The Dangerous Edge of Things aka Sherlock Holmes has a Boyfriend who lives in Canada Part 2 (4/4)
What...How did this get over 10K. That is ridiculous, fic. DO YOU HEAR ME. Ridiculous. You were supposed to be a short one-shot. A flash of red and white glory. WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU FIC. LOOK AT YOUR LIFE. LOOK AT YOUR CHOICES.
Also, there's a small sex scene that will be posted after. The reason I'm not posting it with the fic is because the Asexual aspect of Sherlock is such a fantastic part of the Fandom, and I'd hate for those who came to read Ace!Sherlock get bludgeoned over the head with sweet sweet lovin. Thank you all for reading this fic, and I hope to see y'all in the future. Of course this too is unbeat'd or brit-picked. Oh well. Without further Ado - I give you the final part of The Dangerous Edge of Things
Street names fly past his head, dead kings and old professions flashing and then gone as ahead of him Sherlock takes the corners, flings himself over stairwells, and once -only once- dashes through the living room of an old asian couple watching Doctor Who.
“How’d you find me?”
“I was at the bar”
“No you weren’t.”
Sherlock smirks, the edges of his mouth raising for a second before pressing flat again. “Of course I was.”
John thinks back to the bar - the dart players, the couple, the bartender, the drunk- the bastard.
“You looked but you did not observe. “
Then they’re flying around a corner, and ahead a shadow disappears into a boarded up restaurant. John tries not to groan.
“Seriously, how many abandoned buildings are there in London?” He huffs.
Sherlock looks at him askance “Which part?”
The sign of a rooster hangs over the door, the paint long since faded and only the suggestion of red can be seen in the sodium wash of streetlight.
They both pause at the opening in the boards. John moves to go in first.
Sherlock stretches a hand and lays it on John's arm, restraining him.
“Think about the bodies. All of them drugged. All of them shot. Why shoot a drugged person other than for sport. Six times, why six? Furthermore the bullets entered the body at a downward angle indicating he shot from above.”
“Fish in a barrel.”
John grits his teeth.
They sidle past the broken glass and John winces when the boarded window creaks as the squeeze through.
He closes his eyes for ten seconds then opens them, his vision adjusting to the darkened interior.
“Wasn’t easy, was it? Being tossed around. You couldn’t stand not getting that promotion, could you?” Sherlock calls into the darkness. John swings around, hands raised in a what the hell are you doing gesture.
Sherlock tries to sidle ahead of John, only to be pulled back. Even without a uniform, John isn’t letting a civilian be his shield.
It’s annoying and troublesome, and Sherlock can’t help the bloom of warmth that spreads in his chest.
“Have you ever cornered a wild animal,” John hisses. “They fight.”
The inside of the restaurant is dark and plastic sheeting covers the fabric booths in the corner. On the far wall, incomprehensible yellow graffiti mars the dark green wallpaper. There’s a small bar crowded against the back - the mirror behind the heavy wood splintered, throwing the reflection of Sherlock and John. John pulls them down until their heads are below a table and their images vanish from the shards of glass.
John looks to Sherlock, who takes the restaurant in at a glance then jerks his head to a series of stairs disappearing up to a secondary floor.
Well damn, thinks John.
“Did you call the Yard?” He whispers. Sherlock tilts his head, pretends he’s thinking about it.
“Of course you didn’t, you idiot. Well text Lestrade. Tell him where we-”
The familiar sound of a gun being cocked stalls John’s words, and his hand is pushing Sherlock’s head down before he even realises.
“You’re just two more exhibits I’ll have ready for tomorrow,” Peter yells down. John grins, twitches his body to face the direction of the voice.
“Keep him talking,” John murmurs, mouth brushing Sherlock’s ear and then he’s gone, head low, using the wooden tables for cover.
“What was it like,” Sherlock begins, “finding out that your mother left your father after you killed your first animal? If you ever wondered, then yes, she left because of you.”
