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splixTitle: If You Can't Move Heaven, Raise Hell
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Sherlock/John; Sherlock/Ian Adler; John Watson/Ian Adler; Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: All John Watson wants is a peaceful fortnight's holiday in Cornwall. Fate has other plans.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sex, dubious consent.
Notes: I don't genderswap as a rule, but I saw this marvelous gif of Tom Hiddleston and Sherlock and couldn't resist. The rest is shameless self-indulgence.
Plot happily magpied from everywhere, with especial apologies to Umberto Eco.
Thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.
This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
"How was your day?"
Mildly perplexed, John put down the shopping, retrieved the mail from his damp pocket, and peered at Sherlock closely. "You okay?"
Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his knees tucked under his chin. He rolled and unrolled the belt of his plaid dressing gown round his finger. "Fine. I asked how your day was."
"It was…fine, I guess. Had a bit of excitement in the afternoon, a fellow named Grunwald came in with the first case of Wissler-Fanconi Syndrome I've ever – did you clean?" John looked around the room. It wasn't actually clean by ordinary standards, but the dizzying stacks of books, magazines, and papers had been neatened – well, pushed toward the walls, anyway. "Looks nice."
"Trevor's coming over," Sherlock muttered. "Said she's bringing us something."
"Really?" Mrs. Hudson had reported the delivery of a cheque large enough to cover the next year and a half of their rent; Victoria Trevor had been as good as her word. "What time is she coming? I can start supper now, if she's –"
"I doubt she'll stay to eat. She lives on muesli and swordfish." Sherlock leapt to his feet and peered inside the shopping bags, then picked them up and carried them into the kitchen. As John watched, Sherlock began to unload the groceries and put them in their proper spots in the cupboards.
"Okay." John went to his chair, hung his wet coat over the back, and sat, leafing through the post. He separated Sherlock's mail from his own and listened to the sounds of Sherlock's sudden burst of domesticity.
They'd been home a week, and things had been…well, normal on the face of things, but decidedly weird underneath. John had decided to go back to work, electing to use the rest of his holiday leave some other time. Sherlock had gone to NSY and brought home a stack of cold cases that he'd claimed Lestrade had pressed on him – an obvious fiction, and John couldn't quite see why Sherlock was so anxious to preserve it since he didn't have anything else on at the moment. John came home to the usual jumble of Sherlock's work, and a few times he'd gone out with Sherlock – once to look at a Bromley flat, the site of a murder, once to chat up a fellow named Stick, one of Sherlock's homeless informants, and once to question an elderly lady who'd witnessed the aftermath of a strangling/robbing in which the victim didn't die. Sherlock was his ordinary hyperactive, quick-tongued, brainiac self, but there had been moments, in taxicabs or on the tube or walking, when Sherlock was a bit off. Quiet, hesitant, stealing glances at John when he thought John wasn't looking. And he'd been unusually polite and solicitous – just like now, putting stuff in the cupboards – it wasn't Sherlock's style.
Looking back, he probably should have talked to Sherlock on the train. John had had an inkling that Sherlock was going to explain his little liaison with Ian, and John hadn't quite been up to hearing explanations, which probably would have been perfectly logical and totally justified and completely reasonable, really – of course Sherlock had needs, he wasn't a god damned robot no matter what John thought, and oh, Christ, what a fucking mess it all was. Because John's feelings hadn't changed; oh, he was still jealous, no question about it. And he'd allowed himself to get caught up with Ian, too, all because he was jealous and pissed off about it.
Caught up. That's a nice way to put it.
Now it was too late to talk about it. What was he going to do – nudge Sherlock with an elbow in the back of a taxicab and say, "Hey, Sherlock, about you fucking Ian Adler – no worries, mate. He gave me the most mobile head I've ever had, so we're even." Yeah. Great. Or maybe, "Listen, Sherlock, I've spent the last year falling in love with you but I've only just sorted it out, so do you think maybe, you know – bedroom?" Sure. Fantastic. If Sherlock didn't die laughing, he'd be perfectly justified in telling John to fuck off. He hadn't even answered when Moriarty had made those cracks about the two of them; the thought of Sherlock and John being together hadn't merited so much as a smart remark.
Although….
I'd kill you. You know that, don't you?
Sherlock cared about him. As a friend. John knew that. And it meant the world.
Isn't that enough?
A knock at the door interrupted his trajectory of thought. "I'll get it." He opened the door to see a large man in a suit carrying an enormous cardboard box.
Victoria Trevor peeked over the man's shoulder. "Hello, Dr. Watson! May we come in?"
"Sure." Bemused, John stepped aside and let them pass.
"Just set it next to that chair, Patrick. Thank you so much. I'll be down in a few minutes." She smiled at John. "Are you quite recovered, Dr. Watson? That was more excitement than you bargained for, I'm sure."
"John," said John, taking her hand. She smelled of that nice perfume. "Won't you sit down?"
"Just for a moment. I have a dinner engagement." She sat and crossed her excellent legs and beamed at John, then at Sherlock as he emerged from the kitchen. "Hello, Sherlock."
"Hello, Trevor."
"I wanted to bring you a little token of gratitude. Well, not so little." She nodded at the box. "Really it's from Simon. And the community of San Stefano, to thank you for your work. Simon's sorry he hasn't called –"
"Oh, I doubt that," Sherlock said loftily.
"Sherlock," Victoria chided. "Come on now. We've begun the process to get San Stefano listed as a World Heritage Site. I don't know if we'll be successful, but even if we're not, we'll tie the place up in red tape long enough for me to work out something else. Simon and I are not going to allow the abbey to fall into the hands of some heartless capitalist who'd tear it down as soon as look at it. Simon wanted you to know how very grateful he is."
Sherlock sat in John's chair. "You're not so grateful, are you, Trevor?"
"I am, though." She smiled at John. "To both of you."
"You're not wearing your wedding ring," Sherlock said. "And I've never seen you without it before."
"Sherlock –" John said.
"No, it's –" Victoria waved her hand. "It's fine, John." She shook her head. "You're right. I won't be writing any thank-you notes for that, Sherlock."
"I told you he was useless from the very first, Trevor," Sherlock said. "And surely it's not my fault he got greedy and started taking kickbacks. Probably called them scouting fees. Still, best that you gave him the heave-ho. He'd have done it again, as often as possible, and if he'd had more opportunities to undermine you, he would have done."
"How do you know I – oh, never mind. Yes, I sent him packing. What he did – go ahead and mock me if you want, but it was immoral of him. It was wrong. I don't know how he got mixed up with someone willing to stoop to blackmail and murder, but it was wrong of him, and he knew it. I couldn't abide it, but…he was my husband. I never thought…." She sighed. "I wouldn't have believed him capable of treachery."
"I'm sorry, Victoria," John said quietly.
"Thank you." Victoria was silent a moment, then she tapped the box briskly. "Well, are you going to open this? It's for both of you, so you'll simply have to live together forever – that is, there's no way to divide it up."
Sherlock made no comment, but knelt beside the box.
"Careful of your knee," John said.
"It's fine," Sherlock replied shortly. He pulled the packing tape from the parcel, then dove into a froth of polystyrene peanuts and withdrew a large, thickly carved wooden box. "Ah."
"That's not –" John frowned. "That's not the codex, is it?"
"It is," Victoria said, fishing in her handbag and retrieving a folded piece of paper. "I have a list of care instructions here, too."
"We're not morons, Trevor," Sherlock said. He rose to his feet, went to his desk, and shoved a stack of books aside to get to a drawer. The books slid to the ground in every direction, spoiling the relative tidiness of the room. Sherlock rummaged in the drawer and came up with a pair of cotton gloves which he donned, smoothing the fingers with unnecessary ceremony, then moved back to the box.
"I never got to see the thing," John said, coming to kneel beside Sherlock. "Let's have a look, then."
Sherlock lifted the lid and set it aside. The codex itself was large, nearly fitting the confines of the box, and though the blue cover was cracked and ancient, it was still handsome, with a stitched crest in its centre. Sherlock opened it, and they gazed at the beautifully executed lettering, the minuscule and detailed drawings in the margins. Sherlock turned a thick vellum page and John gave a quiet cry of appreciation at the picture of a man standing at the mouth of a cave, one hand raised in benediction. The colours were still vivid, the gold of halo and surrounding filigree still brilliant. "We can't take this," John said. "It's far too valuable."
"If not for you, the abbey would have fallen into Mr. Moriarty's hands," Victoria said. "Simon very much hopes that you'll accept it. I know…I know you both risked your lives. Please take it."
Sherlock nodded. "It's beautiful, Trevor. Tell Simon…tell him thank you. From both of us." Carefully, Sherlock replaced the lid, then got to his feet and placed the box on his desk.
"It really is gorgeous. Thank you," John said, but shook his head, and a frown furrowed his brow. "I still think it's too valuable to keep in the flat, though. Unprotected." And considering Sherlock's housekeeping habits, it might end its days propping up bowls of tongues or entrails.
"It's yours," Victoria said. "It's a gift. You can do whatever you like with it. I'm certain that whatever you decide, it'll be in good hands. Thank you both. You surpassed my expectations and found the murderers, and I'll always be grateful. And perhaps someday I'll have another mystery for you to solve."
"Give it a couple of weeks," John advised drily. "His knee's still playing up. Not as spry as he used to be."
Victoria smiled. "But you'll be there to support him when he needs it, John." She rose to her feet. "I must go." She walked to Sherlock, who got up, and while he didn't fling his arms round her, he did pat her shoulder as she embraced him and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, darling. Really."
"Take care of yourself, Trevor," Sherlock said softly.
John realised that he was staring and got to his feet. "I'll walk you down."
