FIC: Staircase Wit [6/6] PART 2 OF 2

[splix]

Continued from Part 1



*



They dragged him out of the car and down a flight of stone stairs. He smelled the sour tang of wine, a smoky, musty odor like ageing cured wood, and…yes, the scent of chalk. His wet, bare feet gritted against dust on the floor. The expensive cellar Bevan had built wasn’t handling the climate change very well, evidently. It was crumbling, falling apart.

He was flung into a hard wooden chair; his ankles and knees were tied together with thin nylon rope, and more rope was wound around his waist, securing him to the chair. He heard the murmur of approaching voices and the sound of leather-soled shoes on the gritty stone floor, and smelled expensive, flashy cologne – Dior Homme.

“Mr. Holmes,” a voice said. “You must be a late riser, still in your jim-jams.”

“Sorry about that,” Sherlock said pleasantly. “Had I known I was going to be kidnapped today, I would have got out my tails.”

“That’s very funny.”

A hand reached out and tugged the blindfold down. It fell around Sherlock’s neck, and he blinked against the light before focusing on Cecil Bevan’s face. “Mr. Bevan, you shouldn’t have panicked. It would have taken me at least another day to find out what happened to the painting. You’d have had plenty of time to be safely out of the country.” Sherlock took in the chalk cellar, two walls lined with rows and rows of bottles from floor to ceiling. The three hirelings stood behind Bevan, watching him silently.

A spasm of anger flitted across Bevan’s face. “Right. Where the fuck is it, Holmes?”

Sherlock blinked. “The real painting, you mean. Not the replica that’s downstairs in the National Gallery.”

“How’d you figure it out?”

“Simple enough. The wood in the frame is about two hundred years old – a little early for Signor Caravaggio to have painted it. And the painting itself – you purchased the original unrestored, and it’s gone a bit yellow. Oils do – you know that, of course, an art connoisseur like yourself. But the one that’s in the National now – it’s remarkably clear, and in fact still has a faint odour of the preservative the artist used – a very distinct chemical odour. Synthetic turpentine. Bad move.” Sherlock smiled.

“So where’s the real painting?” Bevan hissed. Sweat was beginning to bead on his brow. “I’m sick of this fucking game you’re playing, you and your friend, sick of being in the middle of it. So tell me where it is and I won’t have to have you killed. You wouldn’t be the first, you know.”

Sherlock stared at Bevan. “My friend?”

Bevan clenched his fist, then struck Sherlock hard across the face. He grasped a handful of Sherlock’s hair and yanked his head back. “Your buddy Jim!” he shrieked. “He stole the fucking painting and he took the wrong one – mine. I’m not going to be disgraced for a fucking game, Holmes.” Bevan’s face was red, close to Sherlock’s, and his breath shivered in and out in short, erratic bursts. He let Sherlock’s hair go and slapped him again, rocking Sherlock’s head backward.

Moriarty. Sherlock tasted blood in his mouth and felt it trickling down his chin. He swiped his tongue against his lower lip. “Right,” he whispered. “Not so easy to steal a painting nowadays, with locking display systems and security cameras. He’d have to ensure that it was out of the display clamps, somewhere –“ Sherlock let out a little delighted gasp. “Oh, clever Jim. He donated the replica, and when you had a fit about a second painting, presented himself to you and said he could steal it.”

“I know that now!” Bevan bellowed. “It doesn’t take a goddamned genius to figure it out! But he took the wrong fucking painting and stuck me with the copy. That fucking bastard. And I had you watched, damn it – taking the sliver, finding the dust – I told them not to bring you in….” Bevan paced back and forth, rubbing his hands together.

“Quite easy to pull the wool over your eyes,” Sherlock said. “First the wine cellar – porous chalk soaking up all this damp and falling apart – tragic. You should sue the person who sold you the chalk. And now the painting. I hope you don’t collect Fabergé eggs, I think you’d be in for a disappointment. Your associates probably should have let Jim do all the work on his own and not have tracked dust all over the museum. He’s really very competent without your help, you know.”

“He called me last night. Laughed at me and asked if you’d figured it all out yet.” Bevan stopped pacing and stood in front of Sherlock. “Said he might reconsider and give it back if I handed you over to him. Do you know, I’m thinking about it? I don’t think you’re worth thirty-seven million pounds, Holmes.”

A faint flutter of apprehension awoke in Sherlock’s stomach. “Most people would agree with you.”

“I told him I’d think about it.” Bevan grinned. “And I’ll give you a couple of hours to think about it too. You either decide you’re going to find it for me and keep your goddamned big mouth shut, or I call Jim and have his friends pick you up. And I don’t think it’s going to be for an afternoon of whist and tea.”

Sherlock began twisting his hands behind his back, trying to loosen the cord that bound them. John wasn’t due back at the flat until after six – even later if he actually managed to accomplish the errands Sherlock had given him – and he didn’t have time to waste waiting for a rescue. “I’ll think about it.”

“You do that. But you’re not going to be comfortable, either. String him up.”

As Bevan walked out of the room, the three men left behind surrounded Sherlock. One cut the ropes around his waist and wrists, and the other two pulled him from the chair. His ankles and knees still tied together, Sherlock wobbled and would have fallen but for the men on either side, who caught him and supported his weight. Sherlock snarled at them. “Very truly yours, but –“

“Shut up,” one of the men said, and untied the blindfold from where it hung round Sherlock’s neck. He forced it between Sherlock’s teeth, pulled tightly, and knotted it at the back of his head. Another man ripped off Sherlock’s dressing gown, tugged the belt through the loops, and let the gown drop to the floor. Blue silk pooled at Sherlock’s feet. He cursed and struggled as his wrists were tied with the long, thin length of silk, this time in front, but it did him no good at all.

“Tape,” someone muttered. One of the men disappeared and re-emerged with a roll of gaffers’ tape. One of the men ripped off a long piece and wrapped it round Sherlock’s wrists, while another threw a heavy rope over one of the cellar’s thick supporting beams and stood on the chair to knot it tightly, leaving a fairly long length dangling.

