Sound of solitude (Sherlock BBC)
For warnings, pairings, etc., see part one
Denial
The bomb went off and there were screams of people in pain, people dying. Sherlock throwing himself in the pool, the burning parts of ceiling falling all around him. He was hurt when he finally crawled out. His ribs broken, one of his legs cut and blood slowly being pumped out of it. He crawled to where John laid, covered by the door from the changing rooms, with the broken sides of walls fallen on him. He touched his chin in fear. There was too much on him to see if he was breathing and there was blood everywhere. Streaming down John’s peaceful face.
“John! John!” his voice croaked, but he could see John’s eyebrows knitted in a frown. His face looking pale and pained. He was alive.
Sherlock let his head fall forward, forehead pressed against John’s jumper. He took a deep breath, breathing in John’s smell and the fact that he was blissfully alive, alive, alive… They both survived. The chances they were also lucky in getting rid of Moriarty were so very, very small. Almost as small as the ones Moriarty had of surviving, but Sherlock could not let there be any chance. Next time John might not survive. Next time Moriarty may win with both of them. With one last reassuring breath Sherlock moved his head up, slowly standing up and limping to the exit before the police he could already hear would manage to get there. He needed to make sure there wouldn’t be a next time.
John was in the kitchen when the door downstairs opened. He heard the steps on the stairs and carefully put the cup he was holding on the table, trying to breathe steadily to win with the oncoming shock. He stared at the door leading to the staircase from the kitchen, frozen in place. The steps were slow, cautious, but they were also unmistakably Sherlock’s. John stared, counting the steps in his head, not believing it took so long before the figure appeared in the door. He run through all denials in his head, explaining how he forgot Sherlock’s steps, how it could be someone similar, coincidence, just a silly, heartbreaking coincidence…
He met Sherlock’s gaze and felt the breath wheezing out of him. He was in jeans instead of his usual suit. Warm, thick coat billowed around him just as dramatically as the old one. His hair was shorter, face thinner and his scarf was a dark purple, but there was no mistaking this man for anyone but Sherlock. With gray, sharp eyes staring into John and collecting the data, drawing conclusions like he did the first time they’ve met…
John closed his eyes rapidly, shaking his head and stumbling out of the room. Colliding with the table and almost falling next to the sofa as he scrambled for the bottle of the pills he left there.
“Fuck,” he cursed under his tone, fighting with the bottle and his trembling hands and avoiding the posture in the kitchen that made slow, unsure steps toward the living room. “It was getting better, for God’s sake, it was…”
“What are you…”
Damn it. Damn it to all hell, thought John rapidly. Even this deep voice was the same. But that John got used to hearing around. The hands closing around his were new though. And the palms of them were warm, the tips of the fingertips freezing and John wanted to weep at how real it all felt.
“No, John, don’t be an idiot. It’s me, I’m here, it’s really me.”
John let his head fall on the shoulder of the man before him, who smelled slightly different than Sherlock used to. Different shampoo probably, he thought, snuggling his nose closer to dark curls. Same Sherlock. His arms crawled around the warm figure kneeling before him, fists tightening in his coat, holding him desperately to stop him from disappearing.
There was this thought in the back of his head that it could go both ways. Either the hallucination will finally go away, he will wake up to find his hands empty or… His muscles clenched refusing to let go for a moment, his body tense and focused as if concentration could hold the person he created. His eyes burned as the body before him shifted, dragging him to lay together on the floor, partly nested against the sofa. Long fingers run through his hair and John let himself cry into Sherlock’s new coat.
Dying was convenient, because dying was simple and boring. It was just what people used to do. Moriarty was not interested in dead bodies… He wasn’t interested in living humans either, only in games he played with them. He assumed the dead ones couldn’t play. Silly, really. Sherlock knew that and preferred them as playmates, because not only dead ones could play games, they were the only ones who always played fair. Which is why Sherlock was so very glad, he wasn’t really dead.
The only thing he feared was Moriarty’s boredom. Bored Moriarty would pay attention to anything just to amuse himself and he’d discover the walking dead following him. Moriarty needed a distraction or Sherlock would never get close enough. He was thinking of some sort of a game, of throwing something or someone at the madman, but he didn’t need to do anything of this sort, because Jim apparently learned to find new playmates on his own.
Sherlock could only laugh at pure genius of it. John. Of course he would go for John. And it was perfect in ways neither of them probably fully understood. Because if John wouldn’t be able to hold Moriarty’s attention who would be? John was… John was bright and unmovable. The warmth of the noble strength cut in a beautiful stone. He was a mix of everything that was so annoying in humanity, but in such unique combination and spiced with just enough of a taste of insanity it made him perfect. Most captivating human in the world, as far as Sherlock could tell. And also one of the strongest, so Moriarty would never end him. It was brilliant and Sherlock could work safely and carefully. He had back up. As always.
