Fic for knowmefirst: Starfall

[holmesticemods]

Title: Starfall
Recipient: knowmefirst
Author: cleflink
Characters/Pairings: John, Sherlock gen (or preslash)
Rating: PG
Warnings: John angst, Molly angst, Mentions of cannibalism
Word count: 6300
A/N: This story wanted to be at least three times longer than I had time to make it, so I apologize for the fact that it probably feels like the beginning of a much bigger adventure. I hope one day to come back to it when I have the time to finish it properly. I tried to hit on a number of your different likes, knowmefirst, and I really hope that you enjoy it!

Summary: John is a fallen star, hiding in plain sight in the kingdom of Stormhold where he tries to help protect his fallen brothers and sisters from the greed of men. Sherlock is a man on a quest with perhaps too much interest in John's secrets. Stardust AU.



Every once in a while, when the ache of exile became sharp enough to make his leg tremble beneath him, John would stand at his back door in the middle of the night with his eyes closed. If he concentrated hard enough, he could just about imagine what the sky would have looked like filled with a million stars.

Some of it was memory - from when he'd first fallen and he had looked up at the canopy of sparkling lights that he no longer belonged to and felt his heart break in his chest - but the star hunts had already been well underway at that point, and, even so long ago, it had been impossible to miss the encroaching patches of empty sky. That cancerous blackness tainted John's memory of his home even to this day, so he had to depend on his imagination to fill in the blanks. It never worked quite as well as he could have hoped.

These days, John tried not to look up at the night sky at all, if he could. There'd been more blackness than light up there for the last twenty years and more, but recently it seemed like the few stars that were left had been all but swallowed by the emptiness. He wondered how long it would be before the humans had shot down every last one of them in their pursuit of eternal life and youth.

It was a bitter, choking thought that always managed to intrude on these nighttime vigils, no matter how hard he tried to ignore the truth. Eventually, John would breathe out a deep, shuddering sigh, open his eyes and go back inside, trying without success to convince himself that he was one of the lucky ones. He couldn't even have said what he was trying to accomplish when he did this, although he was morbidly certain that it was wasted effort.

Which, honestly, was pretty much the story of his life.

---

John was wiping down the tables in the common room when the front door opened and a stranger walked in. There was nothing much unusual in that, considering that John ran an inn, but a tiny little village like this wasn't used to having people arrive in the middle of the night. John paused in his work to look up at his new arrival.

The stranger certainly cut a striking figure in the doorway: he was a tall, thin mass of dark shadows, pale skin and inky hair. His clothing was travel-stained but of good quality, far better than what most of the people in town - John mostly definitely included - could afford. There was a travel bag slung over his shoulder and a faint redness to his cheeks that spoke of a cold night on horseback. He looked a few years younger than John did, not that that meant much.

While John stood there, the stranger cast a steely eye around the common room, then sniffed. "It will do," he said, presumably to himself.

"Well, that's lucky for you," John heard himself saying. His voice carried easily across the empty room. "Because this is the only inn in town."

That drew the man's attention, and John found himself abruptly pinned by a pair of blue eyes so pale that they were almost grey in the shifting light of the lamps.

"You're the innkeeper," the man said, in a tone that wasn't even close to a question.

John nodded anyway. "John," he introduced himself. "Do you need a room?"

"Obviously," the man said, which John had to admit was fair. It was rather late in the evening for a traveler to be willing to stop for food, but not a place to stay for the night.

"For how long?" John asked, abandoning his work to fetch the guest ledger.

The man hummed absently. "Haven't decided."

That made John arch an eyebrow, though he elected not to comment. "Name?" he asked instead, quill hovering over the page.

"Sherlock," the man said. He fished into his pocket and tossed a money pouch negligently onto the table beside the ledger. Bright gold coins spilled across the scarred wood. "Take what you need for three nights' lodging," he ordered. "We'll renegotiate later if it becomes necessary."

John gave him an incredulous look. "You really shouldn't be throwing that much money around, mate. Most innkeepers would charge you more just on principle."

"You won't cheat me," Sherlock said, sounding supremely confident.

"Won't I?"

"No. You're honest to a fault. Which, quite frankly, has a lot to do with why you're struggling to make ends meet. You could do with gouging your customers more, considering how few of them you get."

John gaped. "Pardon?"

