[Sherlock] Circo de Pastel - 12/13
Title: Circo de Pastel
Author: Mesita
Words: 4263/47643/50,000+
Pairings: Sherlock/John (Eventual) Lestrade/Mycroft (Implied)
Warnings: Slight torture, kidnapping, violence, death
Summary: John Watson runs away to join a circus where he is forced to live with the resident consulting psychic. After one of the circus members is murdered, it's up to John and Sherlock to solve the case.
First Chapter
CHAPTER TWELVE
SOMETIMES, LUCK WORKS
John’s world spun around him. He could feel Moran’s muscles weaken beneath him. With Irene’s encouraging words, John held on tight to the shovel and held it back with as much strength as he could muster. He had been very thankful for Irene’s presence, as she had single-handedly caused Moran to lunge toward her and given John the opportunity to get behind the strongman.
Two on one was not exactly fair, but he was not complaining.
When Moran sank to his knees, John knew the big man was losing consciousness. Irene reached forward and caught the lumbering man before he fell face first onto the floor. They set Moran down gently. He was unconscious and still breathing, but he would no longer be a threat if they could get a hold of Moriarty.
John whirled around to face where Sherlock had Moriarty pinned, but what he saw caused a cold grip to settle on his stomach.
Instinctively, John struggled to get up and ran in a staggering fashion toward Sherlock and Moriarty. The world moved impossibly slowly.
The railing had split and both men were almost suspended in animation as they fell off the balcony. John knew his legs would not get there fast enough. He knew he would be too late. That did not stop him from trying. Even as he ran, the world blurred around him so that Sherlock was the only clear thing he could see.
He was not aware that he was even screaming Sherlock’s name. He only knew that he needed to reach his arms outward-to try and catch that trailing coat or a leg, an ankle, a foot, a toe-anything to keep Sherlock from falling from that impossible height.
He gave up running and jumped toward the edge of the floor, but when his body connected with the landing, his hands came up short and his fist clenched on air. There was a sickening crash and silence fell.
The cacophony that had once filled the warehouse now left a silence so thick, it was deafening. Everyone stopped their fighting and looked toward the rubble. There was no movement. There were no moans.
John feared for the worst. His heart caught. He stopped breathing.
“…. J… John.”
The voice was quiet and strained. John finally dared to move just to see from which direction it came. He knew that voice. He would never forget that voice. Relief flooded his entire body.
“Sherlock?”
“John, you daft fool. Help me up,” Sherlock’s voice sounded even more strained than ever and John looked under the floorboards.
Hanging from a rafter holding up the second floor was Sherlock Holmes. When he and Moriarty had gone over, Sherlock’s last minute struggle had given him the proper angle to twist and grab onto something and catch his fall. But his grip would not hold forever.
John hastily braced himself and reached both hands down to haul Sherlock up. Even with their combined efforts, it was nearly impossible. What with the damage done to Sherlock’s wrists, it must have been a very painful couple of seconds.
A delicate hand reached down and took hold of Sherlock’s forearms and John knew Irene had come to their rescue for the third time that night. Together, they hauled Sherlock up, over the railing and back to safety.
Once Sherlock was safely on solid ground, again, Irene stepped back to give him room, but John continued to tug on Sherlock until the taller man fell directly on top of him.
John did not let go.
He did not mind Sherlock’s weight on him. He could not feel it at all. He wrapped his arms around his friend in an embrace and buried his face into Sherlock’s navy blue scarf. Sherlock smelled of dust and soap and sweat.
“I thought I lost you forever.” John did not care if the words sounded horrible and cliché and straight out of a dramatic romance novel. It was the honest to goodness truth.
Sherlock chuckled next to John’s ear and said softly, “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing, John. I have no intentions of dying just yet.”
John was very thankful Sherlock did not pull away from him. He was well aware as to how he was acting, but Sherlock had given him the scare of his life-more so than the scare he had given him just a few days ago. If Sherlock was going to spend the rest of John’s life scaring him to death, well, John did not want to think about that at the moment.
Instead, he was too busy trying not to let the relief wash over him in large amounts at a time. The emotional overload was a little bit too much to bear and he almost caught himself sobbing. He hadn’t meant to start crying. He hadn’t cried in years.
He also hadn’t felt this close to anyone, including his own mother.
“I’ve lost everyone important to me,” John said, trying to keep his voice even, “I couldn’t lose you, too.”
“I’m important to you?” Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised. John could not imagine why.
“Of course you idiot. You’re the most important thing in my life.” His words were muffled slightly against Sherlock’s scarf, but he knew Sherlock could hear the words perfectly fine.
Sherlock was silent and thoughtful and simply let John hug him.
The moment would have been perfect, but John could hear the tell tale signs of Moran stirring. Such a tough man could not stay knocked out for long. Both John and Sherlock pulled away from each other and scrambled to sit up.
It did not take long for Moran to assess his situation, spot both Sherlock and John and make a lunge for the two of them. John braced himself to pull both himself and Sherlock out of the way at the last minute-much like a bullfight, but Moran’s charge suddenly stopped cold.
