they had been able to read each other's minds. John might begrudgingly admit that losing the Ghost Drifting has forced them to talk about difficult things more, but not being able to rely on telepathy has robbed him of the hints that such a connection used to provide about why Sherlock was in a particular mood.

After the whisky had warmed their bellies and calmed Sherlock down enough to stop fidgeting like a meercat on acid, he'd continued his thoughtful staring out the window.

After finishing a readthrough of his newspaper, John had offered a penny for his husband's thoughts.

"Just tired. I don't think I'll get a proper night's sleep before Mycroft gets us somewhere where we can take some time to think and decide what to do."

It appears that for Sherlock, England is a shadow looming rather than a reassuring promise of safety and familiarity. How John feels about it, he's not sure. In being so worried about Sherlock's state of mind, he's avoided picking apart his own emotions. He's been away for so long that all he thinks he knows of England must be outdated by now, almost touristy assumptions laced with nostalgia. He'd joined the Corps not to get away from England but to take the final step away from his family and the church in which he'd been raised. Perhaps they are similar in that both had wanted to get away from an organisation they felt had deprived them of so much in their childhood.

Their walk comes to a halt on a covered stretch of kerb outside the small terminal. Sherlock spots a man in a black suit wearing an earpiece and carrying a tablet computer sporting the name 'Captain Sigerson and associate'.

He notices John's baffled expression. "An old joke between Mycroft and I. Whenever he saw fit to impose brotherly advice on me, I threatened to change my name to that and escape to Norway to be a fisherman, so he'd never see me again. That idea seemed to frighten him since he couldn't keep an eye on me any longer."

They slip into the car, a spotless Range Rover Sentinel. On the windshield sits a special permission plate for the Central London & City vehicle-free zone.

The car has very darkly tinted windows, and John realises it's probably armour-plated. John reminds himself that Mycroft needs all this security because there are domestic religious and other terrorist groups that frequently threaten the PPDC.

No Londoner will be able to tell that this enigmatic vehicle contains two well-known Rangers.

"You have a meeting with the Marshal at eighteen hundred hours," the driver informs them. "There is a message on the seat."

Sherlock picks up the envelope, rips it open, then starts reading out loud. "'Welcome home, brother mine. I've duties to attend to until the evening; the car will be at your disposal until then. Spend the day as you see fit, but do not exit the vehicle unless the driver has established that it's safe to do so. It goes without saying that you cannot let anyone see you.'"

"It goes without saying, so of course that pompous arse would still say it," Sherlock jokes dryly.

John snorts. "Enjoy your day stuck in a car." He realises he doesn't really mind the idea: the back seat is spacious, there is a drinks compartment and, judging by the complicated climate control settings, they'll be comfortable no matter how much the weather might misbehave.

"Where to, gentlemen?" The driver asks them.

"What should we call you?" John asks.

"Edward."

John doubts it's his real name.

"Montague Street, please," Sherlock commands.

"What's on Montague Street?" John asks, surprised that Sherlock would have such an immediate and clear idea of a destination.

"It used to be me."

Chapter 33: Memory Lane

Looking through the glass, cannot recognise the ghost that you're seeing
Every step you take on the burning sand slowly sinking deeper
All the memories remain, all the pain from your broken home
And the walls ’round your heart grew so strong that you can't let go
— Within Temptation: Endless War

Montague Street turns out to be a pleasant throughfare skirting the back of the British Museum. The facades mostly belong to upmarket hotels, but at the Russell Square end Sherlock instructs Edward to pull up at an old four-storey brown brick sporting the number eleven. There are only two real windows, the rest replaced with bricked-up window-shaped indentations. Some of the bricks are a bit scorched. John thinks it's an odd sight, a boarded-up thing on such a nice residential street.

Then, John wants to kick himself for not putting two and two together sooner. The explosion, he thinks.

"They never fixed it back up?" He asks and gets ignored. Why had Sherlock wanted to come here? To see if the place was still in ruins? Why would it be after so many years?

Sherlock leans forward to address Edward. "What's behind the corner?"

"A hostel, I believe."

"The rent was cheap," Sherlock concludes in an odd tone. "The owners didn't have the money to do any necessary repairs. That's why the damage was so excessive."

And not because someone accidentally ignited one of the most volatile and explosive substances known to science? John wonders. Had Sherlock imagined worse? Is he relieved to see London has moved on, that his stunt with the kaiju blood hasn't left any worse a permanent scar on its features like it seems to have on his memories?

"Drive, please." Sherlock adds in a colourless tone.

John reaches out for Sherlock's hand, the thumb of which is flicking the other fingertips nervously, but it's pulled out of his grip.

"There's nothing for me here," Sherlock mutters, gaze firmly on the window on his side.

John wishes he could see his partner's expression. Were they still Ghost Drifting proper, he's certain Sherlock would be shielding right now. "Was it a rental?" he asks, wanting to say something but helplessly flailing for the right words.

"Yes. I don't know what Mycroft did with my things. Or how much of them were still useable."

"You could… I don't know… ask him?" John suggests with a smirk. Perhaps Sherlock hasn't done so because he doesn't want to hear the answer. The violin is a case in point.

It seems likely that everything Sherlock had, he lost when he was arrested and practically extradited into the arms of the PPDC. Everything he's had during his Ranger years, he's now left behind at Chard's Rift. It's logical, John decides, that he'd be thinking of this place right now, a part of him wondering if there is something here that would help return to his old life.

"It doesn't matter. This isn't home," Sherlock tells the tinted window.

"Was Chard's Rift that, then?"

"Yes, because it had something I never had before. You." Sherlock swallows and finally gives John the briefest of glances. He's breathing heavily and John doesn't need Ghost Drifting to tell he's battling an onslaught of emotion. He's biting the inside of his cheek and staring a hole into the soft, black carpet covering the floor of the car.

"I don't exactly feel like I'm returning to anything, either. Home was… complicated, but Harry was there for the most part until she left for Uni. I liked being a medical student, living on my own, but I liked the Corps even more."

"Until they discarded you like trash. Twice," Sherlock enunciates menacingly.

John sighs. It appears the anger is back to serve as a crutch to spare Sherlock from having to face any of the more crushing feelings over the turns their life has taken recently.

John almost comments that it wasn't quite as bad as that after Harry died, that the Corps did put him through medical training, continued to give him a home and a job and some kind of purpose, but isn't in the mood to be accused of having a PPDC Stockholm Syndrome.

He has even more reason to be angry at the PPDC than I do, John reminds himself. His parents neglecting their kids in favour of service. Mycroft doing the same. The reimplantation. Taking away his Drifting partner. Moriarty taking his place as the big star Ravager pilot.

They can't live the rest of their lives hung up on the past, their Ranger careers an open wound that brings a chill to any conversation. And John is aware that the job to push them both over this bridge is going to be his.

"We won't stop being Rangers Holmes and Watson even if everyone assumes we're pushing daisies somewhere. It's going to be a part of who we are even if it's in the past," he tries to reason with his partner. "I know you probably miss London and the way things were before they forced you to enlist, but I'm selfish enough to say I wouldn't trade the time with you for anything. I know you lost your old life when you became a pilot, but you gave me mine back. I felt pathetic, worn out, useless that I couldn't have a Jaeger assignment anymore. I never had anyone, not really. Not like what we have, because it was so different with Harry. I know you won't ever listen to anyone saying nice things about PPDC again, but we had some good times there, too. I want to keep remembering them without getting my head bit off."

"Do it quietly, then. I don't dictate what things you roll around in nostalgia about," Sherlock snaps, but then he looks at John and his eyes soften. "Sorry," he mutters. "I'm…"

"It's a lot," John offers. "I know it's just… a lot right now."

"Yet you're giving me a lecture about needing to just get over it. He's out there, John, in our Jaeger!"

"It was our Jaeger, but not ours, hm? He's doing what any pilot is supposed to do with it, winning against the kaiju."

"Not what this is about," Sherlock mutters petulantly.

John snorts. "No, this is about Holmeses having a hard time letting others play with their toys."

Sherlock's mouth falls open in theatrically insulted disdain. "It was your Jaeger, too! Your second, I might add!"

"I miss it, too," John pleads, "but what I miss about it was piloting with you, and I still have you. I'm just trying to focus on that."

"In other words: stiff up the lip, Sherlock." He scoffs and crosses his arms.

"No, that's not…" John shoves his fingers between Sherlock's chest and the tense arm and gives it a tender squeeze. It's still early days, he reminds himself. He knows it's his fear that Sherlock will be forever lusting for vengeance instead of building a new life with him that's pushing him to hasten the process.

A process he's not finished for himself, either. Yet he's finding it oddly easy to go with this half-arsed madcap plan since he'd never had any kind of a vision of retirement before Sherlock came into his life. He'd been living one day at a time, not sparing much thought to a future that seemed to hold little promise. Home isn't a place, it's with him.

"You bought kaiju blood," John shakes his head, suddenly amused at the ridiculousness of it all. "And destroyed a block of flats."

"It was three flats at most," Sherlock protests deadpan, but a muscle at the edge of his lip is twitching with amusement.