Sherlock stared at the rope in mounting dread. Whatever they’d planned, it didn’t look pleasant. String him up – oh, Christ….

Knowing it was hopeless, he flung his body forward, trying to get away, shouting for help beneath the gag that didn’t really stifle sound, but garbled it and cut painfully into the corners of his mouth. There had to be other staff above the cellars, kitchen help, chambermaids, anyone –

“Grab him, Christ’s sake!”

They pulled him backward and held his bucking body as the man who’d hit him with the stun gun tore off a long length of tape and wrapped it around his head, sealing his mouth off from just below his nose to his chin and silencing him almost completely. Sherlock kept struggling, his breath hissing from his nose, but it was more difficult to get air, and utterly impossible when hard fingers pinched his nose shut. Can’t breathe, oh God –

“Listen, Holmes. Listen. Keep still, and I won’t kill you. You listening?”

Frantic, Sherlock nodded, and he forced himself to keep still even though every pore cried out for air and his whole body commanded him to fight the obstruction that denied him breath. With some preparation he could have held his breath for a fair amount of time, but he’d been taken by surprise. That seemed to be happening a lot just lately.

“Right.” The man let go, and Sherlock sucked in as much air as he could through his nostrils. Bright blue spots danced in front of his eyes. “Now. You’re going to get a little tickle with a rubber hose for being a smart-arse, Holmes, but first we’re going to let you think about it for an hour or so. Anticipation, don’t you know. Come on, lads.”

They yanked his arms over his head and looped the rope through his bound wrists. One man, evidently the strongest, stood on a chair once more and doubled the length of rope, pulling Sherlock’s arms taut, then his entire body until Sherlock dangled a few centimetres above the stone floor.

Still dazed from lack of air, Sherlock scarcely felt the pressure on his body until the men stepped away, admiring their handiwork. He blinked to try to clear his vision, and slowly, almost too slowly, as if his conscious mind was attempting to deny the clear, cold facts, he realised what was happening.

In order for normal breathing to occur, two sets of muscles were required: the thoracic diaphragm, the thin sheet of internal skeletal muscle extending across the bottom of the rib cage, and the intercostal muscles between the ribs. Whilst functioning normally, those muscles expanded and contracted the chest cavity during breathing. But suspension by the hands or wrists would result, after a brief period, in loss of muscular function. In short, he’d stop breathing, and die of positional asphyxiation.

No, you idiots, he wanted to scream, but they wouldn’t have understood a word, and he was already starting to feel the constriction of his muscles, not to mention a burning pain in his arms and shoulders. They laughed at him, waved a mocking farewell, and left, closing a heavy wooden door behind them. Sherlock was alone.

Right. Don’t panic. You have about twenty minutes of air until you black out completely. He glanced up at the rope that suspended him above the floor. It was thick and sturdy, holding his weight easily, and there’d be no way to break it. He stretched, arching toward the floor, and felt the tips of his toes just brushing the stone. The motion set his body swinging a bit, and reduced his airflow. A wave of dizziness washed over him, leaving him a bit frightened. He heard his breath, rapid and sharp from his nostrils, and felt the thud of his heartbeat in his eardrums.

You’re not exactly prolonging your life.

The only thing left was to lift himself up a bit, and if he didn’t do it quickly, his hands would go numb and he’d be completely out of luck. They already tingled from the pressure of his weight and the silk and tape wrapped tightly around his wrists. Patiently, he flexed his fingers, then grasped the rope and used every bit of his upper-body strength to lift himself and cling to the two handspans of rope that stretched between the beam and his wrists. His chest expanded gratefully, and he welcomed the cold air, thin a stream as it was, as it flowed into his nose.

If he could hold himself up for a bit, until they got back, he’d be fine. The morons had obviously seen too many stupid films and hadn’t any idea that hanging someone up thus was a really efficient way to kill them; if Jim Moriarty really was planning to collect him, Sherlock would have bet he wouldn’t be too happy to see his quarry dangling dead from a beam. It was almost worth waiting for, but he wasn’t especially eager to wind up in Jim Moriarty’s hands, dead or alive.

How long could one hold on to a rope? He’d never tested it, but things weren’t looking especially optimistic. His upper arms were already trembling with the effort of holding himself up, and his fingers were rapidly going numb. It would have been easier without the tape wrapped around his head. Why couldn’t they have just put a little strip over his mouth the way they did in the stupid films? Something he could have just pushed off with his tongue? It didn’t really follow that they were so completely inept in one area and over-thorough in another. Maybe he could peel it off if he made a bit of an effort.

Sherlock lifted himself a bit higher, ignoring the protestations of his overtaxed body. His face was close to his hand – just a bit closer. He reached out two fingers, slipped, and fell the short distance. His shoulders took most of the impact, sending bright red fireworks through his chest and arms, and he gave a strangled cry of agony. His body swung in short arcs, like a pendulum concocted by some demented clockmaker, as he tried to breathe through the pain. He tried to grasp the rope again, but his fingers were past strength or even sensation. Afraid he was going to pass out, he lifted his legs, holding his knees as high as he could to try to take off some of the pressure on his chest.

It hurts. Oh, it really hurts.

Stupid, ignominious way to die. Asphyxiation, and totally ignored in the bargain. God knew how Bevan was planning to get rid of his body. Doubtless Moriarty would have a hand in it, make him disappear completely. He’d fix it all, and John would search for Sherlock in vain.

Oh, God. John.

He couldn’t hold his knees up any longer. They dropped toward the floor, and Sherlock’s ribcage felt like iron clamps tightening round his body, murdering him slowly.

A tide of remorse and despair unleashed itself and forced a groan from Sherlock’s aching chest. If John saw his message, he’d come looking. Of course he would; Sherlock hadn’t written it thinking John would vacillate. He’d charge in, heedless of the danger, and not only would he be too late, but he might get himself killed as well.

