FIC: Grace to the Strong, BBC's Sherlock, NC-17, Sarah/John/Sherlock.
Title: Grace to the Strong
Author: saathi1013
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: varying permutations of Sarah/John/Sherlock (established), mention of Molly/'Anthea' (est)
Spoilers: Absolutely, spoilers for all 3 eps of s1.
Rating: NC-17 and how.
Contents/Warnings: Voyeurism, angst, h/c, drug addiction, peril. Brief (non-explicit) mention of bloodplay/needleplay.
Series: This fic is the sixth in the Lorem Ipsum Series.
Summary: Compromises are Made, as are Plans; Sherlock gets under Sarah's Skin on a Permanent Basis; Sarah gets Sherlock to say 'I Do;' Chess Analogies are Discarded as Cliché and Irrelevant Besides; and a Choice is Offered.
Word Count: ~7000
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N: I am just going to keep apologizing in these notes, ok? So, once again, profuse apologies. Thanks as ever to caoilin_noir for her fantastic beta work, and bonus thanks to accioayla for holding my hand through the creative anxiety. Song title and cut-text from Janelle Monae's 'Cold War' - go listen to her ArchAndroid albums. They're excellent.
***
Sherlock is insufferable. Slow withdrawal and his still-recovering body are limiting him badly, and the little investigation he can do from home on Moriarty leads nowhere. John and Sarah take turns with him, learning when to reassure and when to make jokes and when to ignore his vicious commentary while keeping the pills tucked securely out of reach.
“By the time you turn forty-five, your natural hair colour will be indistinguishable from the grey,” Sherlock comments acidly when John refuses to relinquish the television remote.
John purses his lips, staring at the wall with patient deliberation. He doesn't consider himself a vain man, but still. “Please tell me you don't say anything like this to Sarah,” he replies after a long moment. Sherlock does not answer, and John sighs, tossing him the remote in defeat. “I'm going upstairs. Text me only if it's an emergency; your next dose isn't for three hours and you just ate.”
From his wheelchair, Sherlock glares daggers at him as he leaves.
Half an hour later, John gets a text. This surprises him in two ways: one, it did not come sooner, and two, it's as close to an apology as he'll ever get.
Come back. I have an Experiment in mind. When Sherlock uses a capital 'E' on experiment, it always means 'sex.' And while they've had to be less... vigorous of late, if Sherlock's proposing an Experiment instead of requesting a blow job, then he intends for it to be mutually satisfying. Therefore, apology rather than petulant demand.
John still makes him wait another five minutes.
***
“Bored,” Sherlock announces while Sarah's folding laundry on the coffee table.
“Sort these,” she says, dumping a pile of socks onto his lap. He wrinkles his nose.
“Is it you who feels guilty for having sex without me, or John?” Sherlock asks, deciding to ignore them.
Sarah pauses, one of John's button-downs hanging from her hands in sad surrender. “How do you get that from socks?”
“You're not denying it, and besides, I didn't. I'm changing the subject because socks are boring and our sex lives are not. Generally speaking.”
“Ah.” She tucks the collar under her chin and folds the shirt neatly, not the way John does (thirds and then thirds again, precise squares crowned by collars), but John isn't the sort to complain if he's spared this duty another week. John doesn't mind any single part of laundry other than folding, likely due to the extraordinary thoroughness of military training. Sherlock can imagine him getting yelled at for his shirts not being folded down to regulation size, sighing in resignation, and then starting again. Over and over and over.
“You haven't answered my question,” he says, after his mind spins down, having detoured by way of John in uniform then returned to sex for understandable reasons. It's his favoured distraction when the need for pharmaceuticals jangles through his veins. It's his preferred distraction for any time he isn't involved on cases, really, and he can't go out, so it's on his mind more than usual.
She picks up one of her blouses. “No. I haven't. Tell me how you know and maybe I will.”