"Because you were bored," John adds. "No wonder the only thing that's ever managed to make you not bored is kicking kaiju back down the Breach."

"And sex," Sherlock adds without missing a beat.

John glances instinctively at their driver, but Edward isn't reacting to the conversation, just focussing on traffic. If he provides covert transport for people like Mycroft Holmes, John suspects Edward, or whatever his real name is, has seen and heard so many strange things that nothing causes much of a reaction these days.

"Sex with you," Sherlock specifies in an oddly polite tone.

"Been having a lot of sex with other people, have you?" John jokes without thinking.

Sherlock's expression changes before he has time to catch himself. He stops breathing as his brain kicks into high gear trying to process the reference, and wherever his deductions land, it hits like a kick to the solar plexus. "John, I–––" he stammers. "I said I'm sorry," he manages.

"Fuck," John curses, his own composure crumbling when the second-hand hurt he's witnessing begins constricting his heart. "I didn't mean that. I didn't mean him, it was just–– I wasn't thinking when I said that. Jesus H. Christ, Sherlock, I didn't mean it. I said I forgive you, and I mean it."

"He's still out there, and it means we're going to keep having conversations like this."

"Even if you'd gone to his dorm after and blown his brains out, I guarantee there would have still been a conversation. You don't have to wipe him from existence to prove your motives, you really don't."

John would still pay good money to see such a spectacle.

"He's won and I can't stand it."

"It's only a competition or a game to be won, if you decide it is. It's rational for the Corps to give him a Ravager assignment, and even if he's some kind of a sex pest psychopath, if he is capable of operating the Ravager and winning, then I guess humanity needs him even if we hate the idea."

"It is a game, because it was the end result of a deliberate plan designed to take you out and to force me into a partnership. The only mistake he made was underestimating our relationship, but he seemed to have a contingency plan in case I refused to engage."

"You make it sound as if he made them reimplant you and force me out to pasture. He doesn't have that kind of power. He's a Ranger, not a Base Commander or Global Command."

"He may not have it, but someone does, and he's serving them. We need to know if Mycroft has got his hands on that suicide note."

John tugs his partner's arm closer and laces their fingers. "We don't need to know anything except where we're sleeping tonight. We can't fix the Corps, so we're not going to use time we can spend together playing detective. That's why we left, didn't we, because it's too broken to fix, and Moriarty is one symptom of that?"

"He's an entire infection," Sherlock mutters. "He may not have built the spider's web Mycroft is tracing, but he is a spider in the middle. He has to be."

John breathes out slowly, stroking Sherlock's forefinger with his thumb. He hopes this conversation has left at least some sort of impression on his husband even if it hasn't quite dragged Sherlock away from that mindset of needing to get the last word with the Corps and James.

"You don't miss the flat, then?" John asks to change the subject.

"As I said, the owners were lacking funds to even guarantee consistently functioning plumbing. It was a flat, nothing more. Affordable. I miss all the food in London, though. Used to get takeaway all the time, enjoyed testing out new places. You can find some of the best and most authentic Chinese food in these small alleyway places off Gerrard Street that tourists never find. And I miss the museums and the bookshops."

"We could get something to eat from one of those places you used to like if they're still around," John suggests. "I'm sure Edward could pop into a restaurant for us, and get something for himself, too."

John leans forward in his seat to address the driver. "Can you take us to Gerrard Street?"

"Chinatown," Sherlock specifies. "I'll give further instructions once we're there."

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Bellies full of spice dry-fried Hunan pork ribs and steamed dumplings, John and Sherlock make use of the nearly fully reclining backseat and take a nap, though john suspects Sherlock had spent the hour with his eyes closed but his brain chasing its tail. Edward then suggests doing a bit of a scenic driving tour the likes of which he has given to visiting politicians and PPDC dignitaries, and while Sherlock greets the suggestion with a half-hearted histrionic sigh, John supports it vocally. Why not see a bit of London now, since it's unlikely he'll be able to explore it in the future? Dead men shouldn't be seen walking on Trafalgar Square.

John manages to infect his husband with some enthusiasm, if only to stave off the boredom of waiting for their rendezvous with Mycroft, and Sherlock turns out to be quite the tour guide into his former city of residence. He knows many interesting spots off the beaten path and has near-encyclopaedic knowledge of the history of significant crimes and other morbid events in the ancient city.

"I didn't know you were so into true crime and all that," John comments after Sherlock provides a grotesquely detailed summary of the Jack the Ripper case as Edward drives them through the now much-gentrified Whitechapel where the Ripper's spree had taken place.

"I may have toyed with the idea of becoming a private eye when I still lived here. It's not as if I was going to find a position as a chemistry expert since I'd have only considered academia and not the private sector. There's plenty of crime in London that the police's resources don't stretch to solving. I'm sure there might have been some money providing a freelancing eye while being something to banish boredom."

"You, a private detective?" John laughs. "You realise that would involve dealing with people, your least favourite thing in the world, remember?"

Sherlock seems a bit insulted by his amusement. "Crimes are solved through facts, forensics and intellectual deduction work. People's feelings are irrelevant."

"Not when it comes to motive. I'm sure it's the why that matters to the victims and their families, not just forensic facts. There's reasons people do things, reasons they don't. And the suspect pool is connected to that, too, isn't it? People have friends and family members and people they like, people they don't like."

"And archenemies. I'd look to those for suspects."

"Well, I don't think normal people have that in their normal lives. Doesn't happen."

"I'd say Moriarty qualifies."

John expects the pricking emotional impact of that name being mentioned to hit, but it doesn't. Could it be that their conversation earlier has helped at least John to stop treating him unnecessarily as some undefeatable evil larger than life?

"We've hardly been living the life of Mr Average," he points out. "Normal people really don't have enemies they spend a lot of time brooding over."

"You'd be surprised. Mycroft has several, and the slights they committed against him at uni are arbitrary at best. But, sentiment aside, the police always make use of forensic science and other methodical ways to solve major crimes," Sherlock presses on. "I could have assisted them with such work since it's obvious they're quite clueless."

"You in what fancy lab? Besides, the police don't go to private detectives."

"I could have been a consulting detective. A freelancer. The only one in the world."

John doesn't doubt his husband has the smarts, he's simply sceptical that Sherlock could be civil to anyone long enough that they'd be willing to collaborate.

"Well, anyone would say that your actual career is–– was much more impressive than that of a London private detective."

"You said was," Sherlock points out.

John's brows knit together. "Yeah, because––" he trails out, not wanting to state the obvious.

They are no longer Rangers. No longer pilots. They're just Sherlock and John. They have become a pair of Mr Averages because that role — being inconspicuous as possible — is their best bet of remaining alive and free.

As if on cue, the car comes to a stop at a red light in front of a shop selling used and rare collectibles and, in the window, is a stand sporting Ranger Corps collectible cards. John recognises nearly all the faces since the cards on display are on the more expensive side.

There's a copy of Sherlock's original one in the top row. Two newer editions have been published since his card has always sold like hot pie, but the original is John's favourite. Sherlock looks so young in it, so doggedly determined. In the PR photos taken for later editions he adopted a more serene and regal look. They're great but conceal so much more of him. That first one is Sherlock untamed, unadulterated and truly himself.

John is glad that shop window is on his side of the car. Judging by Sherlock's comments it would do the former Ranger Holmes no good to be reminded yet again that he has ceased to be among the best-known and revered current Jaeger pilots in the world.

 

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

At six in the evening, John chuckles at the clandestine drama of picking up Sherlock's brother at some underground parking garage in Brixton with dripping walls and blinking old halogen lighting. Edward brings the car to a stop next to a service lift, from which soon emerges Mycroft Holmes in a navy-blue woollen coat left open and a graphite pinstripe tweed suit underneath. He takes the seat opposite John and Sherlock in the spacious back of the car.

The Atlantic Marshal may be out of place but it doesn't show in his behaviour — it's business as usual — as if he is joining a budget meeting rather than skulking around half-derelict buildings conspiring to conceal his brother's continued existence.

There are no warm greetings between brothers, simply a nod of acknowledgement.

"Hello," John says. "Thanks for the flight and the car."

"Needs must," Marshal Holmes replies curtly, then twists in his seat to address Edward. "We can depart, now, unless these two have more items on their agenda."

"Yes, sir. And no, sir, we've not discussed any further locations."

"I shall escort you to Uncle Rudy's hut," Mycroft tells the back of Sherlock's head matter-of-factly. He'd lost interest the minute his brother entered to stare out the tinted window.

 Or at least pretended so.

Now, he's staring at his brother. "Uncle Rudy's? I don't––"

"The ownership is under a foundation that would be a formidable challenge to retrace to me. It is the logical choice," Mycroft cuts in gravelly.

John can tell he has prepared for this argument and wants to nip it in the bud.

Sherlock isn't done protesting. When is he ever? John chuckles internally.

"There's a thousand places you could have hidden us with your contacts in the secret services," Sherlock accuses. "Someone you know must be familiar with your connection to the place."

"They would still have no reason to visit it in the near future. I've made a point to mention during hunting weekends that the house is locked for the winter, the staff only seasonal. You're not the first discreet visit I've staged there, nor will you be the last."

