Fill: Find a Way to You - Epilogue
Title: Find a Way to You
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Words: 100,251 for FIND. Don't know how many for the fic in its entirety. Holy. Shit.
Warnings: For this part? Nil.
Characters/Pairings: As seen before, plus some implied Mystrade.
Summary: Life goes on, and they keep living it.
A/N: I really can't believe that this is it. I've lived with this fic for...God, it feels like forever. I don't know what I'll do with myself now.
Thank you all for coming along for the ride. For your amazing comments, your tireless reccing, your unwavering support. I have never felt so connected to so many people. I can't believe you all actually like the stuff going on in my head.
Thanks especially and forever to my collab and fantastic beta piplover. Without her, so many of your favourite parts would never have been written, and the story would never have got past chapter 6. Pip, you're the best. Thanks for everything.
And now, the conclusion:
Epilogue
Mycroft waded through the press of woolly jumpers and festive earrings and emerged in front of the warmly varnished record player, newly buffed to a brilliant shine. The record had accumulated a bit of dust, but he wiped it off with a delicate touch and the German title gleamed under the lamplight.
Sherlock was stood by the fireplace, deep in conversation with their father. John was poking and prodding at the gifts under the tree, diligently attempting to select the one he would open that night. Both froze and lifted their heads once the needle found its groove and their song began to play.
It was saccharine, yes, but Mycroft couldn't help but draw some satisfaction from the way his brother and John were so willing to let themselves be manipulated by a few melodic vibrations in the air. Not that the power was limited to just them. Mycroft watched the rest of the party guests drift out of their way without either man noticing, allowing them to meet in the centre of the room.
John spoke first, taking Sherlock's hand in his. 'Are you sure? This hasn't exactly ended well for us lately.'
Sherlock scoffed. 'Please. Last time you weren't even dancing with me.'
'Oh, don't remind me.'
'Well you know how to put it right.'
'Fine, but I lead this time.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Oh fine.'
It wasn't as elegant, with John being the shorter of the pair of them, but they made it work. The music floated through the room, and everyone paused to stare at the couple as they danced, their bodies far too close for a proper waltz, their steps careless and unerring.
Harry came to stand beside him and nudged his ribs. 'About time, right?'
Mycroft smiled down at her. 'Shouldn't you be out there?'
Harry shrugged, but she was blushing. 'Alice doesn't dance.'
Mycroft held out a hand. 'Well, I do.'
~~~
'Mm, we've got company.' John whispered, his eyes idly tracking the new couples joining them on the dance floor.
'I hadn't noticed.' Sherlock lied.
'I love you.'
Sherlock sighed in mock exasperation and closed the distance between them. It ruined the line and form of their dance, but given that their teacher had been his own mother, he figured they could get away with it. He clasped John tightly to him and buried his nose in John's hair.
'You open a single gift on Christmas eve.' He said softly.
'Yep.' John replied.
'It's…something your family has done for generations. I saw it last Christmas with Aunt Ann and Harry. It'll be part of our holidays for the rest of our lives and, I'm only just now seeing you do it.'
'Sherlock,'
'It seems unbalanced. Doesn't it?'
John shrugged. 'I don't know. But we've been making this whole relationship thing up as we go and it's worked so far.' He paused. 'It is working, isn't it?'
Sherlock didn't respond, but he held John tighter and let the music speak for him. It probably knew the answer better than he did, anyway.
~~~
'Ow!' John gasped as Lestrade pulled the tapes tighter around his bruised ribs. It had been a little over a year since they'd escaped the lake, and it turned out that was John's limit when it came to domestic bliss.
'Yeah, well, this is the price you pay for being a complete twat.' Lestrade griped. He shook his head. 'I should have arrested you.'
John winced, only partially from the pain. 'Don't tell Sherlock. Please?'
Lestrade sighed. 'You shouldn't ask something like that of me. It's not fair.'
John hung his head. 'I know. But…please?'
Lestrade slumped in his chair. 'You can't keep doing this, John. Pub brawls are one thing, but if this thing you're doing escalates--'
'There's no "thing"!' John protested. 'I just needed to let off a little steam, that's all.'
'John..'
'I’m fine. Really.'
'Then why are you trying to hide it from him?'
John sagged, defeated. 'Okay. Fair point. But what can I do? I get this sort of…aching inside and if I don't find a way of letting it out I…' He shook his head.
Lestrade looked down at his hands for a moment, then said, 'Mycroft is going to South Africa next month.'
John blinked. 'What?'
'South Africa. He was telling me about it. Says he's looking forward to it, but his boss has some security concerns.'
'I thought things were okay there?'
Lestrade raised an eyebrow. 'There are always security concerns. Mycroft is getting important.'
John paused. 'Wait, when were you talking to Mycroft?'
Lestrade shifted. 'Not important. I'm trying to say, maybe your practically-brother-in-law could use some inconspicuous body guarding. Say a close family friend who just happens to have some military experience? Someone who already has a bit of security clearance to his name? Someone whose boyfriend is going to kill him if he comes home smelling like cheap beer and bleeding from the knuckles?'
John felt something stutter in his chest, and all the air rushed out of his lungs. When he could draw in more, he said, 'Greg…you're sort of a genius.'
Lestrade grinned. 'Tell that to Sherlock next time he steals my answers to the detective exam. I'll call Mycroft.'
'Yeah.' John said, a bit dreamily. He was already envisioning tactical briefings, weapons training, shaking hands with Nelson Mandela…
'Wait a minute.' He said. 'When did you get Mycroft's new number?'
~~~
A month later, Sherlock was aching. No, he was burning. No, he was vibrating at the exact resonant frequency to shatter into a million pieces.
He clutched the phone in his hand, as though holding it would keep John's voice close to him. He stared at it, willing it to ring, desperate to hear John in more than memory.
Tell me.
Six hours, twenty-eight minutes.
That had been six hours and ten minutes ago. Sherlock had only set the phone down in order to change into the new suit he and Harry had bought just for the occasion. Ten days without John had reduced him to so much jelly, and now John was nearly home, so very close to being back in his arms.
Sherlock reluctantly set the phone back in its cradle and arranged himself into a just slightly provocative pose, leaning one hip against John's favourite chair. He mentally rehearsed his greeting, sarcastic without being patronising. I hear congratulations are in order. But I suppose saving the life of a nation's leader is just another day at the office for you now. Flattering, but not fawning.
Fifteen minutes before he was due back, John shoved open the door and strode into their flat.
'Welcome back.' Sherlock forced his voice to stay level. 'I hear--mph!'
John's lips crushed against his, and he found himself pinned down in John's chair with no clear memory of how he got there. He barely had a chance to take in the fresh tan on John's skin or the burnished gold of his hair before John's hands were tugging and stroking and kneading him to distraction.
'Never again.' John was whispering against Sherlock's mouth. 'Never again, never again, never again.'
Sherlock felt ten days of tension and longing unravel in his body, and found himself agreeing wholeheartedly. He wrapped John in his arms and clutched him close, kissing back with everything he had.
'Stay.' He begged against the skin of John's jaw. 'Stay, please stay.'
John whimpered and nodded, and for just a moment they could both pretend they believed it, and that John would never feel the ache inside that pulled him away from safety and toward chaos. Just for a moment.
There wasn't much speaking after that. What little they did say was essentially meaningless, little more than desperate exhalations given shape, structure devoid of purpose. When they did speak again, truly spoke, it was after, the pair of them wrapped only in the sheets and the duvet, their skin still hot and damp, hair still clinging to foreheads and temples, and their hands lazily tracing patterns across sated bodies.