“Our bedrooms share a vent,” he starts, and she arches an eyebrow. “Yes, you know that, and aren't we all grateful for it. But. You and John often leave my room at night when you think I'm asleep. You come out here and watch telly for a bit, or talk - probably complaining about me-” he holds up a hand as she's about to protest or explain herself, and he continues, “That's fine, it's well within expected tolerance for the situation so long as neither of you decide to leave again.” Which shuts her mouth and brings a hot flush to her cheeks. “Sometimes one or both of you will come back to bed; if only the one, the other stays up with laptop or a book or more telly before following an hour later. Sometimes neither of you come back, and I hear the third stair creak, and then his bed settles. You've put something over the vent, perhaps a towel, and the other distinctive noises are muffled but still present. So.” He spreads his hands as if all of this makes his conclusion obvious. Which it does.
Sarah tips her head to one side, another shirt beneath her chin. “And you don't think that, oh, this may be because we don't want to disturb the sleep you are evidently not getting if you're aware enough to notice all this?”
“You don't do it in my presence, or when you know I'm awake, and you take pains to prevent my overhearing it,” he points out, grudgingly picking up a sock. If she's going to be aggravating about this, he may as well multi-task by trying to pair socks solely by touch. He drops each neatly-rolled pair into the basket at his feet.
“Mm,” she acknowledges. “Why does it bother you? It isn't as if we've neglected you in that regard, all things considered.”
“No,” he says. “but I am curious.” Also, he's a little disappointed. It's not as if they aren't aware that he enjoys watching them together, observing and waiting and occasionally directing. He knows the cause of the guilt - he can't participate fully yet - but he can't be sure which of them feels it keenly enough to have prompted their 'solution.'
“John brought it up first,” she admits finally, “but we both feel the same about it. It doesn't feel right.”
“As I suspected,” Sherlock says. He drops the last pair of socks, and looks down. They're all perfect matches, even the dress socks that differ only in the thread colour at the toe seams (yellow is more coarse than red, the blue seams are slightly knobbier at one end than the rest).
Sherlock sighs, having lost both minor diversions at once. “Bored again,” he says, staring at the stacks of laundry on the table. “I wish I were well so that I could push you down on this table and fuck you until you didn't care that you'd have to start this batch all over again.”
Sarah's hands clench convulsively at the shoulders of John's oatmeal-coloured jumper, and she lowers it to her lap. “Well, go do your exercises to keep your muscle strength up, and you can do whatever you like to me once your body can manage it.”
Sherlock scowls. “Fine,” he says. “But don't think I won't collect on that promise.”
She laughs. “Oh, I'm looking forward to it.”
***
Lestrade stops by with crime scene photographs to keep Sherlock diverted. “All high-resolution,” he says, tossing a memory stick across the room. Sherlock catches it neatly with one hand, and wheels over to the desk to get his laptop. “I requisitioned the best camera available just for you.”
“So long as Anderson didn't take the photographs,” Sherlock replies absently, already pulling up the files.
While he's engrossed, John gives Lestrade a crooked smile. “He'll be a while. Fancy a cuppa?”
“Sounds good,” Lestrade replies. He follows John into the kitchen and pulls the door closed after them. “You doing all right?” he asks quietly. “And Sarah?”
John looks up from the kettle. “Oh, as well as can be expected,” he says equably enough.
“I can't pretend to understand how you put up with him at all, let alone now,” Lestrade says. “His texts have gotten worse.”
“Sorry,” John says. “We should keep an eye on that.”
Lestrade's face creases into confusion. “You know, it's not your job to-” He doesn't know how to put all of it into words, so he gestures helplessly. “...let alone Sarah's.” The 'poor girl' hangs in the air, unspoken.
“We knew what we were signing up for,” John says. He chuckles ruefully. “Well, mostly. But it's fine, really. Who better to look after an invalid and a madman than two doctors?”
And Lestrade's face creases in answering humour just before Sherlock starts shouting from the next room.