Irene stood behind the strongman, holding a two-by-four that had broken off from the wooden railing. She had hit Moran on the back of the head in an almost comical fashion. John would not have doubted it if Moran saw actual stars before he fell to the ground, knocked out once again.
Irene frowned at the now still body of Sebastian Moran. “Poor guy must have nearly ten concussions by now.”
When Sherlock and John came home, John said rather loudly that he thought his shared trailer with Sherlock was the most amazing place in the entire world. Everything looked comfortable. Everything looked cozy. Everything looked like a place John could curl up and sleep. Sherlock could not have agreed more.
And so John did not waste any time bothering to shower or take off any of his clothes. The moment he was out of his shoes and his coat, he collapsed onto the couch and fell asleep immediately.
Sherlock was not so lucky. His mind raced over the events of the evening. Some memories stood out more than others. He was very grateful for John’s embrace after everything was said and done because John’s touch had helped Sherlock blot out the wide-eyed look of horror on The Magnificent Professor Moriarty’s face that had burned itself into the back of his eyelids.
In the end, they were saved by Lestrade who had been tipped off by a member of the circus crew. In order to avoid the police, they had to move quickly and leave a lot of evidence behind-evidence that Mycroft would no doubt cover up.
Most of Moriarty’s men had fled the scene, anyway, so by the time the police arrived, it looked as though there had been a gang fight, and the police treated it as such. Mycroft urged the media to press that story, instead of the truth. That was the exact reason Sherlock did not meddle in politics.
Sherlock did wonder, however, how the circus could survive after a scandal like this. Surely Mycroft would have to throw in the towel, now. Not only did several of his crew get murdered, but they were murdered by the circus’s poster boy. Moriarty was supposed to be a role model to children, not the stuff of nightmares.
And then there was Molly. Her nightmare was long from over. She had a look to her that suggested she would never be the same again, even after the physical wounds had healed.
No, the Circo de Pastel was ruined.
But, like so many other things, that was not Sherlock’s problem. No, Moriarty was gone and Moran was behind bars again. Molly was rescued, Carl and Jennifer were avenged. The case was solved. So why did Sherlock still feel as though he had work to do?
He let his mind race as he changed out of his dusty clothing and into a nightshirt. He knew he needed to get some sleep. If he could sleep everything would look different when he woke up. He crawled under his covers and pulled them up to his chin, but it was no good. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Moriarty’s last facial expression.
When he opened his eyes again, his first thoughts always went back to John. He had enjoyed that impromptu embrace in the warehouse. After skiving off death, Sherlock had wanted nothing more than to hold onto John just to remind himself he was still alive and he could do it.
A more sentimental man would say that Sherlock had seen death and therefore realized life was too short for regrets. Sherlock was no sentimental man, but he was a man who acted on urges simply because he could. He threw off his covers and marched into the living room with gusto. He just knew, somewhere deep inside, that if he held John again, his mind would stop pounding off into a million different directions. He would have peace. He would have John.
He knew John would be sound asleep, but his presence alone had become a comfort to Sherlock.
At first, Sherlock sat in his usual chair and watched John sleep. Then, he decided that was not enough. He decided he needed to be closer.
Very carefully, Sherlock stepped over John’s sleeping figure on the couch and slipped his slim body behind John’s. He effectively sandwiched himself between the shorter boy and the back of the couch. John’s back was warm, and Sherlock knew he would have no need for a blanket.
He tentatively placed one arm around John’s waist in a proper embrace from behind. He was pleasantly surprised with how well his arm fit in the grooves of John’s jumper, and settled his head down just at the back of John’s neck. John had an earthy smell to him, and something else that was distinctly John and Sherlock loved it.
This time, when Sherlock closed his eyes, all he could see was John. John, who always grinned at him as he told a joke. John, who would follow Sherlock wherever he led. John, who made sure not to disturb any of Sherlock’s experiments. John, who had saved his life, twice. John’s hair, John’s eyes, John’s nose, John’s smile.
John, who had said Sherlock was the most important thing in the world to him.
Finally, Sherlock relaxed and welcomed the arrival of sleep.
John woke with a start. He had been having the oddest of dreams (mostly involving a certain detective-type), but he had been in such a deep sleep that he hadn’t moved an inch on the couch. The first light of morning crept along the floor from the windows and John thought maybe he should get up, but he was just too comfortable.
He could not feel Sherlock behind him at first, but he noticed the heat right away. The couch had a warmer, softer feel to it, and he swore had been bigger, before. Then he heard Sherlock’s even breathing.
John really did not want to move, now. He did not know whether he should get up and disturb the sleeping Sherlock, or simply go back to sleep. He certainly did not want to ruin the moment.
He tried to remember the night before. Had he gone to bed with Sherlock like this? He could not remember. He remembered them leaving the warehouse together, and he remembered walking into the sitting room, but he could not for the life of him remember saying anything to Sherlock, let alone fall asleep. Had he and Sherlock done anything? A quick check that his clothing was still intact gave him peace of mind.