John. A series of images fluttered through Sherlock’s eidetic consciousness, a compressed set of every moment they’d spent together since they’d met, but it wasn’t the adventures they’d shared that had left the strongest impression after the images faded; instead, he simply saw John’s face. Youthful, but life had happened to it, leaving strain around the dark blue eyes and a tautness around his mouth. Sometimes he’d smile in a certain way, though, and the tautness and strain would disappear, and Sherlock had fancied, if only fleetingly, that perhaps that particular smile was for him alone. And if John charged into a fray, Sherlock wanted to be beside him, not helpless, not dangling from a stupid crossbeam pathetically choking his last breaths through his nose. He didn’t want to die, he wasn’t ready – they had so much to do, the pair of them. John was too fine and good to leave, not just yet.

He didn’t have the strength for anything but breathing any longer, and that was dwindling. His vision was starred with bright flashes of red and blue. He gave one last weak tug at his bonds, but there was no slackening. A soft sound of anguish worked its way from his throat. He closed his eyes and waited for the end.

As he lost consciousness, he fancied he heard John’s voice saying his name, and his last thought was one of mingled gratitude and regret. He might have wished for John to say something else besides his name, but he had no more time.



*



“Sherlock, you hungry?” John, laden with bags, post, and suits wrapped in dry-cleaning plastic, pushed the door shut with his foot and thumped the bags down. “MacBurney’s had those chicken pasties you like, so I reckoned I’d get a couple for lunch since I forgot mine.” John laid the dry cleaning over the back of a chair and dumped the post – six periodicals (two of his, four of Sherlock’s), bills, and a pile of handwritten letters from hopeful would-be clients – onto the seat. “You could have picked up the post, at least.” He glanced at the couch, then looked over his shoulder at the messy kitchen. “Or done a bit of tidying, but God forbid….”

He picked up the bags, went into the kitchen, and set the bags on the table. “I called the archive and reserved the monograph you wanted,” he called, washing his hands. “Of course they wouldn’t hear of it until I said I was working with you, and even then I had to sign away my first-born child, but I got it. I’ll pick it up tonight.” John took out a flat baking pan, set the pasties on it, and popped it in the oven. “Sherlock?”

The bathroom door was ajar, as was Sherlock’s bedroom door, and the flat had the empty, lonely air of Sherlock’s abandonment. John doubled back and saw Sherlock’s coat and scarf flung over the desk chair. “Sherlock?” He went to the stairs. “Are you up there?”

Well, he wouldn’t go out without his coat and scarf, which meant he was down at Mrs. Hudson’s – no, Mrs. Hudson went out with her friends on Fridays – or he was upstairs and ignoring John, or he was asleep in his bedroom. John checked the bedroom and saw the mess of newspapers, clothes, and sundry other articles on Sherlock’s bed that hadn’t been touched for days, but no Sherlock.

“Sherlock! Come on, get down here. I’ve only got half an hour – got to get back to the surgery.” He went into the kitchen and saw the overturned dish of egg gunk that Sherlock had been fiddling with earlier in the morning. “Oh. Lovely.” It had dried into a shiny, sticky film that would probably take hours of soaking to coax off. He shrugged out of his parka, folded a tea towel, ran it under warm water, and placed it over the mess, then went upstairs. “Sherlock, I swear if you’re in my room, I’m going to –“ He pushed his door open and was greeted by the sight of his room – minimally furnished, bed made, undecorated but for a poster of a mountain lake in New Zealand and a photo of Harry and Clara taken during one of their periods of reconciliation.

Well, he’d gone out, then. Fine. John was hungry enough to eat both pies. He turned round and went downstairs, stepping on a feeling of disappointment. It wasn’t often that he came home for lunch; it just wasn’t convenient. Much easier to grab a bit of takeaway or eat in the office on a break. Funny, though – he’d really felt like a chat, and besides, he’d left his lunch behind. It would have been nice….

Where the hell did he go without his coat? Bloody freezing out there. The snow was still falling thickly from the sky, and aboveground traffic had come to a dead halt. If it kept up, London would be paralysed. Might be fun, later, to have a walk in the snow. The first of the Christmas lights had just made their appearance, and the snow made them that much prettier. Sherlock would moan and complain if John dragged him out for a walk – near-catatonia or St. Vitus’ dance were Sherlock’s two main states of existence, but he’d wind up enjoying it, even if he never said so. There was a look lately in Sherlock’s eyes that belied his tetchiness – it wasn’t quite sentimental, more of that sly humour mingled with an unspoken acknowledgement of his own stubbornness, a challenge to John, and John had found himself picking that particular gauntlet up more frequently of late.

A smile tugged at John’s mouth despite his disappointment at Sherlock’s absence. He ate one of the pasties, drank a cup of tea, and put the other pasty in a covered dish and replaced it in the oven. It would keep warm for another forty minutes or so. He pulled out his phone and sent Sherlock a text:

CAME, WENT, LEFT A PASTY FOR YOU IN THE OVEN.

As he was struggling into his parka, he heard the chirp of Sherlock’s phone. He glanced up, frowning.

What the hell?

Sherlock might – might – dash out of the flat and leave his coat behind….

He wouldn’t. He really, really wouldn’t.

….but leave without his mobile?

John crossed to the desk and saw Sherlock’s phone. He picked it up and gazed at it for a moment.

That’s not right.

“Sherlock?” he asked the empty room, very softly.

There was, of course, no answer.

Carefully, as though it were a fragile piece of crystal, John set Sherlock’s phone back on the desk. He looked at it for a moment, and then, without a single wasted movement and with a cold certainty settling inexorably into his heart, walked downstairs and examined the door. Bright, new scratches around the tarnished brass work – a file, a blade, some other implement that had gained someone – or several someones – unlawful entry.

“Shit,” John whispered, and ran upstairs again. He scanned the flat anxiously. There was nothing amiss, nothing but the overturned dish of egg gloop. “Christ, Sherlock –“

His hand was on his phone and plugging in Mycroft’s number before he even knew exactly what he was doing.

“Hello, John.” Mycroft’s voice was calm, unemotional. “Remarkable restraint yesterday – my most effusive congratulations. I think you’re beginning to have a stabilising effect upon my brother.”