Anger
The floor underneath him was hard and his pained body complained vividly about choosing to sleep on it. John groaned in pain and the chest he felt pressed before him shifted. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock’s face barely an inch away from him, laying down on the floor, still in his coat, but with the scarf bundled under his head. John took a long time to just stare, cataloguing all those things he almost forgot. How gray Sherlock’s eyes were, how there were small freckles on his cheekbones, how the tips of his mouth were so sharply dipped into his skin as if he barely held a smile or kept his mouth shut. John sluggishly moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s face, half expecting it to go right through it, making the vision disappear. Instead his palm met warm skin with just barely sensible prickles of stubble on his jaw. He run his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. He could feel Sherlock’s breath on his face and it reminded him of a dream that turned into so many nightmares in his head. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and John leaned in, kissing him.
Slowly at first, barely testing, barely stopping Sherlock from speaking. Soft lips pressed against his, opening under his pressure as he lazily swap his tongue inside, lavishing over Sherlock’s mouth. Exploring it, teasing Sherlock’s own tongue and making out lazily as if he had all the time in the world. As if it was all just a dream. Lazy, warm, seated dream. His hands roamed over Sherlock’s body as Sherlock’s long fingers tightened in his jumper, holding him close. John traveled the path down Sherlock’s chest, his hands sneaking under the coat to touch the warm, smooth shirt underneath it. It was so warm, Sherlock’s heat radiating through the material and John moaned deep in his throat. His kisses moving away from Sherlock’s gasping mouth, kissing his jaw, neck, biting under the pulse point. Sherlock’s hands stilled and his mouth just breathed close to John’s cheek now. Slow, even breaths as if to calm himself. John bit into his neck, sucking on the white, sensitive skin as he rolled on the other man, pushing his thigh between Sherlock’s, pressing against his crotch and Sherlock froze completely. John stilled before experimentally pressing into the other man as he gasped and slid away. He couldn’t move far, pressed tightly as they were, but still deflecting John’s attempts at move this past the heated making out session. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck breathing shallowly.
“Oh god,” John growled thinking of all the dreams he had about pinning down Sherlock or being pinned down by him or… They never went like that.
“Sorry,” whispered Sherlock, sounding slightly guilty and disappointed and John could just shook his head breathing in the smell of him and laughing soundlessly.
“Oh god,” he said the anger in his voice just as honest as the laughter he couldn’t shake. “It is you, isn’t it? You utter, utter bastard… You bloody bastard!”
Sherlock smiled and pet his head, pressing his chin against John’s hair, relaxing. Their position morphing into something speaking more of comfort and warmth and less about sex and hunger. Sherlock held John closely feeling his desperate, hysteric laugh in huffed breaths along his neck. It was fine, it was all fine.
It was a game, yes. A hunting. But it was also laying low and waiting. Circling the pray, yes, but mostly playing dead. And being dead was boring. There were long weeks when Sherlock couldn’t do anything whole day but get up and wait till he could go back to sleep. And without the chase it took him even longer to get tired enough. And without all small, every day trivia he had nothing to occupy his head. Every experiment could be noticed, could go wrong, was too dangerous. The site had to remain deadly quiet. Every humans he knew had to play along and treat him as a dead, decomposing corpse he should be by now.
There were days when he sat in empty, so empty rooms, seeing all the traces of previous occupants of this place. Coffee rings on the small table in the kitchen and weirdly enough on the tip of the windowsill, where someone stood, drinking coffee and watching the road. Carefully hidden by the wall, barely sneaking a look through the dirty window. There was the oven darkened by many failed attempts at cooking, at least two of which included some kind of pie. There were smudges on the wall from the spray of an opened can of beer. And lighter square of floor where the rug used to lie. And dark smudges by the door, blood of someone who tried to crawl out of here and quite obviously failed. And the marks of at least three different rats on the leg of the chair by the table. Only two rats starting on the legs of the bed. Different batches, territorial.
Sherlock could only growl and thump his head against the wall in frustration. The longer he set still the more persistent all the details were becoming. And he needed to find some worth following and follow them to some conclusions, to start the chase to finally move! But he couldn’t. Not yet. He was playing dead. He could suddenly appear, that was true, but he also had to stay unmoved for weeks. He curled in different parts of his current hiding place, tricking himself with change of position and place in the room. As if something changed. He lied and experienced the smell of dampness in the air, the cold sipping through the floor and walls, the muted light sinking through the window… He let his thoughts fly, but it never ended well, they followed all the unimportant patterns, dragging him into madness. He fought hard to focus them. Made himself remember. He had to win. He was better, smarter and more prepared. And he had much more to loose. He thought of John who had to be happy now, sitting in Baker Street, enjoying the silence and clean kitchen, uninterrupted dates. Sometimes he thought it was a blessing for John. Sometimes he imagined John’s disappointed face upon him coming back. Well, John wouldn’t be disappointed to see him alive, but to see him back? Perhaps he wouldn’t be happy it was so soon. Perhaps for him it wasn’t a pained forever like for Sherlock. It would be hard for him to adjust back to living with a madman. Perhaps he’d try and fail and move out. Sherlock had dozens, hundreds of hypothesis how it all could go wrong, how he could not win what he aimed for. John wasn’t a prize exactly, but his life certainly was to be lost or reassured in this game. And Sherlock knew that John forgetting him would hurt like no leaving ever did, but John dying… Dying because Sherlock lost… That would kill them both.