"How nice," Victoria said, and gave John her arm. They walked down the stairs without speaking, and into the rainy street where Victoria's driver waited with an umbrella. She turned to John and kissed his cheek, and he inhaled the pretty fragrance of her perfume, and felt the soft skin of her face against his. She straightened and smiled at him, and he realised that he couldn't ask what he'd fleetingly considered asking her – how long had she and Sherlock been together, what was he like as a partner, how they'd initiated the whole thing. Curious as he was, he couldn't pry at her with those questions. "Thank you, John. So very much. And thank you for…for taking such good care of Sherlock. I know he can be caustic, but he only wants a little tender prodding to bring him to understand...well, I can see it, at least I flatter myself that I can." Her cheeks had turned a bit pink. "What I'm trying to say is that you're very good for him. I hope he's good for you."
"It's a bit of a learning curve," John admitted. "I suppose you found that out too. Listen, thank you for the cheque. It was more than we agreed, though, and –"
"Never mind that. Perhaps you and Sherlock can go on a nice holiday somewhere."
Suddenly and quite unaccountably, John found himself angry. He managed a smile, though, and said, "I hope I haven't given you cause to misconstrue anything, Ms. Trevor." Oh, it's Ms. Trevor again, is it? "I've got a girlfriend –" Or at least he'd had one a few weeks ago. "—and I expect I'd be taking my holidays with her."
Victoria Trevor's face sagged for a moment. "Oh, I – oh my goodness, I'm so dreadfully sorry. I'm afraid I've made some rather sweeping assumptions. John, I hope you can forgive my clumsiness."
Embarrassed now, John waved a hand. "Please, don't worry about it. Happens more than you'd think. Um, maybe we can all have dinner one day, yeah?" He kept his eyes from dropping to her legs.
"I'm going back to Cologne at the end of the week. But I'm sure I'll be back before the end of summer, so yes, let's." She swooped down, kissed John's cheek again, and stepped into the car. He waved just before the door closed.
"I can escort you to the door, sir," said the man with the umbrella.
"No, that's fine. Thanks anyway." John dashed to the door and fumbled for the wet knob, but not before he'd looked up and saw the front window sliding shut.
Shaking off his cardigan, John trotted upstairs and saw Sherlock on the floor, paging through the codex. "Hang on, go back. I haven't seen the whole thing." He crouched to the ground as Sherlock obligingly went back a few pages. He shook his head and exclaimed softly at the lettering and illustrated marginalia, and here and there a blinding, beautiful full page illustration, full of swirling colour and delicate gilding.
Sherlock turned another page. "Have you heard from Emily since you've been back?"
"Alice."
"Oh, yes. Of course."
"And…yeah, I think she might want to patch things up." A lie, and a fairly large one at that.
"She hasn't been by."
"Well, I've been busy working, and going on those cases with you." John's face flamed as he realised he'd been caught out. She was never going to stop by again, and Sherlock had probably deduced that from John's actions and lack of calls and texts since they'd come home. Alice had been a dedicated and inveterate texter and caller as well as an impromptu visitor, much to Sherlock's annoyance (and to be honest, sometimes to John's annoyance too) and in the past week there hadn't been a single call except from Harry, who'd gleefully informed John that she and Clara had resumed their relationship. "I expect she'll pop round at some point."
"I see," Sherlock said, and turned another page.
Yeah, I'll just bet you do. God damn it anyhow. "Sherlock…we really can't keep this here. I doubt it's the right environment in terms of the damp, and if it's sitting round the flat I'm sure that something terrible's going to happen to it. We need to put it in a safety deposit box or something."
"Most banks are phasing out their boxes," Sherlock replied. He turned another page and steepled his fingers under his chin. "Anyway, we'd have to find one to accommodate the size of this thing, and that might be difficult. I do have an idea, though, if you're agreeable."
"Okay," John replied cautiously. Time to ease into a new existence, one where any notions you might have had are just…just a thing of the past. Something fleeting and meaningless. Something we'd both laugh about were anyone to bring it up. And it'll be okay. You can go through the motions, and eventually you'll be able to sleep through the night again, and at some point your heart will stop squeezing itself in your chest when you look at him. Things will be normal again.
"Okay," John said again. "Let's hear it."
*
"If you'll just initial there and there, Mr. Holmes – Dr. Watson. Splendid. Splendid. I think that's everything. Thank you so very much." The small committee assembled before them, composed of the director of the National Antiquities Museum, the Medieval Arts curator, their chief legal counsel, and the head of trustees, beamed ecstatically at John and Sherlock. "We haven't received a gift of this magnitude for quite some time," the director went on. "You can imagine how very excited we are."
Sherlock's expression was neutral; in fact he seemed faintly bored, no surprises there, but John managed an uneasy smile in return. "It's…we're glad to do it."
"And of course our archives are open to you day or night, as requested."
"Thank you. I think that's everything," Sherlock said, and stood to leave. John followed Sherlock's lead, and the suits came round the table to shake their hands.
"It's already mounted and displayed," the curator said eagerly. "If you'd like to see it, I'd be happy to –"
"I think we can find it on our own, don't you, John? Good afternoon," he said, walking out the door before waiting for the others to say goodbye.
"Thank you," John said, waving as he passed through the door. The museum people were all still grinning delightedly – it was a little bizarre. John wondered exactly how much the codex was worth. Quite a lot, if their smiles were any indication of its value. Surely the museum appraisers must have given it a thorough going-over.
Sherlock walked through the museum's halls with no particular urgency, and John caught up with him quickly. Sherlock glanced at him briefly as they fell into step, but remained quiet.
"I've never been here in the daytime," John commented. The last time he'd been, he and Sherlock were ducking Black Lotus gunfire. "Maybe when I was a kid," he amended.
"Family, or school trip?"
"School trip. My parents weren't much for museum excursions."
"And what did you like best?"
John wondered about this surge of curiosity, as well as Sherlock's leisurely pace. "Ancient Egypt, probably. Specifically the mummy cases. You know – dead bodies. Every kid wants to look at a millennium-old corpse. Even you, I'll bet."
One side of Sherlock's mouth turned up in acknowledgment of John's gentle barb. "Yes, I suppose I did. I came here quite a lot as a child. Mycroft and I both loved the place."
It was easy to picture a tiny Sherlock racing pell-mell to get to the exhibits he wanted to see, tugging on his mother's coat to urge her into increasing her speed, chattering to Mycroft, being scolded by guards. John smiled and loosened the knot of his tie a bit. "Ever try to steal anything?"
Sherlock chuckled. "Where do you think the skull came from?"
"No," John breathed.
"No, not really. I did try to pinch the Janssen microscope once, however, but unfortunately I got caught. The guard didn't seem to believe that I was only planning to borrow it. Idiot."
"Uh-huh. And how old were you?"
"Nine." This time Sherlock bestowed a full, mischievous grin upon John.
"Sneaky little git," John said, and then his smile faded. He paused to look at an Etruscan cup, squat, double-handled, with a scarcely readable inscription on its surface. The small typed card next to it described it, and translated the inscription: I belong to Avile Repesuna.
If you really want to get over this, you're going to have to forgive him. Without reservation, and without looking back. You can't keep nurturing a grudge, especially when Sherlock didn't do anything you didn't do yourself.
That wasn't altogether true. He hadn't actually been fucked; it was just a blow job.
Brilliant. Because blow jobs don't count, right?
It was backward thinking, and John damn well knew it. But there was a part of him that simmered and cried out the age-old plaintive and futile protest: it's not fair! Well, who the fuck said life was fair? John wasn't a kid; he'd learned that a long time ago. But still the resentment lingered, and John realised, quite suddenly, that he was afraid – of the answer Sherlock might give if John asked about Ian, that they couldn't go back to the way things had been, that they'd either part in anger, or worse – indifference, that one day, maybe soon, Sherlock would be out of his life, as if he'd never been in John's life at all.
Then what?
A hand fell on his shoulder. "Are you ready to move on?" Sherlock, at John's elbow, spoke quietly, as if not to disturb other patrons – except they were alone in the room. It was a Wednesday afternoon, too late for the caterpillar-parade of kiddies, walking with linked hands, for the rise-and-shine-and-beat-the-crowd museum-goers, for sketchbook-wielding art students, for romantic young couples; it was a day for irregularly-employed consulting detectives and locum-work doctors.
John heaved an involuntary sigh. "Yeah. We'd better shift it or they'll kick us out."
"They won't kick us out. Not after that donation."
"What do you suppose it's worth?" John inquired, moving down the hall toward the Medieval Gallery.
"The solicitor's paperwork said four and a half million."
Of course Sherlock had read the solicitor's paperwork. Upside down, no less. "Jesus."
"Yes. So being booted out is highly unlikely."
"Despite you nicking a centuries-old microscope."
"Trying to nick it." Sherlock corrected him. "Different personnel at the time, otherwise I wouldn't be so sure."
John laughed a little, and his heart, in the space of two breaths, thumped unevenly. Forgive him. Forgive him and then forget. You'd miss this.
And he would. All those experiences, the camaraderie, the adventure, the danger, the unexpected moments of hilarity that he now understood he cherished deeply. He imagined living with Alice, or with Sarah, or Maisie, or Lucy, or Jeannette. Would he be content? Or would he be bored and scarcely aware of it, believing that was what life was supposed to be? He couldn't imagine wanting to watch Jeanette mixing up a batch of biscuits, as opposed to watching Sherlock whip up an acid bath for a human eyeball. He'd never had a friend like Sherlock – did he really want to lose it over one meaningless fuck?
He didn't want that. That was the long and short of it. He smiled up at Sherlock, and Sherlock, seeming to sense that John was looking at him, returned the smile.
Oh, God.
Silently, they made their way to the medieval wing and meandered a bit, stopping to gaze at a carved-gold reliquary, a chain-mail hauberk and gorget, an intricate alabaster panel, a silver chalice speckled with gems. Then they saw a glass cube atop a rectangular marble pedestal bearing a placard, on which was written New Acquisition. They moved closer, and there it was beside its carved wooden box, softly lit, open to an illustration of some fantastical animal, all crimson, black, and heavy gilt opposite a page of text.