“Mycroft,” John said, “did Sherlock disable all the bugs in the flat the other day?”

A sigh hissed out of the phone. “You would know better than I, John, since you were there at the time. Of course he did. The last footage I have of the two of you is Sherlock making a rude gesture and you giggling. Really very childish –“

“You’re sure?” John sifted through the debris on the table, looking for something, anything to help him figure out what the hell had happened. Sherlock had enemies – more than most. His gaze fell on the matte glow of Sherlock’s laptop. There was a sticky shine on it….

“Naturally I’m sure. You are aware, John, that I respect your privacy and therefore the lavatory and bedrooms are off limits, but surely even you must agree that the cameras in the public rooms are merely a reasonable precaution. You….”

Mycroft’s voice faded into a soothing hum as John cradled the phone between ear and shoulder and picked up the laptop, tilting it toward the light. His heart thudded painfully as he read the three words streaked onto the cover.

JOHN
BEVAN
HELP

“Oh, Christ. Jesus Chr –“ John set the laptop down and looked wildly around the flat. He saw the snow, a haze of white, soft and silent. Never get a taxi in this weather, he thought. Where the hell, oh, god damn it –

“Even so, it’s for his own good. And yours, I might add.” Mycroft was still talking.

“Mycroft!” John barked. “Listen to me. I need a car, and I need it now.”



*



The Range Rover stopped about a hundred paces away from Bevan’s house. John checked to verify that the extra magazines he’d stowed in his jacket pocket were safe, and then turned to the sturdy young man driving. “Right. I don’t want a hostage situation if we can possibly avoid it, so I’m going to reconnoiter a bit.”

“With respect, Dr. Watson, I don’t know if that’s the best course of action,” the young man, who’d identified himself as Matt Caldwell, replied. “We should hit hard and fast, and get Mr. Holmes out of there quickly, if indeed he’s inside. He may have guards close by, and the quicker we can take them out, the better.” He paused, then added, “And we’d like to avoid endangering you, sir.”

John marveled briefly at the exquisite politeness of Mycroft’s little army of trained killers. He heaved a quick breath, then nodded. He was emotional, too bloody emotional, and he couldn’t afford to be. He needed all the help he could get. “All right. I’ll follow your lead.” He peered anxiously at the house, a very pretty and graceful Georgian, its doors and windows decorated with thick garlands of holly. In the snow, it looked like a picture postcard, not a prison. Sherlock, I hope you’re okay.

God help Bevan if he wasn’t.



*



In the midst of action, Mycroft’s men were decidedly less polite.

“Hands up! On the floor! On the fucking floor, right fucking now!”

Two men in suits as well as a maid and a man who might have been Bevan’s butler dropped to the ground, cowering. One of Bevan’s hirelings, his face a greyish white at the sight of five heavily armed black-clad men, nevertheless reached into his jacket in a display of either bravery or stupidity, and one of Mycroft’s men fired. A blackish-red hole appeared in the man’s throat, and he fell over, an expression of extreme surprise on his face.

“Check upstairs,” Caldwell ordered, and two of the black-clad men thundered up the stairs, weapons drawn. There was a startled feminine scream, and sobbing.

John moved to one of the men in suits and crouched beside him, pressing the barrel to his temple. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” the man muttered sullenly.

John thumbed the safety off. “Don’t you?”

“Jesus, okay, okay – back off.”

“Where is he?”

“Downstairs. Wine cellar.”

Caldwell prodded the man with his foot. “Anyone else down there?”

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Calmly, Caldwell fired, putting a gaping hole in the man’s hand. The man shrieked and curled up on the floor, writhing. “You sure?”

“Nobody! Nobody! Jesus Christ!”

“I’ve got it,” John said, and went to the maid, who was sobbing quietly on the floor. He helped her up, and despite the weapon he held, she clung to him on shaking legs. “Nobody’s going to hurt you,” he said softly, and braced her with an arm around her waist. “I need you to show me where the cellar door is, okay?”

“I didn’t know,” she whimpered.

“Usually means she did know,” Caldwell translated with weary good humour, as his men set about binding the men on the floor with zip ties.

“I didn’t, I swear –“

“Okay. Just show me.”

Still crying, the girl led John to a thick door and pointed at it. John nodded. “Okay. Get back. There might be an exchange of fire.” He pushed the door open and descended the stone staircase silently. There was a corridor at the bottom of the stairs illuminated by hanging bulbs, white brick that looked as if it was beginning to mould, and at the end of the corridor, another door.

His footsteps making no sound, John went to the door, listened, and then turned the knob. He threw the door open, shoulder-rolled in, straightening in a firing position, his Sig aimed at the figure in the middle of the room. He focused in the gloom, then gasped. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock was hanging by his wrists to one of the thick supporting rafters. His head was tipped forward, but not so much that John couldn’t tell that he was gagged; the tape gleamed dully in the dim light, wrapped round his head. He was wearing his t-shirt and pyjama trousers, and his feet were bare. He was utterly still, and only the faintest respiration signaled to John that he was still alive.

Barely. Oh, Christ, he’s asphyxiating. How long did that sadistic bastard hang him up there?

A flash of memory overlaid itself upon the cellar’s gloom: a rescue mission in Afghanistan, a young soldier who’d been captured and tortured and similarly bound. They’d saved his comrades, but had been too late to save him; with half a score of broken ribs and a fractured sternum, he’d died within ten minutes of his captors hanging him up. All they could do was cut him down and bring his body home.

He’d be damned if he was going to let that happen again.

Caldwell had given him a Fairbain knife in an ankle holster. John pulled it in one swift, smooth motion, hooked a nearby chair with his toe, and leapt onto it to saw at the rope. It sliced through the tough fibers with gratifying speed, and in a few seconds Sherlock’s arms had dropped and he collapsed. John caught him round the waist and lowered him to the chair, hanging on until he was able to jump down and cradle Sherlock in his arms. “Sherlock,” he said softly. “Sherlock, it’s going to be okay. I’ve got you.”