Well, whatever had brought Sherlock to hold him like this, John certainly wished it would happen more often. He had let himself go the night before. In the light of Sherlock’s second near-death experience, John had let all inhibitions go and nearly blurted out that he was in love with Sherlock.
And he was. He knew he had been attracted to the taller boy right from the start. Hell he was nearly head over heels for him since the moment they accidentally held hands. Looking back, he saw this, now, but had no idea it was happening to him at the time. John enjoyed it-the surge of emotion that hit him in waves from head to toe. It made him feel more alive than chasing criminals around circus grounds.
He decided to shift himself so that he could rest more comfortably against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock gave a soft murmur in his sleep that John found endearing. He closed his own eyes and pretended they were detectives together, living in a flat in London. By day they solved crimes and by night, they had each other.
Before he knew it, he had fallen back asleep.
When John woke up again, his back felt empty, bare and cold. The sound of clinking glass told him that Sherlock was in the kitchen. How had John not felt him get up? He rolled over on the couch and buried his face into the cushion. Now he really didn’t know how to act! Did he go into the kitchen like nothing had happened? What was his relationship with Sherlock? Did anything happen at all? What were they? Did Sherlock treat all his friends like this? John doubted it, but he could not bring himself to any conclusions about which he was certain.
In the end, John pulled himself from the couch, stretched, and lumbered sleepily toward the kitchen. At the very least, he could pretend like nothing ever happened. That was the easiest conclusion.
Sherlock was making tea. There was milk on the counter. It was a smallish container, because they probably would go through it quick enough, but John was touched by the gesture that Sherlock would get some milk.
When Sherlock noticed John’s presence, he gave him a quick nod that really did not answer any of John’s questions and poured him a cup of coffee. “How much milk do you take?” he asked.
Apparently Sherlock was going to play it off like nothing happened, either. The coffee gesture was nice, but John could easily attribute that as a ‘thanks for saving me from dying’ move. John shrugged and answered, “Not much. Just a small amount, enough to take the bitterness away,” and add a creamy edge to his morning cup, he added silently.
Sherlock took his time making the coffee and John felt an awkward silence between them. He was not entirely sure that the silence was awkward to the both of them or only to him, but it was almost too painful to bear. He let Sherlock brew the bitter liquid and instead retired to the sitting room again where he began to absent-mindedly pick up a bit of clutter.
When Sherlock finally brought the mugs into the sitting room, John had stacked nearly all of the loose papers he could find. Sherlock eyed the straightened mess with some secret sense of humor and handed John his mug. John took it with an air of defiance.
“You know, it’s hard to believe that just a few days ago you were making me tea for the first time,” John teased, trying to break the ice that he felt was there. Sherlock looked like he was enjoying every minute of watching John squirm.
Sherlock brought his cup to his lips and spoke over it. “It’s not that hard to believe, John. It happened. You don’t need to romanticize everything.”
John’s jaw dropped with the hint of a surprised smile. “Sherlock are you using sarcasm?”
Sherlock responded by taking a sip of his coffee.
John pretended Sherlock was serious and shrugged, “Fine, you’re right, Sherlock. It was silly for me to bring it up like that. I was only recounting my amazement for how far we’ve come in such a short time.”
“Do you regret it?”
John felt as though he were undergoing some kind of investigation. Sherlock’s eyes were sizing him up. He felt a little small. “Not a bit. You?”
“Very nearly the best decision I ever made was to allow you to stay in my trailer,” Sherlock said.
“Very nearly?” John teased.
Sherlock smiled a small smile, took another sip of coffee, and ignored the tease in John’s voice. “Perhaps even the most important one.”
John caught that. He felt the heat rising to his cheeks when he remembered how overly emotional he had been the night before. “I thought you had forgotten.”
Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. “I never forget anything worthwhile.”
John was quiet. He did not know what to say next or how to proceed, so he smiled to fill the pause. Then he checked the time. It was getting late. “Well…. We should probably get dressed. We’ll have to deal with the aftermath of this whole event.”
He downed his coffee as quickly as he could without burning himself.
When John made his rounds, everyone in the circus treated him like a hero. He no longer felt like he was a stranger, watching everyone as if through a window, but instead he felt more like a friend. Both he and Sherlock had done the circus a great favor, and even though Sherlock was not letting himself take the credit, John basked in it for the both of them.
John’s medical skills were very limited, and some of the performers had sustained a number of injuries from Moriarty’s gang. He took it upon himself to take a look at those he could help, but in the end he felt more like a big brother caring for the skinned knee of a small child. During a particularly grueling fight between Hilton Cubbit and some peroxide, John found that his duties had been relieved by an actual doctor.
Her name was Sarah Sawyer and she had one of those smiles that lit up the room so bright, no one needed to pay for electricity. John liked her immediately. He shadowed her around for a while, in a way that he thought was very inconspicuous.