'I meant it, you know.' John whispered into their afterglow. 'Never again. I told you, I can't do it.'
'You managed.'
'Hardly.' John sighed, and he rolled onto his back, tucking one hand behind his head. 'I was meant to be guarding Mycroft and instead I spent virtually every night in his suite whinging like a fucking teenager. I got fantastically drunk, a few times, and every fucking night I would look at that god damn bed and I honestly couldn't understand why it was so empty.'
'You did your job, though. Mycroft came home safely and South Africa still has a president.'
'Only because something in me is fundamentally fucked.' John lamented. 'When I was on the job…god, it was,' he shook his head. 'But the rest of it was torture without you.'
Sherlock swallowed, his belly twisting uncomfortably. 'You could stay.'
John shook his head. 'No, I couldn't. It's not who I am. I need the battlefield.'
'I could give you that!' Sherlock insisted. 'Just a little time, just let me figure out where I--'
'Come with me.'
Sherlock stopped short and stared, incredulous, at John's vulnerable, open face.
'What?'
'Come with me. Next time Mycroft needs a bodyguard. He can get two for the price of one. And no one'd question him bringing his brother along. Think about it.' And John sat up, eyes alight, body almost vibrating with tentative hope. 'We could do this. Together.'
Sherlock watched John's expression freeze into a sort of parody of optimism. He considered the option.
'I can't just…'
'Don't. Don't act like there's anything tethering you here. Apart from Lestrade and Molly all you've got are your experiments and whatever it is you and Molly muck about with in the morgue. You're just as lost in this city as I am. And it's only when I'm off from uni, so we'll be stable most of the year. We can do this, love. The two of us.'
'And Mycroft.' Sherlock pointed out.
'And Mycroft.' John conceded. 'Well?'
'Greg's in line for a promotion. Detective Sergeant.'
'So?'
'Cases, John! Real ones. I could be a detective.'
'You hate the police. You moan about them every time Lestrade comes over.'
'Not a Met detective, a real detective. On the sidelines. Consulting, I guess.'
'A consulting detective?' John scoffed. 'Never heard of it.'
Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. 'Do you honestly doubt for a moment that I could invent my own profession?'
John giggled. 'No, love. If anyone could.' He paused. 'But that's not right away, right? I mean, Lestrade isn't getting promoted tomorrow?'
'It could take a couple of years.' Sherlock admitted.
'And meanwhile…'
Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh and collapsed back onto his pillow, fighting back the urge to smile as John immediately moved to wrap an arm around Sherlock's waist and rest his head on Sherlock's chest. 'Fine.' He pretended to groan. 'I'll go with you to sodding Abu Dhabi or wherever my idiot brother ends up dragging us.'
John grinned. 'Beautiful!' He said with an exuberant kiss to Sherlock's lips. 'You gorgeous creature. Come here.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, then pushed himself up and rolled them over so John was gasping beneath him and began to speak the kind of French that would render them both more or less useless for the week.
~~~
Sherlock felt John's arms tighten around his waist, felt the heat and the weight of John's body against his back, felt the persistent trembling between his legs, and panicked.
'No.' He said. 'No. I can't. I can't do it.'
'Come on, Sherlock!' John said. 'You broke into a madman's lair, you can't tell me you're too scared to do this.'
Sherlock shook his head. 'No. No, I'll kill us. I can tell.'
'You've ridden pillion dozens of times.' John pointed out.
'I trust you.' Sherlock replied.
'The physics don't change just because I'm the one using them.'
'I cannot drive this motorbike, John. I am going to crash.'
'Molly did just fine.' John baited him.
Sherlock looked up to where Molly was turning lazy figure eights in the gravel, Greg holding loosely to her waist. When the wind was right it carried their laughter within hearing range. 'Molly doesn't understand mortality. Or aerodynamics.'
'She's decided to be a pathologist.' John said, scrunching his face in confusion.
'Everything okay over here?' Greg called, he and Molly coasting to a stop close by.
'Sherlock wants to ride in the bitch seat all the way to Scotland.'
'John!' Molly and Greg gasped in unison. It was hard to tell who looked more aghast.
John snickered.
Sherlock just shook his head. 'Don't. Don't bother. The damage is irreparable.' Mycroft had had some business in California a month before, and John's vocabulary still hadn't recovered from his experience with the American bar scene.
Greg shook his head. 'She may not be as sexy as mine,' he said, patting the side of his gleaming BMW. 'But she's still a beautiful machine and she deserves your respect.'
'Hm, if only I could get you to talk about actual women that way.' Molly chirped.
Greg was about to reply when there was a shrill ringing from his pocket. He reached down and pulled out the black mobile Sherlock preferred not to think about too intently and brought it to his ear.
'Detective Sergeant Lestrade.' He said.
'I don't see why we need to go to Scotland anyway.' Sherlock griped. 'It's cold.'
John rolled his eyes. 'Because we're in the south of England, Sherlock. Cross-country rides tend to involve crossing the country. Hence, north.'
'We could stop at the border.'
John shrugged. 'Maybe I want to see the land of my people. John Hamish Watson, remember?'
Sherlock sighed, and his eyes picked up on the lack of motion from the other bike. He looked up, and Greg was holding the mobile in a white-knuckle grip, eyes wide.
'Mycroft?' Sherlock asked. He leaned forward too far and nearly overbalanced the bike, but John levelled them. 'Is he all right?'
'I understand.' Greg said into the phone. He hung up and drew a deep breath. 'It was him, yeah.' He breathed. 'He's fine. It's, um, something's happened in New York.'
'So?' Sherlock demanded. 'Something always happens in America. Besides, John's got classes, we can't leave London for months yet.'
Greg shook his head. 'It's bigger than that. Mycroft says it's going to go global.' He swallowed, it looked painful. 'He says some of his bosses are talking, just theories so far, it's all so. So early.'
'Greg?' John's voice had changed, slipped down an octave, softened and hardened simultaneously.
'Yeah.' Greg nodded. 'Too early to say for sure, but there's a chance, yeah.'
'What?' Sherlock snapped, bored already by all the political nonsense.
'America are our allies, Sherlock.' Molly explained.
'So?'
'So Britain might go to war.' Said John.
There was nothing in his voice, and when Sherlock turned to look at him his face was that of someone already making plans.
'Are you going with them?' Sherlock asked too quietly, unable to look John in the eye.
John said nothing, but gestured for Sherlock to get off the bike. He said nothing as they switched positions, he said nothing as they rode back to Montague Street, he said nothing as they unlocked the door to the flat, and when a few hours later he put on his jacket and left for his favourite pub, he still said nothing.
And when he came home, late at night and hidden in the darkness of their bedroom, he slipped under the duvet and curled up on his side of the bed with his back to Sherlock, and said nothing for the rest of the night.
~~~
'Afghanistan or Iraq?' Sherlock demanded, his eyes fixed on the telly.
John sighed and slipped out of his coat. 'Hello, John. So happy you're home. Fancy a cuppa? Why yes, thank you darling, that would be lovely.'
Sherlock waved him off and didn't look at him. 'Yes, yes, all that. Afghanistan or Iraq?'
John let out a breath and slumped heavily onto the sofa. 'Afghanistan. He didn't tell you?'
Sherlock shrugged. 'I worked it out. How long?'
'Six weeks.'
Sherlock grimaced. 'I've got experiments on.'