It does all seem logical to John, but Sherlock is looking more spooked by the minute.

Mycroft turns to John, now, with a jovial smile. "Sherlock has many cherished memories of the place. I do too, from our childhoods. Our parents placed us with Uncle Rudy during many a summer so that they could travel for the Corps. Uncle Rudy wasn't much for discipline; Sherlock got to do as he pleased there. We barely saw him since he enjoyed exploring the vast grounds."

"It sounds nice," John tries. "Wouldn't you want to see it again?"

Sherlock seems to have run out of protests — or the ones he has left he doesn't want to voice in present company.

Mycroft, however, has no such qualms. "It is high time, brother mine. It's our family."

"I should have known you'd use our dire straits to manipulate me. I've had quite enough of that lately, thank you." His tone is icy, but John can read the tinge of panic buried in it.

"You'd be the first to point out they are just stones, Sherlock. Empty caskets, remember?"

John licks his lips. "What––"

Mycroft regards John patiently. "We preferred not to turn out parents' gravesite into a pilgrimage destination. The location was never disclosed to the public."

John's lips form a silent O as it all comes together.

"What about your parents? Have they got a gravestone somewhere?" he recalls asking. He can remember quite viscerally the sense of a proverbial door being shut in his face within their connection as Sherlock recoiled from the question.

"I don't remember," was the dismissive answer.

It seems that Sherlock does remember, after all.

"The roads we walk have demons beneath, and yours have been waiting for a very long time," Mycroft muses out loud, leaning back in his seat. He and Sherlock have locked eyes, neither blinking nor flinching.

"Cut the melodrama, Mycroft," Sherlock snarls.

"I'm being dramatic?" comes the cuttingly sardonic reply.

"I've got enough on my mind without your meddling."

"I hasn't occurred to you that some closure might remove a bit of that cerebral clutter, not add to it?"

Sherlock's fingers are coiling into the edge of the seat. "You've done quite enough––"

John gently slaps a hand on Sherlock's knee to stop him. "We're grateful for the help, Mycroft. We'll talk about this later, hm? Right now, we just need a place to sleep and something to eat where we won't be spotted. It's getting dark, nobody's visiting any graves tonight."

He thinks it's a bit distasteful for Mycroft to try to bulldoze his brother with such an attempt at family therapy when they've only just landed. "Sherlock is right: we have a hell of a lot to consider and work out."

Mycroft glances at his watch. "I must make a few calls, so I shall move to the front seat. You two: behave."

He instructs Edward to pull over at a petrol station and slips into the front seat. Now that they're out of London proper, John doubts no one would recognise even the Marshal through the windshield in the darkening, rainy night and what if they did? Nobody thinks he's dead.

Sherlock has adopted a bristling silence, and John can feel his own mood dimming. He doesn't want to provoke his partner by continuing the conversation that has so riled him up, but they can't avoid thinking about this residence of Uncle Rudy's since that's where they're headed.

"He said hunting weekends. Doesn't sound like something he does?"

"Oh, he's quite good at it," Sherlock replies, the tension within him visibly uncoiling a little with an opportunity for foul gossip about his sibling. "The only creatures he'll ever take down for England are grouse and pheasants. Uncle Rudy worked for the Internal Security Services and took a liking to Mycroft since he showed some intelligence and didn't behave like a typical child."

John grins at 'some intelligence'. It's as belittling as saying that his brother-in-law has some power in the PPDC.

"I can imagine he was like a miniature civil servant as a teenager," John suggests.

"All tweed and plans of world domination," Sherlock confirms, giving the man in question behind a partition but partly visibly on the front seat a mirthful glance. "Our parents' reputations went to his head like cheap whisky. Uncle Rudy used his connections to ensure he landed in Oxford and then climbed the necessary domestic ladders to make the transition to the PPDC. Being called Holmes opened some doors Uncle Rudy's influence didn't quite reach."

"No wonder the house ended up with Mycroft, then."

"He uses the hut to wine and dine people, lend them a place to have a sex weekend with a mistress and uses hunting weekends staged there to steal politicians' secrets when they get drunk enough to do or say things they shouldn't," Sherlock explains as if discussing the weather.

"Are you rich?" John hears himself asking. "Your family, I mean?" He knows there was a trust fund Sherlock used up during his time in London, but he has no idea how big that fund had been.

"The foundation our parents started, the research unit of which was later integrated into the PPDC, became quite wealthy after the San Francisco attack. Their deaths were well compensated, and what we didn't inherit was added to the foundation. Rudy wasn't a Holmes but he had no children, so he decided Mycroft would inherit the real estate that had been in his dwindling family for a long time. Mind you, he sold several locations during his lifetime and donated one to National Trust. I don't know if there was anything left besides the hut. Mycroft was his protege, then his successor at the ISA but didn't stay there long since he had the Corps in his sights right from the start."

"Where is it? The… um… hut?"

"New Forest National Park. That area used to be William the Conqueror's favourite fallow buck hunting ground," Sherlock recounts tiredly. "I'm named after him. Our father was a history enthusiast."

It takes John longer that it should to dissipate the confusion: he knows from their marriage certificate that Sherlock's first first name is William, but no one ever uses it.

"Nice touch with Sigerson at the airport," Sherlock compliments his brother dryly.

"It needed to be a reference only you and I would recognise."

Sherlock's fake passport sports the name Altamont Escott. John had asked Sherlock on the plane where such a strange name — rivalling those of Sherlock and Mycroft — had come from. Sherlock had said it was a book he and Mycroft had both enjoyed as a child. John's new alias — Hugh Boone — turned out to come from the same books. According to Sherlock, the character was an outwardly respectable man who later pretended to be a beggar. "There was also a murderous doctor in those books but apparently Mycroft doesn't think you look like a Dr Grimesby Roylott," Sherlock had analysed.

Mycroft uses the electronic controls to lower the partition. It appears he's done with his calls. "I truly meant it when I said that Sherlock and I spent some wonderful summers at the hut," Mycroft emphasizes yet again with a fondness John never usually hears from the man. This Uncle Rudy must've meant a great deal to the older Holmes brother.

If only Sherlock had someone like that in his life, too, after the Holmeses died. Mycroft certainly hadn't volunteered for the role after their parents had died. Judging by what Sherlock's had to say about his teenage years, his brother had limited his guardianship to bare necessities.

"I liked it there," Sherlock confirms. "Peace and quiet and enough space to get away from you." He gives Mycroft yet another venomous glare.

"You may recall a proverb about gift horses?" Mycroft replies snidely. It seems that Sherlock not having expressed any gratitude over what the elder Holmes has done to arrange transport and safe accommodation is getting on his nerves. John knows enough about the Marshal to have a hunch that rudeness and lack of gratitude are things the man loathes.

"How do you wine and dine people in a hut?" John asks.

"You'll see," Sherlock says, sounding secretive. John is surprised when he spots the brothers sharing a conspiratory look.

It's enough to tell John that wherever they're going, 'hut' will probably need to be put in quotation marks.

Notes:

Want to see the house on Montague Street just as Sherlock described? It's on my tumblr, screenshot from Google Street view.

Chapter 34: Uncle Rudy's Hut

Oh, tell me how it feels, conspiracy cadet
Wound up like a cassette, the tape about to shed
If chaos is a ladder, hell is heaven sent
Keep pulling at the thread while cashing in the cheque
— Nothing But Thieves: If I Were You

By the time Edward takes the car through a handsome set of moss-draped stone gates onto a gravel road, it has begun to gale and rain. Bare branches and dead leaves flung by the wind are pelting the windscreen and mud is splashing the side windows since the road is pockmarked and adorned with puddles from a lot of recent rainfall. It had been summer still in Portugal. Here, autumn has seized the land and there's a whisper of frost in the air.

It takes several minutes to traverse the extensive grounds. None of them men in the vehicle speak a word, but John catches Sherlock stealing a few curious glances his way, eager to witness John's reaction.

Why does it not surprise me that Sherlock spent a chunk of his childhood at some gothic estate? John wonders, glancing fondly back at his husband. It is no struggle to imagine a tiny version of him roaming these grounds. They appear tended well but not styled to an inch of their life, looking like a proper forest dotted occasionally with ponds and small openings with moss-painted statues. Was that a flash of a deer in a copse or is John's imagination romanticising things?

"There are bound to be plenty of them around," Sherlock answers a question John hadn't spoken out loud.

John's brows knit together. "I didn't say anything––" If Sherlock had simply deduced what he was thinking, wouldn't he have said the word 'deer' out loud?

"Hunting has become so unpopular due to environmentalists and the kaiju making such pastimes look morbid," Sherlock continues, pointedly ignoring John's confusion.

"Population numbers have exploded," Mycroft confirms. "We've opened the grounds to some of the local clubs a few times to keep them better in check."

"Letting the rabble in?" Sherlock teases his brother pointedly. "You must have lost sleep worrying they'll nick the silverware."

After scanning the bushes some more for a glimpse of wildlife, John gives the front seat a once-over. Mycroft had turned with a huff after growing tired of Sherlock's commentary and is now conversing with Edward.