The card inside the cube read Codex, c. AD 900. Leather, wood, and vellum, containing a portion of the works of St. Jerome. San Stefano Abbey, Bolzano, Italy. And below that: Gift of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
They gazed at it without speaking for a long time. Finally, John said, "They did a nice job."
"Yes." Almost reverently, Sherlock touched the glass. He pressed his lips together. "John –"
"They chose to highlight an interesting passage."
John jumped and whirled at the unexpected voice, and his stomach clenched in dismay. Oh, fucking hell.
Sherlock, meanwhile, hadn't budged a bit, didn't so much as glance over his shoulder. "Have they?"
"Yes." Ian Adler stepped out of the shadows and glided closer to the display pedestal. He traced a fingertip over the glass and read aloud. "'Often I would find myself entering those crypts, deep dug in the earth, with their walls on either side lined with the bodies of the dead, where everything was so dark that almost it seemed as though the Psalmist's words were fulfilled, Let them go down quick into Hell. Here and there the light, not entering in through windows, but filtering down from above through shafts, relieved the horror of the darkness. But again, as soon as you found yourself cautiously moving forward, the black night closed around and there came to my mind the line of Virgil: Everywhere horror seizes the soul, and the very silence is dreadful.'"
Nobody spoke for a moment. At last Sherlock remarked, "Apt."
A small smile curled Ian's mouth. "Yes. I thought so too."
John stood to one side, mute and churning inside. He saw Ian and Sherlock glance at each other, and he fancied he actually saw a spark leap between them. He longed to turn tail and flee, but he was rooted to the spot. If he spoke, he'd betray himself – all the anger and hurt would pour out and he wouldn't be able to stop it.
Ian turned his gaze to John, and John couldn't help but look back. Ian's eyes were bright in the dim room, his expression nearly tender. "It's a very generous gift," Ian said. "And generous of the abbey to give it to you."
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Luckily, there were a few monks left alive to give it."
"I suppose I deserve that." Ian moved his gaze from John to Sherlock.
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "You deserve much more than that."
"Maybe," Ian said. "Are you going to phone the police? You could have done that in Italy, you know." He folded his arms, and the leather of his motorbike jacket creaked ever so slightly. "Both of you could have subdued me if you'd tried." He looked back at John and smiled. "In fact, Dr. Watson had no difficulty subduing me all by himself."
"Naturally. He's quite strong and quick-witted. And he recognises dubious character when he sees it," Sherlock said.
Distantly, John perceived the compliment, but Ian's presence trampled whatever gratitude he might have felt. He was as still as stone, flushed with anger and guilt and a sick, frightened uncertainty. Ian was dazzling even in the hushed atmosphere of the museum, and John watched Sherlock watching Ian and all but felt Sherlock drawing toward him, away from John.
"Oh, but you like dubious character, don't you? Admit it, Sherlock – there's nothing subtle or interesting about pure black and white."
"I don't need lessons in subtlety from you." Sherlock gave John a sidelong glance. "Thanks all the same. How did you know we'd be here?"
"I have my ways. And your little donation hasn't exactly been kept under wraps, you know – I read about it on Twitter." Ian's eyes tracked Sherlock, then slid to John. "I'd like to thank you for saving my skin – and not turning me over to Interpol. Both of you."
John found his voice at last. "Why would we? You're just a Latin scholar." And a sexual athlete. And taller than I am, and better-looking, and more exciting. Oh, fucking hell.
Ian's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. "Would you…would both of you like to come to dinner with me? That is…if you're both hungry. I have an engagement, but I'd be happy to break it."
Sherlock gave John another sidelong glance. John contained the deep sigh he wanted to heave and simply shook his head. He'll say yes. And it's…fine. If that's what he wants.
"I'm afraid we already have plans," Sherlock said smoothly. "Kind of you to ask."
"It's a standing invitation. For both of you." Ian consulted his watch. "It's getting late and I suppose I'll keep my previous rendezvous after all. Perhaps I'll see you again sometime. I must say at least some of our acquaintance has been absolutely delightful." He flashed a smile. "Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson." He nodded to each in turn, then walked away, his footsteps echoing away to silence in the empty corridors.
John rested a hand on the cool marble pedestal, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes, and an audible breath shuddered its way out of his throat. His phone pinged with a text, and after a few seconds had passed, he heard Sherlock's phone ping as well. They both retrieved their mobiles; John, still carefully not looking at Sherlock, read his text.
Sine amore, nihil est vita.
Ian
Thoughtfully, Sherlock slid his mobile into his pocket. John stared at the words a moment more. They were small and he realised he should have been able to discern the meaning, but he couldn't gather a coherent thought. "What does it mean?" he asked.
Sherlock turned away. "Without love, life is pointless." He stared down at the codex for a long moment, then pivoted on his heel to face John again. "I'm famished. Shall we go out for a bite?"
John blinked. "I think we have a lot of leftover pasta back at the flat."
"It's always better the second day."
"Yeah." John could scarcely breathe around the knot in his chest. "It is."
Sherlock gently steered John away from the codex. "Let's go home, then."
*
Sherlock's domestic fit seemed to be continuing apace; he actually cleared the table without having to be asked. Clearing, in this case, being gathering up the stuff on it (all his, naturally) and redistributing it to various flat surfaces in the kitchen, including the worktop where John was chopping a salad. John looked down at the tray of mold slides and puckered his mouth.
"No?" Sherlock asked.
"Maybe over there," John indicated a free space further down. Sherlock obligingly moved the tray, wiped off the table, and set it while John got the food together. They sat down to plates of salad and steaming-hot heaps of pasta and set to with a will.
John twirled long strands of vermicelli round his fork, not quite able to look Sherlock full in the face. He couldn't propel his thoughts out of the single track they'd occupied all through the nearly silent walk home and the preparation of dinner.
Sherlock had rejected Ian. But it didn't mean that he'd chosen John in Ian's stead. John was the flatmate, the tag-along, and Sherlock's casual dismissal could have meant nothing at all and if he didn't stop thinking about it he was going to drive himself right round the fucking twist. John wasn't cut out for obsession, or guessing games. If Sherlock wanted him – fine. If not – well, if not, it was time to move on. He had to get it out. Sherlock might be uncomfortable, embarrassed, contemptuous, but it didn't matter.
John screwed up his courage. Fuck you, Ian. "Sherlock –"
"You're still angry with me."
Startled, John simply gaped for a few seconds. "What?"
"You're still angry with me because I spent the night with Ian." As John opened his mouth to reply, Sherlock held up a hand. "No, you don't have to bother denying it, I know it's true. I acknowledge that it mightn't have been the wisest sort of behaviour, under the circumstances."
"Or any circumstances," John muttered. "Sherlock, look. You don't owe me any explanations. I wanted to say –"
"John, please. I've had a great deal of time to think the whole thing over, and it would be ridiculously easy to slide under the providential cloaking of ease and proximity and hormonal overload into some semblance of an explanation that might satisfy you, but I'm afraid it wouldn't do any good in the end. I've always sought out the truth, you see, and just lately I've arrived at one that's quite basic and simple at its core and that I probably should have realised some time ago, but I suppose I was afr – that I was hesitant to really understand it."
John blinked. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
Sherlock shook his head and scowled thunderously. "Ian. Well. I admit that he was a rather misguided impulse, though not without its compensations."
Some of the pasta seemed to be stuck in John's throat. He took a sip of wine. "You mean you liked fucking him."
Slowly, but steadily, Sherlock's face turned pink. He picked up his glass and drained off the rest of his wine. "Yes. Yes, I did, but the pleasure was purely physical and fleeting."
"It usually is."
"That's probably true when both parties aren't emotionally entangled with each other." Sherlock heaved a deep breath.
An odd, almost tender amusement blossomed in John's heart despite his own trepidation. "That's not always a bad thing, Sherlock," he replied gently.
"No, of course not. But that's just it, don't you see? I always knew that any sort of – er, satisfaction I might have derived from Ian's company would be fleeting, and the reason for that is –" Sherlock stared at John, almost daring him to look away. "I already am emotionally entangled."
A frisson of terror worked its way into John's body. He wet his lips and searched Sherlock's face. "Is that right? Can I ask who it is?"
Sherlock looked down at his plate. Slowly, he reached out and touched the back of John's hand and then timidly withdrew it. When he spoke, his voice was softer than John had ever heard it. "Do you need to ask?"
John dared a breath, then another. "Me?"
Still staring at his plate, Sherlock said, "You should know that I harbour absolutely zero expectation, John, especially in light of the fact that you've repeatedly asserted your heterosexuality, not to mention the dozens of women who've been –"
"Sherlock." John waited until Sherlock met his gaze. His heart gave a strange little larrup at the sight of Sherlock's face, the tiny pulse below his jaw, the lean body held unnaturally rigid, waiting.
"Yes, John?"
"What took you so bloody long?"
Sherlock's eyes widened, and he pressed his lips together tightly. John felt a silly grin breaking out on his face. God, isn't he something.
A shaky smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "I didn't know."
"You? Go on."
Sherlock laughed softly in appreciation of John's teasing. "I'm not perfect." He glanced downward, crossing his arms. "Not completely, anyhow."
"Neither am I," John said, suddenly remembering. "Sherlock, about Ian. I –"
"You were with him, too."
"How the hell did you guess that?"
"Simple enough. When you brought him to the well, I had a look at his knees. Ian's meticulous about his clothes, but there was mud on his knees, a faint tread pattern that matches the pair of shoes you were wearing that day. So he was on his knees in a room where you'd recently come out of the rain. Wasn't much of a leap from there."