Bargaining
“We should move,” said Sherlock finally. “It really is rather uncomfortable. I imagine you must feel it to despite the time that passed, you’re still on painkillers which would suggest…”
John slowly moved off of Sherlock and stumbled toward his chair, taking the bottle of painkillers out of his pocket. Sherlock watched him as a hawk, but he refused to act as if he was doing anything wrong. Perhaps his limbs or ribs hadn’t hurt all that much lately, but no one could guarantee him it wasn’t because he tended to take pills before they got a chance to hurt. He swallowed two pills dry, already overly accustomed to their fill on his tongue.
“You will stop it,” stated Sherlock and John let out a dry chuckle.
“No offence, Sherlock, but you’re the last person I would take medical advice from.” The only reaction was a steady, deducting gaze and John lost his smile and glared at his friend. “Stop it!”
“They only cloud your judgment, John. You don’t need them anymore, your injuries were clearly healed and you are quite alright considering you just spent over three hours on the floor and can still easily move. You obviously use them as crutch which is no longer needed and-“
“Stop it!” said John sharply, his voice cutting. “You… You don’t understand Sherlock…”
A dry chuckle interrupted him.
“Don’t I, John? Really?”
“It’s different,” stated John shortly, but the smile hadn’t disappear from Sherlock’s face.
He stood up slowly, his muscles stiffened by the position he maintained on the floor. He scratched before taking his coat off an throwing it on the sofa, falling right behind it, sprawled over the furniture, taking as much space as only one can while sitting.
“It really, really isn’t John,” he said patronizing and John avoided his eyes with a grim expression. “Don’t worry, we will get you off them.”
“Oh, we will?”
“Yes,” Sherlock stated surly, obviously not taking under consideration the possibility of a failure. “You don’t need them anymore. You only used them as crutch as it was.”
Dry chuckle escaped John’s mouth, the humor in his eyes hiding the trembling feelings of need for Sherlock to put sense into it all. To make it alright once again like he did, when they first met. Like suddenly John didn’t need his cane anymore.
“And now what? My leg has fixed itself?”
Sherlock smiled at him and John could only stare at this small upward curve of his pale lips he missed so much, smirking so smugly like now.
“Obviously,” replied Sherlock with content in his voice. “You have me now.”
Jim seemed quite surprised to see him, which stroke Sherlock’s ego enormously, but killed last appreciation he had for his enemy. Really, with so many of his plans going badly? His closest people disappearing? He was really paranoid enough to believe it was his people’s own doing? He really should see this one coming.
And yet he didn’t. He looked at Sherlock with the mix of surprise and delight as Sherlock raised his gun, aiming between his enemy’s eyes. Moriarty laughed, his eyes shining.
“You won’t kill me!” he said, his tone lightened with the bubbling delighted laughter. “You won’t, Sherlock. I’m the only one who can play you on your level. I’m the only one who play with you.”
Sherlock’s smile was cold and calm. Ice of certainty stilling his hand in the perfect aim.
“We have played, Jim,” he smirked. “I won.”
Depression
John shifted in his armchair again and when he met Sherlock’s gaze the other man was smiling softly at him, before looking quite pointedly at the place beside him on the sofa. John hid a small smile and quickly changed his seats, almost snuggling into the warmth of his friends. Enjoying the feel and smell of him, constantly reassuring that yes, he was really alive. One of Sherlock’s arms sprawled over the back of the sofa fall to John’s arms, curling around them.
“It is rather cold in here,” he stated quietly.
“That’s not why…” started John making move as if to pull away, but Sherlock held him closer.
“I’m aware, I was just making observation. Feeling the temperature in the room and seeing the signs of your last meals it’s obvious you were cutting on some expenses. We should be able to deal with them again, I should adjust the thermostat…”
He stood up before John managed to clutch him tighter. Quickly moving around the rooms as if nothing changed, he just kept glancing at things that were moved as if he analyzed the new data and added it to the right folders. But he didn’t stop for longer to check anything, just moved to the corridor to adjust the thermostat and came back, quickening his steps as he noticed John’s expression. Noticing probably his face paling, knowing Sherlock he could even hear how John’s heart hammered in his chest as he waited for his friend to reappear and fearing it won’t happen. Sherlock stalked to the sofa and bend over John’s face, kissing him softly on the lips. It was soft and quick and he looked into John’s eyes for confirmation if it was a good thing to do. John gave him a small smile and Sherlock grinned back happily before sitting down and once again gathering John close.