John swallowed past something thick in his throat. 'You don't have to come. I mean, if you'd rather-'
Sherlock looked at him then, sharp and disapproving. 'Of course I'm coming! I always do. I'll talk with Molly and she can send me progress reports. It's hot there, isn't it?'
'Usually. Daytime, anyway.'
Sherlock looked down at his hands. 'It's different this time.'
John slumped. 'Yes. Yes it is.'
'It's a war. You've never gone to war.'
John shook his head. 'We knew this was going to happen, Sherlock. We've known for almost three years that he'd have to go sometime.'
'I'm surprised you held out this long.'
'I will protect him, Sherlock. I will get all of us home safely.'
Sherlock risked a glance up. 'That's not the part I worry about.'
'Then what?'
Sherlock fixed his eyes on the telly, a war correspondent was narrating over footage of soldiers getting into tanks.
'I'm coming back to London in six weeks. You'll see to that.' Sherlock said, never once glancing in John's direction. 'Are you?'
'I--'
'Everything you need is right here, if you'd just observe!' Sherlock despaired. 'If you'd just come with me to the yard--'
'Sherlock, we have talked about this. You need your space with Greg and Molly and your work, and I need mine. It works, it keeps us sane.'
'It keeps us apart!'
John smiled and shook his head. 'Sherlock, a madman re-wrote the laws of nature and the universe to get between us and he couldn't keep us apart.'
'That's not the same thing!'
'Come on, Sherlock. You like crime scenes. Think of this war as the biggest, most complex crime scene of your life.'
'I'd drink cyanide first. An idiot could see that this war is unsolvable. It has no logic, the motives are all over the place, trying to make sense of this, this circus would drive me mad.' Sherlock flounced back into the sofa and turned away in a huff.
'I'm leaving in three days.' Said John. 'I would like to pack five suitcases instead of two, but it's your choice.'
'I said I'd come.' Sherlock grumbled. 'I keep my word. And not all of us have the luxury of two uniforms plus mess dress.'
'Mycroft isn't quite so stingy with the clothing as the British military, but point taken.'
~~~
Five weeks later, they sat around a small table in a posh hotel room with Mycroft, their fingers edging closer and closer together as they spoke.
'We are beginning this war with nothing.' Mycroft was saying. 'Everything, every bit of infrastructure, must be built from the ground up. I do hate to say it, but we need every hand we can get.'
'You mean mine.' John said.
Mycroft fiddled with the handle of his umbrella, newly acquired to combat the harsh sunlight. 'Understand, John. I am saying this as a member of Her Majesty's government. Personally, I would prefer that the three of us all went home safely and together next week. But officially, I am obligated to tell you your options.'
'Would he be fighting?' Sherlock demanded.
'Liaising. Medical personnel are at a premium in this war. But I'd be lying if I said there was no risk of danger. Or combat.'
Sherlock didn't miss the slight twitch from John at that, or the way his eyes flashed. Sherlock laced their fingers together and squeezed. 'How long?' He asked Mycroft, but his eyes were on John, who hadn't looked up from the table since they started talking.
'Three months. As much as six, depending. Active duty. You would be military again, John. A full soldier.'
'A captain?'
Mycroft nodded. 'Yes. Like your father.'
Sherlock watched John's jaw tighten, the corner of his mouth twitching. John was stroking his thumb over Sherlock's hand, but it was absent. Sherlock doubted he even noticed he was doing it.
Just then, a well groomed young Afghan man in a suit poked his head into the room. 'Mr Holmes, you are needed.'
Mycroft nodded. 'Yes, of course. I'll be right there.' He looked back regretfully at Sherlock and John. 'I'm afraid I must go.'
They both nodded, and Mycroft stood and followed the man out of the room. Sherlock and John sat in silence for a bit, John staring down at the table and Sherlock staring at John. Then, when he couldn't bear the silence any more, Sherlock spoke.
'You want to stay, don't you?'
John tried to hide a wince. 'No. Of course I don't.'
'Please don't lie to me.'
John shook his head. 'You're leaving. You're going home in a week. I can't just--'
'John.'
John looked up, and Sherlock had never seen him look so lost. 'I promised you.'
'I know.' Said Sherlock. He looked down at his free hand and took a deep breath. 'Greg, um. Greg sent me an e-mail yesterday. That case he's been working on, it's got complicated. If it's not closed by the time I get back he wants to bring me in on it.'
'What are you saying?'
Sherlock took a deep breath. 'I'm…I'm saying,' he began, faltered, and started again. 'I'm saying that Greg is moving up in the Yard, and Molly can get me into just about every corner of Bart's morgue, and I can solve this case. And the next. And…' he swallowed past the pain in his throat. 'I can…survive without you.'
John seemed to collapse in on himself. He shook his head. 'No. No, Sherlock, it's too soon. It's, we need more time!'
'It's been nearly a decade, John.' Sherlock told him.
'But working with the police? Sherlock, it's dangerous!'
'We are literally sitting in a warzone right now, John!' Sherlock snapped. 'Dangerous is what sustains us. Me as much as you.'
'Not separately. Not again.' John insisted.
Sherlock fisted his hand in his hair and tugged in frustration. 'For God's sake, John, stop martyring yourself for me!' He cried. 'You're a soldier. You've always been a soldier. Don't make me into the thing that holds you back.'
John slumped forward and sighed, resting his head in his hands, his elbows planted on the table.
'I love you.' He griped. 'I love you so fucking much.'
'This isn't my world.' Sherlock told him. 'But it's always been yours.'
John dropped one hand to lace his fingers with Sherlock's. 'Just…just this once, okay? And when I get back,' he swallowed. 'It's really over. The army can find itself another doctor.'
Sherlock nodded, though he wasn't sure whether to believe it. He drew John's hand close and kissed it. 'I love you.'
John nodded.
'Come to bed?'
John shook his head. 'Working. I need to get back soon.'
'It can wait.' Sherlock pressed.
John faced him, eyes sharp. 'No, Sherlock. It can't. I have orders.'
'Right.' Said Sherlock. 'Of course. Soldier.'
'Afraid so.' John managed a weak smile. He paused, gave his head a pensive tilt. 'Plenty of time for a kiss, though.'
Sherlock aped a sigh. 'Oh, very well. Any requests?'
'We've got another twelve minutes.' Said John. 'I'll tell you when.'
~~~
John met Sherlock in Berlin, three months later. They met at the airport, crashing together in an embrace so tight it hurt. But not enough. John wanted Sherlock to sink into his skin and erase the past quarter of a year from his life.
'Stay.' He begged. 'Please, please stay with me.'
Sherlock nodded. 'Yes. Of course. Anything.'
John had been transferred to a German base hospital, they claimed to give him experience with follow-up care of his patients. John suspected Mycroft had whispered very convincingly in a few ears to help the assignment along. Sherlock was, after all, frustrated by a warzone. A European city, however, was directly up his street.
John had a sort-of flat on the base, of course, but Sherlock took him straight to his hotel from the airport and pushed him down on the oversized bed.
'Sherlock--' He said between fevered kisses. 'This is-- work. Not--mmm--not a honeymoon.'
'Too long.' Sherlock panted against his chest. 'Far, far too long.' Not the most articulate he’d ever been, but his body was more than willing to fill in whatever gaps his words may have left. Not that either of their voices were quiet for long.