A flush crawled up John's neck. "I was jealous. And angry. He showed me the video of you two, and I just – I wanted revenge, I guess." It was out. Everything he'd been holding back for months – all the longing and turbulence that he'd stored up inside and allowed to fester. He felt as though he'd been blasted by an icy, cleansing wind. "I'm sorry." He met Sherlock's intent gaze. "Are you upset with me?"
"I was. Momentarily. But –" Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Sauce for the goose, I suppose." He rose to his feet and walked round the table to John's chair. Taking John's hand in his, he tugged gently, and John got up. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Sherlock enfolded John in his arms, and John kissed, for the first time and at long last, the lips he knew as well as his own, the plush, yielding softness he'd never hoped would be his. He lingered, savouring the feel of Sherlock's mouth, and when Sherlock's tongue tentatively probed at John's lips, he opened with eagerness, deepening the kiss and boldly sliding his hands down to cup Sherlock's arse.
Sherlock pulled away slightly. "Shall we save the rest of dinner for later?"
"Good idea."
Hands locked firmly together, they made their way to Sherlock's room and peered inside. "Your room, I think," Sherlock said.
John looked at the gigantic pile of clothes and odd, assorted objects on Sherlock's bed. "Yeah. I think so."
John's bed was narrow, but it didn't matter in the least. He yanked the blankets aside and pulled Sherlock down and they clung together, eagerly exploring each other as piece by piece, their clothes were discarded and tossed to the floor. Naked, Sherlock was startlingly pale, his eyes alchemised into brilliant spots of colour in the waning sunlight. John stuck his fingers in Sherlock's hair, disarraying the dark curls, something he'd wanted to do for a while. Sherlock suckled John's earlobe, traced his tongue around the contours of his ear, and whispered, "I want to do filthy things to your body."
That almost undid John completely, but he held it together. "Like what?"
"Like this." Sherlock's fingers slid between John's legs, but didn't touch his already rigid cock; instead, they briefly caressed his balls, slipped along John's perineum, and pushed inside him. John gasped. "Does it hurt?"
"No," John croaked. Oh, Christ. "No, don't stop." He curled his fingers round Sherlock's prick and tugged gently, provoking an answering moan. "Do you like that?"
"Yes. Yes." Sherlock kissed John, pushing his tongue possessively into John's mouth, and his fingers probed more deeply. He broke the kiss and buried his face in John's neck, tasting him, suckling, sometimes nipping at his collarbone. He hooked a leg over John's and drew him in tightly.
"Sherlock…Sherlock, fuck me."
"There's time for that." Sherlock circled John's nipple with his tongue. "Are you in a hurry?"
"I don't know, I don't…ah, God –" Sherlock had moved down John's chest and belly and was tracing his tongue round the head of John's cock, and never stopped the steady thrusting of his fingers. "I want to – ah, fuck –"
Wordlessly, Sherlock turned and swung atop John, straddling his body, his cock and balls close to John's mouth. It was too tempting an invitation. John grasped Sherlock's thigh, drew him closer, and teased at the soft skin, his free hand wrapping round Sherlock's prick and pulling. Sherlock's ministrations stuttered to a stop, but he began again with renewed energy until the wet, hot suction of his mouth and the persistent prodding of those long, strong fingers sent John over the edge. He cried out and came, bucking deep into Sherlock's mouth and tightening his grasp on Sherlock's cock. Frantically, he pulled, Sherlock's prick hot and rigid in his hand, until Sherlock gasped and warm wetness spilled over John's hand.
They stayed still for a moment, breathing hard, then John let Sherlock go and rested his hands on Sherlock's hips, gently urging him to turn. "Come here. Come on." Sherlock obeyed, falling beside John, pulling him close, and flinging one long leg over John's hip so that he was trapped. John smiled at the sight of Sherlock's flushed and sweating face. "Kiss me." Sherlock leant close and kissed John deeply and thoroughly. John tasted his own semen, slightly bitter, and inhaled the exciting tang of Sherlock's body, fresh sweat, salt, and a faint lingering odour of some expensive cologne. "Nice," John murmured, and slipped his hands down to fondle Sherlock's arse.
"Was it?"
"Yeah – it was lovely. You're lovely." John caressed Sherlock's hip. "Fantastic."
"I've never –" Sherlock took a shuddering breath. "That was different for me."
"Different from Ian?"
"Yes." Sherlock's fingertips smoothed over John's brow.
"Different from Victoria?"
Sherlock smiled. "Trevor? Oh yes. Quite different from Trevor. How did you know about her?"
"Simon."
"Wouldn't have thought he'd be a gossip." Sherlock moved close and kissed John's mouth again. "That was a long time ago. A blip in the context of the years we've known one another."
It wasn't a particle of John's business, but he felt strangely relieved. He nestled closer to Sherlock's damp, aromatic body and breathed in his scent, full of a peculiar, fragile wonderment. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
*
Later, they showered together, getting water all over the bathroom floor as Sherlock knelt, spread John's legs apart, and demonstrated the facility of a tongue adept at far more than scathing witticisms and icily pointed observations. John had had to stuff his hand in his mouth to stop himself from roaring aloud. Afterward they wrapped up in their bathrobes and microwaved their cold dinners, eating on the couch, huddled together and talking desultorily as a fire crackled on the hearth. The last of the spring chill hadn't quite ended.
"What about Alice?" Sherlock wanted to know.
An uncomfortable half-smile tilted John's mouth. "She told me to fuck off. But you probably knew that."
"I guessed." Sherlock plucked a slightly wilted plum tomato from John's plate and popped it in his mouth. "You do realise, don't you, that Ian invited us both out to dinner."
John paused, his fork halfway to his lips, and then put the fork down. "He…do you mean that he…both of us?"
"I think so. Don't you?"
John considered the possibility, and it wasn't altogether unpleasant. "I don't think I'm quite ready for that yet."
"I don't think I'm willing to share you."
John smiled a bit bashfully and caressed Sherlock's thigh. A lot had changed, and yet…it wouldn't be entirely paved with roses, John knew. Their essential natures hadn't changed. They were two people who fumbled along the long-way-round path of affection. They were impatient and hasty and impulsive, and it wasn't the end of bumping heads and misunderstandings and bad timing. But maybe if they felt their way carefully, they could find their way to the heart of things, and stay awhile. "Neither do I."
"I wonder if we've seen the last of him."
"I suspect not. Funny that he seemed to find us so easily." John wasn't completely settled on the matter of Ian Adler, but the uneasiness that accompanied the sound of his name had dwindled. After all, he was emotionally entangled now. "Twitter, I guess."
"Ah. Yes." Sherlock bent and kissed John's neck. "Are you sorry we donated the codex now that you know its value?"
"No. I'd have been nervous having it here in the flat. It was a good idea."
"A tiny scrap of immortality." When John looked at him questioningly, Sherlock shrugged and smiled. "I'm not completely immune to vanity."
John grinned. "No?" He put his plate on the table, took Sherlock's plate and did the same, and kissed him, rubbing his hand up and down the gloriously soft silk of Sherlock's dressing gown, caressing the long, taut muscles beneath.
Immortality. Maybe that was true. The codex, in the museum, would always link them together, no matter what happened. Not that he needed a tangible reminder; Sherlock was enough, his crackling presence, his lightning-fast brains, his sharp tongue, his mad vitality, his inexplicable preoccupations – John knew now that he couldn't do without them. But there was an odd little pleasure in knowing that a hundred years from now, people would stop to admire the codex, and see their names, and maybe indulge in a bit of speculation about the pair.
Gift of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
It had a ring to it.
That it does, John thought, and kissed Sherlock again.
*
For the first twenty-four hours he'd received neither food nor water, but he'd been thirsty and hungry before, and so it was less of a hardship than his captors believed. When they'd chosen to feed him, it was dry bread, a tiny cup of water, twice a day. Then three times a day. Now he was getting sandwiches, institutional luncheon meat and plastic cheese on dry bread, and a cup of coffee in the morning. The lap of luxury, really.
Yesterday, three men had entered his windowless room. Two burly men in cheap grey suits and another man, balding, with deceptively mild eyes and a voice like cut glass. Jim had suppressed a smile at the sight of the third man, who wasn't nearly the mysterious figure he'd hoped himself to be. In fact, Jim knew very well who he was. Very well indeed.
The two burly men had handcuffed him to his bed and had struck him, over and over, until his eyes were puffed nearly shut and his mouth was bleeding and short two teeth. He'd remained silent, smiling a little smile, memorising their faces.
The inmate who brought his food had slipped him a note this morning. Dzundza was gone, extradited to Prague. Jim had flushed the note with little more than a shrug. Dzundza had become entirely unreliable, and if he'd been hoping that Jim's influence would help to free him, he was in for serious disappointment.
At least Seb was free. Not that Seb's liberty was paramount, but it was important to have someone on the outside whom he could trust, someone who knew how to terrorise the right people so that Jim could resume his normal life. The prison uniform was cheap and stiff and scratched his skin; he missed appetising food and access to the outside world and the pleasure of choosing his own music. They piped canned, easy-listening muzak into his cell, and the first thing he was going to do when he was out was find the person responsible for that and have each finger cut off and stuffed into every orifice of his or her head.
Meanwhile, he had to do something to pass the time. Honestly, what a drag this was.
He reached beneath his cot and found the screw he'd worked from the cot leg. Its absence made the thing a bit wobbly, but that wasn't the worst thing about the concrete box that encased him. He bounced the screw in his hand and let out a little giggle. "Screwed. I'm screwed, and soon you'll be screwed, sweetheart. I owe you one."
He stood and faced the one-way mirror, smiling for the benefit of whoever happened to be watching him through the glass.
Hi, My.
He knelt, and scratched a curve into the concrete, the first faint shape of a name.
End.
Thank you for reading!
Author: Alex
Fandom: Sherlock [BBC]
Rating: Varies
Pairing: Sherlock/John; Sherlock/Ian Adler; John Watson/Ian Adler; Jim Moriarty/Sebastian Moran
Disclaimer: A.C. Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss.