“It’s one of those things we should talk about if I’m correct,” said Sherlock finally, his voice light and John laughed quietly at it.
“It is somewhere on the list, yes. I think there are more pressing thing though. You know, with you being officially dead an all.”
Sherlock mouth were so close, John could feel his warm breath on his hair for as Sherlock stilled, not answering for a moment. His long fingers taped some sort of rhythm in John’s arm and he pressed his cheek lightly toward John’s hair.
“I should probably explain,” he agreed eventually.
“Yes,” laughed John. “That would be really nice. Someone beside me seeing you too, but I will settle for an explanation now.”
The younger man sighed, his arm tightening around John slightly.
“We will meet Mrs. Hudson in the morning, I promise. It’s a bit too late for this now. And I think we should talk first.” John nodded slightly in his arm, but Sherlock still stayed silent, obviously looking for the place to start, obviously unprepared. “I was sure you knew I’m alright. I was half convinced you managed to forget all about me. I’ve met Mycroft after I was done, I called him to help me deal with the consequences… He was quite sure you believe I’m alive.”
“He was sure you were dead too.”
Sherlock looks away. That was true of course and he didn’t expect it even more than John’s state. When Sherlock called Mycroft to tell him about the death of Moriarty he couldn’t quite place his brother’s tone. It came to him as he waited for him and his special ops. Surprise, shock, relief. He wasn’t sure what to expect from his brother and judging by Mycroft’s slightly shaken demeanor he also wasn’t sure if he should slap or hug his brother. He stared at him intently, relieved. Exasperated. Proud. Sherlock grinned at him happily and Mycroft asked him to never do this again. It was apparently upsetting Mummy. Sherlock could only point out it apparently also upset his brother’s diet.
“I know,” he said finally. “It was… unexpected. I didn’t know anything about either of you… It would be obvious if I tried to keep watch on people I know. I only knew Moriarty started playing with you, but it only worked in my favour, I never assumed...”
“In your favour? What do you mean in your favour?” John raised his head angrily looking Sherlock in the eyes and meeting his surprised gaze. Darkening with regret.
“He needed a distraction, you were the best. I could not imagine him getting bored and paying too much attention and discovering me, while he played with you… I mean it was you.”
John stared at him as if fearing to understand what Sherlock was trying to tell him. Astonished at the power of faith Sherlock put in him. Broken because of how easily he disappointed it.
“I was never able to win…” he whispered, but Sherlock shook his head vehemently.
He clenched his hands on John’s arms, turning him so they were face to face and looking into him with his gaze heated and words full of emotions.
“You were never supposed to, John. He wanted to burn you out.”
John let his gaze to fall, small breath escaping him.
“I’m afraid he succeeded-“
“No, no, no, NO! John! Wrong again!” shouted Sherlock and John had to stare at him. At this overwhelming energy barely contaminated in the shape of human. “He was nothing but a worm, a fascinating perhaps, but worm nonetheless! Small and unimportant! Weak! You’re stronger, John, you are so much stronger… He could burn my heart easily, but yours? Yours, John? He couldn’t even properly measure it, John. But he wanted to end you, to burn you… And it would take him years, but he would and I needed to stop him, do you see? I needed to stop him.”
John stared, fascinated at the genius before him. At the genius who faked his own death and won his greatest game ever. Eliminated the only opponent worth of him and claimed he did it all to keep John safe. John thought of all lonely days he spent suffering without Sherlock. Depressed and in pain, dragged into madness by the criminal mastermind and failing to heal properly. He wanted to believe nothing more than the fact that Sherlock needed to leave him here like that. To capture Moriarty’s attention. Perhaps he needed to believe in Sherlock’s death after all. Perhaps, it all made sense in some mad, genius plan that just slightly went of tracks, but worked nonetheless. Like they always did. He stared at Sherlock as he stared at him the very first time they met. Captured, fascinated, unable to ever look away. Not wanting to ever have to look away.
“Tell me,” he asked. “Tell me everything.”
“You sure?” asked Sherlock and John gave him a small, proud smile. Sherlock was almost bursting to tell him.
“Of course. It’s not like you’re going to write it down properly,” he said lightly, thinking of all the conversations and problems they have to get through before he actually will feel good enough to write it down. It will take ages, he thought, but couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He will take it, as long as there will be much more things to write down. “I’m your blogger. You need me to narrate it properly.”
Sherlock smiled, looking at him as if he was the most fascinating and surprising thing in the whole universe. The only one that could actually capture his attention for so long. He leaned down for another short kiss.
“I need you,” he agreed. And started talking about the murder he recently committed with a glee in his wicked smile. It was perfect.