Sherlock was silent and utterly still, barely triggering respiration on his own, his face above the tape a terrifying bluish-white. Clear the airway, still time for neurological impairment, oh Christ, Sherlock. With painstaking care, John slid the tip of the knife beneath the tape and cut gently upwards against Sherlock’s cheek. It wasn’t the quickest path to his mouth, but there was the least chance of injury. Gently, he peeled back the tape and prised a band of dark cloth from between Sherlock’s teeth. Bastards. Fucking bastards.

It still wasn’t enough. His fingers found the pulse in Sherlock’s neck, weak, too fast, but still there, God damn it, no evidence of cardiac arrest. “Okay, Sherlock.” John forced himself to speak calmly, as if Sherlock could hear him, as if he weren’t lying on the floor of this god-damned cellar because of some fucking painting, and if he got his hands on Bevan the man wouldn’t walk for a month. “We’re going to get some air into those lungs of yours.” As he spoke, he cut the tape and fabric – Sherlock’s dressing gown sash – from round his wrists and placed his arms to his sides. Then he cut the rope that bound Sherlock’s knees and ankles. “That should help a bit. Your heart’s in grand shape, that’s good news, very good. Just hang in there. I’m going to perform insufflation, all right, love? We’ll bring you round in a moment.”

John knelt close to Sherlock, tipped his head back, pinched his nose shut, and sealed his mouth over Sherlock’s, breathing in. Two slow breaths, then up. He looked at Sherlock’s chest rising gently. “Good. Good. Yes.” Two more breaths, his mouth and Sherlock’s tight against each other. Two in and wait. Two in and wait. Sherlock’s chest was moving now, but he didn’t stop. Two in, wait. And again, and again. His fingers found Sherlock’s pulse again. “Oh, God, that’s brilliant. You’re a star, Sherlock. Keep breathing.” Two more breaths, slow and steady, and Sherlock’s eyes flew open. An odd, froggy sound escaped his chest, and John, seasoned veteran of half a hundred rescue breathing actions, quickly turned Sherlock over on his side.

Sherlock made another choking noise, then threw up, heaving bile onto the stone floor. John rubbed his back in slow circles, smiling in relief. Tears blurred his eyes. “Music to my ears,” he said, and slid his arms beneath Sherlock’s armpits, supporting him. “That’s it, get it out if you need to. It’s all right. All right.” Sherlock coughed feebly and dry-heaved a few times, then groaned. “Probably feels vile, doesn’t it? It’s okay, just keep breathing.”

Sherlock spat weakly on the floor and groaned again.

“Yeah, I know.”

“Dr. Watson?” a voice called.

“Down here! It’s okay.” John turned at the approaching clatter of booted feet, and saw Caldwell enter the room, holstering his Sig, followed by two more of his men. “Did you find Bevan?”

“Yeah, cowering up in his bedroom and holding his girlfriend hostage, the prick.” Caldwell’s voice dripped contempt. “There’s a paramedic unit here. Is he okay?”

“He will be,” John said shortly. “I need a bag valve mask, stat. And get Mycroft here as soon as you can.” He arranged Sherlock’s limbs in the recovery position and checked his airway. Good. Very good. Thank God.

“He’s on his way.” Caldwell turned on his heel, then paused. “You’re a cool customer, Dr. Watson.” He nodded shortly, and was gone, accompanied by the other two men.

John heard more voices, and the rattle of a stretcher and medical equipment. More lovely music. As the sounds drew closer, he gently brushed damp curls away from Sherlock’s face – still terribly white, but no longer with that frightening tinge of blue – then leant down and planted a soft kiss upon Sherlock’s temple.

“Thank God,” he whispered, and scarcely knew that it was a prayer.



*



Sherlock folded the newspaper shut with a decisive snap. “So much for keeping it all out of the papers.”

“At least they left your name out.” John held the Guardian close to his nose. “But the missing security guard turned up in the boot of a car, apparently. Poor bloke.”

“Apparently.” Sherlock blew out an impatient breath and picked up a cake of rosin, then dropped into his chair. He tightened the bow a bit and bounced it on his knee. “More fool him for agreeing to help Moriarty.”

John felt his mouth drawing downward at the sound of the shrug in Sherlock’s voice and deliberately turned a page. “So Bevan had underworld ties.”

“It would seem so.”

“That’s two art crimes Moriarty’s committed. What do you reckon he’s playing at?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Looks like quite a bit of Bevan’s money came fr –“

“John.” Sherlock’s voice cut into John’s musing with icy precision. “I really don’t care.”

John clamped his lips shut so that his sigh issued from his nose. “Fine,” he said lightly, folding the newspaper up and dropping it on the floor. “Fine. Just making conversation.”

Sherlock didn’t respond, nor glance up at him. He rubbed the rosin cake across his bowstrings in a gentle, sweeping motion.

So that was how it was going to be. Not a word about what had happened, not a word about Moriarty, who’d got away with the real painting, who’d been identified in the papers only as a figure with strong ties to an international criminal element. John would have guessed that Sherlock was cross about Moriarty getting away with theft, not to mention murder, right under his nose, but there was something else he couldn’t put his finger on, something that bothered him personally, and of course Sherlock would probably die before mentioning it. John peered at Sherlock’s impassive countenance, shook his head, and sipped at his lukewarm tea.

The fire crackled pleasantly behind the grate. Sherlock flexed his bare toes, put the bow to the strings of his violin, and heaved a very loud and very long sigh. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, John.”

“What?” John felt his brows drawing together. “I didn’t say anything. I wasn’t even thinking anything, so –“

“Right. If I’m going to have you staring at me all night with that long face –“

John placed his hands on the arms of the chair. “Shall I go?”

Sherlock waved his bow airily. “No, stay, by all means. You clearly have something you want to say to me, so say it. Get it off your chest. Talk it out, Doctor. There’s a couch right over there if you need it.”

The sneering contempt in Sherlock’s voice set John’s teeth on edge, and it took all he had not to get up and hit his flatmate in the mouth. Instead, he grasped the arms of the chair and kept his voice even and steady. “You’re full of it, aren’t you?”