"Oh, it's obvious," Sherlock said, although that wasn't strictly speaking the question that John had asked. "A single glance at the floor was enough to tell me as much, and that's even before I got a good look at you."

Still trying to decide whether or not he was going to be offended by the turn this conversation had taken, John settled for crossing his arms across his chest and giving Sherlock a 'go on, then' tilt of his chin.

Sherlock appeared more than happy to do so. "You have a painfully honest face, John. Really, the idea of you trying to swindle someone is beyond laughable. Not in the least because your ingrained sense of honour wouldn't allow you to do so." The words tumbled out rapidly, one right after the other, like Sherlock's tongue couldn't work fast enough to keep up with his brain. "Being an innkeeper really doesn't suit you; you're a man of action, of dangerous situations and you're clearly chafing at the enforced stillness that you've suffered since you got that shoulder injury."

"How-" John started, but Sherlock rolled right over him.

"Your bearing and the way you sized me up as soon as I walked in the door say that you have military training, the way that you hold your shoulder says crossbow wound, likely obtained in a conflict with sky pirates. There aren't many places an army man would get a wound like that in these days of relative peace. Taken with your age, it indicates that this is your second career choice, brought on by limited options and resented greatly."

"Why do you think I don't like my job?" John had to ask.

Sherlock's eyes pinned him in place. "Normally, the owner of an inn takes the day shift for the tips and the opportunities for socialization and gossip, whereas you prefer the overnight shift because it means you don't have to interact with people for most of it, excluding the dinner rush, where you're not interacting with people so much as making sure they're probably fed and watered. Which suits your natural caretaker impulses, by the way. Your natural wariness of strangers - unusual in an innkeeper - also means that you're more concerned with travelers who arrive under cover of night. You'd never leave the job of dealing with them to your hired help. Not to mention that you're hoping that something interesting and potentially dangerous might happen to break up the monotony, which is more likely to happen at night. Ergo, you're wasted as an innkeeper. Like I said: obvious."

John was speechless.

Sherlock seemed to take the stunned silence as his due; he preened under John's slack-jawed gaze, his expression decidedly smug.

"That," John said, "was amazing."

Sherlock blinked. "You think so?"

"Who wouldn't?" John asked. "That was utterly fantastic."

"People aren't usually so… agreeable," Sherlock said. John didn't know the man, but he fancied that Sherlock sounded a little surprised.

John offered him a grin. "Maybe they're too sensitive."

"That's what I've always thought." Sherlock paused, then added, "Did I get anything wrong?"

"Hmm? Oh," John shrugged with deliberate nonchalance. "You're definitely right about my being wounded in a fight between soldiers and pirates, but-"

"You were one of the pirates," Sherlock finished. He gave John another once-over and made a disgusted sound. "I should have known by your gait."

"In your defense, it was a long time ago," John said. He allowed himself a moment of nostalgia. He'd enjoyed being a pirate; it had been the closest he'd got to his home since he'd been shot out of the sky.

Sherlock was also wrong about the shoulder wound, of course. It was much, much older than anything he'd sustained in his career as a sky pirate and much more debilitating. It was a souvenir from John's first day in Stormhold, or, more accurately, from the trio of bounty hunters who were waiting for him when he crashed.

Not that he could tell Sherlock that.

Sherlock was looking vaguely disgruntled, as though one error invalidated the rest of his truly impressive deduction, and John couldn't help smiling at his pique as he counted out three days' lodging from the money and put the rest back in the pouch.

"Something to eat?" John asked, handing the coin pouch to Sherlock. "The kitchen's closed for the night, but I can fix you up a cold meal."

"Not necessary," Sherlock said, tucking the pouch away in the voluminous folds of his coat. "Eating slows me down. I would like a drink, though," he added, before John could offer to show him to his room instead.

"Of course." John got him settled at the bar and set about pouring a flagon of the local cider. "So, what brings you to Fen?" he asked, somewhere between politesse and curiosity. Sherlock hadn't been wrong about the fact that John's job was desperately boring. "It doesn't really seem like your scene."

"I'm looking for something," Sherlock said.

John smirked without humour. "Aren't we all."

Sherlock made an impatient sound. "Yes, thank you for that stunning display of witticism, John." He dug a hand into his pocket and pulled out a collection of rune stones.

John stilled. Sherlock, who was frowning at the stones as though they'd just insulted his mother, didn't appear to notice.

