Fill: Find a Way to You - Chapter Twenty-One
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
A/N: It has been a truly HEROIC battle with the RTE to get this bloody thing posted. If you catch any formatting errors I failed to correct, let me know.
This time: Life goes on.
Chapter Twenty-One
'Oof! Careful!'
'Ow, ow, wait, too fast!'
'Move up a bit, yeah?'
'Oh, this is absurd!'
'The bed…was your…stupid…idea!'
'Wait, I'm slipping. Hang on. …Okay. Yeah, just there. Ready?'
'Think so.'
'Alright, push, gently.'
'Aye sir!'
'Stop! Stopstopstop!'
'What is it?!'
'Relax. You've just backed me into the wall.'
'What? We're at the landing already?'
Sherlock let out a puff and flicked a sweat-soaked bit of fringe out of his eye. 'Yeah.' He panted, clinging to his end of the mattress as John peered up at him from several steps lower on the staircase.
'I told you a double was plenty, but no.' John griped. 'King size. You have seen our bedroom, right?'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Yes, and measured it. Trust me, it'll fit.'
'Oh it'll fit.' John agreed. 'The wardrobe, desk, and bloody floor lamp might not be so lucky.'
'Leave it to me.'
'We are not moving into the TARDIS, Sherlock. You can't decorate on the principle of "bigger on the inside".'
Sherlock rolled his eyes again. 'Look, just lift your end and we'll work it round the bend.'
'Oh this is insane.' John muttered, but he lifted his end.
'Oh just…getting that…now, are you?' Sherlock huffed, which admittedly filled John's head with any number of pleasantly naughty thoughts.
'I love you.' John said through gritted teeth. He'd tried the joking 'I hate you' thing exactly once since he and Sherlock were reunited. It had left an acidic taste on his tongue, and Sherlock hadn't quite managed to hide the way his eyes widened and his face paled. It was too soon.
'As long as you don't forget it.' Sherlock quipped. 'Bit to the left, mon coeur.'
John's legs melted for a moment. He cursed inwardly. Every time.
'One more of those and I'm dropping the damn thing.'
'Oi! Not while I'm down here!' Lestrade shouted from the foot of the stairs, two large boxes stacked in his arms.
'We're nearly through, Greg.' Sherlock called back, his voice warm and indulgent. It made John's skin crawl a bit, but he forced it back. This was Moving Day, and it was stressful enough without indulging John's territorial instinct.
'Yeah, I buy that.' Greg grunted.
They manhandled the mattress up the rest of the stairs, mainly thanks to Sherlock and some trick of geometry or algebra John was certain he'd just invented, and shoved it into the bedroom with a satisfying thud, kicking up a cloud of dust from the bedroom floor.
It did fit. Bastard.
'Oh, John…I don't know…' Ann said from the kitchen-section once they'd returned from mattress-shoving. 'Are you sure Basil checked this place thoroughly? I can't imagine he so much as glanced at this tap.'
'And the cupboard, it is very small.' Vienne called from the bedroom. 'Where will Sherlock keep his suits?'
'He's got three, Aunt Vivi.' John called back, rolling his eyes.
'He could buy more.' She suggested, poking her head out.
John and Sherlock exchanged a look and fought down laughter.
'We have a wardrobe, mother.' Sherlock told her. 'I'm sure John will fill it up with any number of professional ensembles.'
'Oi, leathers, move it.' Harry called, hefting a suitcase past Lestrade and dropping it beside the tatty old sofa.
'Yeah, sorry.' Lestrade murmured, head cocked to hold a boxy mobile against his shoulder. 'Yeah, I'm telling you, Molls, it's like Frankenstein's lab in here. I am literally holding a box of beakers in my arms.'
'Drop it and I eviscerate you.' Sherlock called from the bathroom…well, it was technically a bathroom. It had a shower head. A moment later John heard a drill, and he bolted for the loo before Sherlock could do any serious damage.
When he'd shepherded Sherlock back to the communal area, the chemistry boxes had been set aside and their mothers were busily sorting clothing into piles while Harry wrestled with pots and pans.
'Molly wants to talk to you.' Greg said, thrusting the mobile into Sherlock's face.
He took it and brought it to his ear with a wide smile. 'Molly! How's Sussex? Mycroft getting on well with your parents?' He wandered down the stairs to fetch the next round of boxes with Lestrade on his heels.
John made for the kitchen. It was probably high time to take the microwave out of its box.
Not long after the plug was in the wall, there was a terrific amount of banging and crashing from the stairwell as Sherlock and Lestrade manhandled Sherlock's computer equipment into the flat. Probably, John should have offered to help. He didn't. He watched them struggle through the door and set the boxes down as gently as they could.
Lestrade had the phone back and was chatting away to Molly. He lifted his chin, 'Hey, Sherlock, Molly wants to know if we should look into that three-way calling stuff.'
Sherlock didn't look up from examining the monitor for damage. 'It has potential, but we'll be installing an answerphone when we get our telephone line set up and we can have her on speaker. Much easier.'
'Yeah, when I'm here.' Which he surely would be. All the time.
'I'll look into it.' Sherlock told him, ripping open another box, this one containing the modem, John figured. Satisfied, he shifted the boxes aside and out of the way and moved to join Harry and their mothers sorting clothes. He pulled a box closer and pulled it open.
Lestrade saw him and let out a whistle. 'Are those all yours?' He asked.
Sherlock blushed and tried to close the box again but Lestrade intercepted. 'Greg!'
'Oh my God.' Lestrade laughed into the phone. 'You should see this, Molly. You would not believe the amount of underwear Sherlock owns. Look at this! I bet there's a pair for every day of the year!'
'Stop it!' Sherlock snapped, jerking the box away.
'I'm serious Molls, a truly unprecedented number of pants. Piles of them. Great, towering mountains of--'
'Yes, alright, enough!' Sherlock snapped.
Harry snorted. 'He's always been like that. D'you know he has a sock index?'
'Harry, be nice.' Ann admonished wearily.
Harry shrugged. 'What? He does.'
'Oh I've got to hear about the sock index.' Lestrade snorted.
'Oh ha, bloody ha!' Sherlock snarled, getting to his feet and stomping to the bedroom. 'Have fun unpacking on your own!' He said, slamming the door behind him.
John groaned and dropped his head into his hand. And here it came, the histrionics. 'The man I love, ladies and gentlemen.' He muttered to himself.
'I'll call you back, Molly.' Lestrade said, following Sherlock to the door.
'Just--' John started, but Lestrade wasn't paying attention.
'Come on, kid! I was just taking the piss. Get back out here.'
John sighed and moved to finish unpacking the kitchen. He'd learn, eventually. Just let Sherlock ride out his moods and everyone could go on with their lives.
'Oh stop whingeing and give us a hand, all right? I'm sorry I poked fun.'
'Piss off!' Sherlock's voice was muffled, but no less venomous.
Lestrade sighed and crossed his arms. 'Oh, come on, gorgeous! We're only kidding!'
It felt, to John, a bit like ice filling his spinal column. He froze. Harry froze. Ann and Vienne dropped their projects. Silence fell across the already fairly quiet flat, and Lestrade looked around, unsure.
'John--' John raised a hand and Harry stopped talking.
'What?' Lestrade asked. 'Something wrong?'
'It's fine.' John gritted out. 'Could use a hand with the rest, though. While Sherlock throws his tantrum.'
Lestrade looked around the room, then at the bedroom door, then at John. He lowered his gaze and nodded. 'Yeah, all right.'
John left the room, and didn't look back to see whether or not Lestrade was following.
~~~
Sherlock listened to two sets of footsteps vanishing down the stairs. He heard the door slam behind them, and he scrabbled for the doorknob and burst into the living area.
'Why didn't you stop them?' He demanded. 'That was John's "let's go where there are no witnesses" voice!'
'Relax, mate.' Harry said. 'Let them get it out of their systems. Had to happen sooner or later.'
'But they're being idiots.'
'Well…yes. They're men.' Harry explained, as though to a child. 'No offense.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'One day. I just wanted one day.'
'Relax, petit.' Offered Vienne. 'They can handle themselves.'
'Oh I know that.' Sherlock said. 'It's what they'll do to each other that annoys me.'
~~~
'What the hell are you playing at?' John demanded before Lestrade was even clear of the stairs.
'Pardon?' Lestrade asked. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest.
'Oh you can't actually be that thick.' John sneered. 'That.' He pointed upward. 'Upstairs. What? Did it just slip your notice that I was standing right there?'
Lestrade screwed up his face in confusion and jerked a thumb toward the stairwell. 'What, you mean me and Sherlock? Relax, soldier boy, it doesn't mean anything. That's just us.'
'Yeah.' Said John. 'Yeah, it's just you. And, you know, whenever you're around it is just you. Sherlock and Greg, best mates, partners in fucking crime. You come around and he doesn't so much as sneeze but you're all over him with a hanky and a cup of tea!'
'Yeah well I didn't see you doing anything to calm him down up there.' Lestrade challenged, pushing off from the wall and half sauntering, half stalking toward John.
'Oh please.' John scoffed. 'Is that what this is? You're so much closer to him, you share this big, profound bond so I could never be what he needs like you could?'
'What the hell, Watson? When did we end up in a pissing contest over your boyfriend?'
'Yeah,' Said John. 'My boyfriend. Not yours.'
'You've got to be kidding.' Lestrade rolled his eyes. 'Look, I'm not even a little interested in Sherlock.'
'Really? 'Cause that's not what I'm seeing.'
'Oh for fuck's-- look, do you need to hit me? Is that what it's going to take to sort this out for you?'
'Might help, yeah.'
'Right.' Said Lestrade with a sniff. 'Go on, then. Your best shot. Right here.'
John felt his fingers curl into a fist, far too tight for an effective punch, and gritted his teeth. 'You'd like that, wouldn't you? So you can prove to Sherlock that I'm some sort of unstable madman?'
'Hardly seems like you need any help from me.' Lestrade sneered.
John shook his head. 'You can't take it, can you? Nobody's crying on your shoulder, needing your protection.' He bared his teeth in something almost like a smile. 'No one to make you feel big and strong anymore?'
'Oh come off it.' Lestrade said with a roll of his eyes. 'You just can't stand sharing him. It kills you that you're not the centre of his world anymore. He's actually got someone besides you for a change, and that drives you mad.'
'Oh, yeah. Totally barmy. Yeah, seeing him with Molly gets right under my skin.'
'Molly's not a threat, though, is she?' Lestrade smirked. 'Doesn't run to his tastes, does she? Face it, soldier boy, until I came along the only other bloke around Sherlock was his own brother.'
'We grew up in France, you tit! He's been shrugging off smarmy bastards just like you since he was twelve.'
'Maybe, but I'm the first one he's actually let get close, and that kills you.'
~~~
Sherlock stopped in his pacing, his face set. 'Right, I've had enough of this.'
'Sherlock, don't!' Ann implored him. 'Give him a chance to do what's right.'
'Which one of them?' Sherlock demanded. 'You don't know Greg. That man could drive a sloth to violence. He thrives on being an annoying berk!'
'Sherlock!' Gasped Vienne. Harry hid a snort of laughter behind her hand.
Sherlock waved her off. 'Christ I need Molly.' He muttered, then he strode to the door and yanked it open. 'I'm putting a stop to this.'