Sherlock gaped at him. “Sorry?”

“You heard me. God, maybe I really am stupid.” John shook his head. “Every time something’s bothering you, you get extra snotty. Took me long enough to work it out.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant. So you’re a psychoanalyst now. Do continue, I’m all for enlightenment.”

“No you’re not, but I’ll go on anyway.” John held Sherlock’s gaze as he picked up his cooling tea and took another sip. Sherlock was watching him with wide eyes; like most people (and oh, Christ, he’d be annoyed to hear it) he’d sit still for any amount of nattering, even abuse, as long as he was the focus of the discussion. “You were –“ John stopped and forced himself to be a little more gentle. “Weren’t you scared, Sherlock? Christ, that security guard died. You almost died.” The truth of his words pierced his insides, and he nearly groaned in pain. “You almost died, for fuck’s sake.”

Sherlock blinked. “But I didn’t.”

“But you almost did.”

“But I didn’t.” Sherlock set his bow and violin down and briefly touched his fingertips to his temples. “You showed up in time. Well done. Wait, did I neglect to thank you? Thank you for rescuing me, John. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, Jesus, Sherlock, you know that’s not it.” John stood up and began to pace. “Don’t you get it? I almost didn’t show up. If I hadn’t come home for lunch…Christ, if I’d been even fifteen minutes later, you’d be dead.”

“John, I’m really not quite comprehending what you’re trying to say. I agree it was a fortuitous series of events that led to you finding me, but the point is that you did find me, and thanks to your quick thinking and actions I’m perfectly fine. What on earth are we quarrelling about?”

John clamped his teeth together and accidentally bit the side of his tongue. A bright, brief pain stabbed and lingered for a moment, but he was grateful for it, because he was almost ready to walk over to Sherlock’s chair, grab him by the shoulders, and shake him until his superior and yet stupendously clueless brain rattled in his head. He counted to ten, then twenty, then thirty. He tasted blood in his mouth and swallowed against the bitter metallic tang before he spoke again. “I might not always be there, Sherlock. I…I mean, one day, someone with a grudge is going to try to bump you off, and they might succeed. There are plenty of people who hate you. You know that.”

Sherlock shrugged. “And I might be hit by a bus tomorrow.”

“Well, tell me then. Which is more statistically likely – you getting hit by a bus, or some lunatic with an ax to grind breaking into the flat and murdering you?”

An odd little smile had appeared on Sherlock’s face. He leant back in his chair. “Don’t worry, John. I’m sure they wouldn’t try to kill you too. You’d be collateral damage, and most psychopaths are hyper-focused on –“

“It’s not a joke!” John snapped, and put a hand to his cheek. His tongue really hurt. He lowered his voice, changed the timbre to a near-plea. “Sherlock, don’t you see? People like Bevan, like Moriarty –“ Sherlock flinched a bit, but John went on. “They don’t give a damn about you. All right, forget Moriarty. The other ones, the greedy bastards like Bevan, they see you as an obstacle. They’re not going to play some stupid game of cat and mouse with you. They don’t value your brain, or any of your talents, or – they’ll just kill you after you piss them off.” He hesitated. “When I was in Afghanistan, I saw a soldier executed by – the same way you were strung up. It was awful. You’ve no idea. Sherlock, I couldn’t bear it if that had happened to you.” He stared at Sherlock, his eyes full of naked pleading.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, then stood up and glared down at John. “So I should just stop. Is that what you’re saying? Stop solving crimes and assisting the Met when it hasn’t but Lestrade as its brain stem and cerebral cortex, and even he – stop and perhaps find a nice, quiet little profession to keep me busy? Maybe start a blog, like you? I see you’ve been getting advert offers in your email. You might want to give that some serious thought; there could be a living in it yet.”

John wasn’t going to be drawn. “They don’t care about you, Sherlock, not as a person.”

Two spots of crimson had appeared high on Sherlock’s cheeks. “My life doesn’t need you to protect it, John.” He pressed his lips together, shook his head a little, and then spoke with withering finality. “It never has.”

There had been worse insults directed his way. Much worse. When he’d first joined the medical corps, his commanding officer had called him a no-good snivelling short-arse lump of dog shit. Once he’d been briefly captured outside of Kabul, and his captors had beaten him and called him names he couldn’t understand, but the rage in their voices had been as evident as the clubs that had left huge welts on his unprotected body. As a medical student, he’d been shrieked at by his fair share of supervising physicians. One had hurled a bedpan at his head for nothing more than an innocent inquiry about the necessity for dissolving stitches versus medical adhesive.

None of that invective had cut the way Sherlock’s words had.

John felt his throat tighten, and he turned away. “Okay,” he replied softly. “That’s…that’s good to know, I guess.” He went to the door, feeling Sherlock’s gaze boring into him, and left without a backward glance, closing the door behind him.

Usually Sherlock shouted after John, commanding his return, but this time there was nothing but silence from the flat.



*



He walked for an hour and a half, moving among the throngs of evening shoppers without really seeing a single face clearly. Christmas lights blazed around him, cheerful and romantic in the snow that still clung to the frozen ground, but he saw only an intrusive blur. He bought a falafel sandwich, but threw it away after only a few bites, still hearing Sherlock’s cold, angry voice in his head.

Christ, it hurt.

If that’s all I mean to him, after all this time, then sod it. Sod it.

He could have a normal life, after all: a job, maybe a nice, cozy little place out in a suburb, normal friends who didn’t leave body parts in the fridge and stay up all night stinking the flat up with chemicals and horrifying experiments involving offal and scraping away at the violin at holy-fuck-o’clock in the morning. He could have a girlfriend, a lovely, sweet woman with soft curves and long hair, someone to go on movie dates with and cuddle up in a car and eat pizza. He could get married, have a family. His life could be fulfilled in a way that couldn’t happen as Sherlock’s flatmate. He could live crowded with congenial people and unremarkable events…and, he realised, he’d have such a pleasant, ordinary life that he probably wouldn’t have comprehended his own emptiness.