"What are those, then?" John managed, with his best gormless peasant look. Internally, he was fighting to calm his racing heartbeat by reminding himself that it wasn't just witches who used rune stones these days. By the sky, any idiot could use them to answer simple yes or no questions and, while Sherlock was clearly no idiot, he didn't look much like a witch either. "Here's your drink."

Sherlock sneered absently at him. "They're rune stones. A useful but woefully imprecise method of finding hidden things."

"And what are you looking for?" John asked, mind racing as he tried to figure out how best to incapacitate him if the answer turned out to be 'a star'.

"The answer to a question," Sherlock said instead. John tried not to relax too obviously. "The stones have sent me here, but I hardly see how I'm going to find anything in a place as backwater as this." He took a swig of cider and promptly made a disgusted face. "This is vile. Do people actually drink this swill?"

"I can get you something else if you-"

John, a sound like chiming bells whispered in his ear, and John promptly forgot what he was saying. He fought the instinctive urge to glance towards the still-open window.

It had been months since John had last heard the voices of his brothers and sisters in the sky; with so few of them left, it took a lot of effort to communicate with those of them on the ground. This had to be important.

Help our sister, the stars said. She needs your protection.

John had hardly finished rounding the bar when the front door creaked open and a dark-haired girl wearing a dress that looked like molten steel stumbled in.

"Please," she begged, her voice thick with unshed tears. Her hair hung lank and sweat-soaked around her face, and the lost expression on her face was heartrending. John had never seen her before, but there could be no mistaking who she was, even without the help of his brothers and sisters. Stars never looked quite like people, especially not new arrivals, and there was no mistaking that fabric for something of human invention. "Oh, please help me."

Behind him, he heard Sherlock suck in a sharp breath, but John couldn't spare a moment to worry about that now.

John was across the room in a flash and he grabbed the girl before she could collapse. She was literally shaking with fear and exhaustion, and John could hear her muttering 'please' over and over under her breath.

"It's alright," John said, keeping his voice gentle and low. "I've got you. What's your name?"

"M-molly," she managed to stammer.

"Okay, Molly, breathe with me. You're okay. My name's John," he added, just in case she didn't know it. It wasn't likely, considering that their siblings had guided her to him, but panic did strange things to the mind. "You're safe, I promise. Are you being followed?"

Molly shook her head. "No. I- I mean, they're still out there, but I'm pretty sure I lost them. I don't think they were expecting…"

She trailed off, and John could fill the rest in for himself: that she'd know exactly where to run to get away from them.

"Well done," John said. She was still shivering, and the pallor of her skin made it clear that it wasn't just from fear. Stars weren't used to feeling cold. "Alright Molly, let's get you cleaned up. One step at a time, that's right."

They were across the room and halfway up the stairs when he remembered Sherlock.

A quick glance in the man's direction revealed the worst: Sherlock was watching them openly, his blue eyes positively blazing with curiosity. John's heart sank. The man was intelligent and frighteningly observant; there was no way that he didn't know exactly who and what Molly was.

Usually, when this sort of situation occurred, there was a lot of exclaiming and blustering and attempts to go for either a handy sword or the local constabulary, whichever seemed more effective. John had never let it get further than that, though he'd come perilously close to being exposed himself a handful of times. He'd never had to get rid of a customer permanently before, but he'd do it if he had to. For all his lankiness and pallor, John doubted that Sherlock was the sort who went down easily, but he wasn't about to let that make a difference. The moment that Sherlock tried something, John was taking him down.

And yet.

Sherlock was simply sitting there, the slump of his body relaxed save for the animated interest on his face. While he seemed fascinated by what he was seeing, nothing in his posture suggested that he was in any hurry to bring the greed of humanity down on their heads.

John didn't know what to make of it.

Sherlock met John's gaze without apology and arched an eyebrow at him. Aren't you going to get on with it? his expression seemed to say.

"If you leave, I'll kill you with my bare hands," John warned him.

"Why would I leave?" Sherlock asked, with an air of innocence that was completely undermined by the amusement curling his lips. "I've already paid for three nights' stay."

He seemed sincere enough, if smug. Somehow, John actually felt he could believe him.

He wasn't at all sure where this sudden and uncharacteristic feeling of trust was coming from, but he had survived this long on his wits and intuition alone, so it seemed a waste of time to start questioning himself now. He would take Sherlock's at his word.