Acceptance
Denial
The bomb went off and there were screams of people in pain, people dying. Sherlock throwing himself in the pool, the burning parts of ceiling falling all around him. He was hurt when he finally crawled out. His ribs broken, one of his legs cut and blood slowly being pumped out of it. He crawled to where John laid, covered by the door from the changing rooms, with the broken sides of walls fallen on him. He touched his chin in fear. There was too much on him to see if he was breathing and there was blood everywhere. Streaming down John’s peaceful face.
“John! John!” his voice croaked, but he could see John’s eyebrows knitted in a frown. His face looking pale and pained. He was alive.
Sherlock let his head fall forward, forehead pressed against John’s jumper. He took a deep breath, breathing in John’s smell and the fact that he was blissfully alive, alive, alive… They both survived. The chances they were also lucky in getting rid of Moriarty were so very, very small. Almost as small as the ones Moriarty had of surviving, but Sherlock could not let there be any chance. Next time John might not survive. Next time Moriarty may win with both of them. With one last reassuring breath Sherlock moved his head up, slowly standing up and limping to the exit before the police he could already hear would manage to get there. He needed to make sure there wouldn’t be a next time.
John was in the kitchen when the door downstairs opened. He heard the steps on the stairs and carefully put the cup he was holding on the table, trying to breathe steadily to win with the oncoming shock. He stared at the door leading to the staircase from the kitchen, frozen in place. The steps were slow, cautious, but they were also unmistakably Sherlock’s. John stared, counting the steps in his head, not believing it took so long before the figure appeared in the door. He run through all denials in his head, explaining how he forgot Sherlock’s steps, how it could be someone similar, coincidence, just a silly, heartbreaking coincidence…
He met Sherlock’s gaze and felt the breath wheezing out of him. He was in jeans instead of his usual suit. Warm, thick coat billowed around him just as dramatically as the old one. His hair was shorter, face thinner and his scarf was a dark purple, but there was no mistaking this man for anyone but Sherlock. With gray, sharp eyes staring into John and collecting the data, drawing conclusions like he did the first time they’ve met…
John closed his eyes rapidly, shaking his head and stumbling out of the room. Colliding with the table and almost falling next to the sofa as he scrambled for the bottle of the pills he left there.
“Fuck,” he cursed under his tone, fighting with the bottle and his trembling hands and avoiding the posture in the kitchen that made slow, unsure steps toward the living room. “It was getting better, for God’s sake, it was…”
“What are you…”
Damn it. Damn it to all hell, thought John rapidly. Even this deep voice was the same. But that John got used to hearing around. The hands closing around his were new though. And the palms of them were warm, the tips of the fingertips freezing and John wanted to weep at how real it all felt.
“No, John, don’t be an idiot. It’s me, I’m here, it’s really me.”
John let his head fall on the shoulder of the man before him, who smelled slightly different than Sherlock used to. Different shampoo probably, he thought, snuggling his nose closer to dark curls. Same Sherlock. His arms crawled around the warm figure kneeling before him, fists tightening in his coat, holding him desperately to stop him from disappearing.
There was this thought in the back of his head that it could go both ways. Either the hallucination will finally go away, he will wake up to find his hands empty or… His muscles clenched refusing to let go for a moment, his body tense and focused as if concentration could hold the person he created. His eyes burned as the body before him shifted, dragging him to lay together on the floor, partly nested against the sofa. Long fingers run through his hair and John let himself cry into Sherlock’s new coat.
Dying was convenient, because dying was simple and boring. It was just what people used to do. Moriarty was not interested in dead bodies… He wasn’t interested in living humans either, only in games he played with them. He assumed the dead ones couldn’t play. Silly, really. Sherlock knew that and preferred them as playmates, because not only dead ones could play games, they were the only ones who always played fair. Which is why Sherlock was so very glad, he wasn’t really dead.
The only thing he feared was Moriarty’s boredom. Bored Moriarty would pay attention to anything just to amuse himself and he’d discover the walking dead following him. Moriarty needed a distraction or Sherlock would never get close enough. He was thinking of some sort of a game, of throwing something or someone at the madman, but he didn’t need to do anything of this sort, because Jim apparently learned to find new playmates on his own.
Sherlock could only laugh at pure genius of it. John. Of course he would go for John. And it was perfect in ways neither of them probably fully understood. Because if John wouldn’t be able to hold Moriarty’s attention who would be? John was… John was bright and unmovable. The warmth of the noble strength cut in a beautiful stone. He was a mix of everything that was so annoying in humanity, but in such unique combination and spiced with just enough of a taste of insanity it made him perfect. Most captivating human in the world, as far as Sherlock could tell. And also one of the strongest, so Moriarty would never end him. It was brilliant and Sherlock could work safely and carefully. He had back up. As always.