Summary: All John Watson wants is a peaceful fortnight's holiday in Cornwall. Fate has other plans.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sex, dubious consent.
Notes: I don't genderswap as a rule, but I saw this marvelous gif of Tom Hiddleston and Sherlock and couldn't resist. The rest is shameless self-indulgence.
Plot happily magpied from everywhere, with especial apologies to Umberto Eco.
Thanks to
kimberlite for the sharp-eyed beta.This fic is a gift for sithdragn, with affection.
Can also be read on AO3
*
"How was your day?"
Mildly perplexed, John put down the shopping, retrieved the mail from his damp pocket, and peered at Sherlock closely. "You okay?"
Sherlock was sitting in his chair with his knees tucked under his chin. He rolled and unrolled the belt of his plaid dressing gown round his finger. "Fine. I asked how your day was."
"It was…fine, I guess. Had a bit of excitement in the afternoon, a fellow named Grunwald came in with the first case of Wissler-Fanconi Syndrome I've ever – did you clean?" John looked around the room. It wasn't actually clean by ordinary standards, but the dizzying stacks of books, magazines, and papers had been neatened – well, pushed toward the walls, anyway. "Looks nice."
"Trevor's coming over," Sherlock muttered. "Said she's bringing us something."
"Really?" Mrs. Hudson had reported the delivery of a cheque large enough to cover the next year and a half of their rent; Victoria Trevor had been as good as her word. "What time is she coming? I can start supper now, if she's –"
"I doubt she'll stay to eat. She lives on muesli and swordfish." Sherlock leapt to his feet and peered inside the shopping bags, then picked them up and carried them into the kitchen. As John watched, Sherlock began to unload the groceries and put them in their proper spots in the cupboards.
"Okay." John went to his chair, hung his wet coat over the back, and sat, leafing through the post. He separated Sherlock's mail from his own and listened to the sounds of Sherlock's sudden burst of domesticity.
They'd been home a week, and things had been…well, normal on the face of things, but decidedly weird underneath. John had decided to go back to work, electing to use the rest of his holiday leave some other time. Sherlock had gone to NSY and brought home a stack of cold cases that he'd claimed Lestrade had pressed on him – an obvious fiction, and John couldn't quite see why Sherlock was so anxious to preserve it since he didn't have anything else on at the moment. John came home to the usual jumble of Sherlock's work, and a few times he'd gone out with Sherlock – once to look at a Bromley flat, the site of a murder, once to chat up a fellow named Stick, one of Sherlock's homeless informants, and once to question an elderly lady who'd witnessed the aftermath of a strangling/robbing in which the victim didn't die. Sherlock was his ordinary hyperactive, quick-tongued, brainiac self, but there had been moments, in taxicabs or on the tube or walking, when Sherlock was a bit off. Quiet, hesitant, stealing glances at John when he thought John wasn't looking. And he'd been unusually polite and solicitous – just like now, putting stuff in the cupboards – it wasn't Sherlock's style.
Looking back, he probably should have talked to Sherlock on the train. John had had an inkling that Sherlock was going to explain his little liaison with Ian, and John hadn't quite been up to hearing explanations, which probably would have been perfectly logical and totally justified and completely reasonable, really – of course Sherlock had needs, he wasn't a god damned robot no matter what John thought, and oh, Christ, what a fucking mess it all was. Because John's feelings hadn't changed; oh, he was still jealous, no question about it. And he'd allowed himself to get caught up with Ian, too, all because he was jealous and pissed off about it.
Caught up. That's a nice way to put it.
Now it was too late to talk about it. What was he going to do – nudge Sherlock with an elbow in the back of a taxicab and say, "Hey, Sherlock, about you fucking Ian Adler – no worries, mate. He gave me the most mobile head I've ever had, so we're even." Yeah. Great. Or maybe, "Listen, Sherlock, I've spent the last year falling in love with you but I've only just sorted it out, so do you think maybe, you know – bedroom?" Sure. Fantastic. If Sherlock didn't die laughing, he'd be perfectly justified in telling John to fuck off. He hadn't even answered when Moriarty had made those cracks about the two of them; the thought of Sherlock and John being together hadn't merited so much as a smart remark.
Although….
I'd kill you. You know that, don't you?
Sherlock cared about him. As a friend. John knew that. And it meant the world.
Isn't that enough?
A knock at the door interrupted his trajectory of thought. "I'll get it." He opened the door to see a large man in a suit carrying an enormous cardboard box.
Victoria Trevor peeked over the man's shoulder. "Hello, Dr. Watson! May we come in?"
"Sure." Bemused, John stepped aside and let them pass.
"Just set it next to that chair, Patrick. Thank you so much. I'll be down in a few minutes." She smiled at John. "Are you quite recovered, Dr. Watson? That was more excitement than you bargained for, I'm sure."
"John," said John, taking her hand. She smelled of that nice perfume. "Won't you sit down?"
"Just for a moment. I have a dinner engagement." She sat and crossed her excellent legs and beamed at John, then at Sherlock as he emerged from the kitchen. "Hello, Sherlock."
"Hello, Trevor."
"I wanted to bring you a little token of gratitude. Well, not so little." She nodded at the box. "Really it's from Simon. And the community of San Stefano, to thank you for your work. Simon's sorry he hasn't called –"
"Oh, I doubt that," Sherlock said loftily.
"Sherlock," Victoria chided. "Come on now. We've begun the process to get San Stefano listed as a World Heritage Site. I don't know if we'll be successful, but even if we're not, we'll tie the place up in red tape long enough for me to work out something else. Simon and I are not going to allow the abbey to fall into the hands of some heartless capitalist who'd tear it down as soon as look at it. Simon wanted you to know how very grateful he is."
Sherlock sat in John's chair. "You're not so grateful, are you, Trevor?"
"I am, though." She smiled at John. "To both of you."
"You're not wearing your wedding ring," Sherlock said. "And I've never seen you without it before."
"Sherlock –" John said.
"No, it's –" Victoria waved her hand. "It's fine, John." She shook her head. "You're right. I won't be writing any thank-you notes for that, Sherlock."
"I told you he was useless from the very first, Trevor," Sherlock said. "And surely it's not my fault he got greedy and started taking kickbacks. Probably called them scouting fees. Still, best that you gave him the heave-ho. He'd have done it again, as often as possible, and if he'd had more opportunities to undermine you, he would have done."
"How do you know I – oh, never mind. Yes, I sent him packing. What he did – go ahead and mock me if you want, but it was immoral of him. It was wrong. I don't know how he got mixed up with someone willing to stoop to blackmail and murder, but it was wrong of him, and he knew it. I couldn't abide it, but…he was my husband. I never thought…." She sighed. "I wouldn't have believed him capable of treachery."
"I'm sorry, Victoria," John said quietly.
"Thank you." Victoria was silent a moment, then she tapped the box briskly. "Well, are you going to open this? It's for both of you, so you'll simply have to live together forever – that is, there's no way to divide it up."
Sherlock made no comment, but knelt beside the box.
"Careful of your knee," John said.
"It's fine," Sherlock replied shortly. He pulled the packing tape from the parcel, then dove into a froth of polystyrene peanuts and withdrew a large, thickly carved wooden box. "Ah."
"That's not –" John frowned. "That's not the codex, is it?"
"It is," Victoria said, fishing in her handbag and retrieving a folded piece of paper. "I have a list of care instructions here, too."
"We're not morons, Trevor," Sherlock said. He rose to his feet, went to his desk, and shoved a stack of books aside to get to a drawer. The books slid to the ground in every direction, spoiling the relative tidiness of the room. Sherlock rummaged in the drawer and came up with a pair of cotton gloves which he donned, smoothing the fingers with unnecessary ceremony, then moved back to the box.
"I never got to see the thing," John said, coming to kneel beside Sherlock. "Let's have a look, then."
Sherlock lifted the lid and set it aside. The codex itself was large, nearly fitting the confines of the box, and though the blue cover was cracked and ancient, it was still handsome, with a stitched crest in its centre. Sherlock opened it, and they gazed at the beautifully executed lettering, the minuscule and detailed drawings in the margins. Sherlock turned a thick vellum page and John gave a quiet cry of appreciation at the picture of a man standing at the mouth of a cave, one hand raised in benediction. The colours were still vivid, the gold of halo and surrounding filigree still brilliant. "We can't take this," John said. "It's far too valuable."
"If not for you, the abbey would have fallen into Mr. Moriarty's hands," Victoria said. "Simon very much hopes that you'll accept it. I know…I know you both risked your lives. Please take it."
Sherlock nodded. "It's beautiful, Trevor. Tell Simon…tell him thank you. From both of us." Carefully, Sherlock replaced the lid, then got to his feet and placed the box on his desk.
"It really is gorgeous. Thank you," John said, but shook his head, and a frown furrowed his brow. "I still think it's too valuable to keep in the flat, though. Unprotected." And considering Sherlock's housekeeping habits, it might end its days propping up bowls of tongues or entrails.
"It's yours," Victoria said. "It's a gift. You can do whatever you like with it. I'm certain that whatever you decide, it'll be in good hands. Thank you both. You surpassed my expectations and found the murderers, and I'll always be grateful. And perhaps someday I'll have another mystery for you to solve."
"Give it a couple of weeks," John advised drily. "His knee's still playing up. Not as spry as he used to be."
Victoria smiled. "But you'll be there to support him when he needs it, John." She rose to her feet. "I must go." She walked to Sherlock, who got up, and while he didn't fling his arms round her, he did pat her shoulder as she embraced him and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you, darling. Really."
"Take care of yourself, Trevor," Sherlock said softly.
John realised that he was staring and got to his feet. "I'll walk you down."