Sherlock seems lost in thought, fingers tapping restlessly where his arm rests on a door recess.

Sherlock? John thinks, blinking as he concentrates as hard as he can.

"Mm?" Sherlock's head snaps towards him.

John gives him a secretive 'I told you so' grin, leaving his partner frowning in confusion. Had he not realised John's vocal cords had not participated in that exchange?

Their connection is still there, but it's staticky, faint and seems to flicker in and out. Maybe with some practice it could become stronger again? John isn't quite sure why he doesn't want to advertise to his brother-in-law what he suspects is going on — circumstances dictate they need to trust the man, but can they, really? The paranoid part of John suspects that if the Marshal got wind of what he suspects is a remnant form of PONS system -assisted telepathy, he'd lock them up in a lab somewhere. Whenever he's seen a softer side of the man, Mycroft Holmes tends to go turncoat right after and demonstrate his ruthlessness.

Does Sherlock trust his brother? He had, after all, put their fate in the man's hands by asking him for help with the escape plan they haven't even quite formulated yet. John does recognise that the Marshal just may have been their only option for a useful accomplice.

John leans forward and notices Mycroft has closed the plexiglass partition since he's on the phone again. John shifts in his seat to face his partner.

"How did you know what I was thinking about?" He demands.

He can both see and sense how Sherlock turns defensive in an instant. "You've not been here before, were looking at a spot where deer would typically seek shelter from the elements, and we discussed hunting before," he rattles off petulantly.

"Why don't you want to even entertain the possibility that we might still be, you know––" John waves a hand between them.

Sherlock imitates the gesture. "That we're still what?" He demands indignantly, challenging John to say it.

"Don't play dumb with me. I know you don't want to be reminded–– Sherlock," John compels when his crosses his arms angrily and twists his torso to face the window and not him. "You can't just ignore important things and hope they'll go away!"

The outburst gets Sherlock to look at him again, and soon they are locked in a staring match.

"It's a good thing if we can still have some of it," John reminds his former co-pilot. "I love the idea that you're still somewhere at the back of my brain, listening in."

This idea seems to create more distress in Sherlock that he's trying to conceal. And John has a solid hunch about the reason.

"You said Moriarty needs to be physically close to you to get to you like that. That means we're safe out here. Even if we can still Ghost Drift a bit, he can't get to you," John reasons.

"I was aware that losing the connection, turning off the implants was the only way to keep–– him out. I knew that it was going to hurt. But it was the only way," Sherlock explains quietly, voice thick with frustration and loss.

He doesn't even want to say the name, John realises. At Chard, on a surface level, Sherlock seemed to be coping better with what had happened than he is now. Maybe Sherlock had still been in full fight-or-flight mode, running on adrenaline, and that's why he'd been able to cope with James Moriarty's existence. Now, thousands of kilometres away, the impact of everything that has happened seems to be hitting full force since there are no distractions provided by the daily grind of life at the Shatterdome or the intrigue of trying to work out what was happening behind the scenes of the Corps.

"It was the last thing I'd ever want to lose since it meant losing your presence," Sherlock explains. His voice is wavering a bit, a testament to how raw and acute all this is, how barely kept in check his emotions over the topic are. "I… I made that mess, so I had to pay with that loss, and there's no point in trying to build some kind of hope that it might still be there. I'm sorry that you became collateral damage. That the connection we had was the price I had to pay for–– him."

It all slots into place for John now with such viciousness that his heart skips a few beats. It makes a frightening amount of sense, now, why any possibility of their Ghost Drifting continuing is not a joy for Sherlock but a stab in the heart.

John perches on the edge of his seat and knocks on the partition hard. "Stop the car," he barks at the two figures in the front seat when the plexiglass rolls aside.

"It's raining," Mycroft comments, bone-dry voice heavy with condescension. "We're nearly there, and there is a privy right off the foyer."

"It's not the loo I need. Please stop the car," John compels Edward. "Sherlock and I are going to have a conversation. A short one. In private."

The car rolls to a stop.

"John––" Sherlock is blinking, confused and alarmed.

John fixes him in place with his gaze and opens the door on his side. "Come on. I have something to say that you need to hear."

They find a small opening with some autumn-scant foliage above. Under the leaves, only the occasional heavy droplet makes it down to their shoulders and hair. John is grateful for the water-repellent qualities of his new jacket and hopes Sherlock's thick woollen coat won't get damp.

"I need you to listen, you idiot, and heed my words," John says firmly.

Sherlock's shoulders are tense, form like a violin string, and he'd followed John like a kicked dog into the forest. He wants desperately to pull Sherlock into his arms, to do something to melt that steel of pain, to banish the obvious and raw fear of what he's about to say, but it needs to be said first. John wants to comfort instead of causing more distress, but he needs to get his point across.

"I was pretty fucking angry with you, so I said some things I'm not proud of," he starts, "things that made it seem like I blame you for all this. But I need to tell you again that you didn't plant James fucking Moriarty at Chard. You didn't order your own kidnapping, and you didn't get me forced into retirement even if you refusing to work with Moriarty may have been some kind of a factor in why they made that decision."

Sherlock is hearing the words but looking dismissive. "I know all that. Obvious."

"Nothing you did justifies what he did. Nothing. He… Sherlock, it doesn't matter if he was in the room, behind the door or in bloody Timbuktu, it doesn't matter if he was there only in your head. Fact is, he raped you––" John nearly chokes on the words. He has tried to avoid thinking of it in such terms, but hearing how Sherlock has assigned the blame for that intimate assault on himself and thinks that losing their Ghost Drifting is the punishment he deserves for it…

He went through all that and what did I fucking do? Just marinated in my own bloody jealousy, John curses inwardly.

Sherlock looks ready to bolt. John reaches out for his hand, rain-slick from trying to whisk away droplets off his sleeves. "And maybe that's why I'm afraid you won't be able to let go of any of it," John admits, throat thick. Sherlock is looking at the ground and not him, his fingers listless in the cradle of John's palm.

John clears his throat. "Maybe that's why you're trying to solve it like some puzzle, to take him down via Mycroft because you can't take him down any other way. You're trying to solve it like an intellectual puzzle when it's not. We can't erase what happened."

"Are you still––" Sherlock swallows, "––angry with me."

It doesn't sound like a question. It's as if he needs to know but doesn't want to hear the words.

John knows he'd be lying if he said no. If they're to survive this, they need to be honest. He is angry for the flirting, for the stupidity of Sherlock giving someone so obviously dangerous the time of the day, but that's beside the point. "Not in any way worth mentioning," he settles for. And I'm the one who needs to apologise," he emphasizes.

Sherlock's eyes brighten in surprise. "What? Why? Objectively, your accusations of my attempted infidelity hold water."

"You didn't hear me just now? Nothing justifies what he did. Even if it doesn't make things right in the past, I need to apologise for not seeing it for what it was — way more than just flirting on his part. I think he had a plan, one where he was going to either turn you or destroy you. I was so angry with you, so jealous that… I didn't want to believe there was more going on than just two blokes getting it on under my nose."

John shakes his head. He knows Sherlock is going to hate what he's about to say next, but they both need to hear it to shift from old fury into looking at things more objectively. "I need to apologise because I didn't see you for the victim you were. Or treat you accordingly."

As expected, Sherlock looks insulted. "That's–– I'm not," is the full extent of his protest. He's blinking furiously; not because tears are threatening to come out but in that confounded way John has seen many times where that physical tick signals that his brain is trying to overclock itself processing something incomprehensible. "You said I led him on. That makes me complicit."

John licks his lips and shifts his stance to drive his point home with all the conviction he can muster. "Nope. You stopped being complicit the second he decided, one-sidedly, to start some fucking astral threesome. I sure as hell didn't consent to that."

"I don't need some inane intervention," Sherlock mutters, then looks up at John defiantly. "I'm not some teenager who got assaulted at a party. I'm fine," he spits out from between clenched teeth. "James Moriarty is a living, breathing coagulation of human evil, and I want him taken down because it's the right thing to do. Objectively, anyone should want to remove him from the Corps because he is a danger to others."

"You're still obsessed with him because he hurt you," John says plainly.

"He was trying to recruit me by seducing me. Oldest tactic in the playbook. It didn't work, because he underestimated ourrelationship," Sherlock insists haughtily, waving his hand between him and John frantically. "What do you want from me?" he then demands, tugging his other hand out of John's grip and shoving both of them into his coat pockets. "I don't need help with some victimhood, I need him taken out so I can stop thinking about him, so I'll know I'm safe and so is everyone else. He threatens to integrity of the entire Corps––"

John recognises this for what it is: Sherlock is doing a one-eighty, pretending to be unaffected and all rational as a desperate knee-jerk attempt to regain a sense of control. "You don't need to pretend at me that you're not haunted by what happened with him. You're not weak — you're the opposite, and that's exactly why he chose you. And that's why he chose a tactic that would hit anyone hard." He doesn't let go of Sherlock's hand but gives it a gently stroke with his thumb. "I know what you mean when you say you're not in need of the typical sort of help people get offered in these situations. You went and confronted him after he assaulted you — that's… You amaze me because a lot of the time, you just might be braver than me. But it's still… it's going to stay with you, what happened. And we need to stop pretending it won't or window-dressing how it makes you feel as just some noble campaign to save the Corps."