Anger
The floor underneath him was hard and his pained body complained vividly about choosing to sleep on it. John groaned in pain and the chest he felt pressed before him shifted. He opened his eyes to see Sherlock’s face barely an inch away from him, laying down on the floor, still in his coat, but with the scarf bundled under his head. John took a long time to just stare, cataloguing all those things he almost forgot. How gray Sherlock’s eyes were, how there were small freckles on his cheekbones, how the tips of his mouth were so sharply dipped into his skin as if he barely held a smile or kept his mouth shut. John sluggishly moved his hand to cup Sherlock’s face, half expecting it to go right through it, making the vision disappear. Instead his palm met warm skin with just barely sensible prickles of stubble on his jaw. He run his thumb over Sherlock’s cheekbone. He could feel Sherlock’s breath on his face and it reminded him of a dream that turned into so many nightmares in his head. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak and John leaned in, kissing him.
Slowly at first, barely testing, barely stopping Sherlock from speaking. Soft lips pressed against his, opening under his pressure as he lazily swap his tongue inside, lavishing over Sherlock’s mouth. Exploring it, teasing Sherlock’s own tongue and making out lazily as if he had all the time in the world. As if it was all just a dream. Lazy, warm, seated dream. His hands roamed over Sherlock’s body as Sherlock’s long fingers tightened in his jumper, holding him close. John traveled the path down Sherlock’s chest, his hands sneaking under the coat to touch the warm, smooth shirt underneath it. It was so warm, Sherlock’s heat radiating through the material and John moaned deep in his throat. His kisses moving away from Sherlock’s gasping mouth, kissing his jaw, neck, biting under the pulse point. Sherlock’s hands stilled and his mouth just breathed close to John’s cheek now. Slow, even breaths as if to calm himself. John bit into his neck, sucking on the white, sensitive skin as he rolled on the other man, pushing his thigh between Sherlock’s, pressing against his crotch and Sherlock froze completely. John stilled before experimentally pressing into the other man as he gasped and slid away. He couldn’t move far, pressed tightly as they were, but still deflecting John’s attempts at move this past the heated making out session. John buried his face in Sherlock’s neck breathing shallowly.
“Oh god,” John growled thinking of all the dreams he had about pinning down Sherlock or being pinned down by him or… They never went like that.
“Sorry,” whispered Sherlock, sounding slightly guilty and disappointed and John could just shook his head breathing in the smell of him and laughing soundlessly.
“Oh god,” he said the anger in his voice just as honest as the laughter he couldn’t shake. “It is you, isn’t it? You utter, utter bastard… You bloody bastard!”
Sherlock smiled and pet his head, pressing his chin against John’s hair, relaxing. Their position morphing into something speaking more of comfort and warmth and less about sex and hunger. Sherlock held John closely feeling his desperate, hysteric laugh in huffed breaths along his neck. It was fine, it was all fine.
It was a game, yes. A hunting. But it was also laying low and waiting. Circling the pray, yes, but mostly playing dead. And being dead was boring. There were long weeks when Sherlock couldn’t do anything whole day but get up and wait till he could go back to sleep. And without the chase it took him even longer to get tired enough. And without all small, every day trivia he had nothing to occupy his head. Every experiment could be noticed, could go wrong, was too dangerous. The site had to remain deadly quiet. Every humans he knew had to play along and treat him as a dead, decomposing corpse he should be by now.
There were days when he sat in empty, so empty rooms, seeing all the traces of previous occupants of this place. Coffee rings on the small table in the kitchen and weirdly enough on the tip of the windowsill, where someone stood, drinking coffee and watching the road. Carefully hidden by the wall, barely sneaking a look through the dirty window. There was the oven darkened by many failed attempts at cooking, at least two of which included some kind of pie. There were smudges on the wall from the spray of an opened can of beer. And lighter square of floor where the rug used to lie. And dark smudges by the door, blood of someone who tried to crawl out of here and quite obviously failed. And the marks of at least three different rats on the leg of the chair by the table. Only two rats starting on the legs of the bed. Different batches, territorial.
Sherlock could only growl and thump his head against the wall in frustration. The longer he set still the more persistent all the details were becoming. And he needed to find some worth following and follow them to some conclusions, to start the chase to finally move! But he couldn’t. Not yet. He was playing dead. He could suddenly appear, that was true, but he also had to stay unmoved for weeks. He curled in different parts of his current hiding place, tricking himself with change of position and place in the room. As if something changed. He lied and experienced the smell of dampness in the air, the cold sipping through the floor and walls, the muted light sinking through the window… He let his thoughts fly, but it never ended well, they followed all the unimportant patterns, dragging him into madness. He fought hard to focus them. Made himself remember. He had to win. He was better, smarter and more prepared. And he had much more to loose. He thought of John who had to be happy now, sitting in Baker Street, enjoying the silence and clean kitchen, uninterrupted dates. Sometimes he thought it was a blessing for John. Sometimes he imagined John’s disappointed face upon him coming back. Well, John wouldn’t be disappointed to see him alive, but to see him back? Perhaps he wouldn’t be happy it was so soon. Perhaps for him it wasn’t a pained forever like for Sherlock. It would be hard for him to adjust back to living with a madman. Perhaps he’d try and fail and move out. Sherlock had dozens, hundreds of hypothesis how it all could go wrong, how he could not win what he aimed for. John wasn’t a prize exactly, but his life certainly was to be lost or reassured in this game. And Sherlock knew that John forgetting him would hurt like no leaving ever did, but John dying… Dying because Sherlock lost… That would kill them both.