~~~
'He's not some wounded bird for you to look after anymore!' John was almost shouting. 'You don't need to hover over him all the time. Let him fucking breathe!'
'What you mean like you did? Thirteen years treating him like shit and then overnight you decide he's the only one for you?'
'Piss off. You don't know the first thing about us.'
'Oh I know all about you. What do you think he talked about all the bloody time?'
'You didn't have to listen to it.' John challenged.
'Yes I did! Because he needed me.'
John scoffed. 'Yeah well that's over. He doesn't need you anymore.'
'Yeah but what if I need him?!' Lestrade shouted.
Silence crashed between them and Lestrade reeled backward. He didn't cover his mouth with his hand, but his expression practically screamed how much he desperately wanted to.
It was probably only seconds after that, though it felt like ages, when Sherlock rattled down the stairs. He came to a halt, stunned and uncertain, looking between the two men, neither of whom acknowledged him.
The moment hung, suspended, in a kind of unarmed Mexican Standoff. Sherlock glanced between the two, his body seemingly unable to decide which direction to take. John kept Sherlock in his peripheral vision, but the majority of his attention was on Lestrade, who seemed to be silently and invisibly shattering in front of him.
Lestrade was the first to move. 'Sod this.' He said, shaking his head. 'I'm done here.'
He turned away and loped off, down the road.
'Greg!' Sherlock called, and he'd already taken one step to follow his friend before he caught himself and turned to John, his expression uncertain and lost.
'He…I…'
John didn't look at him. Couldn't look at him. He balled his hands into fists at his sides and stood still, his body vibrating with the effort of keeping himself in check.
'John--'
'Go.' John said.
Sherlock jerked back a bit, as though John had slapped him.
'I said go!' John snapped. 'Go…stop him before he does something stupid.'
Sherlock shook his head, 'John, I--'
'I'll just go inside and…set up your computer.' He walked through the door and started climbing the stairs. He didn't look back, but he couldn't help but hear Sherlock's footsteps taking off at a run, fading into the distance.
By the time he reached the flat, his vision had tunnelled. He muttered something to his mum and Harry and Vienne, possibly about needing air, and snatched up the keys he'd left on the worktop. He'd only brought the damn bike so Lestrade could take it with him when he left, but now that plans had changed he quite fancied a ride himself.
Riding really was a fantastic sensation, and the wind cocooning his body did take some of the edge off, so by the time he'd reached his destination he was no longer entirely murderous. And though he'd got on the bike with no specific place in mind, it was hardly surprising to see the familiar boxy buildings and stark facades of the army base where he'd trained. Once he saw where he was, he knew where he was going.
The lads at The Brigadier recognised him and gave him a wide berth. His tags, returned to him once Sherlock had gone back to wearing the swan necklace, were tucked under his shirt but it didn't matter. Even if he hadn't served with a good third of these men, you learned to recognise your own, uniform or no.
Lorris stood him a round, which he nursed in silence. His thoughts were still whirling about inside his head, making him dizzy and angry and tired all at once. There was a series of clacks, a hush of wood over felt, and somebody pressed a long stick into his hand.
He looked up at the cue, and over at the pool tables. He stood up, joined the others around the newly set up table, and aligned his shot.
~~~
'You heard that.' Greg sighed. It had been a merry chase, and it had taken Sherlock all the way into Russell Square to catch up. Admittedly it could have been worse, but Sherlock was still learning the city and he wasn't at all confident he knew the way back to the flat just yet.
'I don't know what I heard.' Sherlock said, dropping down onto the bench beside Greg.
'Pull the other one.'
Sherlock paused. 'You could…tell me? Just so I'm sure I've got it straight.'
Greg sighed and brought his knee up until his heel rested on the bench. Sherlock still wasn't used to the sight of him in jeans. At least he still had the leather jacket. It was comfortably familiar.
'Your brother got me a flat.'
Sherlock blinked. 'He--he did. Of course he did.'
'He's working on getting me back in the force. I mean…what more could I want, right? I've got free housing, I've got a job coming, got you.' He paused. 'Everything I wanted, right?'
'Except Molly.' Sherlock suggested.
Greg hung his head. 'No…no I don't have her. Don't really have you, either.'
Sherlock didn't say anything to that.
'See, the thing is, I've got none of that. I mean the flat's too big. It echoes around me, and it feels like I'm just staying there until…I don't know. Something. And my job?' He snorted. 'All those questions I have to learn how to answer. I start off, right? With a lie. A huge one because, I can't tell any of them where I've been. What happened to me. And you…'
'I'm right here.' Sherlock offered.
Greg shook his head. 'You're too far away.'
Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his arms around himself. He didn't have anything to say to that.
'It would be easier with her.' Greg whispered. 'Two years, and she was the only thing that made sense. And…and I know she doesn't say but I can hear it. When I'm talking to her I can hear how much she's drowning over there and I just want--but she's got her mum and dad and you've got your whole fleet back there,' He jerked his head back toward Montague Street. 'I'm the only one who's alone.'
Sherlock let out a breath through his nose and shifted. He pulled his legs onto the bench and wrapped his arms around them. The wind was playing up and he wished he'd grabbed a jacket.
'I do feel it, Greg.' He said, staring straight ahead. 'How empty it is. I miss her so much it hurts sometimes, but she'll come back. She's got her life back, but that doesn't mean we won't be part of it.'
'Not like we were.' Said Greg. 'And…it's stupid. I just got used to, you know, not being alone. Now it's…' He shook his head. 'Two years, Sherlock. How do you just pick it back up after so long?'
'You ask for help.'
'Eh?'
Sherlock looked over at him. 'I've made an appointment with my old therapist. He relocated to London about six months ago. I mean I'd always intended, once John and I were settled. It's a bit mad to think we can just go back, isn't it?'
Greg gave a joyless laugh. 'And here I thought you had it all figured out.'
'I do.' Sherlock said. 'But then, that's what I'm good for, isn't it? I figure things out.'
'Like what?'
'Like what you're trying to do.' Sherlock looked straight ahead again. 'You're trying to convince yourself that I still need you.'
'Sherlock,'
'I do.' Sherlock admitted with a wince. 'I always will. But not like I did. What happened at the lake is over. This is what I wanted, Greg. This is exactly and entirely what I wanted.'
Greg didn't speak at first, as unwilling to look at Sherlock as Sherlock was to look at him. The square wasn't the lake. It didn't even look like it. But it was close enough that he was able to say, 'Then what happens to me?'
'I don't know.' Said Sherlock. He thought for a moment. 'Do you remember when you taught me how to fly?'
'Of course I do.'
'You told me to let go.' He dared a glance at his friend. 'Let me go, Greg. You can't hold on to me so tightly.'
'Because of John?'
'Because of who I am!' Sherlock insisted. 'I will never be as scared and alone as I was when we met. I'd like to think you came to like me for more than just how much I needed you.'
'I do. I did. I just don't want to wake up one morning and find you've both--' He stopped himself, then hung his head and sighed. 'Moved on.'
'Like your fiancée?'
'Something like that.'
Sherlock slid his bottom lip between his teeth and let it back out slowly as he thought. 'I think…we just need to get used to being our own people again. But let me make one thing perfectly clear,' He turned his head and met Greg's eye. 'There is only one way I can see for you to get rid of me.'
'And what's that?'
'Don't make me choose, Greg.' Sherlock told him. 'Don't try to come between John and me. If I have to make a choice, we both know what it will be.'
They sat there, eyes locked, not touching, and the wind vanished from beneath their wings, bringing them back down to earth.
They would never fly again.
~~~
John was late. Whatever time he may have been expected back, he was most definitely late for it. He'd lost track of how many games of pool he'd won, though not of how many he'd lost. After a while pool became darts became an impromptu game of cards played for mixed nuts, until John looked at his watch and realised there was very little night left. He went back to the flat.
It was quiet. He closed the door as quietly as he could, dropped his keys on the worktop and paused over the kettle he didn't remember unpacking. There was a note beside it.
Dear John: I survived. You owe Sherlock £5.
John snorted a laugh, then quieted himself. He looked over and saw his favourite mug freshly washed and sitting beside the sink. He knew if he looked he'd find a used teabag in the bin, and he sighed. Sherlock was trying. He could try, too.
He went to the bedroom, slipping out of his jumper along the way. He didn't feel particularly tired, but lying down just then sounded a fantastic idea. He tossed his jumper aside, slid out of his trousers, and carefully lifted the corner of the duvet. He could see the shape of Sherlock's body in the darkness, and not for the first time it struck him like a blow just how lucky he was that he could have this, that this quiet moment of paradise was his to call his own. It made his throat hurt.
'I made you tea.' Sherlock's voice didn't make him jump, but it was a close thing.
'I know. I saw. How long have you been awake?'
'I haven't slept.'
'Oh.' John slipped into bed and pulled the covers up around him, then he lay on his side facing Sherlock. This close, he could see the shine of Sherlock's eyes reflecting the light from the window.
'You went drinking.'
John closed his eyes, then nodded. 'Yeah.'
'You didn't get drunk?'
He sighed. 'No, I didn't. I thought about it. Then I threw sharp objects around until I felt better.'
'And do you?'
John silently turned onto his back and stared for a moment at the stark lines the moon made against the ceiling. 'I'm not sure. It's all muddled.'
'What happened today with Greg, it was my fault.' Sherlock said. 'I shouldn't have asked him to come.'
John exhaled sharply through his nose. 'No, no. He's your friend. Friends are supposed to help you move. It's an unwritten contract or something.'
'I know how you two get on, though.'
John smirked at that. 'Yeah.'
Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow. 'Nothing happened, John. I swear. The whole time, not once. It was always you. Just you.'
John closed his eyes. 'I know.' He didn't know. His head knew, the rest of him kept coming up with increasingly lewd scenarios of how Sherlock and Lestrade had passed the long, lonely nights in that hut, on that nest.
'But you're still angry.'
John sighed. He waited long seconds for his thoughts to slot into place. When he felt he had some sort of footing, he spoke, his tongue felt heavy.
'Okay. Cards on the table.' He began. He kept his eyes glued to the ceiling. 'I don't…like…the way he talks to you. Or how he touches you. Or looks at you. Like he's starving or something. I know you're not--and, I don't want to be the sort of man who-- I never want to be the thing that stops you being happy.'
'Nor do I.' Sherlock insisted. 'But you are unhappy, John. I can't stand it.'
'But you never stop it.' John muttered.
'What?' Sherlock propped himself up higher, and John turned his head away.
'Nothing.'
'John.'
'Nothing. I,' He pressed his lips together. 'I just…I don't understand why you never tell him off for it. I mean you'll practically be inside his jacket and not one word. You never shrug him off, never tell him to shut it. Nothing. Why?' He looked over at Sherlock then, and his lover had drawn back and was staring down at his own hand, blinking.
'I--I didn't notice. At first. And then it was just…I don't know. It all feels like a poor substitute for what it was like. We got so used to being close that it was more effort to keep apart. I…wish I'd noticed how hard it was for you. I'm ashamed I missed it.'
John shook his head. 'I didn't exactly speak up, did I?'
'You could have.'
'Could I?' John asked. 'Because the pair of you, the three of you really, you've got this whole club going on with this secret language and all of these looks you pass each other. How could I be the one to take that away from you?'