Admit it, John. Go ahead.

“Jesus. Oh, God.”



*



Blindly, he staggered his way toward home. The lights were on in the flat, but he couldn’t make himself go inside, not quite yet. Apprehension battered at his already aching heart and made him quail. He went instead to the little green two streets away. He’d sit in the cold a bit, collect himself.

And then he didn’t know what the fuck he was going to do.

As he approached the green, he saw a familiar figure on one of the benches, sitting alone. The figure lifted a hand to his lips, then blew out an extravagant plume of smoke.

Fortuitous. Right.

He advanced slowly, giving Sherlock plenty of time to see him coming.

Sherlock glanced at him; all the haughty self-satisfaction seemed to have fled his bearing, and his eyes moved quickly from John’s direct gaze. “Oh. Hello.”

“You probably shouldn’t be sitting out in the cold,” John said gently. “Your lungs took a real beating the other day.” He smiled. “Those cigarettes will kill you, too.”

Sherlock’s mouth tilted up at one end. “You’re probably right.” He dropped the cigarette, mostly intact, at his feet and ground it out with his heel, then picked it up and pitched it into the rubbish bin.

“You feeling okay? Your breathing, I mean.”

Sherlock gave a nod. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine.” He cleared his throat. “Thank you.”

“That’s good.” John stuck his hands in his pockets. “Mind if I sit down for a bit?”

“Oh. Please.” Sherlock moved over on the bench and crossed his arms over his chest.

John sat and folded his hands together, assiduously looking everywhere but at Sherlock. Suddenly, the physical reality of him felt too intense to bear. He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, seeing only his profile clearly under his mop of curls.

There was a sudden tightness in John’s throat. Almost lost him. Can’t. Can’t lose him.

“The telly was playing that stupid Christmas movie you liked so much last year.”

“A Christmas Story?”

“I don’t know. It’s black-and-white.”

“The one where Jimmy Stewart gets to see what life would have been like if he’d never been born?”

“That’s the one. Trite.”

John smiled. “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Sherlock stared at him uncomprehendingly. “That’s the name of the film,” he explained.

“Oh.” Sherlock looked down and fidgeted with the buttons of his coat. His breath issued from his lungs in frozen white puffs of air. “John.”

“Yeah?”

“I have a question.”

John couldn’t suppress a smile. It’ll be okay, he thought. I don’t need to…to be with him, not like that. I just want him around. He turned to Sherlock and watched his face, so…so damned lovely, right now so downcast, and knew he was lying to himself, but it didn’t matter. He had to take what he could get. “What is it?”

“If you…suppose you hadn’t been able to reach Mycroft. If by some chance – I mean, I know it would be almost impossible given your limited resources, but if by some chance you had to come alone to Bevan’s…would you have?”

For a moment John simply stared at Sherlock. “Christ, how can you even ask that?” He saw Sherlock’s shoulders tense and clarified. “Of course I would. Sherlock, Jesus…of course.”

“I see.”

John rubbed a hand over his face. “Why…why would you ask me a thing like that?”

“It’s terribly risky. Dangerous.”

“So?”

Sherlock shrugged, and John saw his face in the yellowish lamplight. It was tight with some indeterminate emotion, locked behind one of Sherlock’s many walls. “I just thought that you might be getting a bit weary of it.”

Oh, God. John moved closer to Sherlock and rested a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock flinched a bit but didn’t pull away. “Because of what I said?”

“Well, yes. Obviously.”

“How many times have you saved my arse?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied in an irritable tone. “I wasn’t keeping score, John.”

“Sherlock,” John said, “I was scared for you. Scared shitless. Every time you open up your big tactless gob to some baddie I’m fucking terrified they’re going to turn around and pop a cap into you. And it’s not that I want you to go into hiding or retirement or whatever. I’m not an idiot – or at least I’m not that much of an idiot. I know that what you do is…it’s like breathing to you. I know that.” He patted Sherlock’s shoulder awkwardly.

Sherlock kept his gaze fixed downward. “Thank you.”

“Thing is –“ John sighed. “I don’t know what I’d do if you weren’t around. I just got scared, that’s all.”

“I thought you were planning to leave.”

Strangely, John wanted to cry. “I’m not going anywhere.” He paused. “It’s just…sometimes it’s nice to hear that you’re needed, you know? Or wanted, or…hell, I don’t know.” That’s good, he chided himself furiously. Make a hash of it. He hoped Sherlock would chalk his flushed cheeks up to the cold.

“I spoke in anger earlier, John. I apologise.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not. It was wrong of me. You see, I really would be…quite lost without you.”

For one frail moment, time held its breath. And then John struggled to his feet, stood in front of Sherlock, leant down, taking Sherlock’s face in his hands, and kissed him.



*



It was New Year’s Eve before it actually happened; they endured three weeks of kissing, embracing, and rather furtive groping that left them both aroused but unsatisfied. John had thought it might have happened at Christmas, but the strain of having Mycroft, Harry, and Clara in the same room at one time effectively killed any erotic charge they’d built up. After a few more days of odd shyness, they’d agreed to go out to eat on New Year’s Eve.

They had dinner at Angelo’s; not posh, but comfortable, unpretentious, and brimming with memory. Sherlock’s fettucine and John’s pasta primavera sat mostly untouched. They drank most of a bottle of Pinot Noir and sat in silence. Occasionally their hands brushed against each other beneath the table. The candle flame danced to and fro; John watched it, half-hypnotised by the flickering light.

“Tonight,” Sherlock said softly.

John glanced at him, then back at the flame. “You sure?”

“Yes. Now, in fact.”

They walked back to the flat in trembling silence, gloved hands tightly clasped together. Even before they shut the door, they were kissing, Sherlock devouring John’s mouth with more ardor than skill, but it made no difference to John, who guided him into softer, more lingering caresses, who gentled Sherlock’s ferocity and who led him upstairs to the sparse bedroom and toppled him onto the single mattress.

Leaning back on his elbows, Sherlock gazed at John with eyes that sparkled pale blue in the dim lamplight. “John, I think you should know that I’m a virgin.”