Bargaining
“We should move,” said Sherlock finally. “It really is rather uncomfortable. I imagine you must feel it to despite the time that passed, you’re still on painkillers which would suggest…”
John slowly moved off of Sherlock and stumbled toward his chair, taking the bottle of painkillers out of his pocket. Sherlock watched him as a hawk, but he refused to act as if he was doing anything wrong. Perhaps his limbs or ribs hadn’t hurt all that much lately, but no one could guarantee him it wasn’t because he tended to take pills before they got a chance to hurt. He swallowed two pills dry, already overly accustomed to their fill on his tongue.
“You will stop it,” stated Sherlock and John let out a dry chuckle.
“No offence, Sherlock, but you’re the last person I would take medical advice from.” The only reaction was a steady, deducting gaze and John lost his smile and glared at his friend. “Stop it!”
“They only cloud your judgment, John. You don’t need them anymore, your injuries were clearly healed and you are quite alright considering you just spent over three hours on the floor and can still easily move. You obviously use them as crutch which is no longer needed and-“
“Stop it!” said John sharply, his voice cutting. “You… You don’t understand Sherlock…”
A dry chuckle interrupted him.
“Don’t I, John? Really?”
“It’s different,” stated John shortly, but the smile hadn’t disappear from Sherlock’s face.
He stood up slowly, his muscles stiffened by the position he maintained on the floor. He scratched before taking his coat off an throwing it on the sofa, falling right behind it, sprawled over the furniture, taking as much space as only one can while sitting.
“It really, really isn’t John,” he said patronizing and John avoided his eyes with a grim expression. “Don’t worry, we will get you off them.”
“Oh, we will?”
“Yes,” Sherlock stated surly, obviously not taking under consideration the possibility of a failure. “You don’t need them anymore. You only used them as crutch as it was.”
Dry chuckle escaped John’s mouth, the humor in his eyes hiding the trembling feelings of need for Sherlock to put sense into it all. To make it alright once again like he did, when they first met. Like suddenly John didn’t need his cane anymore.
“And now what? My leg has fixed itself?”
Sherlock smiled at him and John could only stare at this small upward curve of his pale lips he missed so much, smirking so smugly like now.
“Obviously,” replied Sherlock with content in his voice. “You have me now.”
Jim seemed quite surprised to see him, which stroke Sherlock’s ego enormously, but killed last appreciation he had for his enemy. Really, with so many of his plans going badly? His closest people disappearing? He was really paranoid enough to believe it was his people’s own doing? He really should see this one coming.
And yet he didn’t. He looked at Sherlock with the mix of surprise and delight as Sherlock raised his gun, aiming between his enemy’s eyes. Moriarty laughed, his eyes shining.
“You won’t kill me!” he said, his tone lightened with the bubbling delighted laughter. “You won’t, Sherlock. I’m the only one who can play you on your level. I’m the only one who play with you.”
Sherlock’s smile was cold and calm. Ice of certainty stilling his hand in the perfect aim.
“We have played, Jim,” he smirked. “I won.”
Depression
John shifted in his armchair again and when he met Sherlock’s gaze the other man was smiling softly at him, before looking quite pointedly at the place beside him on the sofa. John hid a small smile and quickly changed his seats, almost snuggling into the warmth of his friends. Enjoying the feel and smell of him, constantly reassuring that yes, he was really alive. One of Sherlock’s arms sprawled over the back of the sofa fall to John’s arms, curling around them.
“It is rather cold in here,” he stated quietly.
“That’s not why…” started John making move as if to pull away, but Sherlock held him closer.
“I’m aware, I was just making observation. Feeling the temperature in the room and seeing the signs of your last meals it’s obvious you were cutting on some expenses. We should be able to deal with them again, I should adjust the thermostat…”
He stood up before John managed to clutch him tighter. Quickly moving around the rooms as if nothing changed, he just kept glancing at things that were moved as if he analyzed the new data and added it to the right folders. But he didn’t stop for longer to check anything, just moved to the corridor to adjust the thermostat and came back, quickening his steps as he noticed John’s expression. Noticing probably his face paling, knowing Sherlock he could even hear how John’s heart hammered in his chest as he waited for his friend to reappear and fearing it won’t happen. Sherlock stalked to the sofa and bend over John’s face, kissing him softly on the lips. It was soft and quick and he looked into John’s eyes for confirmation if it was a good thing to do. John gave him a small smile and Sherlock grinned back happily before sitting down and once again gathering John close.