'Because you're more than that, John.' Sherlock said. 'I would give anything for you.'
'But you shouldn't have to!' John snapped. 'I don't own you. I'm not about to put a stamp on your forehead saying "property of John Watson". My mum'd kill me, for one.'
Sherlock chuckled, then schooled his features. 'No, you did it with a necklace. Before I could even focus my eyes. John, please. Tell me how to fix this.'
'Sherlock…'
'I spoke to Greg.' Sherlock said quickly, appeasingly.
'Oh?'
'Yes. I, I think I made myself clear. Explained why I needed to put space between us. But, I'm not sure how much. I--don't really know how to do this, John. There was a time I couldn't sleep if he wasn't with me. Everything we do now feels like we've taken several steps back.'
John paled. Sherlock noticed, of course, and he flopped back with his hands pressed over his eyes and groaned. 'You see?! I don't know where the line is anymore, how can I expect it of him?'
'Never mentioning that bit again is probably a good place to start.' John said, probably more darkly than he should have but he had a hard time caring.
Sherlock slammed his head back against his pillow. 'Please, I just,' he took a deep breath. 'Tell me what I'm doing wrong and I'll stop, I promise. Anything, John.'
John let out a breath and scrubbed his face with his hands. 'I'm not sure I can--'
'John, I mean it. I will do anything if it means I won't have to wait for you until two in the morning again.'
John winced. Then he let his arms fall to his sides and took a breath. 'Okay. Okay. I guess…no more touching.'
He didn't miss the flinch Sherlock tried to hide, or the terror that flashed briefly in his eyes, so he added quickly, 'I mean, not that you can't touch him at all, ever. Just…don't let him hang on you like he does. And…the cuddling. That thing you do with his leather jacket. I mean, at least not when I'm around. If you need a cuddle that badly, I'm glad to offer my services.'
'What else?' Sherlock's voice was too even, and John felt like a bastard but he pressed on.
'The pet names. I don't mind Pretty Boy so much but the others. Gorgeous, Beautiful, Legs.' He made a face. 'If I tried any of those you'd dismember me.'
Sherlock snorted. 'He's used worse. I suppose I became inured to it. It didn't seem an issue worth pressing when he was bleeding internally.'
John grimaced. 'Right. Look, I know it's not the same. But the lads I trained with, the ones I fought with. Sherlock I was ready to die for them. But here, home, with you…I don't need what they gave me anymore. It doesn't change what they were to me, it just changes how we treat each other now. Nothing is going to take away the things you did for each other back there. I just…I want to know that when he's in the room, you can see me just as clearly.'
Sherlock's face softened, and he ran his fingertips along the apple of John's cheek. 'I could never fail to see you, John. But I will try harder to ensure that you know it.'
John smiled. 'All I ask.'
Sherlock slid closer and snuggled against him, all hot skin and long limbs. His cheek found John's shoulder and he let out a contented sigh. 'Am I forgiven?'
'Mm.' John hummed. 'Give me a minute. I don't get to be the one in the right very often.'
'Enjoy it while it lasts.' Sherlock told him. 'Soon I shall master even this.'
'Yeah, you're God's gift to humanity. Foetid mould experiments and all.'
Sherlock yawned and undulated his body like a cat settling into the point of maximum comfort. It made certain parts of John take a perhaps inappropriate kind of notice.
'I am sorry, John. For everything.' Sherlock whispered, his voice thick and weary.
John ran his knuckles along the smooth, pale skin of Sherlock's upper arm. 'It's alright. You're human. Part of me is just glad of the reminder.'
Sherlock smiled at that and pushed himself up to claim a kiss. 'Oh I can be very, very human mon coeur.'
John looked at him, took in the suggestively wicked gleam in his eye, and smirked.
'Prove it.'
~~~
Six weeks after her rescue from the lake, Molly Hooper walked down the pavement of Montague Street with a purple parasol over one shoulder and a new haircut. The sun beat down on her translucent sunshade, painting her skin and hair with a wash of violet. She wore jeans and her shirt had long, filmy sleeves, and she wore flowery perfume to mask the scent of sunblock on her skin.
Oliver watched her from the corner where the car was idling. No doubt Mycroft had threatened to erase him from the world should anything happen to her on her first trip out, and it had been quite an ordeal to convince him to let her walk down the street rather than driving her to Sherlock's doorstep.
Molly took a deep breath at Sherlock's front door. She raised her hand to ring the bell for flat D, but hadn't got within six centimetres before the door was yanked open and Sherlock grinned down at her.
His hair was shorter, his skin fractionally darker, and he stood much straighter and taller than she remembered.
'Molly!' He cried, sweeping her up into a hug. Startled, she dropped her parasol and it rolled a little ways away on the pavement.
Sherlock let her go and swept down to snatch it up and collapse it. 'Greg!' He called up the stairwell. 'She's here!'
'Molls?' Greg's voice called from the flat above, and there was a thundering of footfalls on the stairs before Greg came careening around the landing and all but fell down the remaining steps to sweep her up and off her feet in the doorway.
'Wow! Okay. Um…I missed you, too.' She gasped through the embrace. Greg loosened his hold just long enough to plant a loud, obnoxious kiss on her cheek before clutching her tightly again.
'He's been insufferable without you.' Sherlock said, leaning against the interior wall by the door. 'I'd swear he's devolving.'
'Greg. Air.' Molly wheezed, and Greg let her go with a blush and a mumbled apology.
She felt a prickling along her lower eyelids and swore, swiping irritably at her eyes and averting her gaze.
'What's wrong?' Sherlock demanded instantly.
Molly shook her head. 'No, nothing. Just. I am so ready to be done crying.'
Greg frowned. 'What's going on? Are they treating you all right? Are you okay out there?'
She held up a hand. 'Greg, stop. I'm fine. It's not,' She shook her head and managed a smile. 'It's a lot of things. It's…the constant surveillance, and my parents not knowing how to talk to me, and revisiting puberty because apparently that wasn't included in whatever Jim did to me. And it's the swollen feet and bruising like a bloody peach and,' She shook her head again and exhaled. 'It's just been a very long couple of months.'
Without a word, Greg gathered her back into his arms again. She let him. Felt his familiar warmth through the unfamiliar texture of a new shirt. The button dug into her cheek. She felt right. This felt right. Like home. And how sick was it that she felt more belonging here in the arms of a man twelve years her senior standing in the foyer of an unfamiliar flat than she did with her own parents?
Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes narrowed slightly as though reading something in the air, and when Molly had got the tears under control and Greg had pulled away to rub at her arms, he tilted his head toward the stairs and led them both up to the flat he shared with John.
'Aunt Ann was here yesterday, so we've got food.' Sherlock said, opening the door with a couple of punches and a low kick.
'I haven't had a chance to buy tools yet.' Greg muttered into Molly's ear. 'I'm fixing it next weekend.'
'A threshold does not magically carry someone out of earshot.' Sherlock called back.
'Fine!' Greg replied, pulling the door shut and glaring at the open door of the fridge which obscured Sherlock from the waist up. 'John and I are fixing it next weekend.'
'You seem so thrilled.' Molly deadpanned.
'Blame my infuriating sister.' Sherlock said, popping his head up to look over the door. 'It's her idea. Which means Mycroft supports it, which means mother finds it a capital suggestion.' He rolled his eyes.
Molly frowned. 'You mean Harriet, right?'
Sherlock groaned and closed the fridge door, leaning heavily against it. 'Yes, I mean Harriet. "My boyfriend's sister" is awkward and distant, "my sister-in-law" is factually inaccurate. And a sore spot for John for some reason. "Sister" is just easiest.'
Molly stood in the centre of the living area, floundering. She looked around at the towers of books, the shelves and tables full of chemistry equipment, the corner dominated by a large, boxy computer, and she felt lost. In six weeks of convalescence, what had she missed? How much had she never known?
'Sorry, I don't follow any of this.' She said.
Sherlock and Greg exchanged a look. It was Sherlock who spoke.
'We could've used you around here, Molly.' He said. 'We seem a bit hopeless at sorting ourselves.'
Molly eyed Greg. 'What did you do?'
Greg widened his eyes and raised his hands. 'Me?! I'm completely innoc--' His voice faded under the combined weight of Molly and
Sherlock's glares. He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck, blushing. 'I got a little lost.'
Sherlock scoffed. 'He and John were circling each other like animals. It was tedious.'
'I'm playing nice!' Greg protested.
Molly flopped down on the rather worn sofa and sighed. 'To be quite honest…I'm not in such good shape myself.' She said. 'I don't know what help I'd be.'
'Couldn't have hurt.' Greg shrugged. He jumped backward onto the sofa, landing with a loud creak and a thump.
Sherlock made a vaguely impatient sound and opened the fridge again. 'Dammit!' He hissed from within its recesses. 'She makes it look so simple!'
'What are you trying to do in there?' Molly asked, craning her neck.
There was a slight crashing and Sherlock swore under his breath. He huffed and snapped a muffled 'Forget it.' And emerged with a circular trey covered in half-sandwiches, crackers, and cheese. It would have been quite a spread, but that it was all heaped into a poorly constructed, sad-looking pile on the plastic. Sherlock dropped it unceremoniously on the table amidst quite a lot of scientific glassware and several tea and coffee mugs.
'Cokes in the fridge if you want some. Glasses in the cupboard over the sink.' Sherlock grumbled, crossing the living room bit to flop into a vaguely green armchair.
'Quite the charming host, you are.' Greg teased.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'I fail to see how these social constructs apply to us. We lived in each other's brains for goodness' sake! Shouldn't we get a pass?'
Molly took a moment to translate into Sherlock-ese, then smiled. 'It was a nice gesture, Sherlock. It looks lovely.'
Sherlock favoured her with a tight smile and flicked his eyes to the wall clock for a second before returning them to their study of nothing much in particular.
Greg rolled his eyes and Molly tittered. 'When's John due back, then?'
Sherlock smiled more genuinely this time, his body relaxing. 'An hour or so. He's just at St Bart's hospital, sorting a few things before he starts his first term.'
Greg drew a breath through his teeth, wincing. 'That's not long, is it?' He ventured. 'You gonna be okay?'
Sherlock shrugged too carelessly and averted his eyes. 'We'll make do.'
'Yeah…' Greg trailed into silence. It hung between them for a moment, then Greg clapped his hands and sat upright.
'Right!' He said. 'Well, on with it then. You said you'd be able to tolerate it with Molls around, and Molls is around.' He grinned.
Sherlock's eyes widened. 'No. No, no, Greg, please!'
'Nope!' Greg pronounced. 'You've had your reprieve. We've put this off long enough.' He fished about in a battered rucksack beside the couch and produced an equally battered video tape.
'What's going on?' Molly asked, settling in beside Greg.
Greg brandished the video with a wide, tongue-wagging grin and said, 'One hundred and thirty-one minutes of pure, undiluted testosterone!'
Molly snatched the case. 'Die Hard? Ick! My dad used to watch this all the time when I was a kid.'
Greg snatched it back. 'Yep, and we are going to watch it now. Nothing like seeing Alan Rickman pretend to be German.'
'Molly, I am begging you, put a stop to this.' Sherlock pleaded.