And if Sherlock betrayed that trust, well, neither he nor Sherlock would have long to regret it. John would make sure of that.

So John turned his back firmly on Sherlock and went back to getting Molly sorted out. He kept half an ear open for the sound of Sherlock moving across the floor while he ran Molly a bath, but he didn't hear anything to suggest that Sherlock was making a break for it.

"Is everything okay?" Molly ventured timidly.

"Hmm? Oh, yes," John said, mentally berating himself for being so distracted. That was the last thing Molly needed from him. "Nothing to worry about. How are you doing?"

"Honestly?" She gave a nervous little laugh. "Everything's happened so fast, I don't know what I'm feeling."

"That's pretty normal. You'll get used to it," John promised. "When did you fall?"

"Yesterday," she said. There was a moment of silence and then a stifled sob.

Hurriedly, John turned away from the bathing tub to find tears pouring down Molly's cheeks, her whole face crumpled with the force of her grief.

"Oh, Molly…" John opened his arms and Molly fell into them, sobbing wretchedly.

"We can n-never g-go home," she wept. "We're trapped here f-forever!"

"I know." John smoothed a hand down her back, acting as an anchor for her to cling to as she cried herself out. "I know."

They stood there for several long minutes before Molly's crying slowly eased.

"Oh, goodness," she sniffled, sounding mortified. "I'm sorry, John, it just-"

"Caught up to you all at once." John groped blindly for a towel to dry Molly's cheeks. "I know how it is. By the moon, it still happens to me sometimes."

Molly bit her lip.

"Hey." John waited until her watery eyes met his. "I'm not going to tell you that it's an easy transition, but you will adjust. It's not home, but Stormhold's not all bad."

"Aside from the fact that everyone wants to cut out our hearts and eat them," Molly shot back, with a surprising amount of spunk.

John grinned. "Yes, aside from that. There really are some good things about Stormhold that we don't have at home, you know."

"Like what?"

"Like hot baths. And yours should be just about ready, so I'll let you test it out for yourself. Are you hungry?"

"I- not just now, I don't think." Molly's expression was rueful. "Not that I'd know what it feels like in the first place."

"Trust me: you'll be able to recognize hunger." John disentangled them and gestured towards the tub of steaming water. "You go on and get in and I'll get you some fresh clothes to wear, alright?"

Molly gave him a grateful smile as John let himself out of the room and went down to the cupboard where he kept a variety of clothes for just such a situation.

"I hope you like blue," he told Molly when he came back.

"Hmm?" Molly murmured absently. She was sunk up to her chin in the water, and her expression was more peaceful than John had seen it so far. The warm water was clearly working its magic, which was a relief. It hurt to see her suffering so much.

Molly's mood was much improved by the time she was freshly bathed and dressed in a simple blue dress. She was even glowing a little bit, her natural starry radiance reasserting herself now that her emotions weren't so turbulent.

"Do you think you can rest?" John asked her. "I know it's a little early for you, but the sleep will do you good."

Molly considered. "I can try."

"Good girl." John put her in his own bed where he could be sure to keep a close eye on her. "I have to go downstairs, but I'll be back to check on you in a few hours. The door bolts from the outside, so I hope you don't mind being locked in for a bit. I'll bring up a plate for you too; you're bound to be hungry when you wake up."

"Thank you," Molly told him, with an embarrassingly grateful smile. "I don't know what I would have done without you."

John smiled back. "Not to worry. You can stay as long as you need." He gathered up her abandoned dress, trying not to feel too regretful about the fact that it would need to be burned to make sure no one found it. The silvery fabric was slick under his hands, familiar in a way he didn't want to remember. Sleep well."

He closed and locked the door gently behind him and paused for a deep, fortifying breath. Then he squared his shoulders and marched downstairs.

He found Sherlock exactly where he had left him: sitting at the bar with a thoughtful expression on his face. He cocked an eyebrow as John clomped gracelessly down the stairs, obviously waiting for John to say something..

John wasn't going to give him the satisfaction. Wordlessly, he marched over to the fireplace, where he tossed Molly's dress. The fabric was slow to burn, and John stared fixedly into the flames as they slowly ate away at it. He ignored the itch of Sherlock's eyes burning a hole in the back of his head.