She seemed to think otherwise. At one point, she stopped stitching up a very pretty Chinese acrobat to turn around and look at John and asked, “You interested in medicine, or something else?”
John turned around to make sure she was talking to him. He even pointed to himself and made the ‘me?’ gesture. Sarah rolled her eyes. “Well, I uh….” John stammered, “In a perfect world, I’d like to be a doctor someday, yes, but that’s just not in my future at the moment.”
“I’m not supposed teach anyone. I am not qualified for that,” she said slowly. John wondered for a moment why she even bothered talking, then. But she added, quickly, “However, I am fully entitled to think out loud and have no control whether or not someone can hear or see me.”
John grinned. He liked Sarah even more, already. He felt better having unpronounced permission to watch her work. Her hands moved over the skin quickly and efficiently. She did not need to worry about causing pain because a local anesthetic had been applied.
“If I may ask…” John said after some time, “Why are you here? I mean, how…?”
Thank goodness Sarah knew what John was trying to ask. “My firm has worked with the Holmes’ family for years,” she said with a laugh. “If you have money, you can bend the rules.”
John knew exactly what she meant. This entire escapade was being hidden under the careful planning and strategy of one very influential Mycroft Holmes. John wondered just how many other strange plots and cover-ups were made every single day. Now that he had just been part of something secret, he wondered how spectacularly ignorant he had been about some things his entire life. He vowed to look at the world differently from that moment forward.
John spent the entire day learning from Sarah. She helped him quite a lot without putting her job on the line. The much less serious jobs like disinfecting and triage were given to John so that Sarah could place more of her attention on the more serious of injuries.
John was in the middle of wrapping a minor skin abrasion when Sarah leaned over to admire his work. She smiled. “You would make a fine doctor, you know.”
“Me? Really?” John was floored.
Sarah nodded. “And your bedside manner is impeccable.”
John flushed with pride. A real doctor had complimented his amateur work. He wanted to tell someone, and knew that the only someone that really mattered was Sherlock. Sherlock would be happy for him, surely. And if not happy, then perhaps slightly pleased or something of the sort.
When their work was finished, John made his way back his trailer to wash up when he ran into a very sullen Sherlock. All thoughts about gushing over his newfound friend and perhaps even job or school or even scholarship reference vanished in a hazy fog when he saw the look on Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock wasted no time in getting right to the point-something that John had come to love about him, but in this case, he did not quite like it. “If you like her so much, why don’t you ask her out?”
The question was petty and childish and usually reserved for school-grade children. John also did not much appreciate the tone of Sherlock’s voice. He frowned back at Sherlock, wondering how Sherlock even knew John had been with her all day. “She’s a friend, all right?”
“You two seemed quite chummy for two people who have just met,” Sherlock countered.
John furrowed his brow. “Oh, and we’re not ‘chummy,’ Sherlock? I’ve known you, for what, a week? And already I-“ John caught himself mid sentence and turned a bright red. That would have been embarrassing.
Sherlock did not miss, it though. He did not miss anything. His voice was unreadable. “You… what, John.”
“I think of you as my best friend,” John rolled his shoulder in a circle to brush off his comment as casual. “So… Sarah is just a mate, but you’re my best mate, okay?”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned upward and he relaxed considerably. It was almost as if he could read beyond John’s words, but John was not ready to say anything. He was barely comfortable with saying it to himself. Sherlock just had to go and be impossibly interesting and appealing and wonderful.
“All right,” Sherlock said, as if he was giving in to something completely horrible, but his facial expression said otherwise.
John had the strongest urge to reach down and take Sherlock’s gloved hand, but he held back. Yes, he had woken up with Sherlock spooning him, but he was convinced that had meant a lot of things other than what he had wanted it to. If John could not be in denial about his own feelings, then he would be in denial about Sherlock’s.
“Let’s just go home, yeah?” John said, and stormed off toward their shared trailer.
He could tell Sherlock was following him because when they reached the trailer, Sherlock placed a cold arm on John’s shoulder and gently moved him aside to unlock the door. John tried to storm inside, but Sherlock stopped him.
“You don’t have to be so visibly angry all the time, you know,” he said softly.
John growled and shoved past Sherlock. He never knew why Sherlock made him so angry. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that John felt like he could not properly act on his actions, but maybe it was because Sherlock’s strange possessiveness was so infuriating. Either way, when John went inside, he shut himself in the spare room with his things and did not come out for a long while.
To give himself something to do that did not require thinking too much about Sherlock, John folded and re-folded the clothes in his bag. It did not help, however, because his mind stayed tuned to his friend, no matter how hard he tried. He sighed and thumbed the seam of a pair of jeans.
He was hopelessly lost in the feeling. He felt flattered that Sherlock was so possessive of him, but the thought that anyone could come to have feelings for John in such a short time was impossible. John wondered what it would be like to kiss Sherlock. He wondered if Sherlock would be able to deduce all the ways in which John wanted to be kissed. He wanted Sherlock to care so much it hurt.