Molly looked from Greg to Sherlock and sighed. 'Sorry, Sherlock. But I'm sure it won't be that bad.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Fine. But we'll need the remote.' He stood and walked over to a desk. He pulled the drawer open with a little more force than was necessary and retrieved a plastic package from within.
'Hold on, hold on!' Greg protested. 'You mean to tell me you and John have lived here for two weeks and you haven't got around to unpacking the remote? What have you been doing with yourselves all this time?'
Sherlock froze and his eyes went wide. Molly cleared her throat meaningfully. The moment dragged on as Greg looked between the two of them in confusion, until,
'Oh.'
'By Jove, I think he's got it.' Molly muttered.
Sherlock ducked his head to hide the blush behind his fringe. He mumbled something about breaking the first one when they moved in and shuffled into the kitchen.
Molly glanced at Greg and caught him furrowing his brow and mouthing, 'Two weeks?!'
Sherlock picked up a knife from the block on the worktop and began to methodically work his way around the plastic. Molly winced and glanced around the place for a pair of scissors, but gave up on finding any fairly quickly.
'You know, it's uncanny.' Greg commented, peering at the summary on the back of the video box. 'I mean, usually when it's cocksure American super-git against scheming British villain I’m all in for the home team. But there's just something about Bruce Willis. He's like…the essential Man, you know?'
Molly rolled her eyes. 'I suppose it's too much to hope there'd be some interesting women in the film?'
Greg blinked at her and tilted his head. 'Eh?' Then shrugged it off. 'Anyway, Rickman's German in this, so it doesn't really count.'
Molly rolled her eyes. 'Tit.'
'Ah! Shit!' Sherlock hissed from the kitchen. Molly whipped her head round to him and saw him shake his left index finger before bringing it to his mouth with a near-silent whimper.
'What happened?' Greg asked, already half-standing.
'Damn plastic!' Sherlock snarled. 'The knife was fine but when I started trying to pull the damn thing apart it splintered and cut me.'
'Ah, fuck, that's never fun.' Greg sympathised.
Molly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stood up on automatic. 'Here, let me get that for you.'
She'd already crossed the room and taken Sherlock's bleeding hand in hers before reality caught up with her. She looked down at the cut, oozing freely in her grip, and up to Sherlock whose eyes and gone wide and cautious.
'Molly…' He breathed.
Molly blushed, tucked her hair behind her ear again, and shifted her weight. 'No, I…I know.' She whispered. 'Uh, first aid kit?'
Sherlock tilted his head toward the tiny bathroom and said, 'Under the sink.' Molly dropped his hand and went to fetch it, something inside her calling out all the while to a body that could never answer her again.
When she came back, Greg and Sherlock were standing close together, their heads bowed and their voices low. They looked up when she emerged from the loo, medical supplies in hand, and Sherlock sank automatically to the floor in front of the sofa so she could work on him while sitting.
'I didn't forget.' She said, false brightness in her voice. 'Not really. I mean, I did, but it was just…instinct, you know? I got so used to putting you lot back together I guess I never planned for a day when I couldn't do it.' She gently dabbed alcohol over the cut until it was clean and the skin around it shiny.
A moment. A breath. And then,
'I call for you when I have nightmares.' Sherlock admitted, eyes downcast. 'Not always. Usually it's John, but sometimes, certain ones, I just--' He didn't finish. Molly didn't particularly want him to.
'Aw, hell.' Greg grumbled after a brief pause. 'You both already know how fucked up I am. We're none of us okay, Molls, not by a long shot. But we're mending. Isn't that what we're meant to do?'
Molly sniffled and nodded her head.
'Right.' Said Greg. 'Let me at that remote. I'll teach it to attack pretty nutters about to watch Die Hard for the first time.'
'And last!' Sherlock shouted after him, though he'd hardly moved any distance at all.
'You say that, kid. But you haven't witnessed the sheer manliness of John McClane yet.'
'My John is all the manliness I need.' Sherlock retorted, smug and self-satisfied.
Molly pulled the plaster a bit tighter around his finger than she had to. Sherlock flinched, and she considered it a victory. Doubtless it was true, but certain levels of cheesiness simply couldn't go unpunished.
Moments later, Greg wrestled the new remote control into submission and set up the tape in the VCR. He settled back in the sofa beside Molly with a contented sigh and pressed play. Sherlock stayed on the floor, but shifted into a more comfortable position with his head resting alongside Molly's knee.
For all their protests, it wasn't a bad time. They popped some popcorn, mainly so they could have something to throw at each other, Bruce Willis was, indeed, captivating and oddly charming despite perpetrating an incredibly outdated and restrictive definition of masculinity, Alan Rickman was inappropriately adorable as a German baddie. And Sherlock said 'Yipee kai-yay' at one point. Sarcastically and dripping with disdain, but still. It was memorable.
~~~
'Greg, you're forgiven. For everything.'
Sherlock whipped round at John's voice and hurried to his feet to pull him into a kiss before he could get the door closed.
'Mmm…needed that.' John breathed against Sherlock's lips. 'Missed you, too, love.'
Greg pulled a face. 'Regretting those sandwiches now. What've I done?'
John gestured to the telly, where Bruce Willis was trading radio-static-y barbs with German Alan Rickman. 'How. The hell. Did you get him to watch an actual film?'
'I watch films!' Sherlock protested.
'Darling, I don't know how to describe the things you watch, but "film" is probably the last word I'd use. What the fuck was Eraserhead even about?'
'I only watched it to prove to Mycroft that I could. I didn't enjoy it.'
'Harry liked it.'
'That's because she regards childbirth with the kind of deep-seated fear most people reserve for flesh-eating diseases.'
Sherlock watched John's eyes go vacant as he tried to parse the connection between Eraserhead and giving birth, timing it at 3.7 seconds before John gave it up with an irritated shake of the head. 'Any of mum's sandwiches left? I am bloody starving!'
Bruce Willis killed three more people. Apparently this was a good thing. 'On the trey. And I think there's Chinese in the fridge.'
'You think?'
'You never leave it in the carton, I can't see through opaque plastic.'
John rolled his eyes and went to inspect the contents of the fridge. 'Shall need to do the shopping soon.' He muttered.
'Don't worry about that!' Sherlock chided, tugging John away from the fridge. 'Come and sit.'
'Hey!' John protested, but he was grinning and he let Sherlock pull him back, one hand clutched tightly around a red, covered bowl. Probably with dumplings in. He kicked the fridge door closed and dropped into the worn, comfortable armchair by the TV. Sherlock slid in beside him, perched as much on John's lap as he was on the arm of the chair.
'Ugh.' Greg pretended to gag and Sherlock flipped him the V. John chuckled and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, toppling him over so he was sprawled over John's thighs.
Sherlock glared at him and adjusted himself into a more dignified position. Or, as dignified as he could manage whilst sitting on his boyfriend's lap.
'John.' Greg said. 'Please tell me why I surround myself with teenagers.'
'Victim of circumstance, I'm afraid.' John told him. 'I'm told we'll grow out of it. Can't say I'm in much of a hurry.'
Molly snickered and threw a piece of popcorn. It bounced off of Sherlock's head and he glowered at her and threw it back.
As the afternoon and the film progressed, the four of them seemed to split into two camps; John and Greg, who cheered John McClane on in all his endeavours, and Molly and Sherlock, who let them. Though, secretly and via exchanged, covert glances, they agreed they were much more in favour of Hans Gruber blowing the building to kingdom come if it would just stop all the posturing. Both on the screen and in the living room.
By the end, however, Sherlock and John were spending more time exchanging lazy kisses than watching the screen, and Greg was spending most of his time heaving exaggerated sighs at Molly, which just made Sherlock add breathy sighs of his own to the mix and off-handedly flip Greg off.
'Think I preferred the robot.' Greg said, ostensibly to Molly, as the credits rolled.
'Oh shut up and let him have his fun.'
'I didn't have half that much fun when I was his age. Mixed company, Sherlock!'
'Two years, Greg.' Sherlock shot back, not bothering to stop nuzzling John's neck.
John laughed, which made his beautifully defined chest move in a very pleasing way. 'No, he's right, love. We're being rude.'
'Please. Molly shared in the experience of my first orgasm with you, they hardly count as "company".'
There was a crash of silence, and Sherlock raised his head to take in the roomful of exceedingly uncomfortable faces. He winced.
'Not good?'
John sighed. 'Leaping and bounding over the line, Sherlock.'
Sherlock whimpered theatrically and let his head fall forward against John's chest.
'…okay.' Molly said, overly cheerful. 'And I think that's our cue to leave. Greg?'
'Yeah, yeah.' Greg agreed, rising to his feet. 'Don't forget your brolly thing.'
'It's a parasol, you tit!' She chided.
'Oi, beautiful.' John said, jabbing a finger into Sherlock's thigh. 'Off.'
'I refuse.' Sherlock grumbled.
'C'mon. Get up, say good-bye properly, then I can get back to kissing you.'
'Can't we skip the other bits?'
John attempted a glare. It was somewhat undercut by the way his hands kept trailing up and down Sherlock's backside and thighs.
'No, behave yourself.'
Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes, but he slid off of John and got to his feet. Molly and Greg pulled him into what could only be described as a 'group hug', to his dismay. He didn't pull away, though.
They took a moment, soaking in physical contact, and whispered promises of soon and I'll call you and the like. And when they pulled away Sherlock was left feeling cold and a little lost, until John came up behind him and wrapped an arm around his waist.
'Hey, Lestrade.' John said, and Greg paused at the doorway.
'Don't forget these.' John reached to the bowl beneath his military portrait and lifted out a set of keys. He tossed them to Greg, who caught them and gaped down at his hand.
'Oh.'
'She's all cleaned up and waiting for you at the garage.' John said, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.
Greg grinned. 'You're all right, Watson.' He said, then he slipped an arm over Molly's shoulders and, with a final wave from them both, they left.
'Well, she looks well.' John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's collarbone.
Sherlock shrugged. 'She will be. Greg, too. Someday.'
'How about you?'
Sherlock said nothing.
John sighed. 'Well, no rush. Coming to bed?'
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 'It's barely gone six.'
John smirked. 'I know.'
'Oh. Oh!'
John extended his hand. 'Well?'
Sherlock stepped forward and wrapped his arms around John's waist. 'I've got nothing better to do.' He said, dropping kisses onto John's throat.
'Oh, well, sweep me off my feet why don't you?'
Sherlock chuckled. 'That can be arranged.'
A glint came into John's eye at that. 'Oh it can, can it?' He said, and he bent his knees slightly.
'Oh no. No! Don't you dare--'
But with a hearty laugh, John swept Sherlock into a bridal carry and spun him in the direction of their bedroom. Sherlock pretended to struggle, just enough to make John work for his balance, then wrapped his arms around John's neck and rested his head close enough to hear John's heartbeat.
The mattress gave just a little under his weight, and a bit more when John crawled over him to claim a kiss.
'I love you.' Said John.
'Mmm. Tell me.' Said Sherlock.
John smirked. 'A lifetime.'
'Yes.' Sherlock agreed as John worked the t-shirt up and off of him, leaving only the swan necklace glinting against his sternum. 'Maybe even longer.'
~~~
Epilogue
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic.
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.