"I'm not pretending anything. I don't need to dwell on it. I don't want to."

Yet you do dwell on it all the bloody time. "It's not really a choice you can make, is it, remembering or not remembering? Being affected or not?" John lets go of his partner's hand and Sherlock shoves them deep into his coat pockets.

"There are certain memory techniques––" Sherlock starts explaining in that toffee-nosed voice he uses when lecturing John about topics he thinks in which John is embarrassingly ill-informed.

"Learning some mind trick, getting him booted from the Corps or putting a hole in his head isn't going to fix or erase what he did and what it's still doing to your head," John cuts in.

"What the hell would fix it, then?!" Sherlock demands, hands shooting up from his pockets and spread in frustration.

John glances towards the car; Mycroft has stepped out and is holding a large, ornate umbrella. They're far enough from the road and the vehicle that John can't make out his brother-in-law's expression but he's certain it's indignant and growing impatient.

"If we're ever going to move on with our lives, you need to let go of trying to exact some sort of vengeance on Moriarty," John says. "It's not going to happen, not when we've left and can't risk exposure. We need to walk away proper."

"Then, he wins." It's obvious from Sherlock's tone that this scenario is unacceptable.

"It's only a game if you decide it is — he can't play it alone, can he? He got what he wanted in terms of the Ravager, why would he care about you at all anymore?"

"Because he wanted not just the Ravager but me in it!" Sherlock snaps.

John bites the inside of his lip, carefully pushing away the remnant jealousy brought on by the idea. One of us needs to be able to keep a level head when the name James fucking Moriarty is mentioned.

He tries to reason with Sherlock some more. "Why is he allowed to take up real estate in your head when he can just ignore you and get on with whatever plan he's got? How's that fair?"

"Not ignoring me, is he? He's gloating at me on live television."

"And you're smart enough to recognise how petty that complaint is. We have more important things to think about. He wanted you, but he lost that game. To me." Take that, you bloody Irish bastard. John grins wickedly before schooling his face into a more sober expression. "If we're ever going to move on, you need to stop blaming yourself. Planning this whole exile, thinking you need to take on all the stress of it… It makes sense, now. You didn't deserve what he did even if you flirted with him a little, even if you did think about him like that. You're human. What he did means he so fucking isn't."

"You said you forgive me. Why forgive if you're now suddenly claiming there's nothing to forgive, that you're the one who needs to apologise?" The scepticism is thick.

John rubs his eyes and shakes droplets of rain from his hair. He's realising how thoroughly exhausted, how completely wrung out he feels from the past week and from this conversation. Sherlock looks the same.

"I understand better now, why it happened. You told me why. That being drawn to him was more about you than it was about us or him," John offers.

"You're not obligated to believe me."

"But I do. I know you, and I do. You may be an absolute menace when bored, a reckless rogue Jaeger pilot, a brat of a younger brother, worse than a lazy teenager when it comes to housework, a snobby prick when it comes to people, but you're also a good person even if you don't think you are. You're nothing like James Moriarty, and one thing I know with absolute certainty is that you'd never hurt me on purpose. That's why I believe you when you say what happened was about stuff you were going through instead of a vote of no confidence against us."

Sherlock's lips part just a little to let out a relieved exhalation. "John," he starts, "that's… that's exactly what I was trying to–– What I hoped I'd get you to understand. That's what I mean by collateral damage. And you have to let me take responsibility for that part, if not the escalation."

"So, we're both idiots. We both fucked up, and now we're going to do better. That good enough for you?" John challenges.

Sherlock nods. "Let's get out of the rain."

They return to the car. Once safely seat-belted in the back, John rests his palm on Sherlock's knee. The look Sherlock gives him is one of boneless relief. Much of the earlier tension seems to have left him, in its place now an exhaustion that makes his eyelids drift down a few times during the remains of the drive.

"Hut, hm?" John teases his brother-in-law when the house comes into view.

It is a red brick country house with an indented central block framed by two projecting winds. White windowpanes and a black tiled roof as well as a raised band across the first-floor level give the H-shaped house an almost military structural air. It's surrounded by hawthorns and rowans but, unlike many other old estates in England John has seen pictures of, it is not cradled by magnificently coiffed gardens or extensive lawns. Instead, the garden has been allowed to look less geometrically governed, more natural and secluded. It's as if the woods are creeping close to it, sheltering and hiding the building.

"Welcome to Moyles Court, John," Mycroft declares. "The name is an exaggeration; it is but a small estate, no more than ten bedrooms. It was used as a Station HQ and Officer's Mess for RAF Ibsley during the second world war, and they stripped away much of the original decor. It was Uncle Rudy's vanity project to restore it as best he could. You'll be comfortable."

"It'll do in a pinch," John replies sardonically.

"There is a groundskeeper whose discretion you can trust. He will deliver groceries, but you'll have to do some of the cooking and make your own beds," Mycroft instructs. "As former soldiers, I'm sure you can manage. You can explore the grounds freely as long as you stay out of view of the communal road by the front gates."

Sherlock is, unsurprisingly, unaffected (or pretending to be so, considering his protestations of coming here) by the sight of the house.

"Edward will get your bags," Mycroft announces as they take a moment to view the facade of the building after exiting the car.

"What bags?" Sherlock's head snaps towards his brother.

"I've kept in storage what could be salvaged of your old clothes and some other personal items after the explosion. I'm not sure how well they will fit in your current, more… muscular state, but they have been packed and brought along, nevertheless. You clothing size details were in your personnel records, so a wardrobe suitable for this place has been acquired for both of you: boots, coats and such. I will dine with you; the staff have been in briefly today to clean and cook. Then, I'm afraid I must make haste for my flight."

"Flight where?" John asks, dismayed.

Why is his brother-in-law leaving so soon when he could finally spend some time with his brother? It is Friday, so couldn't he stay for the weekend since no one knows who he'd be spending it with? Why is he still failing Sherlock? Doesn't he realise that leaving right away signals that he's only doing this out of duty and not because his brother is important and needs his help?

"My extramural investigation into Hammond's death has proven impossible, so I am going to Thailand. I'll have only three days there until I must reroute to Chard's Rift to attend your memorial service," Mycroft says pointedly. "I must act my part to serve the optics of your scheme if it is to succeed."

"They closed the Hammond investigation?" Sherlock asks while Mycroft uses a keypad by the front door to start unlocking it. The retinal scanner he uses next looks out of place in such an old building.

"Edwardian?" John asks Sherlock, cocking his head at the house.

"No. 17th century."

Mycroft lets them in while addressing Sherlock's question. "It was ruled a suicide by the local officials, and I've been unable to find out whether Global Command has sealed the Corps internal review report since I cannot afford to be seen prying into the topic of the death of someone who was going to testify against me."

"Let me guess: the suicide note has disappeared," Sherlock snarks with a vile smile.

"It is imperative that I acquire it. That's why I'm going on site. The local officials claim the Corps has it and vice versa. Even if it has been destroyed, someone local must have seen it. He sent an email to his family — why leave a written note unless it's something he wanted law enforcement to find."

"Or the Corps, since they were also going to show up when a Base Commander kicks the bucket," Sherlock points out. "Maybe he wanted someone in the Corps who isn't a part of the conspiracy to find it."

"It seems likely," Mycroft agrees.

"They have concluded that we're dead, then?" John asks, following the Holmes brothers down a dark entrance corridor.

"Yes, hence the memorial service," Mycroft muses. "It will provide further confirmation of your demise through my presence and a clear signal to staff that the Corps will move on — that there is no crisis. Both concepts are fiction, of course. There may still be some who suspects the story you have staged, which is why it is of utmost importance that you stay out of sight."

"Someone thinks we might not be dead?" John frowns.

"That theory has been expressed, yes, if only in anonymous graffiti on the walls of a few Shatterdomes. 'I believe in Holmes and Watson' I believe is the most popular one. But, insofar as the evidence pointing to your permanent absence is compelling enough for Global Command, I'm sure the noise will die down at least within the staff. I doubt it'll deter the more conspiracy theory -prone contingency of your fanbase," Mycroft points out with distaste.

He has led the two ex-Rangers into a large foyer. Heavy velvet drapes lining the many cruciform windows have been tied to the sides and surfaces have been hoovered and dusted. Sherlock turns on a large chandelier, its old bulbs painting the large room in shades of yellow.

"I'm not taking these hopefuls thinking that you might have staged your deaths too seriously, but it is yet another reason to stay hidden until you work out a long-term plan," Mycroft stresses yet again. "Any suspicions over your demise would jeopardise all three of us."

"We work out a plan? You're not going to help?" Sherlock scoffs.

"I will do what I can to assist, but you have made it very clear at many an occasion during our lives that you don't wish me to govern yours. I assume that hasn't changed."

"Dragging me here hardly looks like you've decided to stop meddling!"