“I think I knew that.”

“Are you disappointed?”

“Hell, no.” John shucked his jumper and jeans.

“Have you ever been with a man before?” Following John’s lead, Sherlock sat up and neatly stripped off his jacket, handing it to John. “Can you put that on the chair?”

John bit back a smile. For someone who frequently left the kitchen, front room, and his own bedroom looking like bomb sites, Sherlock was terribly persnickety about his clothing. “Sure. Um, yes, once before. In the army. Maybe a few times.”

“I see.” Sherlock wriggled out of his socks and trousers. “So for all your vehement protestations –“

“Sherlock.” John took Sherlock’s face in his hands again.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.” John pushed Sherlock back on the bed and kissed him thoroughly. Christ, he had a glorious mouth. He spread Sherlock’s knees apart and slipped between them, lowering himself just enough to rub his erection against Sherlock’s, both trapped behind fabric, practical cotton and silk in such a wonderful texture that John almost came from sliding his hands beneath Sherlock’s arse to caress it. “Oh, God.”

“I’m not quite sure what to do, John,” Sherlock murmured. He captured John’s earlobe in his teeth and nibbled.

“You’re doing really, really well. Oh, God.”

“Shouldn’t we have some sort of lubricant?”

“Oh, you’re so bloody practical at the wrong times….” John groaned as he reached beneath the bed for the bottle of hand lotion that reposed beside the stack of pornographic magazines, a holdover from pre-internet wanking. Good job I don’t have to move much. I’m going to die if I don’t get to fuck him now. Belatedly he wondered if Sherlock would prefer to initiate things. Might make him feel more secure. “D’you want to top?”

“Oh.” Sherlock squirmed underneath him, arching higher up to rub against John’s cock. “No, you first. Thanks for asking, though.”

“Right. Right. I’ve been tested, I’m –“

“Just fuck me,” Sherlock growled. “Fuck me, John.”

“Oh –“ John struggled to get his pants off, and groaned as the material rubbed against the sensitised skin, the wetness at the tip. “Raise up.” He peeled off Sherlock’s boxers and dropped them beside his own, and they were finally naked, skin to skin and frantic. John pumped some of the lotion into his hand and rapidly stroked himself. “Ready?”

“Yes. Do it.”

“Pick your knees up. A little higher. That’s it.” John pushed the head of his cock against Sherlock’s hole and worked his way inside. “Christ, fucking tight. Oh God.” Sherlock grimaced and dug his fingers into John’s arms. “Am I hurting you?” John whispered.

“Doesn’t matter. Keep going.”

John gritted his teeth and drove himself deeply into Sherlock’s body. He wanted to take it slowly, to savour every bit of Sherlock’s lanky strength, but he couldn’t help himself. He thrust frantically and finally thought to wrap his hand around Sherlock’s hard prick. Sherlock cried out and spilled over John’s hand, and the resulting tightness of Sherlock’s reaction sent John over the edge. He let out a muted roar and shuddered to a blinding climax, finally pulling out and collapsing beside Sherlock, panting and gasping for breath.

There was silence in John’s bedroom broken only by the steady ticking of his old-fashioned alarm clock.

“Is it always that…quick?” Sherlock asked.

“Erm…it doesn’t have to be. I got a bit carried away,” John said apologetically.

“Ah.”

“Sorry.”

“No, no. I’m flattered.” Sherlock raised himself to one elbow and turned to face John. “Thank you.”

John reached out and traced the bow of Sherlock’s upper lip. “I like that.”

Bright pink flooded Sherlock’s cheeks. “Silly.”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Certainly.”

John pressed Sherlock to the mattress and kissed him, running a hand through Sherlock’s sweat-dampened curls. “I’ll make it better for you next time.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

“Good.”

“Goodness. You really are quite…muscular.”

John chuckled. “Thanks.”

“It’s…it feels good.”

“Does it?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

“John….”

John pulled back and gazed into Sherlock’s eyes, wide and brilliant, but alight with some emotion that John couldn’t parse. Doesn’t matter. There’s time. “What is it?”

As Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, the bells of St. Paul began to ring. Sherlock let out a short, shuddering breath, and smiled. “Happy New Year, John.”

John grinned, and kissed Sherlock again.

I love you too.



*



Sherlock awoke with a groan. John’s bed was horribly small and cramped. They would have to start sharing Sherlock’s bed, or Sherlock would have to insist that John buy a larger bed, or they’d have to sleep alone.

A larger bed for John it was, then.

Sherlock climbed out, pulled the covers over John, taking care not to disturb him, and tiptoed downstairs in the altogether. He had a piss, went into his bedroom, and selected a dressing gown, warm cashmere, not at all scratchy against his naked body. He put the kettle on and wandered to the window, pulling the curtain aside.

He was fond of this time of day. The sky was still halfway between darkness and light, the streets were quiet, and no matter his agenda, early mornings always felt unhurried, as if there was ample time for contemplation.

He had, in fact, a great deal to contemplate.

Below him, the front door opened, and Mrs. Hudson, in her dressing gown, reached out to pluck the papers from the doorstep. She shut the door (new burglar-proof brass fittings) firmly as if to banish the frigid outdoor air, and the street was still once more.

Sherlock smiled, then moved to his desk and fumbled in a drawer. He loped across the room and took the stairs two at a time, jumping the last three to the landing. He tidied his hair, straightened his dressing gown, and knocked on the door.

Mrs. Hudson opened it. “Hello, dear. Happy New Year. Goodness, you’re going to catch your death in the hall in just your dressing gown.”

Sherlock folded his arms and waited for her to shut up. When she finally did, he reached into his pocket, withdrew a five-pound note, and handed it to her.

She frowned. “What on earth? Sherlock, what…?” She met his eyes, startlement in her own. “No.”

He pointed at her. “Not one word.” With a stiff nod, he wheeled and marched upstairs again.

Lilac-tinted light spilled into the flat. It was a new day, a new month, a brand-new year.

Sherlock turned off the kettle and went back upstairs, to John.


End.