When the dress was nothing but a collection of cinders and dust, John strode back to the bar.

"Sorry about that," he said, with the game cheeriness that he often used on customers. "Did you want a different drink?"

"You do know what that was, don't you?" Sherlock said instead, in an idle tone that was anything but.

"That was a girl." John snapped. "A girl who needed my help. That's all I need to know."

Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "Is it?"

John glared at him. "Yes. You may be able to ignore people who are suffering, but I can't."

"No," Sherlock said, with the air of someone coming to a revelation. "You can't, can you? You'd put yourself out for anyone."

"If they genuinely needed help, then yes," John said. He wished he knew why it felt like he was surrendering something to admit it.

"And if I'd staggered through that door and asked for help instead of a room?"

"You would have saved some money," John said, and was rewarded with a rich chuckle from Sherlock.

"I'll have to try that next time."

Which was a perfect opportunity for John to steer the conversation somewhere safer, but he preferred to look his enemies in the face, when he had them. "Are you going to tell anyone?"

"Would you believe me if I say no?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes," John said, which surprised him almost as much as it surprised Sherlock. Somehow, he meant it. "If you gave your word, I would believe you."

The flicker of a smile curved Sherlock's lips. "Then you have my word that I will not let it be known that you're harbouring a fallen star in your inn."

"Right," John said after a beat. "Good. Thanks."

Sherlock was smirking openly now. "It's nothing." His eyes roved over John's face again. "You're unexpected, John. That doesn't happen often, in my experience."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"Oh," Sherlock drawled, spooling out the word until it was almost a sentence all on its own. "It's definitely a good thing."

John wasn't sure what to say to that, so he settled for saying nothing.

Sherlock's chair scraped across the floor as he climbed to his feet. "Goodnight, John," he said over one shoulder, as he headed for the stairs.

"Wait, your room!" John called after him. He started to follow after. "It's-"

"-on the second floor, third from the end of the west hallway on the left." Sherlock's hand flashed into his pocket and reemerged with a brass key. "I helped myself to the key. Ta!"

John would never admit just how long he stared at the staircase, even after Sherlock had vanished up it. Eventually, he swore at himself and cleared away Sherlock's half-finished cider.

He then spent the rest of the evening at the window, keeping an eye out for trouble and steadfastly avoiding looking up at a night sky that was that much emptier now than it had been yesterday.

---

John stayed up until Mrs. Hudson came downstairs to take on the day shift, and he wrung from her a promise to wake him if anything out of the ordinary happened. Then he dragged himself up to his room, feeling utterly wrung out.

Molly was still asleep, thankfully, and John settled on the floor with an extra blanket and pillow. It would have been a stretch to call it comfortable, but he'd experienced worse in the past. One night on the floor wouldn't kill him, and he wanted to stick as close to Molly as possible until the other shoe dropped.

The inn had been ghost-quiet after Sherlock had gone to his room, which set John's teeth on edge. Molly had clearly given her pursuers enough of a slip to get here unseen, but they'd be canvassing the area before long.

John sighed and settled more comfortably in his blankets. It had been manageable when it was just witches who were interested. For all their power in Stormhold, witches didn't have any real ability to force a star from the sky. And their numbers were few.

But then the rest of mankind had learned the secret of nearly eternal life and, as was their wont, had immediately been consumed by greed.

What had once been the sad fate of a single star among thousands became a very real threat for all of them as hunters invented weapons specifically for the purpose of knocking stars out of the sky and into Stormhold where they could be captured and slaughtered.

It was a society-wide craze. There were people, John knew, who stockpiled star hearts: they kept them in spelled containers to keep them fresh and sold them to the highest bidder. The current king had been on the throne for over 200 years, and his relations who hadn't managed to get themselves killed yet enjoyed similar longevity. Star hearts went for astronomical prices on the black market, and the penalty for peddling fakes was death.

With the way that the star hunts had all but exterminated star-kind, they were quickly becoming a rare commodity as well as a valuable one. Molly's escape would not be borne easily.

But John had done this before, and he knew that he could do it again. He glanced up at Molly's gentle, sleeping face. His jaw firmed with determination. He would protect her. No matter the cost.

It was with this thought burning in his veins that John finally surrendered to his exhaustion and slept.