“It’s one of those things we should talk about if I’m correct,” said Sherlock finally, his voice light and John laughed quietly at it.
“It is somewhere on the list, yes. I think there are more pressing thing though. You know, with you being officially dead an all.”
Sherlock mouth were so close, John could feel his warm breath on his hair for as Sherlock stilled, not answering for a moment. His long fingers taped some sort of rhythm in John’s arm and he pressed his cheek lightly toward John’s hair.
“I should probably explain,” he agreed eventually.
“Yes,” laughed John. “That would be really nice. Someone beside me seeing you too, but I will settle for an explanation now.”
The younger man sighed, his arm tightening around John slightly.
“We will meet Mrs. Hudson in the morning, I promise. It’s a bit too late for this now. And I think we should talk first.” John nodded slightly in his arm, but Sherlock still stayed silent, obviously looking for the place to start, obviously unprepared. “I was sure you knew I’m alright. I was half convinced you managed to forget all about me. I’ve met Mycroft after I was done, I called him to help me deal with the consequences… He was quite sure you believe I’m alive.”
“He was sure you were dead too.”
Sherlock looks away. That was true of course and he didn’t expect it even more than John’s state. When Sherlock called Mycroft to tell him about the death of Moriarty he couldn’t quite place his brother’s tone. It came to him as he waited for him and his special ops. Surprise, shock, relief. He wasn’t sure what to expect from his brother and judging by Mycroft’s slightly shaken demeanor he also wasn’t sure if he should slap or hug his brother. He stared at him intently, relieved. Exasperated. Proud. Sherlock grinned at him happily and Mycroft asked him to never do this again. It was apparently upsetting Mummy. Sherlock could only point out it apparently also upset his brother’s diet.
“I know,” he said finally. “It was… unexpected. I didn’t know anything about either of you… It would be obvious if I tried to keep watch on people I know. I only knew Moriarty started playing with you, but it only worked in my favour, I never assumed...”
“In your favour? What do you mean in your favour?” John raised his head angrily looking Sherlock in the eyes and meeting his surprised gaze. Darkening with regret.
“He needed a distraction, you were the best. I could not imagine him getting bored and paying too much attention and discovering me, while he played with you… I mean it was you.”
John stared at him as if fearing to understand what Sherlock was trying to tell him. Astonished at the power of faith Sherlock put in him. Broken because of how easily he disappointed it.
“I was never able to win…” he whispered, but Sherlock shook his head vehemently.
He clenched his hands on John’s arms, turning him so they were face to face and looking into him with his gaze heated and words full of emotions.
“You were never supposed to, John. He wanted to burn you out.”
John let his gaze to fall, small breath escaping him.
“I’m afraid he succeeded-“
“No, no, no, NO! John! Wrong again!” shouted Sherlock and John had to stare at him. At this overwhelming energy barely contaminated in the shape of human. “He was nothing but a worm, a fascinating perhaps, but worm nonetheless! Small and unimportant! Weak! You’re stronger, John, you are so much stronger… He could burn my heart easily, but yours? Yours, John? He couldn’t even properly measure it, John. But he wanted to end you, to burn you… And it would take him years, but he would and I needed to stop him, do you see? I needed to stop him.”
John stared, fascinated at the genius before him. At the genius who faked his own death and won his greatest game ever. Eliminated the only opponent worth of him and claimed he did it all to keep John safe. John thought of all lonely days he spent suffering without Sherlock. Depressed and in pain, dragged into madness by the criminal mastermind and failing to heal properly. He wanted to believe nothing more than the fact that Sherlock needed to leave him here like that. To capture Moriarty’s attention. Perhaps he needed to believe in Sherlock’s death after all. Perhaps, it all made sense in some mad, genius plan that just slightly went of tracks, but worked nonetheless. Like they always did. He stared at Sherlock as he stared at him the very first time they met. Captured, fascinated, unable to ever look away. Not wanting to ever have to look away.
“Tell me,” he asked. “Tell me everything.”
“You sure?” asked Sherlock and John gave him a small, proud smile. Sherlock was almost bursting to tell him.
“Of course. It’s not like you’re going to write it down properly,” he said lightly, thinking of all the conversations and problems they have to get through before he actually will feel good enough to write it down. It will take ages, he thought, but couldn’t stop himself from smiling. He will take it, as long as there will be much more things to write down. “I’m your blogger. You need me to narrate it properly.”
Sherlock smiled, looking at him as if he was the most fascinating and surprising thing in the whole universe. The only one that could actually capture his attention for so long. He leaned down for another short kiss.
“I need you,” he agreed. And started talking about the murder he recently committed with a glee in his wicked smile. It was perfect.
Acceptance