John leaves the brothers to bicker and wanders around the main floor. Whatever foul deeds the Royal Air Force's occupation may have perpetrated upon the interior, Uncle Rudy has lovingly turned the house into a formidable haven for shooting parties and weekend retreats worthy of men of power. There are hunting trophies adorning the walls, lovingly tended fireplaces, large armchairs that beckon for an afternoon glass of sherry. A stack of white, heavy items that must be folded bedsheets sit on a grand piano; John suspects they are used as dust covers the staff remove for the arrival of visitors.

There is a faint clattering sound as the intensifying wind is punishing the old windows. Darkness is setting in, enveloping the house and underlining its seclusion as the half-leafless, black-bodied trees outside look as though they are now leaning towards the house in a threatening manner. Ash-grey clouds race the sky like Ascot thoroughbreds where they are still painted different from the blackness by the barest hint of sun, sifted through so many layers that its light becomes cold in shade.

"I shall see what the staff have left in the fridge for us," Mycroft suggests. "Sherlock, if you could light a fire in the dining room?"

Stairs creak somewhere; Edward must be coming back down from taking their bags to the bedrooms. John wonders if he should ask the man to join them for dinner, or if that would go against some archaic etiquette which he's certain men the likes of Mycroft would still want to uphold. It appears that even in civilian life, the Marshal wants to uphold a sense of command over those around him.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

Dinner turns out to be venison casserole with oven-roasted potatoes heavy with fragrant rosemary. John is relieved to witness Sherlock having a substantial appetite tonight: he even takes a second helping of pudding, an Eton mess with a currant and gooseberry jam from the estate's orchard.

After dinner, Mycroft disappears behind the closed door of the drawing room. John explores the house some more before finding Sherlock asleep on a worn red leather sofa in front of a fireplace he's lit in a corner room downstairs. He had been so on edge all day that John doesn't find it surprising at all that arrival in this safehouse would knock him right out. Even if he'd protested coming here, he seems to have found enough peace of mind to give into sleep. Perhaps their conversation in the rainy copse had been a factor.

There is a woollen blanket with slightly frayed edges on a nearby chair; John uses it to cover Sherlock's form since his arms are in goosebumps from the chill in the air. Then, John decides to head to the west wing to find a kitchen Mycroft had mentioned. A nice cup of tea should provide warmth and a sense of calm he's yet to find in these alien surroundings.

The kitchen is large enough to serve even a large weekend party, and surprisingly modern. John is not surprised to find a large selection of loose-leaf and takes his time selecting one. He doubts even a high caffeine content would keep him from having a good night's sleep once his sense of wonder and novelty settles. He already feels safe from prying eyes, tucked away in this corner of New Forest, and he finds himself hoping they can stay here for at least a week to rest and regroup.

After the water has boiled and John is about to pour it into a pot, he is so startled by the clearing of a regal throat behind him that he nearly drops the kettle.

"Jesus," John breathes. "Anyone ever tell you it's not a great idea to sneak behind a soldier?"

"I find no joy in how things have turned out for the two of you," Mycroft comments as he takes a seat by the small, round oak table by the kitchen window. "I've always been concerned about Sherlock, save for the past few years. You've been a favourable influence on him."

"You stopped worrying about him when he started piloting a Jaeger?" John laughs. "That's… can't have been that bad, what he was doing in London."

"Your loyalties lie with him, so you must be prone to accepting his version of the past rather than mine," Mycroft suggests.

John takes a seat opposite and nods to encourage him to continue.

"During the short time between his arrest and departure to the Azores, I tried to provide all the medical help I could while he was in custody. He wouldn't engage with the PPDC-accredited psychiatrist I sent, of course, and I hardly even needed such the assessment from one to realise his spiralling antics of late had approaching suicidal, at least passively. Escalating substance abuse and experimentation with illegal compounds is a volatile and telling combination, even for him."

John recalls the scorch marks still visible on the building at Montague Street as he rises from his seat; the tea should have seeped by now.

"If only he would let those who care about him look after him," Mycroft sighs. "No milk, one sugar."

He accepts the mug of tea John brings back for him.

"He doesn't let people look after him?" John sits down, regarding his brother-in-law with disappointment. "He thinks you didn't give two shits about him, left him as you did at that terrible school. He doesn't want your help because he doesn't trust it'll ever come, or that it comes with strings attached."

Mycroft is unperturbed by his outburst. "He made it clear that my response to his request for help for your exit stage left from the Corps was some kind of a final, do-or-die test for my character. I recognise that I am not infallible, John. There are things I would have done differently, knowing what I know now. I accept the consequences of choices I have made. My struggle to balance the good of the PPDC and giving him what he wants continues, perhaps indefinitely."

"I know hiding us here is a big risk for you."

"And it couldn't have come at a worse time, even if your deaths did help divert public attention from the false accusations against me."

"I know he pretends to hate you, treats you like a necessary evil, but the way those things that happened years ago still affect him… it means your opinion of him and having you in his life still matters," John points out. "He would deny it, but it's true."

"And what of your trust?" Mycroft asks. "I do not require it, but I hope I have it when I say that I have played no part in any of the actions designed to separate the two of you. Yes, I could have been firmer in my actions to try to prevent them."

"Sherlock blames himself for all of it. He shouldn't. I told him that."

"And I ensured that James Moriarty is not allowed to speak at your memorial service. He volunteered."

A chill runs down John's spine. It appears that neither Sherlock nor James Moriarty are quite over their twisted rivalry.

Mycroft sips his tea. "Well, I say ensured… Commander Marais was opposed to the idea, too. Vocally. She seems rather unimpressed with the man."

Unimpressed? John rolls his eyes. As far as he knows, LJ Marais had been as convinced as Sherlock that Moriarty was — is — a loose cannon.

"Their personal… affairs aside, do you agree with Sherlock's assessment of this James Moriarty?" Mycroft asks John in earnest. "As Sherlock suggested, I have looked into his service history, but going deeper in my investigation will increase the risk of whoever is behind what's going on within the PPDC finding out what I know. I also wouldn't want to waste time on a dead end."

John is surprised that Mycroft has been holding back with looking into James Moriarty. Then again, the Marshal had picked up on something going on between Sherlock and Moriarty very early on. If he thinks it's all just garden-variety sexual tension, then he'd be smart to be sceptical of Sherlock's claims. John wishes he had more evidence, that he was more convinced than he is that Moriarty is a secret operative and not just a dangerous opportunist and telepathic pervert. "It's hard to say. Sherlock isn't the most objective when it comes to that guy, but he's clearly dangerous, and what Sherlock found out about his connections to Russia is pretty fucking convenient to be a coincidence."

Trust your gut instinct, John tells himself. He's dangerous, and Mycroft is good at what he does. If there's something there, he'll find it, and eliminating Moriarty might stop Sherlock's obsession with him.

John juts up his chin and fixes his gaze on the Marshal. "I think Sherlock is onto something." Now that he's decided, he feels more confident about his beliefs. "Yeah. I think you need to go turn that stone."

Notes:

Moyle's Court is a real house in New Forest and serves as a school in our universe.

This chapter carries some nostalgic echoes for me of stories such as Proving a Point (which I wrote with Elldotsee) and 7percentsolution's The Hunting Party. It's so easy to imagine the Holmes brothers acting right at home at some posh estate, isn't it?

Chapter 35: Hag-ridden

If I could face them
If I could make amends
With all my shadows
I'd bow my head and welcome them
But I feel it burning
Like when the winter wind stops my breathing
— Of Monsters and Men: I of The Storm

 

Mycroft departs after tea.

Not wanting to feel alone in the large, quiet house surrounded by the now dark woods of near-bare tree skeletons, John decides to go sit by Sherlock. He pours himself a generous three fingers of whisky from the selection in a drawing room cabinet, wondering how many nights his brother-in-law has sat by the desk there, trying to steer the Atlantic Corps into a direction of his liking. It's evident the Marshal is not enjoying this taste of being just a pawn on the table instead of enjoying the control he has taken for granted in the Atlantic.

Returning to where Sherlock had fallen asleep earlier, John is thankful when the heavy sofa barely even shifts under his weight as he doesn't want to wake his partner. The fire is roaring, the room so warm that John discards his jumper. The woollen blanket is half on the floor, half on Sherlock's hip; he must've pushed it off after getting toasty.

From Sherlock's deep, calm breathing John can tell he's lost to the world, confirmed by how he cannot find Sherlock's presence even when he closes his eyes and focusses. Before, when they were still connected profoundly through their active implants, if John woke in the middle of the night, he often found the calm he needed to fall back asleep when he reached out and sensed Sherlock's aethereal presence, distant due to dreaming but still there, warm and alive. He hopes that a bit more time and practice will allow him to sense it again, to reach even just the tiniest stirring sliver of another consciousness when physically close enough.

After Colleen had deactivated the implants, John has found he can read Sherlock's moods better than he would have expected, and hopes the opposite applies. Having to rely more on expressions and tone poses a challenge, but he's had years of practice connecting those to what he's felt from Sherlock through their connection. Sherlock, still reeling from the loss of it, seems too frustrated by the change to even attempt much communication beyond necessary and concrete matters.