There’s a moment of silence, then a shot that’s too close for Sherlock’s comfort. He moves to the right, keeping low and out of sight of the stairs.
John can see the stairs, the wood paneling, and the lip of the dark wood on top with a lighter base beneath. The wood creaks when Peter moves, he’s keeping to the wall, trying to spot Sherlock and John - a venture John is afraid will be successful once Peter’s eyes fully adjust.
He feels his shoulder tense when the shot goes off, and after the second burst, he contemplates martyrdom.
“Of course, it’s not as bad as when your dad left you a few years later. How long did the cheques come until you stopped believing he’d come back?”
Four shots left
Three
The second bullet splinters the table that Sherlock’s under and the wood digs into his coat. He hisses, then turns off the pain.
One
“Even the way you murder is dull - just as much as the little world you’re trapped in. Arrange them outside of visited spots, drugged enough to forget their own names, but still shot. I’d rather go to the Tate Modern Art than any of your crime scenes.”
He’s reloading.
John rushes up the stairs, plows into Peter and tackles him to the ground. Peter flails, the gun glancing a blow to John’s temple and for a moment his world goes white.
“-going to kill you first and then your smug boyfriend. Dump you both right outside the Tate. Or into the Thames.”
When Peter levels the gun on John, the ex-soldier training kicks in and with the most efficiency possible John breaks Peter’s nose, then neck. The gun falls to the ground with a heavy thunk. Sherlock is by his side in seconds, fingers pressing to John’s scalp.
“Are you alright?” He asks, voice strained.
“Yeah,” John rasps. “you?”
“Fine.”
“You killed him.”
John looks down at Peter. Examines his conscious, how he should feel versus the sense of righteousness that fills him.
“Yeah. I did.”
“Well then.”
Sherlock looks around, and then grips the banister. He shakes the railing, and stepping back, kicks the barrier down, splintering the wood. Then, hauling the body of Peter, he rolls him to the edge.
“You two struggled. He went over. Broke his neck. The bruises will show up long after he’s been interned."
With a grunt he pushes Peter of the edge and he lands with a sick thud.
John nods.
“I thought your army was dedicated to peacekeeping.”
“Let me emphasize the word army.”
Sherlock tips his head in a smile, his teeth flashing and John finds himself laughing in return.
They laugh until John wheezes, and Sherlock has to press a hand to his chest to reassure himself that his lungs continue to draw breath.
Filled with the afterglow, and the leftover adrenaline coursing through their veins the laughter springs from nowhere, god it’s good.
When they manage to choke down some air, John says, “What I don’t get is how most of them were Calgarians.”
Sherlock looks at him like his head is full of bricks.
“Canadian Affair.”
“What?”
“It’s a website - offers cheap flights between the UK and Canada. They all happened around the same time because the flights were on special. Thomas Cook airline was selling last minute seats. That was the easiest part - knew it from the beginning.”
John smiles and shakes his head.
“Of course. Brilliant.”
Sherlock smiles again for second before glancing to his phone which is glowing a bright blue.
“That will be Lestrade. I’ll tell him the good news.”
The next morning Sherlock is gone. John putters about the flat, rearranging the cusions, watching incomprehensible talk shows, and being disturbed by the general fridge contents.
When Sherlock comes back at three in the morning he smells awful and there’s something green that’s stuck to his hands.
When Sherlock reappears from the shower John hovers until Sherlock claims the couch and the chair is empty for him.
“So, about Canada-”
“Right,” Sherlock glances up from his laptop, “when are you going back?”
John shrugs. “When does the ticket say?”
Sherlock waves in a vague manner to a pile of papers in the corner. “I deleted it. Look yourself.”
“Well…” John trails off “I had a good time.”
Oh god, he winces, hunting serial killers should not come off like a date.
Sherlock looks up hands bridged beneath his chin. “You were necessary for the investigation.”
“Right. Necessary. Right.”
Moving to the pile of papers in the corner, John ignores the burn in his throat. Sherlock was just an internet friend anyway. He shouldn’t be so invested. None of it mattered to the consulting detective.