It was, probably, the most verbal either of them had ever been during sex, which was saying something since Sherlock had once delivered what amounted to an entire thesis on tactile awareness and the relative acidity of human sweat while they were in bed. But both John and Sherlock refused to keep silent, pausing only to breathe as they talked about their time apart, about John's close call with an IED a month before, about Sherlock's cases and his new website. The actual sex was fairly lazy and slow, more about reconnecting than about chasing mutual ecstasy.
They caught it anyway, and once the aftershocks had faded and they were once more inhabiting separate bodies, they lay in each other's arms and rediscovered each other's silence. Sherlock was the first to break it.
'Is it really over?'
'Three more months hospital work.' John said.
Sherlock frowned. 'You know what I meant.'
John slipped one arm under his head and gazed up at the ceiling. 'I hope so. Right now I feel like I never want to go back, be away from you again.' He licked his lips. 'But I've felt like that before. After getting you back, after we were finally together. Properly. I really thought it would last.'
'What do you need?' Sherlock asked.
John shrugged. 'Not sure. I don't know how to describe it. Just…I can't stand it when the world goes all fuzzy at the edges. I want it sharp. All the time.'
Sherlock curled his fingers around John's shoulder and snuggled in as close as he could manage. 'I can do that.'
John shifted his head to look at him. 'Can you?'
Sherlock met his eyes squarely. 'Yes.'
John believed him.
~~~
Sherlock and John stumbled headlong into the foyer of 221b, laughter exploding out of them.
'Shush!' Sherlock gasped. 'You'll wake Mrs Hudson!'
'I'm not--I'm not--' but John never got to say what he wasn't because a beat later Sherlock had him pressed against the wall and was snogging the life out of him.
'That. Was brilliant.' Sherlock breathed against John's lips. John smelled of cotton, and rainwater, and sweat. Sherlock wanted to bury himself in it.
'Christ, you were brilliant!' John replied. 'The dog…how did I miss the dog?'
'I observe, you shoot.' Sherlock told him. 'It works.'
John sighed and let his head fall against the wallpaper. 'We should go up. We've a bed up there.'
'Mm, and a sofa.' Sherlock muttered against the crook of John's neck. 'And a rug…and a kitchen table…'
'God I love you after a case.'
'And the rest of the time?' Sherlock teased.
John shrugged. 'Oh, I get by.'
Sherlock shoved his shoulder, then instantly drew him close again. The swan necklace, much repaired and now with a new platinum chain, glinted in the low lamplight of the stairwell as they kissed.
'We…we should go.' John managed. 'We've got to be up early, remember?'
'Hm?' Sherlock's forehead wrinkled. 'Oh! Right, damn. Harry's hen do.'
'Molly will kill us if we're late.'
'What to plan things?'
'It's a lot to plan! It's not every day your only sister marries the love of her life.'
Sherlock scoffed. John rolled his eyes.
'We like Clara, remember? She's a stabilising influence, she's a fantastic model for Harry's photographs, and she doesn't moan about Mycroft popping by every other afternoon to check up on things.'
'It's just the hen night!' Sherlock griped. 'And you've slaughtered the mood, I hope you know that.'
John smirked, yanked Sherlock closer by his collar, and crushed their lips together without mercy.
When John released him, Sherlock's eyes were glazed and his mouth was slack, making his breath come out loud and puffing.
'If we go upstairs right now, we'll have a solid half an hour before we need to sleep.'
Sherlock gulped. 'I hope your sister appreciates the sacrifices I make for her.'
John rolled his eyes, but he seized the opportunity to slap Sherlock's bum as he started to climb the stairs. 'Oh, yeah. She's in tears over it.'
They fumbled their way into the flat, then into the bedroom, shedding one another's clothes along the way. When they collapsed together onto the mattress, it was frantic, messy, and quite giggly, but by the end of it they quietly curled up against each other, John pressed tightly to Sherlock's back, his hand wrapped around Sherlock's chest. Their fingers were intertwined with John's hand on top, and Sherlock's palm cupped loosely around the oval pendant around his neck.
'Why aren't we married?' Sherlock asked, no inflection in his voice.
'Hm?'
'Harry's getting married in a week, John.' Sherlock said quietly. 'We've been together for years…why did we never get married?'
John shrugged. 'Dunno. Guess…once you battle sinister forces together and conquer evil with the force of your love--'
'You promised a man you'd kill him in front of a room of strangers and then followed through. That's hardly the power of love.'
'Shut up I'm being fairy tale over here.' John flicked Sherlock's ear, then kissed the patch of skin behind it. 'I'm saying…marriage just kind of feels like a formality after all that. Lip service.'
Sherlock considered a few dozen filthy puns he could make out of that one, but he let it go.
'We could invite Greg. Molly, Mike, your friends from the army. You could wear your mess dress.'
'Sherlock, I told you. I'm not a soldier anymore.'
Sherlock considered that. '…you could still wear your mess dress.'
'Pervert.' John teased, jabbing Sherlock in the ribs.
'Ow!' Sherlock laughed. 'You're violent tonight.'
John waggled his eyebrows. 'Only for an excuse to kiss it better.'
Sherlock chuckled and John did just that.
'Do you want to get married?' He asked.
John paused in his very important medical treatment to meet Sherlock's eyes. He sat up straight and moved slightly away.
'You're serious about this.'
Sherlock frowned and fiddled with a bit of sheet. 'I find I am.'
'Because of Harry?'
Sherlock shrugged.
'How long have you felt this way?'
Sherlock looked down at his restless hands. 'I don't know. Maybe for a long time. Harry getting married just sort of, I don't know. Gave it shape. And why wouldn't I want to boast to the world at large that I have you?'
John sighed and rubbed the back of his head. 'I--I mean, I never really thought. Marriage?'
Sherlock nodded.
'Us?'
Another nod, this one smaller and less sure.
John crawled up the length of Sherlock's body and placed a gentle kiss against his lips.
'Wha--'
'I guess we did leave that part out.' John smiled a lopsided smile. 'The brave knight rescues the handsome prince, then they get married,'
'And live happily ever after?' Sherlock challenged.
John tugged a bit of hair. 'No! I just told you they get married you dolt!'
Sherlock burst out laughing and tugged John down, causing him to overbalance and end up splayed over Sherlock's torso.
'No…' John said again, once he'd caught his breath and cleared the laugh-water from his eyes. 'No, they get married, right? And then they move on to the next adventure. I mean it only makes sense you're out of sorts. We skipped a step.'
'So?'
'So, what?'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'So, aren't you going to propose to me?'
John looked affronted. 'Oi, you're the prince in this equation. You do the proposing.'
'Only if you were a damsel. The knight should do it.'
'No, no, the question's all yours.'
Sherlock groaned. 'Oh, fine! We'll flip a coin.'
'What? Seriously?' John grinned.
'Heads, I ask you. Tails, you ask me.'
'Oh fine.'
Sherlock rummaged around in his bedside drawer for a 50p and balanced it on his thumb. 'Ready?'
'Go for it.'
Sherlock popped his thumb upward and the coin flew into the air. He caught it neatly on its way down and slapped it against the back of his wrist, but before he could peel his hand away, John's came to rest atop it.
Sherlock looked up and met John's deep, open blue eyes, and John moved forward, caught Sherlock's lips in a kiss as slow and languid and unhurried as their first had been.
He pulled away, leaving Sherlock breathless and slightly confused, and said, 'Yes.'
They set about ensuring they would be very late indeed to Molly's planning session. At some point the coin dropped onto the floor and rolled under the bed, to be found several months later while John was doing a bit of tidying up.
He never did bother to see which side was up.