Wind is trying to rattle the old house, and the windows shake a bit from its force. John glances over the shoulder into the inky darkness outside and wishes he'd drawn the curtains. He knows it's superstition, this sense that someone or something might be watching him from the woods. The feeling of being exposed must be borne out of years of sleeping deep in the windowless bowels of a Shatterdome.

This place doesn't feel like anyone’s happy childhood summer home, thinks John. The dark is pouring in the window like a river of menace, and the sheets covering furniture in the adjoining room look like melancholy ghosts. When the moon peers shyly from behind swiftly traveling clouds, it's a cold and pale blue, casting spiky shadows of barren branches on the walls.

In Portugal, it was still summer. Here, autumn is clawing at the landscape.

John wonders if the house truly carries an aura he's sensing, or if this doom and gloom is something lent to his psyche by Sherlock.

John takes a deep breath, swirls the amber liquid in his glass and untwists his torso to watch the flames again, leaving be the impending night outside. A taxidermied boar's head adorns the wall above the fireplace. Little did Uncle Rudy know that while Mycroft was his protege, there would come a time when his other nephew could mount a kaiju head on one of these walls, John chuckles.

The life they had left behind less than a week ago already feels so distant. Here, in the isolation of an English forest far from any shoreline, it's hard for him to imagine a kaiju could ever threaten their safety. Though John hasn't longed for his home country much during his PPDC years, there is a reassuring familiarity to all the landscapes and architecture they've seen today. He's growing increasingly certain he could slip back into get, settle into a life here, if only they could evade recognition: the whole of Britain would be a risky choice since they are British Rangers. Another European region would be a safer bet, but John can't help being tempted by the familiarity of the country in which he'd spent his childhood. If Sherlock might be feeling that same pull, John doesn't know. Sherlock had lived a large part of his adult life in London, but his raw and baffled disappointment at seeing his old place at Montague Street can't be a good sign. Whatever Sherlock had been expecting, it's obvious he hadn't found it in London today.

John's thoughts turn to Mycroft attending their memorial service at Chard. He wonders if their holograms will be added to the hall where Harry has been immortalised, forever sporting that trademark wicked smile whenever someone walks past and triggers the on switch of her plaque, or if suicide will make the Corps want to avoid remembrance. Will Mycroft erect gravestones for them somewhere to complete the deception?

John hopes that Sherlock isn't feeling guilty about the fact that one of them could have left the Corps without pretending to be dead. John could never have enjoyed a life here without Sherlock even if it meant being able to keep his name and living out in the open. He has wanted for nothing during the years they've been together.

I'd follow him into heaven or hell as long as we're together.

He'd meant it when he'd said that Sherlock gave him his life back. There is no life without Sherlock, just existence.

—|—|—|—|—|—|—

John sits lost in thought for so long that it only occurs to him to wonder what the time is when his glass is empty and the last flames in the fireplace are dying out, turning to embers. He considers getting another shot of Macallan, but then Sherlock begins waking up.

John knows it before his partner so much as twitches a muscle. He's not going to convince me we've stopped Ghost Drifting, he thinks with a secret smile.

Sherlock blinks himself back online and sits up slowly, shoulders sagging with exhaustion. An ear-splitting yawn makes him shudder so hard he's forced to plant a palm on the sofa. He then combs his fingers through his hair with a grimace. "I need a shower but can't be bothered tonight."

"Let's go to bed," John suggests, reaching over the back of the sofa to place his glass on a side table. He had gone upstairs during his brief exploration of the house and found luggage deposited beside a massive four-poster in a bed room with an adjoining large bathroom and an ornate ceiling fresco of a hunting scene.

Sherlock follows him wordlessly up the stairwell. After a brief visit to the bathroom, he collapses into bed face-first, hugging a tapestry cushion against his chest. John jostles him about until he's managed to pull the quilted dark grey bedspread off from underneath his partner's torso. Sherlock shimmies off his trousers and socks and crawls under the sheet and heavy blanket in his shirtsleeves.

John is relieved to find toiletry kits complete with toothbrushes and paste arranged on shelf in the bathroom, courtesy of Mycroft and delivered by Edward. John wonders what role the man usually serves in Mycroft's staff. Something tells John he might be more than just a chauffeur.

Sherlock is out like a light by the time John returns from his en suite routines. He crawls in next to Sherlock, giving the back of his head a kiss that coaxes forth little reaction beyond a sleepy rumble of a hum.

Especially after a few drinks, John would have expected to follow Sherlock into slumber fast, but perhaps it's the soundscape that so differs from waves hitting bulkheads that causes sleep to elude John. Chard's Rift has been his home for so long; it'll be an adjustment not to have all the familiar nighttime sounds and smells. Not that he misses the latter: seawater, the occasional plugged up sewer, and the faint ambient scent of a lot of humans crammed into relatively small living quarters.

Why does he keep thinking about Chard? Why can't either of them anchor their minds into the now? It's as if John's mind is still reeling, catching up on the events of the past days. Hell, of the past weeks or months, even.

The wind has wrestled clouds aside, and now John gets to watch shifting moonlight as it illuminates the lifeless ducks painted on the ceiling. They are bleeding from pellet wounds and gripped by the necks by proud-looking hunters holding the reins of stylised chestnut-maned horses. It's not a scene John would choose voluntarily to stare at in the middle of the night, and he finds it odd how off-putting he finds the idea of shooting animals for fun after spending decades killing kaiju for a living.

What are the kaiju if not animals? Thinking of them as the enemy might be giving them more credit than they're worth, he realises. There have been occasions when the creatures have demonstrated startling intelligence, and someone must be controlling them, planning when to send them out and making sure their evolution rivals the efforts of human war machine design. Someone designs them just as we design the Jaegers. It's a sobering thought.

An owl hoots outside, its calls nearly drowned out by the gale. John hasn't heard an owl in decades; it's seagull calls that have been a standard part of his daily ambient sounds. Perhaps there are owls in the Azores, but he's never been out on the islands after dark.

John has no wrist console and there are no clocks in the room, so he can only guess at the hour. Not that it matters what the time is: there are no plans tomorrow. Even when John had governed his own duties as a physician at Chard, he had kept the hours of a Ranger. I'm dead retired now, he reminds himself. I can sleep until noon if I want to. Maybe Sherlock would agree to having breakfast in bed, followed by a blowjob John would very much like to deliver to celebrate how they won't have to worry about missing an assembly or the Breach alarm going off.

When Sherlock starts to shift restlessly, John turns to his side and scoots closer, resting an arm on his partner's stomach. In the dim, cold light he can see Sherlock's eyes shifting underneath near-translucent, pale lids, and can feel how he's tensing up in the grip of whatever nightmare has seized him. Leaning his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, John can't catch any images but is able to pick up a strange mixture of terror and confusion.

Suddenly, Sherlock sits up, chest heaving as he's wrenched from sleep into a wakefulness the surroundings of which he cannot recognise, the remnants of emotions brought forth by the dream still in effect. His back hunches convulsively around an arm tucked tight against his stomach, and before John can even come up with something to say to tether him to reality, Sherlock tears out of bed and hurries into the bathroom where he starts dry heaving.

John climbs out of bed, goes to turn on the light in the dusty old alabaster plafonnier hung from the middle of the fresco and slips into the bathroom, finding Sherlock sat on the floor beside the toilet in the dark. John finds the light and is thankful when the one functioning wall lamp out of two by the mirror above the sink turns out to be quite dim and soft.

Sherlock climbs onto shaky feet, not looking at John. He swallows hard, then goes to drink greedily from the tap, gripping firmly the sides of the sink for support.

John wants to ask if he's alright, but he'd probably just receive a glare in response. John can see the answer, after all, as well as sense it. He can tell his partner is struggling to contain his panic and anger, and that they're not directed at or caused by him.

Sherlock straightens his form, starts picking at a hangnail evasively as if waiting for John to move aside so that he could leave the room.

"Mind telling me what that was about?" John asks quietly, not moving from his position. He doesn't want to sound too coddling and careful because he knows Sherlock hates showing what he perceives as weakness even to him.

A memory: Sherlock upon their first meeting, a physical and mental wreck. He'd let John in then, but doing so had been a marathon rather than an immediate decision, and his resolve to keep everyone out had been decimated by withdrawal. Now, John is certain that Sherlock will reject all demands to acknowledge the limitations of his emotional endurance since he'd made it clear he feels responsible for making sure they are able to build a life outside of the Corps.

The Corps isn't quite done with us yet, is it? Not if it's haunting Sherlock like this. John doesn't know what that nightmare had been about but the list of memories and potential futures that could so frighten Sherlock is short and connected firmly to the PPDC.

Losing his parents.

Losing John to a kaiju.

James Moriarty.

Even without their more profound connection, something he's felt from Sherlock is telling John that third guess just might be correct.

Sherlock looks at him finally, eyes tired and glassy as if feverish. "It's as if he's still––" he mutters, then tries to school his features into nonchalance. "Never mind," he tries to dismiss, voice raspy though he's trying to harden it.

He tries to push past John again, but John grips his arm gently but firmly. "It's as if he's still in your head? He's not, though. Or is he?"