Just as well the ticket for the return flight was in two days. He’d just call and get an earlier flight. No matter the cost.
When John heaves his bag down from the spare room, Sherlock stops him in the hall.
“You can stay as long as you would like, John. No one is forcing you to leave.”
“I’ve got a job back home, Sherlock. I can’t just…I can’t just leave everything behind on a dime. Real life doesn’t work like that.”
Sherlock scoffs. “Of course it does.”
“No, Sherlock. Just for you. Only for you.” He brushes past Mrs. Hudson as she bustles up the stairs.
“Oh, leaving so soon? I was just going to make a nice cuppa for you and Sherlock.”
John grimaces. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson, but I’ve got a plane to catch and a car waiting outside. Thank you though.”
He calls back over his shoulder, “Goodbye, Sherlock.”
“Goodbye, John.”
The Yard drives him to the airport. He lugs his duffle from the back and swings it over his good shoulder. Lestrade clears his throat.
“You don’t have to rush home so soon.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Could you take Sherlock with you?” Anderson calls from inside the unmarked car.
“Look, I appreciate this. You didn't have to bring…everyone.”
“Well we have a bit of a bet on, you see.”
“Sherlock’s going to come get you before your flight,” Sally asserts.
“He’s an idiot, and a sociopath, but before you showed up, he was a million times worse.”
“When he started calling you on crime scenes it was John said this, and John thinks it’s that. He’s wrong of course but-”
Lestrade shakes his head. “Well, if you need a place to kip next time you’re in London, give us a shout.”
“Thanks, I will. Well, pip pip tally-ho.”
John is met with silence.
“Is- isn’t that what you Brits say.”
Donovan shakes her head in a slow side to side.
Lestrade leans in. “Word of advice,” he murmurs, glancing over his shoulder at the Yard before returning his gaze to John. “Don’t say things like that. People’ll think you’re a knob.”
“Uh, right. Knob.” John has a feeling he doesn’t want to ask what a knob is. Really really doesn’t.
McGillian chokes a laugh.
John shrugs, doesn’t look behind when the heavy glass doors slide open. Doesn’t dare give himself permission to hope that Sherlock is coming for him. Will throw out a hand and beg him to stay.
No, John thinks, I just got used to being needed.
The word fills him, robs him. Cuts away at the small tenuous connection between his head and that curious disquiet in his chest. Oh, for a knife as keen as the word Goodbye.
He doesn’t know how to say what he means. What having someone to talk to meant. How even though it was all pixels and bad receptions - how not alone he felt. To have someone interact with him as if he were ordinary. What crossing that chasm had taken - how he’d never hated the stillness until he’d had someone to break it.
And then having to return to that bleak space. Oh, his puzzles would come, no doubt. Blood spilled to reflect the night sky - but him alone - the comforting weight of his mobile now light in his hands. Will float away in his hands. Will never mean the same in his hands.
And to let everything slip through his hands.
Well, there’s only one logical conclusion. John must stay.
So he runs. He urges the cabbie to drive as if his wife and two children (obvious, look at his collar) were in dire straits. Sherlock knows it’s useless. He runs through the doors anyway. He hunts down John’s flight number. Feels like tearing a hole in the floor and crawling into it when he sees that John’s flight already left.
To: Sherlock
From: John
Are you at the airport?
To: John
From: Sherlock
No. Why?
SH
To: Sherlock
From: John
Because I can see you.
Sherlock spins, his heavy coat flaring about his knees.
“You’re still here.” He says, disbelief in his tone.
John shifts, his shoulders tensing beneath the beaten leather jacket. “Well, I was pulled aside be security and missed my flight.”
Sherlock mutters something that sounds like Thank You, Mycroft, and wraps his arms around John.
“Stay,” he mumbles into John’s oatmeal jumper.
“Why,” John asks, bitterness in his tone, “am I necessary again?”