"How nice," Victoria said, and gave John her arm. They walked down the stairs without speaking, and into the rainy street where Victoria's driver waited with an umbrella. She turned to John and kissed his cheek, and he inhaled the pretty fragrance of her perfume, and felt the soft skin of her face against his. She straightened and smiled at him, and he realised that he couldn't ask what he'd fleetingly considered asking her – how long had she and Sherlock been together, what was he like as a partner, how they'd initiated the whole thing. Curious as he was, he couldn't pry at her with those questions. "Thank you, John. So very much. And thank you for…for taking such good care of Sherlock. I know he can be caustic, but he only wants a little tender prodding to bring him to understand...well, I can see it, at least I flatter myself that I can." Her cheeks had turned a bit pink. "What I'm trying to say is that you're very good for him. I hope he's good for you."
"It's a bit of a learning curve," John admitted. "I suppose you found that out too. Listen, thank you for the cheque. It was more than we agreed, though, and –"
"Never mind that. Perhaps you and Sherlock can go on a nice holiday somewhere."
Suddenly and quite unaccountably, John found himself angry. He managed a smile, though, and said, "I hope I haven't given you cause to misconstrue anything, Ms. Trevor." Oh, it's Ms. Trevor again, is it? "I've got a girlfriend –" Or at least he'd had one a few weeks ago. "—and I expect I'd be taking my holidays with her."
Victoria Trevor's face sagged for a moment. "Oh, I – oh my goodness, I'm so dreadfully sorry. I'm afraid I've made some rather sweeping assumptions. John, I hope you can forgive my clumsiness."
Embarrassed now, John waved a hand. "Please, don't worry about it. Happens more than you'd think. Um, maybe we can all have dinner one day, yeah?" He kept his eyes from dropping to her legs.
"I'm going back to Cologne at the end of the week. But I'm sure I'll be back before the end of summer, so yes, let's." She swooped down, kissed John's cheek again, and stepped into the car. He waved just before the door closed.
"I can escort you to the door, sir," said the man with the umbrella.
"No, that's fine. Thanks anyway." John dashed to the door and fumbled for the wet knob, but not before he'd looked up and saw the front window sliding shut.
Shaking off his cardigan, John trotted upstairs and saw Sherlock on the floor, paging through the codex. "Hang on, go back. I haven't seen the whole thing." He crouched to the ground as Sherlock obligingly went back a few pages. He shook his head and exclaimed softly at the lettering and illustrated marginalia, and here and there a blinding, beautiful full page illustration, full of swirling colour and delicate gilding.
Sherlock turned another page. "Have you heard from Emily since you've been back?"
"Alice."
"Oh, yes. Of course."
"And…yeah, I think she might want to patch things up." A lie, and a fairly large one at that.
"She hasn't been by."
"Well, I've been busy working, and going on those cases with you." John's face flamed as he realised he'd been caught out. She was never going to stop by again, and Sherlock had probably deduced that from John's actions and lack of calls and texts since they'd come home. Alice had been a dedicated and inveterate texter and caller as well as an impromptu visitor, much to Sherlock's annoyance (and to be honest, sometimes to John's annoyance too) and in the past week there hadn't been a single call except from Harry, who'd gleefully informed John that she and Clara had resumed their relationship. "I expect she'll pop round at some point."
"I see," Sherlock said, and turned another page.
Yeah, I'll just bet you do. God damn it anyhow. "Sherlock…we really can't keep this here. I doubt it's the right environment in terms of the damp, and if it's sitting round the flat I'm sure that something terrible's going to happen to it. We need to put it in a safety deposit box or something."
"Most banks are phasing out their boxes," Sherlock replied. He turned another page and steepled his fingers under his chin. "Anyway, we'd have to find one to accommodate the size of this thing, and that might be difficult. I do have an idea, though, if you're agreeable."
"Okay," John replied cautiously. Time to ease into a new existence, one where any notions you might have had are just…just a thing of the past. Something fleeting and meaningless. Something we'd both laugh about were anyone to bring it up. And it'll be okay. You can go through the motions, and eventually you'll be able to sleep through the night again, and at some point your heart will stop squeezing itself in your chest when you look at him. Things will be normal again.
"Okay," John said again. "Let's hear it."
*
"If you'll just initial there and there, Mr. Holmes – Dr. Watson. Splendid. Splendid. I think that's everything. Thank you so very much." The small committee assembled before them, composed of the director of the National Antiquities Museum, the Medieval Arts curator, their chief legal counsel, and the head of trustees, beamed ecstatically at John and Sherlock. "We haven't received a gift of this magnitude for quite some time," the director went on. "You can imagine how very excited we are."
Sherlock's expression was neutral; in fact he seemed faintly bored, no surprises there, but John managed an uneasy smile in return. "It's…we're glad to do it."
"And of course our archives are open to you day or night, as requested."
"Thank you. I think that's everything," Sherlock said, and stood to leave. John followed Sherlock's lead, and the suits came round the table to shake their hands.
"It's already mounted and displayed," the curator said eagerly. "If you'd like to see it, I'd be happy to –"
"I think we can find it on our own, don't you, John? Good afternoon," he said, walking out the door before waiting for the others to say goodbye.
"Thank you," John said, waving as he passed through the door. The museum people were all still grinning delightedly – it was a little bizarre. John wondered exactly how much the codex was worth. Quite a lot, if their smiles were any indication of its value. Surely the museum appraisers must have given it a thorough going-over.
Sherlock walked through the museum's halls with no particular urgency, and John caught up with him quickly. Sherlock glanced at him briefly as they fell into step, but remained quiet.
"I've never been here in the daytime," John commented. The last time he'd been, he and Sherlock were ducking Black Lotus gunfire. "Maybe when I was a kid," he amended.
"Family, or school trip?"
"School trip. My parents weren't much for museum excursions."
"And what did you like best?"
John wondered about this surge of curiosity, as well as Sherlock's leisurely pace. "Ancient Egypt, probably. Specifically the mummy cases. You know – dead bodies. Every kid wants to look at a millennium-old corpse. Even you, I'll bet."
One side of Sherlock's mouth turned up in acknowledgment of John's gentle barb. "Yes, I suppose I did. I came here quite a lot as a child. Mycroft and I both loved the place."
It was easy to picture a tiny Sherlock racing pell-mell to get to the exhibits he wanted to see, tugging on his mother's coat to urge her into increasing her speed, chattering to Mycroft, being scolded by guards. John smiled and loosened the knot of his tie a bit. "Ever try to steal anything?"
Sherlock chuckled. "Where do you think the skull came from?"
"No," John breathed.
"No, not really. I did try to pinch the Janssen microscope once, however, but unfortunately I got caught. The guard didn't seem to believe that I was only planning to borrow it. Idiot."
"Uh-huh. And how old were you?"
"Nine." This time Sherlock bestowed a full, mischievous grin upon John.
"Sneaky little git," John said, and then his smile faded. He paused to look at an Etruscan cup, squat, double-handled, with a scarcely readable inscription on its surface. The small typed card next to it described it, and translated the inscription: I belong to Avile Repesuna.
If you really want to get over this, you're going to have to forgive him. Without reservation, and without looking back. You can't keep nurturing a grudge, especially when Sherlock didn't do anything you didn't do yourself.
That wasn't altogether true. He hadn't actually been fucked; it was just a blow job.
Brilliant. Because blow jobs don't count, right?
It was backward thinking, and John damn well knew it. But there was a part of him that simmered and cried out the age-old plaintive and futile protest: it's not fair! Well, who the fuck said life was fair? John wasn't a kid; he'd learned that a long time ago. But still the resentment lingered, and John realised, quite suddenly, that he was afraid – of the answer Sherlock might give if John asked about Ian, that they couldn't go back to the way things had been, that they'd either part in anger, or worse – indifference, that one day, maybe soon, Sherlock would be out of his life, as if he'd never been in John's life at all.
Then what?
A hand fell on his shoulder. "Are you ready to move on?" Sherlock, at John's elbow, spoke quietly, as if not to disturb other patrons – except they were alone in the room. It was a Wednesday afternoon, too late for the caterpillar-parade of kiddies, walking with linked hands, for the rise-and-shine-and-beat-the-crowd museum-goers, for sketchbook-wielding art students, for romantic young couples; it was a day for irregularly-employed consulting detectives and locum-work doctors.
John heaved an involuntary sigh. "Yeah. We'd better shift it or they'll kick us out."
"They won't kick us out. Not after that donation."
"What do you suppose it's worth?" John inquired, moving down the hall toward the Medieval Gallery.
"The solicitor's paperwork said four and a half million."
Of course Sherlock had read the solicitor's paperwork. Upside down, no less. "Jesus."
"Yes. So being booted out is highly unlikely."
"Despite you nicking a centuries-old microscope."
"Trying to nick it." Sherlock corrected him. "Different personnel at the time, otherwise I wouldn't be so sure."
John laughed a little, and his heart, in the space of two breaths, thumped unevenly. Forgive him. Forgive him and then forget. You'd miss this.
And he would. All those experiences, the camaraderie, the adventure, the danger, the unexpected moments of hilarity that he now understood he cherished deeply. He imagined living with Alice, or with Sarah, or Maisie, or Lucy, or Jeannette. Would he be content? Or would he be bored and scarcely aware of it, believing that was what life was supposed to be? He couldn't imagine wanting to watch Jeanette mixing up a batch of biscuits, as opposed to watching Sherlock whip up an acid bath for a human eyeball. He'd never had a friend like Sherlock – did he really want to lose it over one meaningless fuck?
He didn't want that. That was the long and short of it. He smiled up at Sherlock, and Sherlock, seeming to sense that John was looking at him, returned the smile.
Oh, God.
Silently, they made their way to the medieval wing and meandered a bit, stopping to gaze at a carved-gold reliquary, a chain-mail hauberk and gorget, an intricate alabaster panel, a silver chalice speckled with gems. Then they saw a glass cube atop a rectangular marble pedestal bearing a placard, on which was written New Acquisition. They moved closer, and there it was beside its carved wooden box, softly lit, open to an illustration of some fantastical animal, all crimson, black, and heavy gilt opposite a page of text.