---

John woke up in the early afternoon, as was his habit. A glance at the bed showed that Molly was still asleep in it, but there was clear evidence that she'd woken up at some point while John was asleep himself: there was a chink in the curtains and the plate of food that he'd brought up had been eaten. John was sorry to have missed Molly's first foray into human food; no matter how many times they'd looked down on the world and watched humans eating, there was nothing in a star's life that could prepare them for experiencing it for themselves.

John took care of his morning ablutions, and then left Molly sleeping while he went downstairs to the common room. He'd just missed the lunch rush, so the room was only scarcely populated, which suited John just fine. He let Mrs. Hudson fuss over him for a few minutes before excusing himself to go take stock of their food stores.

It was a depressing venture. The inn had never really been all that profitable - both because of the remoteness of Fen and, as Sherlock had so adroitly pointed out, because John didn't believe in charging people through the nose for service - but the recent poor harvest had driven the price of staple foods up, which put them in an even more dire situation. And while John truly hated being an innkeeper, it was a useful job when it came to providing help for fallen stars like Molly. John also had a good half dozen years to go before people started to wonder why he never looked any older, and it was such a nuisance to create a new identity. Maybe he should start charging more for ale.

Mrs. Hudson interrupted his increasingly unhappy musings when her shift ended, and John gratefully put thoughts of finances aside as he ventured out to take over.

Sherlock put in an appearance about half an hour into John's shift, strolling into the inn like he owned it.

"Hullo," John greeted him from his spot at the bar. "Have you answered your question yet?"

"Not as such," Sherlock said, not sounding much bothered by the fact.

"I know the local area fairly well," John heard himself offering. "If you want a guide, I can help."

"That won't be necessary," Sherlock said. John told himself not to feel slighted.

"Is there anything I can do for you?" he asked, a bit at a loss.

Sherlock actually appeared to consider this question, albeit briefly. "No," he decided. "I'm off to my room. I don't want to be disturbed."

"Right," John said, and watched as Sherlock took two steps towards the staircase, then stopped.

"Oh," he said, almost as an afterthought. "There's an armoured squad of brutish-looking men searching the town. They were heading this way, the last I saw them." Sherlock offered him a bland, patently insincere smile. "Just thought you might like to know."

"By the moon," John swore under his breath, abandoning his post behind the bar without a second's hesitation. He bounded up the stairs to his bedroom, his fingers rock steady as he unlocked the door.

Molly had obviously woken up at some point; she was sitting up against the headboard, paging through a book that John had left beside the bed.

John burst into the room, and Molly jolted in shock as he shoved open the door hard enough to make it bounce off the wall.

"John? What is it?"

"Hunting squad," he said shortly, and there wasn't time to feel badly for the way it made terror rise on her delicate features. He shoved his cupboard a few feet to the left, then beckoned. "Come on. Let's get you hidden."

Once, several identities ago, John had been a carpenter. It hadn't been as enjoyable a career as sky piracy, but he'd learned some valuable skills in the process. The small door hidden behind his cupboard was so closely fitted against the wall that the seams were all but invisible amidst the grain of the wood. It wasn't even the size of a broom closet, but it was big enough for a person to sit down on the floor as long as they weren't bothered about having elbowroom. A dark sheet hung down in front of the inside of the door, which helped block any stray flickers of light that might seep through the cracks.

"You're sure they won't find me?" Molly asked, as John helped her fit herself into the narrow space.

"I'm sure." John offered her a reassuring smile. "You're not the first person who's had to hide in here. You need to be very quiet, though."

She huffed out something that might have been a laugh if she wasn't so afraid. "That's easy. I'm good at quiet."

"I'll let you out as soon as it's safe." John gave her one more encouraging smile, then pushed the door back into place. He didn't bother feeling badly about locking her up in a black room; stars weren't afraid of the dark. Why would they be?

John took two minutes to put the room back in order and erase any evidence that he hadn't been the only one sleeping here last night. That done, he went back downstairs, just in time to see a squad of royal hunters tromping through the front door.

Sherlock, he noticed, was leaning back against the bar with his arms crossed over his chest. Waiting for the show to start, presumably. John spared a moment for a surprisingly fond sort of exasperation.

John held his ground as the hunters marched up to him.

"John," their leader said, his lips twisted into a snarl. He was a big man, rangy and corded with streamlined muscles. John assumed that he would be rather attractive if he smiled, but it didn't appear to be an especially common occurrence. Or it could just be John's company that he disliked. John rather hoped that was the case.