Sherlock sighs. “You were always necessary.”
And later, when Sherlock takes the bag from John a second time and deposits the duffel in John's Room , he smiles. A small secretive grin.
It was never about The Canadians, just his Canadian.
Also, there's a small sex scene that will be posted after. The reason I'm not posting it with the fic is because the Asexual aspect of Sherlock is such a fantastic part of the Fandom, and I'd hate for those who came to read Ace!Sherlock get bludgeoned over the head with sweet sweet lovin. Thank you all for reading this fic, and I hope to see y'all in the future. Of course this too is unbeat'd or brit-picked. Oh well. Without further Ado - I give you the final part of The Dangerous Edge of Things
Street names fly past his head, dead kings and old professions flashing and then gone as ahead of him Sherlock takes the corners, flings himself over stairwells, and once -only once- dashes through the living room of an old asian couple watching Doctor Who.
“How’d you find me?”
“I was at the bar”
“No you weren’t.”
Sherlock smirks, the edges of his mouth raising for a second before pressing flat again. “Of course I was.”
John thinks back to the bar - the dart players, the couple, the bartender, the drunk- the bastard.
“You looked but you did not observe. “
Then they’re flying around a corner, and ahead a shadow disappears into a boarded up restaurant. John tries not to groan.
“Seriously, how many abandoned buildings are there in London?” He huffs.
Sherlock looks at him askance “Which part?”
The sign of a rooster hangs over the door, the paint long since faded and only the suggestion of red can be seen in the sodium wash of streetlight.
They both pause at the opening in the boards. John moves to go in first.
Sherlock stretches a hand and lays it on John's arm, restraining him.
“Think about the bodies. All of them drugged. All of them shot. Why shoot a drugged person other than for sport. Six times, why six? Furthermore the bullets entered the body at a downward angle indicating he shot from above.”
“Fish in a barrel.”
John grits his teeth.
They sidle past the broken glass and John winces when the boarded window creaks as the squeeze through.
He closes his eyes for ten seconds then opens them, his vision adjusting to the darkened interior.
“Wasn’t easy, was it? Being tossed around. You couldn’t stand not getting that promotion, could you?” Sherlock calls into the darkness. John swings around, hands raised in a what the hell are you doing gesture.
Sherlock tries to sidle ahead of John, only to be pulled back. Even without a uniform, John isn’t letting a civilian be his shield.
It’s annoying and troublesome, and Sherlock can’t help the bloom of warmth that spreads in his chest.
“Have you ever cornered a wild animal,” John hisses. “They fight.”
The inside of the restaurant is dark and plastic sheeting covers the fabric booths in the corner. On the far wall, incomprehensible yellow graffiti mars the dark green wallpaper. There’s a small bar crowded against the back - the mirror behind the heavy wood splintered, throwing the reflection of Sherlock and John. John pulls them down until their heads are below a table and their images vanish from the shards of glass.
John looks to Sherlock, who takes the restaurant in at a glance then jerks his head to a series of stairs disappearing up to a secondary floor.
Well damn, thinks John.
“Did you call the Yard?” He whispers. Sherlock tilts his head, pretends he’s thinking about it.
“Of course you didn’t, you idiot. Well text Lestrade. Tell him where we-”
The familiar sound of a gun being cocked stalls John’s words, and his hand is pushing Sherlock’s head down before he even realises.
“You’re just two more exhibits I’ll have ready for tomorrow,” Peter yells down. John grins, twitches his body to face the direction of the voice.
“Keep him talking,” John murmurs, mouth brushing Sherlock’s ear and then he’s gone, head low, using the wooden tables for cover.
“What was it like,” Sherlock begins, “finding out that your mother left your father after you killed your first animal? If you ever wondered, then yes, she left because of you.”
There’s a moment of silence, then a shot that’s too close for Sherlock’s comfort. He moves to the right, keeping low and out of sight of the stairs.