Last Chapter
Author: Mesita
Words: 4263/47643/50,000+
Pairings: Sherlock/John (Eventual) Lestrade/Mycroft (Implied)
Warnings: Slight torture, kidnapping, violence, death
Summary: John Watson runs away to join a circus where he is forced to live with the resident consulting psychic. After one of the circus members is murdered, it's up to John and Sherlock to solve the case.
First Chapter
CHAPTER TWELVE
SOMETIMES, LUCK WORKS
John’s world spun around him. He could feel Moran’s muscles weaken beneath him. With Irene’s encouraging words, John held on tight to the shovel and held it back with as much strength as he could muster. He had been very thankful for Irene’s presence, as she had single-handedly caused Moran to lunge toward her and given John the opportunity to get behind the strongman.
Two on one was not exactly fair, but he was not complaining.
When Moran sank to his knees, John knew the big man was losing consciousness. Irene reached forward and caught the lumbering man before he fell face first onto the floor. They set Moran down gently. He was unconscious and still breathing, but he would no longer be a threat if they could get a hold of Moriarty.
John whirled around to face where Sherlock had Moriarty pinned, but what he saw caused a cold grip to settle on his stomach.
Instinctively, John struggled to get up and ran in a staggering fashion toward Sherlock and Moriarty. The world moved impossibly slowly.
The railing had split and both men were almost suspended in animation as they fell off the balcony. John knew his legs would not get there fast enough. He knew he would be too late. That did not stop him from trying. Even as he ran, the world blurred around him so that Sherlock was the only clear thing he could see.
He was not aware that he was even screaming Sherlock’s name. He only knew that he needed to reach his arms outward-to try and catch that trailing coat or a leg, an ankle, a foot, a toe-anything to keep Sherlock from falling from that impossible height.
He gave up running and jumped toward the edge of the floor, but when his body connected with the landing, his hands came up short and his fist clenched on air. There was a sickening crash and silence fell.
The cacophony that had once filled the warehouse now left a silence so thick, it was deafening. Everyone stopped their fighting and looked toward the rubble. There was no movement. There were no moans.
John feared for the worst. His heart caught. He stopped breathing.
“…. J… John.”
The voice was quiet and strained. John finally dared to move just to see from which direction it came. He knew that voice. He would never forget that voice. Relief flooded his entire body.
“Sherlock?”
“John, you daft fool. Help me up,” Sherlock’s voice sounded even more strained than ever and John looked under the floorboards.
Hanging from a rafter holding up the second floor was Sherlock Holmes. When he and Moriarty had gone over, Sherlock’s last minute struggle had given him the proper angle to twist and grab onto something and catch his fall. But his grip would not hold forever.
John hastily braced himself and reached both hands down to haul Sherlock up. Even with their combined efforts, it was nearly impossible. What with the damage done to Sherlock’s wrists, it must have been a very painful couple of seconds.
A delicate hand reached down and took hold of Sherlock’s forearms and John knew Irene had come to their rescue for the third time that night. Together, they hauled Sherlock up, over the railing and back to safety.
Once Sherlock was safely on solid ground, again, Irene stepped back to give him room, but John continued to tug on Sherlock until the taller man fell directly on top of him.
John did not let go.
He did not mind Sherlock’s weight on him. He could not feel it at all. He wrapped his arms around his friend in an embrace and buried his face into Sherlock’s navy blue scarf. Sherlock smelled of dust and soap and sweat.
“I thought I lost you forever.” John did not care if the words sounded horrible and cliché and straight out of a dramatic romance novel. It was the honest to goodness truth.
Sherlock chuckled next to John’s ear and said softly, “I wouldn’t dream of such a thing, John. I have no intentions of dying just yet.”
John was very thankful Sherlock did not pull away from him. He was well aware as to how he was acting, but Sherlock had given him the scare of his life-more so than the scare he had given him just a few days ago. If Sherlock was going to spend the rest of John’s life scaring him to death, well, John did not want to think about that at the moment.
Instead, he was too busy trying not to let the relief wash over him in large amounts at a time. The emotional overload was a little bit too much to bear and he almost caught himself sobbing. He hadn’t meant to start crying. He hadn’t cried in years.
He also hadn’t felt this close to anyone, including his own mother.
“I’ve lost everyone important to me,” John said, trying to keep his voice even, “I couldn’t lose you, too.”
“I’m important to you?” Sherlock sounded genuinely surprised. John could not imagine why.
“Of course you idiot. You’re the most important thing in my life.” His words were muffled slightly against Sherlock’s scarf, but he knew Sherlock could hear the words perfectly fine.
Sherlock was silent and thoughtful and simply let John hug him.
The moment would have been perfect, but John could hear the tell tale signs of Moran stirring. Such a tough man could not stay knocked out for long. Both John and Sherlock pulled away from each other and scrambled to sit up.
It did not take long for Moran to assess his situation, spot both Sherlock and John and make a lunge for the two of them. John braced himself to pull both himself and Sherlock out of the way at the last minute-much like a bullfight, but Moran’s charge suddenly stopped cold.