He'd met more than his fair share of men like this since he'd fallen; they never got any more palatable.

"Afternoon, Sebastian," John drawled, doing his best to sound supremely unconcerned. "A round for you and your men?"

"Hardly," Sebastian said with a sneer. "We're looking for a girl."

John jerked a thumb towards the door. "Brothel's three streets over. Would've thought you'd remember that, Sebastian. You certainly spend enough time there."

Sebastian ignored him. "She's about five feet tall, brown hair, silver dress." He pitched his voice to carry to the rest of the room, and to John's various customers who weren't doing an especially good job of trying to look like they weren't listening in. "Sound familiar?"

John shrugged. "Haven't seen her."

"Oh really? That's very interesting because we have a witness who says he saw her come in here last night. Don't we, lads?"

There was a chorus of nods from the posse at Sebastian's back.

John absolutely did not look at Sherlock. "Your witness is either drunk or crazy then," he said flatly. "I only had one customer show up last night, and it certainly wasn't a woman traveling alone. Check the ledger if you want proof." He paused for a deliberate moment, then added, "provided you know how to read, of course."

"Don't get smart with me," Sebastian snarled, getting right in John's face. "You won't win."

I have every other time you've tried this, John didn't say. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"So you won't mind if we take a look around?"

John sighed heavily. "Have I ever minded? You come snooping round every few months looking for who knows what and I never complain. Go ahead: search the place from top to bottom. You won't find anything."

"Because your hiding place is secure?" Moran pressed.

"Because I've nothing to hide," John said, through gritted teeth. "Just don't irritate my customers."

With that, he turned deliberately back to the work he'd been doing behind the bar before Sherlock had interrupted him, and prepared to ignore the mess that Sebastian and his men were about to make of his inn.

---

Sebastian found nothing whatsoever. Which very clearly irritated him to no end.

"What if we burned the place down?" he demanded nastily. "Bet we'd find some interesting secrets then."

"Somehow, I don't think the tradesman's guild is going to be very happy with you if you go around destroying people's locations. Now, if you've satisfied yourself that this girl you want isn't here, get out of my inn."

"I hope for your sake that you're telling the truth," Sebastian said, instead of the growled invectives that John had been expecting. "Because otherwise it'll be your fault when innocent people get caught in the crossfire." His voice lifted to fill the room. "If anyone sees the girl we're looking for, there's a generous reward for information about it."

"I'll keep it under advisement," John said dryly, and didn't move from his spot until Sebastian and his men were gone.

The ambient noise level in the room, which had dropped to a covert whisper while the hunters were in the building, gradually rose to a more normal volume. John took a moment to breathe a sigh and rub absently at the phantom pain in his leg.

"I'm surprised you're not killing me with your bare hands," a voice said, and John turned to see Sherlock across from him.

John blinked at him. "Why would I do that?"

"Gee," Sherlock said, his voice thick with sarcasm. "I can't possibly fathom that. And yet you made yourself so clear yesterday."

"Oh, that." John waved a dismissive hand. "Don't worry about it."

"You don't believe him?"

John shrugged. "I trust Sebastian Moran about as far as I could throw an elephant. The man's a liar and a fiend all the way through. And it's no different from what he's said in the past."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "How many times in the past?"

"More than enough. I wish I knew why he kept coming when there's nothing here to find."

"Hrm." Sherlock's eyes went briefly distant. "Indeed."

John waited but Sherlock said nothing else, apparently too busy with whatever daydream he was in to continue the conversation. Which was why John nearly jumped out of his skin when, as he was moving past, Sherlock leaned abruptly forward and pressed his mouth up close to John's ear. "So you're not as honest as you appear," he murmured,. The puff his breath against delicate skin sent a shiver racing down John's back. "You certainly continue to impress."

Then he was gone, because apparently the flash bastard was excellent at dramatic exits.

And John was left torn between a strange sense of pleasure at - what Sherlock definitely considered - a compliment and the creeping dread that had been his constant companion ever since he'd escaped those first hunters, bleeding, alone and half-mad with fear.

He was starting to suspect that he would have been much better off had he never met Sherlock in the first place. There was no way this wasn't going to end poorly.

It was a shame that he couldn't quite bring himself to regret it.