The card inside the cube read Codex, c. AD 900. Leather, wood, and vellum, containing a portion of the works of St. Jerome. San Stefano Abbey, Bolzano, Italy. And below that: Gift of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
They gazed at it without speaking for a long time. Finally, John said, "They did a nice job."
"Yes." Almost reverently, Sherlock touched the glass. He pressed his lips together. "John –"
"They chose to highlight an interesting passage."
John jumped and whirled at the unexpected voice, and his stomach clenched in dismay. Oh, fucking hell.
Sherlock, meanwhile, hadn't budged a bit, didn't so much as glance over his shoulder. "Have they?"
"Yes." Ian Adler stepped out of the shadows and glided closer to the display pedestal. He traced a fingertip over the glass and read aloud. "'Often I would find myself entering those crypts, deep dug in the earth, with their walls on either side lined with the bodies of the dead, where everything was so dark that almost it seemed as though the Psalmist's words were fulfilled, Let them go down quick into Hell. Here and there the light, not entering in through windows, but filtering down from above through shafts, relieved the horror of the darkness. But again, as soon as you found yourself cautiously moving forward, the black night closed around and there came to my mind the line of Virgil: Everywhere horror seizes the soul, and the very silence is dreadful.'"
Nobody spoke for a moment. At last Sherlock remarked, "Apt."
A small smile curled Ian's mouth. "Yes. I thought so too."
John stood to one side, mute and churning inside. He saw Ian and Sherlock glance at each other, and he fancied he actually saw a spark leap between them. He longed to turn tail and flee, but he was rooted to the spot. If he spoke, he'd betray himself – all the anger and hurt would pour out and he wouldn't be able to stop it.
Ian turned his gaze to John, and John couldn't help but look back. Ian's eyes were bright in the dim room, his expression nearly tender. "It's a very generous gift," Ian said. "And generous of the abbey to give it to you."
"Yes," Sherlock said. "Luckily, there were a few monks left alive to give it."
"I suppose I deserve that." Ian moved his gaze from John to Sherlock.
Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back. "You deserve much more than that."
"Maybe," Ian said. "Are you going to phone the police? You could have done that in Italy, you know." He folded his arms, and the leather of his motorbike jacket creaked ever so slightly. "Both of you could have subdued me if you'd tried." He looked back at John and smiled. "In fact, Dr. Watson had no difficulty subduing me all by himself."
"Naturally. He's quite strong and quick-witted. And he recognises dubious character when he sees it," Sherlock said.
Distantly, John perceived the compliment, but Ian's presence trampled whatever gratitude he might have felt. He was as still as stone, flushed with anger and guilt and a sick, frightened uncertainty. Ian was dazzling even in the hushed atmosphere of the museum, and John watched Sherlock watching Ian and all but felt Sherlock drawing toward him, away from John.
"Oh, but you like dubious character, don't you? Admit it, Sherlock – there's nothing subtle or interesting about pure black and white."
"I don't need lessons in subtlety from you." Sherlock gave John a sidelong glance. "Thanks all the same. How did you know we'd be here?"
"I have my ways. And your little donation hasn't exactly been kept under wraps, you know – I read about it on Twitter." Ian's eyes tracked Sherlock, then slid to John. "I'd like to thank you for saving my skin – and not turning me over to Interpol. Both of you."
John found his voice at last. "Why would we? You're just a Latin scholar." And a sexual athlete. And taller than I am, and better-looking, and more exciting. Oh, fucking hell.
Ian's eyes crinkled at the corners as he smiled. "Would you…would both of you like to come to dinner with me? That is…if you're both hungry. I have an engagement, but I'd be happy to break it."
Sherlock gave John another sidelong glance. John contained the deep sigh he wanted to heave and simply shook his head. He'll say yes. And it's…fine. If that's what he wants.
"I'm afraid we already have plans," Sherlock said smoothly. "Kind of you to ask."
"It's a standing invitation. For both of you." Ian consulted his watch. "It's getting late and I suppose I'll keep my previous rendezvous after all. Perhaps I'll see you again sometime. I must say at least some of our acquaintance has been absolutely delightful." He flashed a smile. "Mr. Holmes. Dr. Watson." He nodded to each in turn, then walked away, his footsteps echoing away to silence in the empty corridors.
John rested a hand on the cool marble pedestal, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes, and an audible breath shuddered its way out of his throat. His phone pinged with a text, and after a few seconds had passed, he heard Sherlock's phone ping as well. They both retrieved their mobiles; John, still carefully not looking at Sherlock, read his text.
Sine amore, nihil est vita.
Ian
Thoughtfully, Sherlock slid his mobile into his pocket. John stared at the words a moment more. They were small and he realised he should have been able to discern the meaning, but he couldn't gather a coherent thought. "What does it mean?" he asked.
Sherlock turned away. "Without love, life is pointless." He stared down at the codex for a long moment, then pivoted on his heel to face John again. "I'm famished. Shall we go out for a bite?"
John blinked. "I think we have a lot of leftover pasta back at the flat."
"It's always better the second day."
"Yeah." John could scarcely breathe around the knot in his chest. "It is."
Sherlock gently steered John away from the codex. "Let's go home, then."
*
Sherlock's domestic fit seemed to be continuing apace; he actually cleared the table without having to be asked. Clearing, in this case, being gathering up the stuff on it (all his, naturally) and redistributing it to various flat surfaces in the kitchen, including the worktop where John was chopping a salad. John looked down at the tray of mold slides and puckered his mouth.
"No?" Sherlock asked.
"Maybe over there," John indicated a free space further down. Sherlock obligingly moved the tray, wiped off the table, and set it while John got the food together. They sat down to plates of salad and steaming-hot heaps of pasta and set to with a will.
John twirled long strands of vermicelli round his fork, not quite able to look Sherlock full in the face. He couldn't propel his thoughts out of the single track they'd occupied all through the nearly silent walk home and the preparation of dinner.
Sherlock had rejected Ian. But it didn't mean that he'd chosen John in Ian's stead. John was the flatmate, the tag-along, and Sherlock's casual dismissal could have meant nothing at all and if he didn't stop thinking about it he was going to drive himself right round the fucking twist. John wasn't cut out for obsession, or guessing games. If Sherlock wanted him – fine. If not – well, if not, it was time to move on. He had to get it out. Sherlock might be uncomfortable, embarrassed, contemptuous, but it didn't matter.
John screwed up his courage. Fuck you, Ian. "Sherlock –"
"You're still angry with me."
Startled, John simply gaped for a few seconds. "What?"
"You're still angry with me because I spent the night with Ian." As John opened his mouth to reply, Sherlock held up a hand. "No, you don't have to bother denying it, I know it's true. I acknowledge that it mightn't have been the wisest sort of behaviour, under the circumstances."
"Or any circumstances," John muttered. "Sherlock, look. You don't owe me any explanations. I wanted to say –"
"John, please. I've had a great deal of time to think the whole thing over, and it would be ridiculously easy to slide under the providential cloaking of ease and proximity and hormonal overload into some semblance of an explanation that might satisfy you, but I'm afraid it wouldn't do any good in the end. I've always sought out the truth, you see, and just lately I've arrived at one that's quite basic and simple at its core and that I probably should have realised some time ago, but I suppose I was afr – that I was hesitant to really understand it."
John blinked. "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."
Sherlock shook his head and scowled thunderously. "Ian. Well. I admit that he was a rather misguided impulse, though not without its compensations."
Some of the pasta seemed to be stuck in John's throat. He took a sip of wine. "You mean you liked fucking him."
Slowly, but steadily, Sherlock's face turned pink. He picked up his glass and drained off the rest of his wine. "Yes. Yes, I did, but the pleasure was purely physical and fleeting."
"It usually is."
"That's probably true when both parties aren't emotionally entangled with each other." Sherlock heaved a deep breath.
An odd, almost tender amusement blossomed in John's heart despite his own trepidation. "That's not always a bad thing, Sherlock," he replied gently.
"No, of course not. But that's just it, don't you see? I always knew that any sort of – er, satisfaction I might have derived from Ian's company would be fleeting, and the reason for that is –" Sherlock stared at John, almost daring him to look away. "I already am emotionally entangled."
A frisson of terror worked its way into John's body. He wet his lips and searched Sherlock's face. "Is that right? Can I ask who it is?"
Sherlock looked down at his plate. Slowly, he reached out and touched the back of John's hand and then timidly withdrew it. When he spoke, his voice was softer than John had ever heard it. "Do you need to ask?"
John dared a breath, then another. "Me?"
Still staring at his plate, Sherlock said, "You should know that I harbour absolutely zero expectation, John, especially in light of the fact that you've repeatedly asserted your heterosexuality, not to mention the dozens of women who've been –"
"Sherlock." John waited until Sherlock met his gaze. His heart gave a strange little larrup at the sight of Sherlock's face, the tiny pulse below his jaw, the lean body held unnaturally rigid, waiting.
"Yes, John?"
"What took you so bloody long?"
Sherlock's eyes widened, and he pressed his lips together tightly. John felt a silly grin breaking out on his face. God, isn't he something.
A shaky smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "I didn't know."
"You? Go on."
Sherlock laughed softly in appreciation of John's teasing. "I'm not perfect." He glanced downward, crossing his arms. "Not completely, anyhow."
"Neither am I," John said, suddenly remembering. "Sherlock, about Ian. I –"
"You were with him, too."
"How the hell did you guess that?"
"Simple enough. When you brought him to the well, I had a look at his knees. Ian's meticulous about his clothes, but there was mud on his knees, a faint tread pattern that matches the pair of shoes you were wearing that day. So he was on his knees in a room where you'd recently come out of the rain. Wasn't much of a leap from there."