A/N: It has been a truly HEROIC battle with the RTE to get this bloody thing posted. If you catch any formatting errors I failed to correct, let me know.
This time: Life goes on.
Chapter Twenty-One
'Oof! Careful!'
'Ow, ow, wait, too fast!'
'Move up a bit, yeah?'
'Oh, this is absurd!'
'The bed…was your…stupid…idea!'
'Wait, I'm slipping. Hang on. …Okay. Yeah, just there. Ready?'
'Think so.'
'Alright, push, gently.'
'Aye sir!'
'Stop! Stopstopstop!'
'What is it?!'
'Relax. You've just backed me into the wall.'
'What? We're at the landing already?'
Sherlock let out a puff and flicked a sweat-soaked bit of fringe out of his eye. 'Yeah.' He panted, clinging to his end of the mattress as John peered up at him from several steps lower on the staircase.
'I told you a double was plenty, but no.' John griped. 'King size. You have seen our bedroom, right?'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Yes, and measured it. Trust me, it'll fit.'
'Oh it'll fit.' John agreed. 'The wardrobe, desk, and bloody floor lamp might not be so lucky.'
'Leave it to me.'
'We are not moving into the TARDIS, Sherlock. You can't decorate on the principle of "bigger on the inside".'
Sherlock rolled his eyes again. 'Look, just lift your end and we'll work it round the bend.'
'Oh this is insane.' John muttered, but he lifted his end.
'Oh just…getting that…now, are you?' Sherlock huffed, which admittedly filled John's head with any number of pleasantly naughty thoughts.
'I love you.' John said through gritted teeth. He'd tried the joking 'I hate you' thing exactly once since he and Sherlock were reunited. It had left an acidic taste on his tongue, and Sherlock hadn't quite managed to hide the way his eyes widened and his face paled. It was too soon.
'As long as you don't forget it.' Sherlock quipped. 'Bit to the left, mon coeur.'
John's legs melted for a moment. He cursed inwardly. Every time.
'One more of those and I'm dropping the damn thing.'
'Oi! Not while I'm down here!' Lestrade shouted from the foot of the stairs, two large boxes stacked in his arms.
'We're nearly through, Greg.' Sherlock called back, his voice warm and indulgent. It made John's skin crawl a bit, but he forced it back. This was Moving Day, and it was stressful enough without indulging John's territorial instinct.
'Yeah, I buy that.' Greg grunted.
They manhandled the mattress up the rest of the stairs, mainly thanks to Sherlock and some trick of geometry or algebra John was certain he'd just invented, and shoved it into the bedroom with a satisfying thud, kicking up a cloud of dust from the bedroom floor.
It did fit. Bastard.
'Oh, John…I don't know…' Ann said from the kitchen-section once they'd returned from mattress-shoving. 'Are you sure Basil checked this place thoroughly? I can't imagine he so much as glanced at this tap.'
'And the cupboard, it is very small.' Vienne called from the bedroom. 'Where will Sherlock keep his suits?'
'He's got three, Aunt Vivi.' John called back, rolling his eyes.
'He could buy more.' She suggested, poking her head out.
John and Sherlock exchanged a look and fought down laughter.
'We have a wardrobe, mother.' Sherlock told her. 'I'm sure John will fill it up with any number of professional ensembles.'
'Oi, leathers, move it.' Harry called, hefting a suitcase past Lestrade and dropping it beside the tatty old sofa.
'Yeah, sorry.' Lestrade murmured, head cocked to hold a boxy mobile against his shoulder. 'Yeah, I'm telling you, Molls, it's like Frankenstein's lab in here. I am literally holding a box of beakers in my arms.'
'Drop it and I eviscerate you.' Sherlock called from the bathroom…well, it was technically a bathroom. It had a shower head. A moment later John heard a drill, and he bolted for the loo before Sherlock could do any serious damage.
When he'd shepherded Sherlock back to the communal area, the chemistry boxes had been set aside and their mothers were busily sorting clothing into piles while Harry wrestled with pots and pans.
'Molly wants to talk to you.' Greg said, thrusting the mobile into Sherlock's face.
He took it and brought it to his ear with a wide smile. 'Molly! How's Sussex? Mycroft getting on well with your parents?' He wandered down the stairs to fetch the next round of boxes with Lestrade on his heels.
John made for the kitchen. It was probably high time to take the microwave out of its box.
Not long after the plug was in the wall, there was a terrific amount of banging and crashing from the stairwell as Sherlock and Lestrade manhandled Sherlock's computer equipment into the flat. Probably, John should have offered to help. He didn't. He watched them struggle through the door and set the boxes down as gently as they could.
Lestrade had the phone back and was chatting away to Molly. He lifted his chin, 'Hey, Sherlock, Molly wants to know if we should look into that three-way calling stuff.'
Sherlock didn't look up from examining the monitor for damage. 'It has potential, but we'll be installing an answerphone when we get our telephone line set up and we can have her on speaker. Much easier.'
'Yeah, when I'm here.' Which he surely would be. All the time.
'I'll look into it.' Sherlock told him, ripping open another box, this one containing the modem, John figured. Satisfied, he shifted the boxes aside and out of the way and moved to join Harry and their mothers sorting clothes. He pulled a box closer and pulled it open.
Lestrade saw him and let out a whistle. 'Are those all yours?' He asked.
Sherlock blushed and tried to close the box again but Lestrade intercepted. 'Greg!'
'Oh my God.' Lestrade laughed into the phone. 'You should see this, Molly. You would not believe the amount of underwear Sherlock owns. Look at this! I bet there's a pair for every day of the year!'
'Stop it!' Sherlock snapped, jerking the box away.
'I'm serious Molls, a truly unprecedented number of pants. Piles of them. Great, towering mountains of--'
'Yes, alright, enough!' Sherlock snapped.
Harry snorted. 'He's always been like that. D'you know he has a sock index?'
'Harry, be nice.' Ann admonished wearily.
Harry shrugged. 'What? He does.'
'Oh I've got to hear about the sock index.' Lestrade snorted.
'Oh ha, bloody ha!' Sherlock snarled, getting to his feet and stomping to the bedroom. 'Have fun unpacking on your own!' He said, slamming the door behind him.
John groaned and dropped his head into his hand. And here it came, the histrionics. 'The man I love, ladies and gentlemen.' He muttered to himself.
'I'll call you back, Molly.' Lestrade said, following Sherlock to the door.
'Just--' John started, but Lestrade wasn't paying attention.
'Come on, kid! I was just taking the piss. Get back out here.'
John sighed and moved to finish unpacking the kitchen. He'd learn, eventually. Just let Sherlock ride out his moods and everyone could go on with their lives.
'Oh stop whingeing and give us a hand, all right? I'm sorry I poked fun.'
'Piss off!' Sherlock's voice was muffled, but no less venomous.
Lestrade sighed and crossed his arms. 'Oh, come on, gorgeous! We're only kidding!'
It felt, to John, a bit like ice filling his spinal column. He froze. Harry froze. Ann and Vienne dropped their projects. Silence fell across the already fairly quiet flat, and Lestrade looked around, unsure.
'John--' John raised a hand and Harry stopped talking.
'What?' Lestrade asked. 'Something wrong?'
'It's fine.' John gritted out. 'Could use a hand with the rest, though. While Sherlock throws his tantrum.'
Lestrade looked around the room, then at the bedroom door, then at John. He lowered his gaze and nodded. 'Yeah, all right.'
John left the room, and didn't look back to see whether or not Lestrade was following.
~~~
Sherlock listened to two sets of footsteps vanishing down the stairs. He heard the door slam behind them, and he scrabbled for the doorknob and burst into the living area.
'Why didn't you stop them?' He demanded. 'That was John's "let's go where there are no witnesses" voice!'
'Relax, mate.' Harry said. 'Let them get it out of their systems. Had to happen sooner or later.'
'But they're being idiots.'
'Well…yes. They're men.' Harry explained, as though to a child. 'No offense.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'One day. I just wanted one day.'
'Relax, petit.' Offered Vienne. 'They can handle themselves.'
'Oh I know that.' Sherlock said. 'It's what they'll do to each other that annoys me.'
~~~
'What the hell are you playing at?' John demanded before Lestrade was even clear of the stairs.
'Pardon?' Lestrade asked. He leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms over his chest.
'Oh you can't actually be that thick.' John sneered. 'That.' He pointed upward. 'Upstairs. What? Did it just slip your notice that I was standing right there?'
Lestrade screwed up his face in confusion and jerked a thumb toward the stairwell. 'What, you mean me and Sherlock? Relax, soldier boy, it doesn't mean anything. That's just us.'
'Yeah.' Said John. 'Yeah, it's just you. And, you know, whenever you're around it is just you. Sherlock and Greg, best mates, partners in fucking crime. You come around and he doesn't so much as sneeze but you're all over him with a hanky and a cup of tea!'
'Yeah well I didn't see you doing anything to calm him down up there.' Lestrade challenged, pushing off from the wall and half sauntering, half stalking toward John.
'Oh please.' John scoffed. 'Is that what this is? You're so much closer to him, you share this big, profound bond so I could never be what he needs like you could?'
'What the hell, Watson? When did we end up in a pissing contest over your boyfriend?'
'Yeah,' Said John. 'My boyfriend. Not yours.'
'You've got to be kidding.' Lestrade rolled his eyes. 'Look, I'm not even a little interested in Sherlock.'
'Really? 'Cause that's not what I'm seeing.'
'Oh for fuck's-- look, do you need to hit me? Is that what it's going to take to sort this out for you?'
'Might help, yeah.'
'Right.' Said Lestrade with a sniff. 'Go on, then. Your best shot. Right here.'
John felt his fingers curl into a fist, far too tight for an effective punch, and gritted his teeth. 'You'd like that, wouldn't you? So you can prove to Sherlock that I'm some sort of unstable madman?'
'Hardly seems like you need any help from me.' Lestrade sneered.
John shook his head. 'You can't take it, can you? Nobody's crying on your shoulder, needing your protection.' He bared his teeth in something almost like a smile. 'No one to make you feel big and strong anymore?'
'Oh come off it.' Lestrade said with a roll of his eyes. 'You just can't stand sharing him. It kills you that you're not the centre of his world anymore. He's actually got someone besides you for a change, and that drives you mad.'
'Oh, yeah. Totally barmy. Yeah, seeing him with Molly gets right under my skin.'
'Molly's not a threat, though, is she?' Lestrade smirked. 'Doesn't run to his tastes, does she? Face it, soldier boy, until I came along the only other bloke around Sherlock was his own brother.'
'We grew up in France, you tit! He's been shrugging off smarmy bastards just like you since he was twelve.'
'Maybe, but I'm the first one he's actually let get close, and that kills you.'
~~~
Sherlock stopped in his pacing, his face set. 'Right, I've had enough of this.'
'Sherlock, don't!' Ann implored him. 'Give him a chance to do what's right.'
'Which one of them?' Sherlock demanded. 'You don't know Greg. That man could drive a sloth to violence. He thrives on being an annoying berk!'
'Sherlock!' Gasped Vienne. Harry hid a snort of laughter behind her hand.
Sherlock waved her off. 'Christ I need Molly.' He muttered, then he strode to the door and yanked it open. 'I'm putting a stop to this.'