John can see the stairs, the wood paneling, and the lip of the dark wood on top with a lighter base beneath. The wood creaks when Peter moves, he’s keeping to the wall, trying to spot Sherlock and John - a venture John is afraid will be successful once Peter’s eyes fully adjust.
He feels his shoulder tense when the shot goes off, and after the second burst, he contemplates martyrdom.
“Of course, it’s not as bad as when your dad left you a few years later. How long did the cheques come until you stopped believing he’d come back?”
Four shots left
Three
The second bullet splinters the table that Sherlock’s under and the wood digs into his coat. He hisses, then turns off the pain.
One
“Even the way you murder is dull - just as much as the little world you’re trapped in. Arrange them outside of visited spots, drugged enough to forget their own names, but still shot. I’d rather go to the Tate Modern Art than any of your crime scenes.”
He’s reloading.
John rushes up the stairs, plows into Peter and tackles him to the ground. Peter flails, the gun glancing a blow to John’s temple and for a moment his world goes white.
“-going to kill you first and then your smug boyfriend. Dump you both right outside the Tate. Or into the Thames.”
When Peter levels the gun on John, the ex-soldier training kicks in and with the most efficiency possible John breaks Peter’s nose, then neck. The gun falls to the ground with a heavy thunk. Sherlock is by his side in seconds, fingers pressing to John’s scalp.
“Are you alright?” He asks, voice strained.
“Yeah,” John rasps. “you?”
“Fine.”
“You killed him.”
John looks down at Peter. Examines his conscious, how he should feel versus the sense of righteousness that fills him.
“Yeah. I did.”
“Well then.”
Sherlock looks around, and then grips the banister. He shakes the railing, and stepping back, kicks the barrier down, splintering the wood. Then, hauling the body of Peter, he rolls him to the edge.
“You two struggled. He went over. Broke his neck. The bruises will show up long after he’s been interned."
With a grunt he pushes Peter of the edge and he lands with a sick thud.
John nods.
“I thought your army was dedicated to peacekeeping.”
“Let me emphasize the word army.”
Sherlock tips his head in a smile, his teeth flashing and John finds himself laughing in return.
They laugh until John wheezes, and Sherlock has to press a hand to his chest to reassure himself that his lungs continue to draw breath.
Filled with the afterglow, and the leftover adrenaline coursing through their veins the laughter springs from nowhere, god it’s good.
When they manage to choke down some air, John says, “What I don’t get is how most of them were Calgarians.”
Sherlock looks at him like his head is full of bricks.
“Canadian Affair.”
“What?”
“It’s a website - offers cheap flights between the UK and Canada. They all happened around the same time because the flights were on special. Thomas Cook airline was selling last minute seats. That was the easiest part - knew it from the beginning.”
John smiles and shakes his head.
“Of course. Brilliant.”
Sherlock smiles again for second before glancing to his phone which is glowing a bright blue.
“That will be Lestrade. I’ll tell him the good news.”
The next morning Sherlock is gone. John putters about the flat, rearranging the cusions, watching incomprehensible talk shows, and being disturbed by the general fridge contents.
When Sherlock comes back at three in the morning he smells awful and there’s something green that’s stuck to his hands.
When Sherlock reappears from the shower John hovers until Sherlock claims the couch and the chair is empty for him.
“So, about Canada-”
“Right,” Sherlock glances up from his laptop, “when are you going back?”
John shrugs. “When does the ticket say?”
Sherlock waves in a vague manner to a pile of papers in the corner. “I deleted it. Look yourself.”
“Well…” John trails off “I had a good time.”
Oh god, he winces, hunting serial killers should not come off like a date.
Sherlock looks up hands bridged beneath his chin. “You were necessary for the investigation.”
“Right. Necessary. Right.”
Moving to the pile of papers in the corner, John ignores the burn in his throat. Sherlock was just an internet friend anyway. He shouldn’t be so invested. None of it mattered to the consulting detective.
Just as well the ticket for the return flight was in two days. He’d just call and get an earlier flight. No matter the cost.