The End
Story Type: Prompt Fill
Words: 100,251 for FIND. Don't know how many for the fic in its entirety. Holy. Shit.
Warnings: For this part? Nil.
Characters/Pairings: As seen before, plus some implied Mystrade.
Summary: Life goes on, and they keep living it.
A/N: I really can't believe that this is it. I've lived with this fic for...God, it feels like forever. I don't know what I'll do with myself now.
Thank you all for coming along for the ride. For your amazing comments, your tireless reccing, your unwavering support. I have never felt so connected to so many people. I can't believe you all actually like the stuff going on in my head.
Thanks especially and forever to my collab and fantastic beta piplover. Without her, so many of your favourite parts would never have been written, and the story would never have got past chapter 6. Pip, you're the best. Thanks for everything.
And now, the conclusion:
Epilogue
Mycroft waded through the press of woolly jumpers and festive earrings and emerged in front of the warmly varnished record player, newly buffed to a brilliant shine. The record had accumulated a bit of dust, but he wiped it off with a delicate touch and the German title gleamed under the lamplight.
Sherlock was stood by the fireplace, deep in conversation with their father. John was poking and prodding at the gifts under the tree, diligently attempting to select the one he would open that night. Both froze and lifted their heads once the needle found its groove and their song began to play.
It was saccharine, yes, but Mycroft couldn't help but draw some satisfaction from the way his brother and John were so willing to let themselves be manipulated by a few melodic vibrations in the air. Not that the power was limited to just them. Mycroft watched the rest of the party guests drift out of their way without either man noticing, allowing them to meet in the centre of the room.
John spoke first, taking Sherlock's hand in his. 'Are you sure? This hasn't exactly ended well for us lately.'
Sherlock scoffed. 'Please. Last time you weren't even dancing with me.'
'Oh, don't remind me.'
'Well you know how to put it right.'
'Fine, but I lead this time.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Oh fine.'
It wasn't as elegant, with John being the shorter of the pair of them, but they made it work. The music floated through the room, and everyone paused to stare at the couple as they danced, their bodies far too close for a proper waltz, their steps careless and unerring.
Harry came to stand beside him and nudged his ribs. 'About time, right?'
Mycroft smiled down at her. 'Shouldn't you be out there?'
Harry shrugged, but she was blushing. 'Alice doesn't dance.'
Mycroft held out a hand. 'Well, I do.'
~~~
'Mm, we've got company.' John whispered, his eyes idly tracking the new couples joining them on the dance floor.
'I hadn't noticed.' Sherlock lied.
'I love you.'
Sherlock sighed in mock exasperation and closed the distance between them. It ruined the line and form of their dance, but given that their teacher had been his own mother, he figured they could get away with it. He clasped John tightly to him and buried his nose in John's hair.
'You open a single gift on Christmas eve.' He said softly.
'Yep.' John replied.
'It's…something your family has done for generations. I saw it last Christmas with Aunt Ann and Harry. It'll be part of our holidays for the rest of our lives and, I'm only just now seeing you do it.'
'Sherlock,'
'It seems unbalanced. Doesn't it?'
John shrugged. 'I don't know. But we've been making this whole relationship thing up as we go and it's worked so far.' He paused. 'It is working, isn't it?'
Sherlock didn't respond, but he held John tighter and let the music speak for him. It probably knew the answer better than he did, anyway.
~~~
'Ow!' John gasped as Lestrade pulled the tapes tighter around his bruised ribs. It had been a little over a year since they'd escaped the lake, and it turned out that was John's limit when it came to domestic bliss.
'Yeah, well, this is the price you pay for being a complete twat.' Lestrade griped. He shook his head. 'I should have arrested you.'
John winced, only partially from the pain. 'Don't tell Sherlock. Please?'
Lestrade sighed. 'You shouldn't ask something like that of me. It's not fair.'
John hung his head. 'I know. But…please?'
Lestrade slumped in his chair. 'You can't keep doing this, John. Pub brawls are one thing, but if this thing you're doing escalates--'
'There's no "thing"!' John protested. 'I just needed to let off a little steam, that's all.'
'John..'
'I’m fine. Really.'
'Then why are you trying to hide it from him?'
John sagged, defeated. 'Okay. Fair point. But what can I do? I get this sort of…aching inside and if I don't find a way of letting it out I…' He shook his head.
Lestrade looked down at his hands for a moment, then said, 'Mycroft is going to South Africa next month.'
John blinked. 'What?'
'South Africa. He was telling me about it. Says he's looking forward to it, but his boss has some security concerns.'
'I thought things were okay there?'
Lestrade raised an eyebrow. 'There are always security concerns. Mycroft is getting important.'
John paused. 'Wait, when were you talking to Mycroft?'
Lestrade shifted. 'Not important. I'm trying to say, maybe your practically-brother-in-law could use some inconspicuous body guarding. Say a close family friend who just happens to have some military experience? Someone who already has a bit of security clearance to his name? Someone whose boyfriend is going to kill him if he comes home smelling like cheap beer and bleeding from the knuckles?'
John felt something stutter in his chest, and all the air rushed out of his lungs. When he could draw in more, he said, 'Greg…you're sort of a genius.'
Lestrade grinned. 'Tell that to Sherlock next time he steals my answers to the detective exam. I'll call Mycroft.'
'Yeah.' John said, a bit dreamily. He was already envisioning tactical briefings, weapons training, shaking hands with Nelson Mandela…
'Wait a minute.' He said. 'When did you get Mycroft's new number?'
~~~
A month later, Sherlock was aching. No, he was burning. No, he was vibrating at the exact resonant frequency to shatter into a million pieces.
He clutched the phone in his hand, as though holding it would keep John's voice close to him. He stared at it, willing it to ring, desperate to hear John in more than memory.
Tell me.
Six hours, twenty-eight minutes.
That had been six hours and ten minutes ago. Sherlock had only set the phone down in order to change into the new suit he and Harry had bought just for the occasion. Ten days without John had reduced him to so much jelly, and now John was nearly home, so very close to being back in his arms.
Sherlock reluctantly set the phone back in its cradle and arranged himself into a just slightly provocative pose, leaning one hip against John's favourite chair. He mentally rehearsed his greeting, sarcastic without being patronising. I hear congratulations are in order. But I suppose saving the life of a nation's leader is just another day at the office for you now. Flattering, but not fawning.
Fifteen minutes before he was due back, John shoved open the door and strode into their flat.
'Welcome back.' Sherlock forced his voice to stay level. 'I hear--mph!'
John's lips crushed against his, and he found himself pinned down in John's chair with no clear memory of how he got there. He barely had a chance to take in the fresh tan on John's skin or the burnished gold of his hair before John's hands were tugging and stroking and kneading him to distraction.
'Never again.' John was whispering against Sherlock's mouth. 'Never again, never again, never again.'
Sherlock felt ten days of tension and longing unravel in his body, and found himself agreeing wholeheartedly. He wrapped John in his arms and clutched him close, kissing back with everything he had.
'Stay.' He begged against the skin of John's jaw. 'Stay, please stay.'
John whimpered and nodded, and for just a moment they could both pretend they believed it, and that John would never feel the ache inside that pulled him away from safety and toward chaos. Just for a moment.
There wasn't much speaking after that. What little they did say was essentially meaningless, little more than desperate exhalations given shape, structure devoid of purpose. When they did speak again, truly spoke, it was after, the pair of them wrapped only in the sheets and the duvet, their skin still hot and damp, hair still clinging to foreheads and temples, and their hands lazily tracing patterns across sated bodies.