~~~
'He's not some wounded bird for you to look after anymore!' John was almost shouting. 'You don't need to hover over him all the time. Let him fucking breathe!'
'What you mean like you did? Thirteen years treating him like shit and then overnight you decide he's the only one for you?'
'Piss off. You don't know the first thing about us.'
'Oh I know all about you. What do you think he talked about all the bloody time?'
'You didn't have to listen to it.' John challenged.
'Yes I did! Because he needed me.'
John scoffed. 'Yeah well that's over. He doesn't need you anymore.'
'Yeah but what if I need him?!' Lestrade shouted.
Silence crashed between them and Lestrade reeled backward. He didn't cover his mouth with his hand, but his expression practically screamed how much he desperately wanted to.
It was probably only seconds after that, though it felt like ages, when Sherlock rattled down the stairs. He came to a halt, stunned and uncertain, looking between the two men, neither of whom acknowledged him.
The moment hung, suspended, in a kind of unarmed Mexican Standoff. Sherlock glanced between the two, his body seemingly unable to decide which direction to take. John kept Sherlock in his peripheral vision, but the majority of his attention was on Lestrade, who seemed to be silently and invisibly shattering in front of him.
Lestrade was the first to move. 'Sod this.' He said, shaking his head. 'I'm done here.'
He turned away and loped off, down the road.
'Greg!' Sherlock called, and he'd already taken one step to follow his friend before he caught himself and turned to John, his expression uncertain and lost.
'He…I…'
John didn't look at him. Couldn't look at him. He balled his hands into fists at his sides and stood still, his body vibrating with the effort of keeping himself in check.
'John--'
'Go.' John said.
Sherlock jerked back a bit, as though John had slapped him.
'I said go!' John snapped. 'Go…stop him before he does something stupid.'
Sherlock shook his head, 'John, I--'
'I'll just go inside and…set up your computer.' He walked through the door and started climbing the stairs. He didn't look back, but he couldn't help but hear Sherlock's footsteps taking off at a run, fading into the distance.
By the time he reached the flat, his vision had tunnelled. He muttered something to his mum and Harry and Vienne, possibly about needing air, and snatched up the keys he'd left on the worktop. He'd only brought the damn bike so Lestrade could take it with him when he left, but now that plans had changed he quite fancied a ride himself.
Riding really was a fantastic sensation, and the wind cocooning his body did take some of the edge off, so by the time he'd reached his destination he was no longer entirely murderous. And though he'd got on the bike with no specific place in mind, it was hardly surprising to see the familiar boxy buildings and stark facades of the army base where he'd trained. Once he saw where he was, he knew where he was going.
The lads at The Brigadier recognised him and gave him a wide berth. His tags, returned to him once Sherlock had gone back to wearing the swan necklace, were tucked under his shirt but it didn't matter. Even if he hadn't served with a good third of these men, you learned to recognise your own, uniform or no.
Lorris stood him a round, which he nursed in silence. His thoughts were still whirling about inside his head, making him dizzy and angry and tired all at once. There was a series of clacks, a hush of wood over felt, and somebody pressed a long stick into his hand.
He looked up at the cue, and over at the pool tables. He stood up, joined the others around the newly set up table, and aligned his shot.
~~~
'You heard that.' Greg sighed. It had been a merry chase, and it had taken Sherlock all the way into Russell Square to catch up. Admittedly it could have been worse, but Sherlock was still learning the city and he wasn't at all confident he knew the way back to the flat just yet.
'I don't know what I heard.' Sherlock said, dropping down onto the bench beside Greg.
'Pull the other one.'
Sherlock paused. 'You could…tell me? Just so I'm sure I've got it straight.'
Greg sighed and brought his knee up until his heel rested on the bench. Sherlock still wasn't used to the sight of him in jeans. At least he still had the leather jacket. It was comfortably familiar.
'Your brother got me a flat.'
Sherlock blinked. 'He--he did. Of course he did.'
'He's working on getting me back in the force. I mean…what more could I want, right? I've got free housing, I've got a job coming, got you.' He paused. 'Everything I wanted, right?'
'Except Molly.' Sherlock suggested.
Greg hung his head. 'No…no I don't have her. Don't really have you, either.'
Sherlock didn't say anything to that.
'See, the thing is, I've got none of that. I mean the flat's too big. It echoes around me, and it feels like I'm just staying there until…I don't know. Something. And my job?' He snorted. 'All those questions I have to learn how to answer. I start off, right? With a lie. A huge one because, I can't tell any of them where I've been. What happened to me. And you…'
'I'm right here.' Sherlock offered.
Greg shook his head. 'You're too far away.'
Sherlock leaned forward and wrapped his arms around himself. He didn't have anything to say to that.
'It would be easier with her.' Greg whispered. 'Two years, and she was the only thing that made sense. And…and I know she doesn't say but I can hear it. When I'm talking to her I can hear how much she's drowning over there and I just want--but she's got her mum and dad and you've got your whole fleet back there,' He jerked his head back toward Montague Street. 'I'm the only one who's alone.'
Sherlock let out a breath through his nose and shifted. He pulled his legs onto the bench and wrapped his arms around them. The wind was playing up and he wished he'd grabbed a jacket.
'I do feel it, Greg.' He said, staring straight ahead. 'How empty it is. I miss her so much it hurts sometimes, but she'll come back. She's got her life back, but that doesn't mean we won't be part of it.'
'Not like we were.' Said Greg. 'And…it's stupid. I just got used to, you know, not being alone. Now it's…' He shook his head. 'Two years, Sherlock. How do you just pick it back up after so long?'
'You ask for help.'
'Eh?'
Sherlock looked over at him. 'I've made an appointment with my old therapist. He relocated to London about six months ago. I mean I'd always intended, once John and I were settled. It's a bit mad to think we can just go back, isn't it?'
Greg gave a joyless laugh. 'And here I thought you had it all figured out.'
'I do.' Sherlock said. 'But then, that's what I'm good for, isn't it? I figure things out.'
'Like what?'
'Like what you're trying to do.' Sherlock looked straight ahead again. 'You're trying to convince yourself that I still need you.'
'Sherlock,'
'I do.' Sherlock admitted with a wince. 'I always will. But not like I did. What happened at the lake is over. This is what I wanted, Greg. This is exactly and entirely what I wanted.'
Greg didn't speak at first, as unwilling to look at Sherlock as Sherlock was to look at him. The square wasn't the lake. It didn't even look like it. But it was close enough that he was able to say, 'Then what happens to me?'
'I don't know.' Said Sherlock. He thought for a moment. 'Do you remember when you taught me how to fly?'
'Of course I do.'
'You told me to let go.' He dared a glance at his friend. 'Let me go, Greg. You can't hold on to me so tightly.'
'Because of John?'
'Because of who I am!' Sherlock insisted. 'I will never be as scared and alone as I was when we met. I'd like to think you came to like me for more than just how much I needed you.'
'I do. I did. I just don't want to wake up one morning and find you've both--' He stopped himself, then hung his head and sighed. 'Moved on.'
'Like your fiancée?'
'Something like that.'
Sherlock slid his bottom lip between his teeth and let it back out slowly as he thought. 'I think…we just need to get used to being our own people again. But let me make one thing perfectly clear,' He turned his head and met Greg's eye. 'There is only one way I can see for you to get rid of me.'
'And what's that?'
'Don't make me choose, Greg.' Sherlock told him. 'Don't try to come between John and me. If I have to make a choice, we both know what it will be.'
They sat there, eyes locked, not touching, and the wind vanished from beneath their wings, bringing them back down to earth.
They would never fly again.
~~~
John was late. Whatever time he may have been expected back, he was most definitely late for it. He'd lost track of how many games of pool he'd won, though not of how many he'd lost. After a while pool became darts became an impromptu game of cards played for mixed nuts, until John looked at his watch and realised there was very little night left. He went back to the flat.
It was quiet. He closed the door as quietly as he could, dropped his keys on the worktop and paused over the kettle he didn't remember unpacking. There was a note beside it.
Dear John: I survived. You owe Sherlock £5.
John snorted a laugh, then quieted himself. He looked over and saw his favourite mug freshly washed and sitting beside the sink. He knew if he looked he'd find a used teabag in the bin, and he sighed. Sherlock was trying. He could try, too.
He went to the bedroom, slipping out of his jumper along the way. He didn't feel particularly tired, but lying down just then sounded a fantastic idea. He tossed his jumper aside, slid out of his trousers, and carefully lifted the corner of the duvet. He could see the shape of Sherlock's body in the darkness, and not for the first time it struck him like a blow just how lucky he was that he could have this, that this quiet moment of paradise was his to call his own. It made his throat hurt.
'I made you tea.' Sherlock's voice didn't make him jump, but it was a close thing.
'I know. I saw. How long have you been awake?'
'I haven't slept.'
'Oh.' John slipped into bed and pulled the covers up around him, then he lay on his side facing Sherlock. This close, he could see the shine of Sherlock's eyes reflecting the light from the window.
'You went drinking.'
John closed his eyes, then nodded. 'Yeah.'
'You didn't get drunk?'
He sighed. 'No, I didn't. I thought about it. Then I threw sharp objects around until I felt better.'
'And do you?'
John silently turned onto his back and stared for a moment at the stark lines the moon made against the ceiling. 'I'm not sure. It's all muddled.'
'What happened today with Greg, it was my fault.' Sherlock said. 'I shouldn't have asked him to come.'
John exhaled sharply through his nose. 'No, no. He's your friend. Friends are supposed to help you move. It's an unwritten contract or something.'
'I know how you two get on, though.'
John smirked at that. 'Yeah.'
Sherlock propped himself up on an elbow. 'Nothing happened, John. I swear. The whole time, not once. It was always you. Just you.'
John closed his eyes. 'I know.' He didn't know. His head knew, the rest of him kept coming up with increasingly lewd scenarios of how Sherlock and Lestrade had passed the long, lonely nights in that hut, on that nest.
'But you're still angry.'
John sighed. He waited long seconds for his thoughts to slot into place. When he felt he had some sort of footing, he spoke, his tongue felt heavy.
'Okay. Cards on the table.' He began. He kept his eyes glued to the ceiling. 'I don't…like…the way he talks to you. Or how he touches you. Or looks at you. Like he's starving or something. I know you're not--and, I don't want to be the sort of man who-- I never want to be the thing that stops you being happy.'
'Nor do I.' Sherlock insisted. 'But you are unhappy, John. I can't stand it.'
'But you never stop it.' John muttered.
'What?' Sherlock propped himself up higher, and John turned his head away.
'Nothing.'
'John.'
'Nothing. I,' He pressed his lips together. 'I just…I don't understand why you never tell him off for it. I mean you'll practically be inside his jacket and not one word. You never shrug him off, never tell him to shut it. Nothing. Why?' He looked over at Sherlock then, and his lover had drawn back and was staring down at his own hand, blinking.
'I--I didn't notice. At first. And then it was just…I don't know. It all feels like a poor substitute for what it was like. We got so used to being close that it was more effort to keep apart. I…wish I'd noticed how hard it was for you. I'm ashamed I missed it.'
John shook his head. 'I didn't exactly speak up, did I?'
'You could have.'
'Could I?' John asked. 'Because the pair of you, the three of you really, you've got this whole club going on with this secret language and all of these looks you pass each other. How could I be the one to take that away from you?'