Irene stood behind the strongman, holding a two-by-four that had broken off from the wooden railing. She had hit Moran on the back of the head in an almost comical fashion. John would not have doubted it if Moran saw actual stars before he fell to the ground, knocked out once again.
Irene frowned at the now still body of Sebastian Moran. “Poor guy must have nearly ten concussions by now.”
When Sherlock and John came home, John said rather loudly that he thought his shared trailer with Sherlock was the most amazing place in the entire world. Everything looked comfortable. Everything looked cozy. Everything looked like a place John could curl up and sleep. Sherlock could not have agreed more.
And so John did not waste any time bothering to shower or take off any of his clothes. The moment he was out of his shoes and his coat, he collapsed onto the couch and fell asleep immediately.
Sherlock was not so lucky. His mind raced over the events of the evening. Some memories stood out more than others. He was very grateful for John’s embrace after everything was said and done because John’s touch had helped Sherlock blot out the wide-eyed look of horror on The Magnificent Professor Moriarty’s face that had burned itself into the back of his eyelids.
In the end, they were saved by Lestrade who had been tipped off by a member of the circus crew. In order to avoid the police, they had to move quickly and leave a lot of evidence behind-evidence that Mycroft would no doubt cover up.
Most of Moriarty’s men had fled the scene, anyway, so by the time the police arrived, it looked as though there had been a gang fight, and the police treated it as such. Mycroft urged the media to press that story, instead of the truth. That was the exact reason Sherlock did not meddle in politics.
Sherlock did wonder, however, how the circus could survive after a scandal like this. Surely Mycroft would have to throw in the towel, now. Not only did several of his crew get murdered, but they were murdered by the circus’s poster boy. Moriarty was supposed to be a role model to children, not the stuff of nightmares.
And then there was Molly. Her nightmare was long from over. She had a look to her that suggested she would never be the same again, even after the physical wounds had healed.
No, the Circo de Pastel was ruined.
But, like so many other things, that was not Sherlock’s problem. No, Moriarty was gone and Moran was behind bars again. Molly was rescued, Carl and Jennifer were avenged. The case was solved. So why did Sherlock still feel as though he had work to do?
He let his mind race as he changed out of his dusty clothing and into a nightshirt. He knew he needed to get some sleep. If he could sleep everything would look different when he woke up. He crawled under his covers and pulled them up to his chin, but it was no good. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Moriarty’s last facial expression.
When he opened his eyes again, his first thoughts always went back to John. He had enjoyed that impromptu embrace in the warehouse. After skiving off death, Sherlock had wanted nothing more than to hold onto John just to remind himself he was still alive and he could do it.
A more sentimental man would say that Sherlock had seen death and therefore realized life was too short for regrets. Sherlock was no sentimental man, but he was a man who acted on urges simply because he could. He threw off his covers and marched into the living room with gusto. He just knew, somewhere deep inside, that if he held John again, his mind would stop pounding off into a million different directions. He would have peace. He would have John.
He knew John would be sound asleep, but his presence alone had become a comfort to Sherlock.
At first, Sherlock sat in his usual chair and watched John sleep. Then, he decided that was not enough. He decided he needed to be closer.
Very carefully, Sherlock stepped over John’s sleeping figure on the couch and slipped his slim body behind John’s. He effectively sandwiched himself between the shorter boy and the back of the couch. John’s back was warm, and Sherlock knew he would have no need for a blanket.
He tentatively placed one arm around John’s waist in a proper embrace from behind. He was pleasantly surprised with how well his arm fit in the grooves of John’s jumper, and settled his head down just at the back of John’s neck. John had an earthy smell to him, and something else that was distinctly John and Sherlock loved it.
This time, when Sherlock closed his eyes, all he could see was John. John, who always grinned at him as he told a joke. John, who would follow Sherlock wherever he led. John, who made sure not to disturb any of Sherlock’s experiments. John, who had saved his life, twice. John’s hair, John’s eyes, John’s nose, John’s smile.
John, who had said Sherlock was the most important thing in the world to him.
Finally, Sherlock relaxed and welcomed the arrival of sleep.
John woke with a start. He had been having the oddest of dreams (mostly involving a certain detective-type), but he had been in such a deep sleep that he hadn’t moved an inch on the couch. The first light of morning crept along the floor from the windows and John thought maybe he should get up, but he was just too comfortable.
He could not feel Sherlock behind him at first, but he noticed the heat right away. The couch had a warmer, softer feel to it, and he swore had been bigger, before. Then he heard Sherlock’s even breathing.
John really did not want to move, now. He did not know whether he should get up and disturb the sleeping Sherlock, or simply go back to sleep. He certainly did not want to ruin the moment.
He tried to remember the night before. Had he gone to bed with Sherlock like this? He could not remember. He remembered them leaving the warehouse together, and he remembered walking into the sitting room, but he could not for the life of him remember saying anything to Sherlock, let alone fall asleep. Had he and Sherlock done anything? A quick check that his clothing was still intact gave him peace of mind.