A flush crawled up John's neck. "I was jealous. And angry. He showed me the video of you two, and I just – I wanted revenge, I guess." It was out. Everything he'd been holding back for months – all the longing and turbulence that he'd stored up inside and allowed to fester. He felt as though he'd been blasted by an icy, cleansing wind. "I'm sorry." He met Sherlock's intent gaze. "Are you upset with me?"
"I was. Momentarily. But –" Sherlock lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "Sauce for the goose, I suppose." He rose to his feet and walked round the table to John's chair. Taking John's hand in his, he tugged gently, and John got up. They looked at each other for a moment, and then Sherlock enfolded John in his arms, and John kissed, for the first time and at long last, the lips he knew as well as his own, the plush, yielding softness he'd never hoped would be his. He lingered, savouring the feel of Sherlock's mouth, and when Sherlock's tongue tentatively probed at John's lips, he opened with eagerness, deepening the kiss and boldly sliding his hands down to cup Sherlock's arse.
Sherlock pulled away slightly. "Shall we save the rest of dinner for later?"
"Good idea."
Hands locked firmly together, they made their way to Sherlock's room and peered inside. "Your room, I think," Sherlock said.
John looked at the gigantic pile of clothes and odd, assorted objects on Sherlock's bed. "Yeah. I think so."
John's bed was narrow, but it didn't matter in the least. He yanked the blankets aside and pulled Sherlock down and they clung together, eagerly exploring each other as piece by piece, their clothes were discarded and tossed to the floor. Naked, Sherlock was startlingly pale, his eyes alchemised into brilliant spots of colour in the waning sunlight. John stuck his fingers in Sherlock's hair, disarraying the dark curls, something he'd wanted to do for a while. Sherlock suckled John's earlobe, traced his tongue around the contours of his ear, and whispered, "I want to do filthy things to your body."
That almost undid John completely, but he held it together. "Like what?"
"Like this." Sherlock's fingers slid between John's legs, but didn't touch his already rigid cock; instead, they briefly caressed his balls, slipped along John's perineum, and pushed inside him. John gasped. "Does it hurt?"
"No," John croaked. Oh, Christ. "No, don't stop." He curled his fingers round Sherlock's prick and tugged gently, provoking an answering moan. "Do you like that?"
"Yes. Yes." Sherlock kissed John, pushing his tongue possessively into John's mouth, and his fingers probed more deeply. He broke the kiss and buried his face in John's neck, tasting him, suckling, sometimes nipping at his collarbone. He hooked a leg over John's and drew him in tightly.
"Sherlock…Sherlock, fuck me."
"There's time for that." Sherlock circled John's nipple with his tongue. "Are you in a hurry?"
"I don't know, I don't…ah, God –" Sherlock had moved down John's chest and belly and was tracing his tongue round the head of John's cock, and never stopped the steady thrusting of his fingers. "I want to – ah, fuck –"
Wordlessly, Sherlock turned and swung atop John, straddling his body, his cock and balls close to John's mouth. It was too tempting an invitation. John grasped Sherlock's thigh, drew him closer, and teased at the soft skin, his free hand wrapping round Sherlock's prick and pulling. Sherlock's ministrations stuttered to a stop, but he began again with renewed energy until the wet, hot suction of his mouth and the persistent prodding of those long, strong fingers sent John over the edge. He cried out and came, bucking deep into Sherlock's mouth and tightening his grasp on Sherlock's cock. Frantically, he pulled, Sherlock's prick hot and rigid in his hand, until Sherlock gasped and warm wetness spilled over John's hand.
They stayed still for a moment, breathing hard, then John let Sherlock go and rested his hands on Sherlock's hips, gently urging him to turn. "Come here. Come on." Sherlock obeyed, falling beside John, pulling him close, and flinging one long leg over John's hip so that he was trapped. John smiled at the sight of Sherlock's flushed and sweating face. "Kiss me." Sherlock leant close and kissed John deeply and thoroughly. John tasted his own semen, slightly bitter, and inhaled the exciting tang of Sherlock's body, fresh sweat, salt, and a faint lingering odour of some expensive cologne. "Nice," John murmured, and slipped his hands down to fondle Sherlock's arse.
"Was it?"
"Yeah – it was lovely. You're lovely." John caressed Sherlock's hip. "Fantastic."
"I've never –" Sherlock took a shuddering breath. "That was different for me."
"Different from Ian?"
"Yes." Sherlock's fingertips smoothed over John's brow.
"Different from Victoria?"
Sherlock smiled. "Trevor? Oh yes. Quite different from Trevor. How did you know about her?"
"Simon."
"Wouldn't have thought he'd be a gossip." Sherlock moved close and kissed John's mouth again. "That was a long time ago. A blip in the context of the years we've known one another."
It wasn't a particle of John's business, but he felt strangely relieved. He nestled closer to Sherlock's damp, aromatic body and breathed in his scent, full of a peculiar, fragile wonderment. He closed his eyes and fell asleep.
*
Later, they showered together, getting water all over the bathroom floor as Sherlock knelt, spread John's legs apart, and demonstrated the facility of a tongue adept at far more than scathing witticisms and icily pointed observations. John had had to stuff his hand in his mouth to stop himself from roaring aloud. Afterward they wrapped up in their bathrobes and microwaved their cold dinners, eating on the couch, huddled together and talking desultorily as a fire crackled on the hearth. The last of the spring chill hadn't quite ended.
"What about Alice?" Sherlock wanted to know.
An uncomfortable half-smile tilted John's mouth. "She told me to fuck off. But you probably knew that."
"I guessed." Sherlock plucked a slightly wilted plum tomato from John's plate and popped it in his mouth. "You do realise, don't you, that Ian invited us both out to dinner."
John paused, his fork halfway to his lips, and then put the fork down. "He…do you mean that he…both of us?"
"I think so. Don't you?"
John considered the possibility, and it wasn't altogether unpleasant. "I don't think I'm quite ready for that yet."
"I don't think I'm willing to share you."
John smiled a bit bashfully and caressed Sherlock's thigh. A lot had changed, and yet…it wouldn't be entirely paved with roses, John knew. Their essential natures hadn't changed. They were two people who fumbled along the long-way-round path of affection. They were impatient and hasty and impulsive, and it wasn't the end of bumping heads and misunderstandings and bad timing. But maybe if they felt their way carefully, they could find their way to the heart of things, and stay awhile. "Neither do I."
"I wonder if we've seen the last of him."
"I suspect not. Funny that he seemed to find us so easily." John wasn't completely settled on the matter of Ian Adler, but the uneasiness that accompanied the sound of his name had dwindled. After all, he was emotionally entangled now. "Twitter, I guess."
"Ah. Yes." Sherlock bent and kissed John's neck. "Are you sorry we donated the codex now that you know its value?"
"No. I'd have been nervous having it here in the flat. It was a good idea."
"A tiny scrap of immortality." When John looked at him questioningly, Sherlock shrugged and smiled. "I'm not completely immune to vanity."
John grinned. "No?" He put his plate on the table, took Sherlock's plate and did the same, and kissed him, rubbing his hand up and down the gloriously soft silk of Sherlock's dressing gown, caressing the long, taut muscles beneath.
Immortality. Maybe that was true. The codex, in the museum, would always link them together, no matter what happened. Not that he needed a tangible reminder; Sherlock was enough, his crackling presence, his lightning-fast brains, his sharp tongue, his mad vitality, his inexplicable preoccupations – John knew now that he couldn't do without them. But there was an odd little pleasure in knowing that a hundred years from now, people would stop to admire the codex, and see their names, and maybe indulge in a bit of speculation about the pair.
Gift of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.
It had a ring to it.
That it does, John thought, and kissed Sherlock again.
*
For the first twenty-four hours he'd received neither food nor water, but he'd been thirsty and hungry before, and so it was less of a hardship than his captors believed. When they'd chosen to feed him, it was dry bread, a tiny cup of water, twice a day. Then three times a day. Now he was getting sandwiches, institutional luncheon meat and plastic cheese on dry bread, and a cup of coffee in the morning. The lap of luxury, really.
Yesterday, three men had entered his windowless room. Two burly men in cheap grey suits and another man, balding, with deceptively mild eyes and a voice like cut glass. Jim had suppressed a smile at the sight of the third man, who wasn't nearly the mysterious figure he'd hoped himself to be. In fact, Jim knew very well who he was. Very well indeed.
The two burly men had handcuffed him to his bed and had struck him, over and over, until his eyes were puffed nearly shut and his mouth was bleeding and short two teeth. He'd remained silent, smiling a little smile, memorising their faces.
The inmate who brought his food had slipped him a note this morning. Dzundza was gone, extradited to Prague. Jim had flushed the note with little more than a shrug. Dzundza had become entirely unreliable, and if he'd been hoping that Jim's influence would help to free him, he was in for serious disappointment.
At least Seb was free. Not that Seb's liberty was paramount, but it was important to have someone on the outside whom he could trust, someone who knew how to terrorise the right people so that Jim could resume his normal life. The prison uniform was cheap and stiff and scratched his skin; he missed appetising food and access to the outside world and the pleasure of choosing his own music. They piped canned, easy-listening muzak into his cell, and the first thing he was going to do when he was out was find the person responsible for that and have each finger cut off and stuffed into every orifice of his or her head.
Meanwhile, he had to do something to pass the time. Honestly, what a drag this was.
He reached beneath his cot and found the screw he'd worked from the cot leg. Its absence made the thing a bit wobbly, but that wasn't the worst thing about the concrete box that encased him. He bounced the screw in his hand and let out a little giggle. "Screwed. I'm screwed, and soon you'll be screwed, sweetheart. I owe you one."
He stood and faced the one-way mirror, smiling for the benefit of whoever happened to be watching him through the glass.
Hi, My.
He knelt, and scratched a curve into the concrete, the first faint shape of a name.
Thank you for reading!