'Because you're more than that, John.' Sherlock said. 'I would give anything for you.'
'But you shouldn't have to!' John snapped. 'I don't own you. I'm not about to put a stamp on your forehead saying "property of John Watson". My mum'd kill me, for one.'
Sherlock chuckled, then schooled his features. 'No, you did it with a necklace. Before I could even focus my eyes. John, please. Tell me how to fix this.'
'Sherlock…'
'I spoke to Greg.' Sherlock said quickly, appeasingly.
'Oh?'
'Yes. I, I think I made myself clear. Explained why I needed to put space between us. But, I'm not sure how much. I--don't really know how to do this, John. There was a time I couldn't sleep if he wasn't with me. Everything we do now feels like we've taken several steps back.'
John paled. Sherlock noticed, of course, and he flopped back with his hands pressed over his eyes and groaned. 'You see?! I don't know where the line is anymore, how can I expect it of him?'
'Never mentioning that bit again is probably a good place to start.' John said, probably more darkly than he should have but he had a hard time caring.
Sherlock slammed his head back against his pillow. 'Please, I just,' he took a deep breath. 'Tell me what I'm doing wrong and I'll stop, I promise. Anything, John.'
John let out a breath and scrubbed his face with his hands. 'I'm not sure I can--'
'John, I mean it. I will do anything if it means I won't have to wait for you until two in the morning again.'
John winced. Then he let his arms fall to his sides and took a breath. 'Okay. Okay. I guess…no more touching.'
He didn't miss the flinch Sherlock tried to hide, or the terror that flashed briefly in his eyes, so he added quickly, 'I mean, not that you can't touch him at all, ever. Just…don't let him hang on you like he does. And…the cuddling. That thing you do with his leather jacket. I mean, at least not when I'm around. If you need a cuddle that badly, I'm glad to offer my services.'
'What else?' Sherlock's voice was too even, and John felt like a bastard but he pressed on.
'The pet names. I don't mind Pretty Boy so much but the others. Gorgeous, Beautiful, Legs.' He made a face. 'If I tried any of those you'd dismember me.'
Sherlock snorted. 'He's used worse. I suppose I became inured to it. It didn't seem an issue worth pressing when he was bleeding internally.'
John grimaced. 'Right. Look, I know it's not the same. But the lads I trained with, the ones I fought with. Sherlock I was ready to die for them. But here, home, with you…I don't need what they gave me anymore. It doesn't change what they were to me, it just changes how we treat each other now. Nothing is going to take away the things you did for each other back there. I just…I want to know that when he's in the room, you can see me just as clearly.'
Sherlock's face softened, and he ran his fingertips along the apple of John's cheek. 'I could never fail to see you, John. But I will try harder to ensure that you know it.'
John smiled. 'All I ask.'
Sherlock slid closer and snuggled against him, all hot skin and long limbs. His cheek found John's shoulder and he let out a contented sigh. 'Am I forgiven?'
'Mm.' John hummed. 'Give me a minute. I don't get to be the one in the right very often.'
'Enjoy it while it lasts.' Sherlock told him. 'Soon I shall master even this.'
'Yeah, you're God's gift to humanity. Foetid mould experiments and all.'
Sherlock yawned and undulated his body like a cat settling into the point of maximum comfort. It made certain parts of John take a perhaps inappropriate kind of notice.
'I am sorry, John. For everything.' Sherlock whispered, his voice thick and weary.
John ran his knuckles along the smooth, pale skin of Sherlock's upper arm. 'It's alright. You're human. Part of me is just glad of the reminder.'
Sherlock smiled at that and pushed himself up to claim a kiss. 'Oh I can be very, very human mon coeur.'
John looked at him, took in the suggestively wicked gleam in his eye, and smirked.
'Prove it.'
~~~
Six weeks after her rescue from the lake, Molly Hooper walked down the pavement of Montague Street with a purple parasol over one shoulder and a new haircut. The sun beat down on her translucent sunshade, painting her skin and hair with a wash of violet. She wore jeans and her shirt had long, filmy sleeves, and she wore flowery perfume to mask the scent of sunblock on her skin.
Oliver watched her from the corner where the car was idling. No doubt Mycroft had threatened to erase him from the world should anything happen to her on her first trip out, and it had been quite an ordeal to convince him to let her walk down the street rather than driving her to Sherlock's doorstep.
Molly took a deep breath at Sherlock's front door. She raised her hand to ring the bell for flat D, but hadn't got within six centimetres before the door was yanked open and Sherlock grinned down at her.
His hair was shorter, his skin fractionally darker, and he stood much straighter and taller than she remembered.
'Molly!' He cried, sweeping her up into a hug. Startled, she dropped her parasol and it rolled a little ways away on the pavement.
Sherlock let her go and swept down to snatch it up and collapse it. 'Greg!' He called up the stairwell. 'She's here!'
'Molls?' Greg's voice called from the flat above, and there was a thundering of footfalls on the stairs before Greg came careening around the landing and all but fell down the remaining steps to sweep her up and off her feet in the doorway.
'Wow! Okay. Um…I missed you, too.' She gasped through the embrace. Greg loosened his hold just long enough to plant a loud, obnoxious kiss on her cheek before clutching her tightly again.
'He's been insufferable without you.' Sherlock said, leaning against the interior wall by the door. 'I'd swear he's devolving.'
'Greg. Air.' Molly wheezed, and Greg let her go with a blush and a mumbled apology.
She felt a prickling along her lower eyelids and swore, swiping irritably at her eyes and averting her gaze.
'What's wrong?' Sherlock demanded instantly.
Molly shook her head. 'No, nothing. Just. I am so ready to be done crying.'
Greg frowned. 'What's going on? Are they treating you all right? Are you okay out there?'
She held up a hand. 'Greg, stop. I'm fine. It's not,' She shook her head and managed a smile. 'It's a lot of things. It's…the constant surveillance, and my parents not knowing how to talk to me, and revisiting puberty because apparently that wasn't included in whatever Jim did to me. And it's the swollen feet and bruising like a bloody peach and,' She shook her head again and exhaled. 'It's just been a very long couple of months.'
Without a word, Greg gathered her back into his arms again. She let him. Felt his familiar warmth through the unfamiliar texture of a new shirt. The button dug into her cheek. She felt right. This felt right. Like home. And how sick was it that she felt more belonging here in the arms of a man twelve years her senior standing in the foyer of an unfamiliar flat than she did with her own parents?
Sherlock said nothing, but his eyes narrowed slightly as though reading something in the air, and when Molly had got the tears under control and Greg had pulled away to rub at her arms, he tilted his head toward the stairs and led them both up to the flat he shared with John.
'Aunt Ann was here yesterday, so we've got food.' Sherlock said, opening the door with a couple of punches and a low kick.
'I haven't had a chance to buy tools yet.' Greg muttered into Molly's ear. 'I'm fixing it next weekend.'
'A threshold does not magically carry someone out of earshot.' Sherlock called back.
'Fine!' Greg replied, pulling the door shut and glaring at the open door of the fridge which obscured Sherlock from the waist up. 'John and I are fixing it next weekend.'
'You seem so thrilled.' Molly deadpanned.
'Blame my infuriating sister.' Sherlock said, popping his head up to look over the door. 'It's her idea. Which means Mycroft supports it, which means mother finds it a capital suggestion.' He rolled his eyes.
Molly frowned. 'You mean Harriet, right?'
Sherlock groaned and closed the fridge door, leaning heavily against it. 'Yes, I mean Harriet. "My boyfriend's sister" is awkward and distant, "my sister-in-law" is factually inaccurate. And a sore spot for John for some reason. "Sister" is just easiest.'
Molly stood in the centre of the living area, floundering. She looked around at the towers of books, the shelves and tables full of chemistry equipment, the corner dominated by a large, boxy computer, and she felt lost. In six weeks of convalescence, what had she missed? How much had she never known?
'Sorry, I don't follow any of this.' She said.
Sherlock and Greg exchanged a look. It was Sherlock who spoke.
'We could've used you around here, Molly.' He said. 'We seem a bit hopeless at sorting ourselves.'
Molly eyed Greg. 'What did you do?'
Greg widened his eyes and raised his hands. 'Me?! I'm completely innoc--' His voice faded under the combined weight of Molly and
Sherlock's glares. He ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck, blushing. 'I got a little lost.'
Sherlock scoffed. 'He and John were circling each other like animals. It was tedious.'
'I'm playing nice!' Greg protested.
Molly flopped down on the rather worn sofa and sighed. 'To be quite honest…I'm not in such good shape myself.' She said. 'I don't know what help I'd be.'
'Couldn't have hurt.' Greg shrugged. He jumped backward onto the sofa, landing with a loud creak and a thump.
Sherlock made a vaguely impatient sound and opened the fridge again. 'Dammit!' He hissed from within its recesses. 'She makes it look so simple!'
'What are you trying to do in there?' Molly asked, craning her neck.
There was a slight crashing and Sherlock swore under his breath. He huffed and snapped a muffled 'Forget it.' And emerged with a circular trey covered in half-sandwiches, crackers, and cheese. It would have been quite a spread, but that it was all heaped into a poorly constructed, sad-looking pile on the plastic. Sherlock dropped it unceremoniously on the table amidst quite a lot of scientific glassware and several tea and coffee mugs.
'Cokes in the fridge if you want some. Glasses in the cupboard over the sink.' Sherlock grumbled, crossing the living room bit to flop into a vaguely green armchair.
'Quite the charming host, you are.' Greg teased.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'I fail to see how these social constructs apply to us. We lived in each other's brains for goodness' sake! Shouldn't we get a pass?'
Molly took a moment to translate into Sherlock-ese, then smiled. 'It was a nice gesture, Sherlock. It looks lovely.'
Sherlock favoured her with a tight smile and flicked his eyes to the wall clock for a second before returning them to their study of nothing much in particular.
Greg rolled his eyes and Molly tittered. 'When's John due back, then?'
Sherlock smiled more genuinely this time, his body relaxing. 'An hour or so. He's just at St Bart's hospital, sorting a few things before he starts his first term.'
Greg drew a breath through his teeth, wincing. 'That's not long, is it?' He ventured. 'You gonna be okay?'
Sherlock shrugged too carelessly and averted his eyes. 'We'll make do.'
'Yeah…' Greg trailed into silence. It hung between them for a moment, then Greg clapped his hands and sat upright.
'Right!' He said. 'Well, on with it then. You said you'd be able to tolerate it with Molls around, and Molls is around.' He grinned.
Sherlock's eyes widened. 'No. No, no, Greg, please!'
'Nope!' Greg pronounced. 'You've had your reprieve. We've put this off long enough.' He fished about in a battered rucksack beside the couch and produced an equally battered video tape.
'What's going on?' Molly asked, settling in beside Greg.
Greg brandished the video with a wide, tongue-wagging grin and said, 'One hundred and thirty-one minutes of pure, undiluted testosterone!'
Molly snatched the case. 'Die Hard? Ick! My dad used to watch this all the time when I was a kid.'
Greg snatched it back. 'Yep, and we are going to watch it now. Nothing like seeing Alan Rickman pretend to be German.'
'Molly, I am begging you, put a stop to this.' Sherlock pleaded.