'I meant it, you know.' John whispered into their afterglow. 'Never again. I told you, I can't do it.'
'You managed.'
'Hardly.' John sighed, and he rolled onto his back, tucking one hand behind his head. 'I was meant to be guarding Mycroft and instead I spent virtually every night in his suite whinging like a fucking teenager. I got fantastically drunk, a few times, and every fucking night I would look at that god damn bed and I honestly couldn't understand why it was so empty.'
'You did your job, though. Mycroft came home safely and South Africa still has a president.'
'Only because something in me is fundamentally fucked.' John lamented. 'When I was on the job…god, it was,' he shook his head. 'But the rest of it was torture without you.'
Sherlock swallowed, his belly twisting uncomfortably. 'You could stay.'
John shook his head. 'No, I couldn't. It's not who I am. I need the battlefield.'
'I could give you that!' Sherlock insisted. 'Just a little time, just let me figure out where I--'
'Come with me.'
Sherlock stopped short and stared, incredulous, at John's vulnerable, open face.
'What?'
'Come with me. Next time Mycroft needs a bodyguard. He can get two for the price of one. And no one'd question him bringing his brother along. Think about it.' And John sat up, eyes alight, body almost vibrating with tentative hope. 'We could do this. Together.'
Sherlock watched John's expression freeze into a sort of parody of optimism. He considered the option.
'I can't just…'
'Don't. Don't act like there's anything tethering you here. Apart from Lestrade and Molly all you've got are your experiments and whatever it is you and Molly muck about with in the morgue. You're just as lost in this city as I am. And it's only when I'm off from uni, so we'll be stable most of the year. We can do this, love. The two of us.'
'And Mycroft.' Sherlock pointed out.
'And Mycroft.' John conceded. 'Well?'
'Greg's in line for a promotion. Detective Sergeant.'
'So?'
'Cases, John! Real ones. I could be a detective.'
'You hate the police. You moan about them every time Lestrade comes over.'
'Not a Met detective, a real detective. On the sidelines. Consulting, I guess.'
'A consulting detective?' John scoffed. 'Never heard of it.'
Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows. 'Do you honestly doubt for a moment that I could invent my own profession?'
John giggled. 'No, love. If anyone could.' He paused. 'But that's not right away, right? I mean, Lestrade isn't getting promoted tomorrow?'
'It could take a couple of years.' Sherlock admitted.
'And meanwhile…'
Sherlock heaved a dramatic sigh and collapsed back onto his pillow, fighting back the urge to smile as John immediately moved to wrap an arm around Sherlock's waist and rest his head on Sherlock's chest. 'Fine.' He pretended to groan. 'I'll go with you to sodding Abu Dhabi or wherever my idiot brother ends up dragging us.'
John grinned. 'Beautiful!' He said with an exuberant kiss to Sherlock's lips. 'You gorgeous creature. Come here.'
Sherlock rolled his eyes in mock annoyance, then pushed himself up and rolled them over so John was gasping beneath him and began to speak the kind of French that would render them both more or less useless for the week.
~~~
Sherlock felt John's arms tighten around his waist, felt the heat and the weight of John's body against his back, felt the persistent trembling between his legs, and panicked.
'No.' He said. 'No. I can't. I can't do it.'
'Come on, Sherlock!' John said. 'You broke into a madman's lair, you can't tell me you're too scared to do this.'
Sherlock shook his head. 'No. No, I'll kill us. I can tell.'
'You've ridden pillion dozens of times.' John pointed out.
'I trust you.' Sherlock replied.
'The physics don't change just because I'm the one using them.'
'I cannot drive this motorbike, John. I am going to crash.'
'Molly did just fine.' John baited him.
Sherlock looked up to where Molly was turning lazy figure eights in the gravel, Greg holding loosely to her waist. When the wind was right it carried their laughter within hearing range. 'Molly doesn't understand mortality. Or aerodynamics.'
'She's decided to be a pathologist.' John said, scrunching his face in confusion.
'Everything okay over here?' Greg called, he and Molly coasting to a stop close by.
'Sherlock wants to ride in the bitch seat all the way to Scotland.'
'John!' Molly and Greg gasped in unison. It was hard to tell who looked more aghast.
John snickered.
Sherlock just shook his head. 'Don't. Don't bother. The damage is irreparable.' Mycroft had had some business in California a month before, and John's vocabulary still hadn't recovered from his experience with the American bar scene.
Greg shook his head. 'She may not be as sexy as mine,' he said, patting the side of his gleaming BMW. 'But she's still a beautiful machine and she deserves your respect.'
'Hm, if only I could get you to talk about actual women that way.' Molly chirped.
Greg was about to reply when there was a shrill ringing from his pocket. He reached down and pulled out the black mobile Sherlock preferred not to think about too intently and brought it to his ear.
'Detective Sergeant Lestrade.' He said.
'I don't see why we need to go to Scotland anyway.' Sherlock griped. 'It's cold.'
John rolled his eyes. 'Because we're in the south of England, Sherlock. Cross-country rides tend to involve crossing the country. Hence, north.'
'We could stop at the border.'
John shrugged. 'Maybe I want to see the land of my people. John Hamish Watson, remember?'
Sherlock sighed, and his eyes picked up on the lack of motion from the other bike. He looked up, and Greg was holding the mobile in a white-knuckle grip, eyes wide.
'Mycroft?' Sherlock asked. He leaned forward too far and nearly overbalanced the bike, but John levelled them. 'Is he all right?'
'I understand.' Greg said into the phone. He hung up and drew a deep breath. 'It was him, yeah.' He breathed. 'He's fine. It's, um, something's happened in New York.'
'So?' Sherlock demanded. 'Something always happens in America. Besides, John's got classes, we can't leave London for months yet.'
Greg shook his head. 'It's bigger than that. Mycroft says it's going to go global.' He swallowed, it looked painful. 'He says some of his bosses are talking, just theories so far, it's all so. So early.'
'Greg?' John's voice had changed, slipped down an octave, softened and hardened simultaneously.
'Yeah.' Greg nodded. 'Too early to say for sure, but there's a chance, yeah.'
'What?' Sherlock snapped, bored already by all the political nonsense.
'America are our allies, Sherlock.' Molly explained.
'So?'
'So Britain might go to war.' Said John.
There was nothing in his voice, and when Sherlock turned to look at him his face was that of someone already making plans.
'Are you going with them?' Sherlock asked too quietly, unable to look John in the eye.
John said nothing, but gestured for Sherlock to get off the bike. He said nothing as they switched positions, he said nothing as they rode back to Montague Street, he said nothing as they unlocked the door to the flat, and when a few hours later he put on his jacket and left for his favourite pub, he still said nothing.
And when he came home, late at night and hidden in the darkness of their bedroom, he slipped under the duvet and curled up on his side of the bed with his back to Sherlock, and said nothing for the rest of the night.
~~~
'Afghanistan or Iraq?' Sherlock demanded, his eyes fixed on the telly.
John sighed and slipped out of his coat. 'Hello, John. So happy you're home. Fancy a cuppa? Why yes, thank you darling, that would be lovely.'
Sherlock waved him off and didn't look at him. 'Yes, yes, all that. Afghanistan or Iraq?'
John let out a breath and slumped heavily onto the sofa. 'Afghanistan. He didn't tell you?'
Sherlock shrugged. 'I worked it out. How long?'
'Six weeks.'
Sherlock grimaced. 'I've got experiments on.'