"No. I'd know if he could still–– I think that would require two active implants." Sherlock is speaking fast, latching with zeal onto the rationality of technological details.

"Should be enough protection, then, that yours is shut off," John offers.

Sherlock lets his head loll back, then glances at himself in the mirror.

John steps behind him, and their eyes meet in the reflection. "Even if we still have a connection, it doesn't mean he can eavesdrop on it." It had occurred to him as he'd been mulling things over in the dark that this might be one of the reasons why Sherlock doesn't want to accept the possibility of their remnant Ghost Drifting. It leaves a door ajar for that bastard to get in.

"We got out, but how do I get him out?" Sherlock asks, studying the sight of John in the mirror.

John is tempted to remind his partner that he shouldn't give James Moriarty any space in his brain since that snake has no reason to give a rat's arse about Sherlock any longer, but then he recalls what Mycroft has said about the man offering to deliver their eulogies. Not telling Sherlock that bit.

"Tell me what?" Sherlock asks almost defiantly.

He turns to face John, so close their chests are nearly touching. "Do I have to kill him to free us?" he whispers with the lowest register of his voice, drinking in the sight of John, desperate for answers.

John nearly shudders; the question does not sound rhetorical. "You shouldn't have to commit or even fantasise about murder in order to move on. I'd wring his neck myself if I could, but it's not going to happen. If we're lucky, we'll never cross paths with him."

"Is it even murder if his very existence threatens the Corps and, by extension, humanity?"

"He doesn't just talk the talk: they killed a kaiju on his first deployment," John points out, tone careful because he fears Sherlock will think he's defending that bastard. "Let's hope that's all he wants to do." John cannot in all honesty dismiss Sherlock's worries about the potential of Moriarty to wreak havoc within the organisation, but what more could Moriarty want after getting a Ravager assignment? What more is there to reach for within the Corps? "You're right, though. I don't really want him anywhere near the Ranger Corps, regardless of what I think about the PPDC now."

"He doesn't care about humanity," Sherlock points out bitterly. "All he wants is to win, whatever he thinks that means. Our death means he never got the last word with me."

"You don't think dying would constitute as losing in his books?" John shakes his headm because it's such a delusional, ridiculous idea to want to win even over the dead. John then realises that a grandiose concept would also entice the always dramatic Sherlock. If you don't want to be like him, then be the sensible one and let it go, he wants to plead but knows better than to fight his bloody-minded partner's obsessions.

"Not continuing this conversation without tea," John decides. "I think I saw some chamomile in the pantry."

Sherlock makes a face. "It's not tea, not even remotely."

"Not giving you anything with caffeine. Come on."

Sherlock follows him downstairs and into the opposite wing. John suspects there might be several kitchens in the house, but this is the one he'd found and liked earlier. It feels less pompous than the rest of the house, would even feel right at home at a cosy cottage in a small village.

Neither speaks much as John puts the kettle on and drops two bags of chamomile and valerian tea into mugs. Sherlock receives his where he's taken a seat by the window, curling his fingers around the warm ceramic.

John remains standing, his own steaming mug on the table before him untouched. "It's going to take time to stop thinking about Chard all the time––" he starts, trying to sound patient.

"You heard Mycroft!" Sherlock slams his mug down and rushes to his feet to start pacing. "If there are people convinced enough to graffiti the walls that we might not be dead, I'm sure Moriarty has heard the same rumours."

"They're not necessarily even rumours. Could just be wishful thinking from people who liked us, and is Moriarty the sort of guy to listen to idle corridor talk, anyway?" Maybe the way he's using the media to taunt Sherlock is just a test to make sure there's no truth to that kind of talk. We just need to let time pass until Moriarty starts thinking that if Sherlock was alive, he would have already been provoked into responding.

John isn't the only one thinking along those lines.

Sherlock stops his frantic steps long enough for a mouthful of his drink. "If he thinks those rumours might have a grain of truth, it makes sense he'd try to provoke me to reveal myself. It's like shooting into a bush, seeing if something comes out."

"Elegant tactic, that," John comments dryly, taking a mouthful of his own near-scalding tisane.

Sherlock grunts in frustration and pivots on his heel by the window to start a new, agitated march across the floor. "I haven't even been able to convince Mycroft that he needs to take Moriarty off the board!"

"I wouldn't be so sure. He's already looked into him, and I told him last night that I think you're right, that investigating Moriarty as far as he can is worth the risk."

Sherlock comes to a screeching halt, gaping. "You told Mycroft?!"

John doesn't need to be told what details Sherlock fears he might have shared related to their new enemy. "No, I just argued your case. Sharing details of your personal history with Moriarty is hardly going to convince him that you're being objective in your assessment, is it?"

"I'm more objective than anyone, because no one knows him like I do! Well, nobody alive."

"And that's why I'm glad you are never, ever going to see him again," John warns. "God, I wish Mycroft could get him locked up. If he knew everything Moriarty did, I'm sure he'd––"

"I don't want him to know. And it would be useless to him, anyway, since he could hardly file a complaint on my behalf. Someone is already trying to get rid of him, so accusing an already celebrated new star Ranger of–– of–– things would just make Mycroft look ridiculous. It would be the ammunition they'd need to make him look incompetent if he started claiming his dead brother is saying he was telepathically––"

John can see the cogs turning, of words being discarded as unacceptable.

"––harassed," Sherlock finally phrases. "All that would do is make me look jealous from beyond the grave and make him look guilty — as if he's just making a feeble attempt to siderail people's attention."

John crinkles his nose. It's hateful how he can do so little to help his husband. He can't erase James Moriarty from this earth, magic Sherlock into forgetting about what happened or even change his mind about who really has won that ridiculous game of dominance between him and James. He can only hope that the distance and time passing can exorcise at least some of Sherlock's ghosts.

"Letting go of what happened sounds like a better alternative," John offers, sceptical that Sherlock will listen or agree. If he could let go of any of it, wouldn't he have done so already? How long would that realistically take? John reminds himself that it's early days, still. Might still be normal that he's struggling to move on even just a bit.

Sherlock has stopped by the window, clasped his wrist behind his back. "Death doesn't erase memories. It just protects you from new ones."

"He didn't win," John tries. "You're here with me. He may have the Ravager, but…" I hope he gets crushed by some embarrassingly low category kaiju. "What is a win and what's a loss is all your decision," he tries to argue.

"Speaking of loss… I miss us. You. In my head. I know something of the Ghost Drifting remains, but it's not the same."

John climbs to his feet, joins him by the window and strokes his palm down Sherlock's shoulder and back. "I know it's not. But I think it might get stronger the more we practice."

"Are we one of those people who just keep digging themselves into a deeper hole without realising there’s no clawing out?" Sherlock asks quietly.

"You never were good at leaving well enough alone," John grimaces. "But I don't think we're in a hole." Not yet.

"I spent all those years convinced the Corps was the last thing I’d ever want, that I didn’t belong. But now I don’t know who am I without it," Sherlock admits. "I took things for granted. Like the Ghost Drifting. John… if you ever think I'm becoming a bit… full of myself, cocky or––"

John bursts out laughing. "That you might be becoming cocky?"

"Over-confident," Sherlock specifies in such a fittingly haughty tone that it just makes John chuckle more.

Sherlock looks confused and put off by John's amusement. "I'm serious."

John manages to sober his expression. "I know. I'm sorry. So, if you're ever threatening to go truly off the rails with the egotism…?"

"Just say the word 'Moriarty' to me."

"I don't need to, because you're an Olympic athlete when it comes to beating yourself up with guilt." John wraps his arm around Sherlock's waist and pulls him against his side.

"They're televising our memorial service."

"We're not watching that." John's tone is firm.

Sherlock gives him a pouty look. "How many people get the opportunity to hear their own eulogies?"

"I kind of used to believe everyone did."

"Sitting on some cloud in everlasting life, watching humans faff about their lives? Tedious," Sherlock declares. "I prefer this life. With you."

"So, let's stop wasting it worrying about the Corps and go to bed. You look like you're freezing," John points out for good measure, rubbing his partner's goosebumped arm. Sherlock is in his shirtsleeves still, skin glistening from nervous sweat and from the near-vomiting, and there is a draught in the kitchen. He hadn't drunk even half of the mug that might have offered some warmth.

"Sleep is even more tedious," Sherlock laments, but starts trailing behind John out of the kitchen. "This is hateful," he snarls as they reach the main stairwell. "We're trapped here for who knows how long until Mycroft comes up with a plan or we do. We can't go out in public, can't do anything to make sure things within the Corps doesn't get worse."

"Still surprises me that you'd care––" before Sherlock has a chance to argue, John lifts up a finger at the bedroom door. "I know you'd say it makes sense for us, too, to want the Corps to have the best chance, but I know you, and you're petty enough to want them all to burn to the ground. It's not even petty, really, after what they did to you. But you can't spend the rest of your life fuming with rage."

"Easy for you to say. They did you a nasty, but I got the shorter end of the stick by far."

"None of this is a competition," John repeats, feeling like a broken record.

 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 2 of Drift Compatible