Molly looked from Greg to Sherlock and sighed. 'Sorry, Sherlock. But I'm sure it won't be that bad.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Fine. But we'll need the remote.' He stood and walked over to a desk. He pulled the drawer open with a little more force than was necessary and retrieved a plastic package from within.
'Hold on, hold on!' Greg protested. 'You mean to tell me you and John have lived here for two weeks and you haven't got around to unpacking the remote? What have you been doing with yourselves all this time?'
Sherlock froze and his eyes went wide. Molly cleared her throat meaningfully. The moment dragged on as Greg looked between the two of them in confusion, until,
'Oh.'
'By Jove, I think he's got it.' Molly muttered.
Sherlock ducked his head to hide the blush behind his fringe. He mumbled something about breaking the first one when they moved in and shuffled into the kitchen.
Molly glanced at Greg and caught him furrowing his brow and mouthing, 'Two weeks?!'
Sherlock picked up a knife from the block on the worktop and began to methodically work his way around the plastic. Molly winced and glanced around the place for a pair of scissors, but gave up on finding any fairly quickly.
'You know, it's uncanny.' Greg commented, peering at the summary on the back of the video box. 'I mean, usually when it's cocksure American super-git against scheming British villain I’m all in for the home team. But there's just something about Bruce Willis. He's like…the essential Man, you know?'
Molly rolled her eyes. 'I suppose it's too much to hope there'd be some interesting women in the film?'
Greg blinked at her and tilted his head. 'Eh?' Then shrugged it off. 'Anyway, Rickman's German in this, so it doesn't really count.'
Molly rolled her eyes. 'Tit.'
'Ah! Shit!' Sherlock hissed from the kitchen. Molly whipped her head round to him and saw him shake his left index finger before bringing it to his mouth with a near-silent whimper.
'What happened?' Greg asked, already half-standing.
'Damn plastic!' Sherlock snarled. 'The knife was fine but when I started trying to pull the damn thing apart it splintered and cut me.'
'Ah, fuck, that's never fun.' Greg sympathised.
Molly tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and stood up on automatic. 'Here, let me get that for you.'
She'd already crossed the room and taken Sherlock's bleeding hand in hers before reality caught up with her. She looked down at the cut, oozing freely in her grip, and up to Sherlock whose eyes and gone wide and cautious.
'Molly…' He breathed.
Molly blushed, tucked her hair behind her ear again, and shifted her weight. 'No, I…I know.' She whispered. 'Uh, first aid kit?'
Sherlock tilted his head toward the tiny bathroom and said, 'Under the sink.' Molly dropped his hand and went to fetch it, something inside her calling out all the while to a body that could never answer her again.
When she came back, Greg and Sherlock were standing close together, their heads bowed and their voices low. They looked up when she emerged from the loo, medical supplies in hand, and Sherlock sank automatically to the floor in front of the sofa so she could work on him while sitting.
'I didn't forget.' She said, false brightness in her voice. 'Not really. I mean, I did, but it was just…instinct, you know? I got so used to putting you lot back together I guess I never planned for a day when I couldn't do it.' She gently dabbed alcohol over the cut until it was clean and the skin around it shiny.
A moment. A breath. And then,
'I call for you when I have nightmares.' Sherlock admitted, eyes downcast. 'Not always. Usually it's John, but sometimes, certain ones, I just--' He didn't finish. Molly didn't particularly want him to.
'Aw, hell.' Greg grumbled after a brief pause. 'You both already know how fucked up I am. We're none of us okay, Molls, not by a long shot. But we're mending. Isn't that what we're meant to do?'
Molly sniffled and nodded her head.
'Right.' Said Greg. 'Let me at that remote. I'll teach it to attack pretty nutters about to watch Die Hard for the first time.'
'And last!' Sherlock shouted after him, though he'd hardly moved any distance at all.
'You say that, kid. But you haven't witnessed the sheer manliness of John McClane yet.'
'My John is all the manliness I need.' Sherlock retorted, smug and self-satisfied.
Molly pulled the plaster a bit tighter around his finger than she had to. Sherlock flinched, and she considered it a victory. Doubtless it was true, but certain levels of cheesiness simply couldn't go unpunished.
Moments later, Greg wrestled the new remote control into submission and set up the tape in the VCR. He settled back in the sofa beside Molly with a contented sigh and pressed play. Sherlock stayed on the floor, but shifted into a more comfortable position with his head resting alongside Molly's knee.
For all their protests, it wasn't a bad time. They popped some popcorn, mainly so they could have something to throw at each other, Bruce Willis was, indeed, captivating and oddly charming despite perpetrating an incredibly outdated and restrictive definition of masculinity, Alan Rickman was inappropriately adorable as a German baddie. And Sherlock said 'Yipee kai-yay' at one point. Sarcastically and dripping with disdain, but still. It was memorable.
~~~
'Greg, you're forgiven. For everything.'
Sherlock whipped round at John's voice and hurried to his feet to pull him into a kiss before he could get the door closed.
'Mmm…needed that.' John breathed against Sherlock's lips. 'Missed you, too, love.'
Greg pulled a face. 'Regretting those sandwiches now. What've I done?'
John gestured to the telly, where Bruce Willis was trading radio-static-y barbs with German Alan Rickman. 'How. The hell. Did you get him to watch an actual film?'
'I watch films!' Sherlock protested.
'Darling, I don't know how to describe the things you watch, but "film" is probably the last word I'd use. What the fuck was Eraserhead even about?'
'I only watched it to prove to Mycroft that I could. I didn't enjoy it.'
'Harry liked it.'
'That's because she regards childbirth with the kind of deep-seated fear most people reserve for flesh-eating diseases.'
Sherlock watched John's eyes go vacant as he tried to parse the connection between Eraserhead and giving birth, timing it at 3.7 seconds before John gave it up with an irritated shake of the head. 'Any of mum's sandwiches left? I am bloody starving!'
Bruce Willis killed three more people. Apparently this was a good thing. 'On the trey. And I think there's Chinese in the fridge.'
'You think?'
'You never leave it in the carton, I can't see through opaque plastic.'
John rolled his eyes and went to inspect the contents of the fridge. 'Shall need to do the shopping soon.' He muttered.
'Don't worry about that!' Sherlock chided, tugging John away from the fridge. 'Come and sit.'
'Hey!' John protested, but he was grinning and he let Sherlock pull him back, one hand clutched tightly around a red, covered bowl. Probably with dumplings in. He kicked the fridge door closed and dropped into the worn, comfortable armchair by the TV. Sherlock slid in beside him, perched as much on John's lap as he was on the arm of the chair.
'Ugh.' Greg pretended to gag and Sherlock flipped him the V. John chuckled and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's waist, toppling him over so he was sprawled over John's thighs.
Sherlock glared at him and adjusted himself into a more dignified position. Or, as dignified as he could manage whilst sitting on his boyfriend's lap.
'John.' Greg said. 'Please tell me why I surround myself with teenagers.'
'Victim of circumstance, I'm afraid.' John told him. 'I'm told we'll grow out of it. Can't say I'm in much of a hurry.'
Molly snickered and threw a piece of popcorn. It bounced off of Sherlock's head and he glowered at her and threw it back.
As the afternoon and the film progressed, the four of them seemed to split into two camps; John and Greg, who cheered John McClane on in all his endeavours, and Molly and Sherlock, who let them. Though, secretly and via exchanged, covert glances, they agreed they were much more in favour of Hans Gruber blowing the building to kingdom come if it would just stop all the posturing. Both on the screen and in the living room.
By the end, however, Sherlock and John were spending more time exchanging lazy kisses than watching the screen, and Greg was spending most of his time heaving exaggerated sighs at Molly, which just made Sherlock add breathy sighs of his own to the mix and off-handedly flip Greg off.
'Think I preferred the robot.' Greg said, ostensibly to Molly, as the credits rolled.
'Oh shut up and let him have his fun.'
'I didn't have half that much fun when I was his age. Mixed company, Sherlock!'
'Two years, Greg.' Sherlock shot back, not bothering to stop nuzzling John's neck.
John laughed, which made his beautifully defined chest move in a very pleasing way. 'No, he's right, love. We're being rude.'
'Please. Molly shared in the experience of my first orgasm with you, they hardly count as "company".'
There was a crash of silence, and Sherlock raised his head to take in the roomful of exceedingly uncomfortable faces. He winced.
'Not good?'
John sighed. 'Leaping and bounding over the line, Sherlock.'
Sherlock whimpered theatrically and let his head fall forward against John's chest.
'…okay.' Molly said, overly cheerful. 'And I think that's our cue to leave. Greg?'
'Yeah, yeah.' Greg agreed, rising to his feet. 'Don't forget your brolly thing.'
'It's a parasol, you tit!' She chided.
'Oi, beautiful.' John said, jabbing a finger into Sherlock's thigh. 'Off.'
'I refuse.' Sherlock grumbled.
'C'mon. Get up, say good-bye properly, then I can get back to kissing you.'
'Can't we skip the other bits?'
John attempted a glare. It was somewhat undercut by the way his hands kept trailing up and down Sherlock's backside and thighs.
'No, behave yourself.'
Sherlock groaned and rolled his eyes, but he slid off of John and got to his feet. Molly and Greg pulled him into what could only be described as a 'group hug', to his dismay. He didn't pull away, though.
They took a moment, soaking in physical contact, and whispered promises of soon and I'll call you and the like. And when they pulled away Sherlock was left feeling cold and a little lost, until John came up behind him and wrapped an arm around his waist.
'Hey, Lestrade.' John said, and Greg paused at the doorway.
'Don't forget these.' John reached to the bowl beneath his military portrait and lifted out a set of keys. He tossed them to Greg, who caught them and gaped down at his hand.
'Oh.'
'She's all cleaned up and waiting for you at the garage.' John said, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder.
Greg grinned. 'You're all right, Watson.' He said, then he slipped an arm over Molly's shoulders and, with a final wave from them both, they left.
'Well, she looks well.' John said, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's collarbone.
Sherlock shrugged. 'She will be. Greg, too. Someday.'
'How about you?'
Sherlock said nothing.
John sighed. 'Well, no rush. Coming to bed?'
Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 'It's barely gone six.'
John smirked. 'I know.'
'Oh. Oh!'
John extended his hand. 'Well?'
Sherlock stepped forward and wrapped his arms around John's waist. 'I've got nothing better to do.' He said, dropping kisses onto John's throat.
'Oh, well, sweep me off my feet why don't you?'
Sherlock chuckled. 'That can be arranged.'
A glint came into John's eye at that. 'Oh it can, can it?' He said, and he bent his knees slightly.
'Oh no. No! Don't you dare--'
But with a hearty laugh, John swept Sherlock into a bridal carry and spun him in the direction of their bedroom. Sherlock pretended to struggle, just enough to make John work for his balance, then wrapped his arms around John's neck and rested his head close enough to hear John's heartbeat.
The mattress gave just a little under his weight, and a bit more when John crawled over him to claim a kiss.
'I love you.' Said John.
'Mmm. Tell me.' Said Sherlock.
John smirked. 'A lifetime.'
'Yes.' Sherlock agreed as John worked the t-shirt up and off of him, leaving only the swan necklace glinting against his sternum. 'Maybe even longer.'
~~~
Epilogue