John swallowed past something thick in his throat. 'You don't have to come. I mean, if you'd rather-'
Sherlock looked at him then, sharp and disapproving. 'Of course I'm coming! I always do. I'll talk with Molly and she can send me progress reports. It's hot there, isn't it?'
'Usually. Daytime, anyway.'
Sherlock looked down at his hands. 'It's different this time.'
John slumped. 'Yes. Yes it is.'
'It's a war. You've never gone to war.'
John shook his head. 'We knew this was going to happen, Sherlock. We've known for almost three years that he'd have to go sometime.'
'I'm surprised you held out this long.'
'I will protect him, Sherlock. I will get all of us home safely.'
Sherlock risked a glance up. 'That's not the part I worry about.'
'Then what?'
Sherlock fixed his eyes on the telly, a war correspondent was narrating over footage of soldiers getting into tanks.
'I'm coming back to London in six weeks. You'll see to that.' Sherlock said, never once glancing in John's direction. 'Are you?'
'I--'
'Everything you need is right here, if you'd just observe!' Sherlock despaired. 'If you'd just come with me to the yard--'
'Sherlock, we have talked about this. You need your space with Greg and Molly and your work, and I need mine. It works, it keeps us sane.'
'It keeps us apart!'
John smiled and shook his head. 'Sherlock, a madman re-wrote the laws of nature and the universe to get between us and he couldn't keep us apart.'
'That's not the same thing!'
'Come on, Sherlock. You like crime scenes. Think of this war as the biggest, most complex crime scene of your life.'
'I'd drink cyanide first. An idiot could see that this war is unsolvable. It has no logic, the motives are all over the place, trying to make sense of this, this circus would drive me mad.' Sherlock flounced back into the sofa and turned away in a huff.
'I'm leaving in three days.' Said John. 'I would like to pack five suitcases instead of two, but it's your choice.'
'I said I'd come.' Sherlock grumbled. 'I keep my word. And not all of us have the luxury of two uniforms plus mess dress.'
'Mycroft isn't quite so stingy with the clothing as the British military, but point taken.'
~~~
Five weeks later, they sat around a small table in a posh hotel room with Mycroft, their fingers edging closer and closer together as they spoke.
'We are beginning this war with nothing.' Mycroft was saying. 'Everything, every bit of infrastructure, must be built from the ground up. I do hate to say it, but we need every hand we can get.'
'You mean mine.' John said.
Mycroft fiddled with the handle of his umbrella, newly acquired to combat the harsh sunlight. 'Understand, John. I am saying this as a member of Her Majesty's government. Personally, I would prefer that the three of us all went home safely and together next week. But officially, I am obligated to tell you your options.'
'Would he be fighting?' Sherlock demanded.
'Liaising. Medical personnel are at a premium in this war. But I'd be lying if I said there was no risk of danger. Or combat.'
Sherlock didn't miss the slight twitch from John at that, or the way his eyes flashed. Sherlock laced their fingers together and squeezed. 'How long?' He asked Mycroft, but his eyes were on John, who hadn't looked up from the table since they started talking.
'Three months. As much as six, depending. Active duty. You would be military again, John. A full soldier.'
'A captain?'
Mycroft nodded. 'Yes. Like your father.'
Sherlock watched John's jaw tighten, the corner of his mouth twitching. John was stroking his thumb over Sherlock's hand, but it was absent. Sherlock doubted he even noticed he was doing it.
Just then, a well groomed young Afghan man in a suit poked his head into the room. 'Mr Holmes, you are needed.'
Mycroft nodded. 'Yes, of course. I'll be right there.' He looked back regretfully at Sherlock and John. 'I'm afraid I must go.'
They both nodded, and Mycroft stood and followed the man out of the room. Sherlock and John sat in silence for a bit, John staring down at the table and Sherlock staring at John. Then, when he couldn't bear the silence any more, Sherlock spoke.
'You want to stay, don't you?'
John tried to hide a wince. 'No. Of course I don't.'
'Please don't lie to me.'
John shook his head. 'You're leaving. You're going home in a week. I can't just--'
'John.'
John looked up, and Sherlock had never seen him look so lost. 'I promised you.'
'I know.' Said Sherlock. He looked down at his free hand and took a deep breath. 'Greg, um. Greg sent me an e-mail yesterday. That case he's been working on, it's got complicated. If it's not closed by the time I get back he wants to bring me in on it.'
'What are you saying?'
Sherlock took a deep breath. 'I'm…I'm saying,' he began, faltered, and started again. 'I'm saying that Greg is moving up in the Yard, and Molly can get me into just about every corner of Bart's morgue, and I can solve this case. And the next. And…' he swallowed past the pain in his throat. 'I can…survive without you.'
John seemed to collapse in on himself. He shook his head. 'No. No, Sherlock, it's too soon. It's, we need more time!'
'It's been nearly a decade, John.' Sherlock told him.
'But working with the police? Sherlock, it's dangerous!'
'We are literally sitting in a warzone right now, John!' Sherlock snapped. 'Dangerous is what sustains us. Me as much as you.'
'Not separately. Not again.' John insisted.
Sherlock fisted his hand in his hair and tugged in frustration. 'For God's sake, John, stop martyring yourself for me!' He cried. 'You're a soldier. You've always been a soldier. Don't make me into the thing that holds you back.'
John slumped forward and sighed, resting his head in his hands, his elbows planted on the table.
'I love you.' He griped. 'I love you so fucking much.'
'This isn't my world.' Sherlock told him. 'But it's always been yours.'
John dropped one hand to lace his fingers with Sherlock's. 'Just…just this once, okay? And when I get back,' he swallowed. 'It's really over. The army can find itself another doctor.'
Sherlock nodded, though he wasn't sure whether to believe it. He drew John's hand close and kissed it. 'I love you.'
John nodded.
'Come to bed?'
John shook his head. 'Working. I need to get back soon.'
'It can wait.' Sherlock pressed.
John faced him, eyes sharp. 'No, Sherlock. It can't. I have orders.'
'Right.' Said Sherlock. 'Of course. Soldier.'
'Afraid so.' John managed a weak smile. He paused, gave his head a pensive tilt. 'Plenty of time for a kiss, though.'
Sherlock aped a sigh. 'Oh, very well. Any requests?'
'We've got another twelve minutes.' Said John. 'I'll tell you when.'
~~~
John met Sherlock in Berlin, three months later. They met at the airport, crashing together in an embrace so tight it hurt. But not enough. John wanted Sherlock to sink into his skin and erase the past quarter of a year from his life.
'Stay.' He begged. 'Please, please stay with me.'
Sherlock nodded. 'Yes. Of course. Anything.'
John had been transferred to a German base hospital, they claimed to give him experience with follow-up care of his patients. John suspected Mycroft had whispered very convincingly in a few ears to help the assignment along. Sherlock was, after all, frustrated by a warzone. A European city, however, was directly up his street.
John had a sort-of flat on the base, of course, but Sherlock took him straight to his hotel from the airport and pushed him down on the oversized bed.
'Sherlock--' He said between fevered kisses. 'This is-- work. Not--mmm--not a honeymoon.'
'Too long.' Sherlock panted against his chest. 'Far, far too long.' Not the most articulate he’d ever been, but his body was more than willing to fill in whatever gaps his words may have left. Not that either of their voices were quiet for long.