Well, whatever had brought Sherlock to hold him like this, John certainly wished it would happen more often. He had let himself go the night before. In the light of Sherlock’s second near-death experience, John had let all inhibitions go and nearly blurted out that he was in love with Sherlock.
And he was. He knew he had been attracted to the taller boy right from the start. Hell he was nearly head over heels for him since the moment they accidentally held hands. Looking back, he saw this, now, but had no idea it was happening to him at the time. John enjoyed it-the surge of emotion that hit him in waves from head to toe. It made him feel more alive than chasing criminals around circus grounds.
He decided to shift himself so that he could rest more comfortably against Sherlock’s chest. Sherlock gave a soft murmur in his sleep that John found endearing. He closed his own eyes and pretended they were detectives together, living in a flat in London. By day they solved crimes and by night, they had each other.
Before he knew it, he had fallen back asleep.
When John woke up again, his back felt empty, bare and cold. The sound of clinking glass told him that Sherlock was in the kitchen. How had John not felt him get up? He rolled over on the couch and buried his face into the cushion. Now he really didn’t know how to act! Did he go into the kitchen like nothing had happened? What was his relationship with Sherlock? Did anything happen at all? What were they? Did Sherlock treat all his friends like this? John doubted it, but he could not bring himself to any conclusions about which he was certain.
In the end, John pulled himself from the couch, stretched, and lumbered sleepily toward the kitchen. At the very least, he could pretend like nothing ever happened. That was the easiest conclusion.
Sherlock was making tea. There was milk on the counter. It was a smallish container, because they probably would go through it quick enough, but John was touched by the gesture that Sherlock would get some milk.
When Sherlock noticed John’s presence, he gave him a quick nod that really did not answer any of John’s questions and poured him a cup of coffee. “How much milk do you take?” he asked.
Apparently Sherlock was going to play it off like nothing happened, either. The coffee gesture was nice, but John could easily attribute that as a ‘thanks for saving me from dying’ move. John shrugged and answered, “Not much. Just a small amount, enough to take the bitterness away,” and add a creamy edge to his morning cup, he added silently.
Sherlock took his time making the coffee and John felt an awkward silence between them. He was not entirely sure that the silence was awkward to the both of them or only to him, but it was almost too painful to bear. He let Sherlock brew the bitter liquid and instead retired to the sitting room again where he began to absent-mindedly pick up a bit of clutter.
When Sherlock finally brought the mugs into the sitting room, John had stacked nearly all of the loose papers he could find. Sherlock eyed the straightened mess with some secret sense of humor and handed John his mug. John took it with an air of defiance.
“You know, it’s hard to believe that just a few days ago you were making me tea for the first time,” John teased, trying to break the ice that he felt was there. Sherlock looked like he was enjoying every minute of watching John squirm.
Sherlock brought his cup to his lips and spoke over it. “It’s not that hard to believe, John. It happened. You don’t need to romanticize everything.”
John’s jaw dropped with the hint of a surprised smile. “Sherlock are you using sarcasm?”
Sherlock responded by taking a sip of his coffee.
John pretended Sherlock was serious and shrugged, “Fine, you’re right, Sherlock. It was silly for me to bring it up like that. I was only recounting my amazement for how far we’ve come in such a short time.”
“Do you regret it?”
John felt as though he were undergoing some kind of investigation. Sherlock’s eyes were sizing him up. He felt a little small. “Not a bit. You?”
“Very nearly the best decision I ever made was to allow you to stay in my trailer,” Sherlock said.
“Very nearly?” John teased.
Sherlock smiled a small smile, took another sip of coffee, and ignored the tease in John’s voice. “Perhaps even the most important one.”
John caught that. He felt the heat rising to his cheeks when he remembered how overly emotional he had been the night before. “I thought you had forgotten.”
Sherlock gave him an incredulous look. “I never forget anything worthwhile.”
John was quiet. He did not know what to say next or how to proceed, so he smiled to fill the pause. Then he checked the time. It was getting late. “Well…. We should probably get dressed. We’ll have to deal with the aftermath of this whole event.”
He downed his coffee as quickly as he could without burning himself.
When John made his rounds, everyone in the circus treated him like a hero. He no longer felt like he was a stranger, watching everyone as if through a window, but instead he felt more like a friend. Both he and Sherlock had done the circus a great favor, and even though Sherlock was not letting himself take the credit, John basked in it for the both of them.
John’s medical skills were very limited, and some of the performers had sustained a number of injuries from Moriarty’s gang. He took it upon himself to take a look at those he could help, but in the end he felt more like a big brother caring for the skinned knee of a small child. During a particularly grueling fight between Hilton Cubbit and some peroxide, John found that his duties had been relieved by an actual doctor.
Her name was Sarah Sawyer and she had one of those smiles that lit up the room so bright, no one needed to pay for electricity. John liked her immediately. He shadowed her around for a while, in a way that he thought was very inconspicuous.