When John heaves his bag down from the spare room, Sherlock stops him in the hall.
“You can stay as long as you would like, John. No one is forcing you to leave.”
“I’ve got a job back home, Sherlock. I can’t just…I can’t just leave everything behind on a dime. Real life doesn’t work like that.”
Sherlock scoffs. “Of course it does.”
“No, Sherlock. Just for you. Only for you.” He brushes past Mrs. Hudson as she bustles up the stairs.
“Oh, leaving so soon? I was just going to make a nice cuppa for you and Sherlock.”
John grimaces. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson, but I’ve got a plane to catch and a car waiting outside. Thank you though.”
He calls back over his shoulder, “Goodbye, Sherlock.”
“Goodbye, John.”
The Yard drives him to the airport. He lugs his duffle from the back and swings it over his good shoulder. Lestrade clears his throat.
“You don’t have to rush home so soon.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Could you take Sherlock with you?” Anderson calls from inside the unmarked car.
“Look, I appreciate this. You didn't have to bring…everyone.”
“Well we have a bit of a bet on, you see.”
“Sherlock’s going to come get you before your flight,” Sally asserts.
“He’s an idiot, and a sociopath, but before you showed up, he was a million times worse.”
“When he started calling you on crime scenes it was John said this, and John thinks it’s that. He’s wrong of course but-”
Lestrade shakes his head. “Well, if you need a place to kip next time you’re in London, give us a shout.”
“Thanks, I will. Well, pip pip tally-ho.”
John is met with silence.
“Is- isn’t that what you Brits say.”
Donovan shakes her head in a slow side to side.
Lestrade leans in. “Word of advice,” he murmurs, glancing over his shoulder at the Yard before returning his gaze to John. “Don’t say things like that. People’ll think you’re a knob.”
“Uh, right. Knob.” John has a feeling he doesn’t want to ask what a knob is. Really really doesn’t.
McGillian chokes a laugh.
John shrugs, doesn’t look behind when the heavy glass doors slide open. Doesn’t dare give himself permission to hope that Sherlock is coming for him. Will throw out a hand and beg him to stay.
No, John thinks, I just got used to being needed.
The word fills him, robs him. Cuts away at the small tenuous connection between his head and that curious disquiet in his chest. Oh, for a knife as keen as the word Goodbye.
He doesn’t know how to say what he means. What having someone to talk to meant. How even though it was all pixels and bad receptions - how not alone he felt. To have someone interact with him as if he were ordinary. What crossing that chasm had taken - how he’d never hated the stillness until he’d had someone to break it.
And then having to return to that bleak space. Oh, his puzzles would come, no doubt. Blood spilled to reflect the night sky - but him alone - the comforting weight of his mobile now light in his hands. Will float away in his hands. Will never mean the same in his hands.
And to let everything slip through his hands.
Well, there’s only one logical conclusion. John must stay.
So he runs. He urges the cabbie to drive as if his wife and two children (obvious, look at his collar) were in dire straits. Sherlock knows it’s useless. He runs through the doors anyway. He hunts down John’s flight number. Feels like tearing a hole in the floor and crawling into it when he sees that John’s flight already left.
To: Sherlock
From: John
Are you at the airport?
To: John
From: Sherlock
No. Why?
SH
To: Sherlock
From: John
Because I can see you.
Sherlock spins, his heavy coat flaring about his knees.
“You’re still here.” He says, disbelief in his tone.
John shifts, his shoulders tensing beneath the beaten leather jacket. “Well, I was pulled aside be security and missed my flight.”
Sherlock mutters something that sounds like Thank You, Mycroft, and wraps his arms around John.
“Stay,” he mumbles into John’s oatmeal jumper.
“Why,” John asks, bitterness in his tone, “am I necessary again?”
Sherlock sighs. “You were always necessary.”
And later, when Sherlock takes the bag from John a second time and deposits the duffel in John's Room , he smiles. A small secretive grin.
It was never about The Canadians, just his Canadian.