It was, probably, the most verbal either of them had ever been during sex, which was saying something since Sherlock had once delivered what amounted to an entire thesis on tactile awareness and the relative acidity of human sweat while they were in bed. But both John and Sherlock refused to keep silent, pausing only to breathe as they talked about their time apart, about John's close call with an IED a month before, about Sherlock's cases and his new website. The actual sex was fairly lazy and slow, more about reconnecting than about chasing mutual ecstasy.
They caught it anyway, and once the aftershocks had faded and they were once more inhabiting separate bodies, they lay in each other's arms and rediscovered each other's silence. Sherlock was the first to break it.
'Is it really over?'
'Three more months hospital work.' John said.
Sherlock frowned. 'You know what I meant.'
John slipped one arm under his head and gazed up at the ceiling. 'I hope so. Right now I feel like I never want to go back, be away from you again.' He licked his lips. 'But I've felt like that before. After getting you back, after we were finally together. Properly. I really thought it would last.'
'What do you need?' Sherlock asked.
John shrugged. 'Not sure. I don't know how to describe it. Just…I can't stand it when the world goes all fuzzy at the edges. I want it sharp. All the time.'
Sherlock curled his fingers around John's shoulder and snuggled in as close as he could manage. 'I can do that.'
John shifted his head to look at him. 'Can you?'
Sherlock met his eyes squarely. 'Yes.'
John believed him.
~~~
Sherlock and John stumbled headlong into the foyer of 221b, laughter exploding out of them.
'Shush!' Sherlock gasped. 'You'll wake Mrs Hudson!'
'I'm not--I'm not--' but John never got to say what he wasn't because a beat later Sherlock had him pressed against the wall and was snogging the life out of him.
'That. Was brilliant.' Sherlock breathed against John's lips. John smelled of cotton, and rainwater, and sweat. Sherlock wanted to bury himself in it.
'Christ, you were brilliant!' John replied. 'The dog…how did I miss the dog?'
'I observe, you shoot.' Sherlock told him. 'It works.'
John sighed and let his head fall against the wallpaper. 'We should go up. We've a bed up there.'
'Mm, and a sofa.' Sherlock muttered against the crook of John's neck. 'And a rug…and a kitchen table…'
'God I love you after a case.'
'And the rest of the time?' Sherlock teased.
John shrugged. 'Oh, I get by.'
Sherlock shoved his shoulder, then instantly drew him close again. The swan necklace, much repaired and now with a new platinum chain, glinted in the low lamplight of the stairwell as they kissed.
'We…we should go.' John managed. 'We've got to be up early, remember?'
'Hm?' Sherlock's forehead wrinkled. 'Oh! Right, damn. Harry's hen do.'
'Molly will kill us if we're late.'
'What to plan things?'
'It's a lot to plan! It's not every day your only sister marries the love of her life.'
Sherlock scoffed. John rolled his eyes.
'We like Clara, remember? She's a stabilising influence, she's a fantastic model for Harry's photographs, and she doesn't moan about Mycroft popping by every other afternoon to check up on things.'
'It's just the hen night!' Sherlock griped. 'And you've slaughtered the mood, I hope you know that.'
John smirked, yanked Sherlock closer by his collar, and crushed their lips together without mercy.
When John released him, Sherlock's eyes were glazed and his mouth was slack, making his breath come out loud and puffing.
'If we go upstairs right now, we'll have a solid half an hour before we need to sleep.'
Sherlock gulped. 'I hope your sister appreciates the sacrifices I make for her.'
John rolled his eyes, but he seized the opportunity to slap Sherlock's bum as he started to climb the stairs. 'Oh, yeah. She's in tears over it.'
They fumbled their way into the flat, then into the bedroom, shedding one another's clothes along the way. When they collapsed together onto the mattress, it was frantic, messy, and quite giggly, but by the end of it they quietly curled up against each other, John pressed tightly to Sherlock's back, his hand wrapped around Sherlock's chest. Their fingers were intertwined with John's hand on top, and Sherlock's palm cupped loosely around the oval pendant around his neck.
'Why aren't we married?' Sherlock asked, no inflection in his voice.
'Hm?'
'Harry's getting married in a week, John.' Sherlock said quietly. 'We've been together for years…why did we never get married?'
John shrugged. 'Dunno. Guess…once you battle sinister forces together and conquer evil with the force of your love--'
'You promised a man you'd kill him in front of a room of strangers and then followed through. That's hardly the power of love.'
'Shut up I'm being fairy tale over here.' John flicked Sherlock's ear, then kissed the patch of skin behind it. 'I'm saying…marriage just kind of feels like a formality after all that. Lip service.'
Sherlock considered a few dozen filthy puns he could make out of that one, but he let it go.
'We could invite Greg. Molly, Mike, your friends from the army. You could wear your mess dress.'
'Sherlock, I told you. I'm not a soldier anymore.'
Sherlock considered that. '…you could still wear your mess dress.'
'Pervert.' John teased, jabbing Sherlock in the ribs.
'Ow!' Sherlock laughed. 'You're violent tonight.'
John waggled his eyebrows. 'Only for an excuse to kiss it better.'
Sherlock chuckled and John did just that.
'Do you want to get married?' He asked.
John paused in his very important medical treatment to meet Sherlock's eyes. He sat up straight and moved slightly away.
'You're serious about this.'
Sherlock frowned and fiddled with a bit of sheet. 'I find I am.'
'Because of Harry?'
Sherlock shrugged.
'How long have you felt this way?'
Sherlock looked down at his restless hands. 'I don't know. Maybe for a long time. Harry getting married just sort of, I don't know. Gave it shape. And why wouldn't I want to boast to the world at large that I have you?'
John sighed and rubbed the back of his head. 'I--I mean, I never really thought. Marriage?'
Sherlock nodded.
'Us?'
Another nod, this one smaller and less sure.
John crawled up the length of Sherlock's body and placed a gentle kiss against his lips.
'Wha--'
'I guess we did leave that part out.' John smiled a lopsided smile. 'The brave knight rescues the handsome prince, then they get married,'
'And live happily ever after?' Sherlock challenged.
John tugged a bit of hair. 'No! I just told you they get married you dolt!'
Sherlock burst out laughing and tugged John down, causing him to overbalance and end up splayed over Sherlock's torso.
'No…' John said again, once he'd caught his breath and cleared the laugh-water from his eyes. 'No, they get married, right? And then they move on to the next adventure. I mean it only makes sense you're out of sorts. We skipped a step.'
'So?'
'So, what?'
Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'So, aren't you going to propose to me?'
John looked affronted. 'Oi, you're the prince in this equation. You do the proposing.'
'Only if you were a damsel. The knight should do it.'
'No, no, the question's all yours.'
Sherlock groaned. 'Oh, fine! We'll flip a coin.'
'What? Seriously?' John grinned.
'Heads, I ask you. Tails, you ask me.'
'Oh fine.'
Sherlock rummaged around in his bedside drawer for a 50p and balanced it on his thumb. 'Ready?'
'Go for it.'
Sherlock popped his thumb upward and the coin flew into the air. He caught it neatly on its way down and slapped it against the back of his wrist, but before he could peel his hand away, John's came to rest atop it.
Sherlock looked up and met John's deep, open blue eyes, and John moved forward, caught Sherlock's lips in a kiss as slow and languid and unhurried as their first had been.
He pulled away, leaving Sherlock breathless and slightly confused, and said, 'Yes.'
They set about ensuring they would be very late indeed to Molly's planning session. At some point the coin dropped onto the floor and rolled under the bed, to be found several months later while John was doing a bit of tidying up.
He never did bother to see which side was up.
The End