She seemed to think otherwise. At one point, she stopped stitching up a very pretty Chinese acrobat to turn around and look at John and asked, “You interested in medicine, or something else?”
John turned around to make sure she was talking to him. He even pointed to himself and made the ‘me?’ gesture. Sarah rolled her eyes. “Well, I uh….” John stammered, “In a perfect world, I’d like to be a doctor someday, yes, but that’s just not in my future at the moment.”
“I’m not supposed teach anyone. I am not qualified for that,” she said slowly. John wondered for a moment why she even bothered talking, then. But she added, quickly, “However, I am fully entitled to think out loud and have no control whether or not someone can hear or see me.”
John grinned. He liked Sarah even more, already. He felt better having unpronounced permission to watch her work. Her hands moved over the skin quickly and efficiently. She did not need to worry about causing pain because a local anesthetic had been applied.
“If I may ask…” John said after some time, “Why are you here? I mean, how…?”
Thank goodness Sarah knew what John was trying to ask. “My firm has worked with the Holmes’ family for years,” she said with a laugh. “If you have money, you can bend the rules.”
John knew exactly what she meant. This entire escapade was being hidden under the careful planning and strategy of one very influential Mycroft Holmes. John wondered just how many other strange plots and cover-ups were made every single day. Now that he had just been part of something secret, he wondered how spectacularly ignorant he had been about some things his entire life. He vowed to look at the world differently from that moment forward.
John spent the entire day learning from Sarah. She helped him quite a lot without putting her job on the line. The much less serious jobs like disinfecting and triage were given to John so that Sarah could place more of her attention on the more serious of injuries.
John was in the middle of wrapping a minor skin abrasion when Sarah leaned over to admire his work. She smiled. “You would make a fine doctor, you know.”
“Me? Really?” John was floored.
Sarah nodded. “And your bedside manner is impeccable.”
John flushed with pride. A real doctor had complimented his amateur work. He wanted to tell someone, and knew that the only someone that really mattered was Sherlock. Sherlock would be happy for him, surely. And if not happy, then perhaps slightly pleased or something of the sort.
When their work was finished, John made his way back his trailer to wash up when he ran into a very sullen Sherlock. All thoughts about gushing over his newfound friend and perhaps even job or school or even scholarship reference vanished in a hazy fog when he saw the look on Sherlock’s face.
Sherlock wasted no time in getting right to the point-something that John had come to love about him, but in this case, he did not quite like it. “If you like her so much, why don’t you ask her out?”
The question was petty and childish and usually reserved for school-grade children. John also did not much appreciate the tone of Sherlock’s voice. He frowned back at Sherlock, wondering how Sherlock even knew John had been with her all day. “She’s a friend, all right?”
“You two seemed quite chummy for two people who have just met,” Sherlock countered.
John furrowed his brow. “Oh, and we’re not ‘chummy,’ Sherlock? I’ve known you, for what, a week? And already I-“ John caught himself mid sentence and turned a bright red. That would have been embarrassing.
Sherlock did not miss, it though. He did not miss anything. His voice was unreadable. “You… what, John.”
“I think of you as my best friend,” John rolled his shoulder in a circle to brush off his comment as casual. “So… Sarah is just a mate, but you’re my best mate, okay?”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turned upward and he relaxed considerably. It was almost as if he could read beyond John’s words, but John was not ready to say anything. He was barely comfortable with saying it to himself. Sherlock just had to go and be impossibly interesting and appealing and wonderful.
“All right,” Sherlock said, as if he was giving in to something completely horrible, but his facial expression said otherwise.
John had the strongest urge to reach down and take Sherlock’s gloved hand, but he held back. Yes, he had woken up with Sherlock spooning him, but he was convinced that had meant a lot of things other than what he had wanted it to. If John could not be in denial about his own feelings, then he would be in denial about Sherlock’s.
“Let’s just go home, yeah?” John said, and stormed off toward their shared trailer.
He could tell Sherlock was following him because when they reached the trailer, Sherlock placed a cold arm on John’s shoulder and gently moved him aside to unlock the door. John tried to storm inside, but Sherlock stopped him.
“You don’t have to be so visibly angry all the time, you know,” he said softly.
John growled and shoved past Sherlock. He never knew why Sherlock made him so angry. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that John felt like he could not properly act on his actions, but maybe it was because Sherlock’s strange possessiveness was so infuriating. Either way, when John went inside, he shut himself in the spare room with his things and did not come out for a long while.
To give himself something to do that did not require thinking too much about Sherlock, John folded and re-folded the clothes in his bag. It did not help, however, because his mind stayed tuned to his friend, no matter how hard he tried. He sighed and thumbed the seam of a pair of jeans.
He was hopelessly lost in the feeling. He felt flattered that Sherlock was so possessive of him, but the thought that anyone could come to have feelings for John in such a short time was impossible. John wondered what it would be like to kiss Sherlock. He wondered if Sherlock would be able to deduce all the ways in which John wanted to be kissed. He wanted Sherlock to care so much it hurt.
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