***
“Mycroft thinks that you're both cracked,” Anthea says to Sarah one day. They've taken to having lunch together once a week, barring emergencies. “He has an account set aside just for Sherlock's inevitable crises, you know. It's larger than the GNP of several countries.”
Sarah doesn't know if she's exaggerating. She hopes she is. “We're doing fine,” she says. “We feel bad enough that Mycroft keeps paying the bills while Sherlock's not working.” And it's also quite possible that he loaned John money for my engagement ring, she thinks, suppressing the impulse to twist it nervously round her finger.
“That's a separate account,” Anthea says, taking a large bite of salad.
Sarah blinks at her. “How many are there?”
Anthea shrugs. “There are several for each of you,” she replies. “Just in case. Don't worry, we haven't embezzled from any governments. It's mostly coming from the stock market.” She tips Sarah a wink. “It's best that they're not in Mycroft's name, anyhow.”
Sarah tries not to choke on her soup.
***
Sherlock gets better bit by bit, building his strength with exercise as regular as Sarah and John can make it. His daily walk around the block is the highlight of his day, and he spends the whole time detailing the secret lives of everyone he sees.
They've been banned from the corner café.
He starts taking cases every now and then to offset what he calls his 'crippling ennui.' He sends John to question witnesses when he can't do it himself, and sends incessant texts to Molly at the mortuary until Anthea finally asks Sarah to limit him to five a day, and only when there's an investigation on. “And no,” she adds, “Molly is not available to deliver body parts to his flat.”
“I'll pick them up,” Sarah assures her apologetically.
***
And over everything hangs the threat of Moriarty, a pendulum that's swung away but will surely come slicing back through their lives.
“That's it!” Sherlock shouts one day, flinging his newspaper away so that it scatters in pathetic sheaves across the carpet. “Not a trace of him, a single sign of what that he's doing. I'm sure he's behind several mundane little crimes here and there, but I won't learn any useful data pursuing those.”
“We could always bait him,” John says. “Get one of your Irregulars-”
“No,” Sarah interrupts firmly. It's been on all their minds for weeks, and she thinks she has a solution. All that remains is proposing it well enough that they won't dismiss it, or worse, laugh in her face. Their interested - if profoundly startled - stares are better reaction than she'd expected. She takes a deep breath. “Stop thinking of Moriarty as a criminal,” she says. “That's not how he operates, and that's certainly not how he looks at you, Sherlock. Or didn't you realise?” Sherlock looks wary, so clearly he's noticed.
She explains it for John, “At best, Sherlock is a worthy rival. At worst - and I can guarantee that he's in a black mood now that I've come back - he sees Sherlock... proprietarily. As if Sherlock exists solely for his benefit.”
John's jaw drops, and Sarah's a relieved that she doesn't have to repeat Moriarty's line about 'the one that got away.' It had been faintly nauseating in itself, but then he'd followed it up with a the bit about Sherlock being his victim, and the combination implies rather a lot of really appalling things.
“So, let's pretend for a minute that the only thing comparable to Moriarty,” she continues, “is a twelve-year-old boy.” This startles a laugh from both of them, and she lets John giggle himself out while she gets one of Sherlock's lower-dosage painkillers for his surely-aching ribs.
To her surprise, he refuses. “No, no, I want to hear the rest of this without any fog,” he says, one hand on his chest, eyes sparkling. “Maybe after you outline your plan.”
“The plan, yes.” She doesn't have any specifics in mind, but she's got a sure start of one, and that's loads better than either of them seem to have. “Every girl learns that the best way to provoke a twelve-year-old boy... is to ignore him.”
She's lost them again.
“What?” John asks. “It's not as if he's been around to give attention to. How will he notice the difference?”
“First, Sherlock: stop your Irregulars from whatever you have them doing. Don't act all innocent, I've seen you dropping notes out your window.” Sherlock makes a face at her. She ignores it and turns to her fiancée. “And second, John. It's about bloody time we had ourselves an engagement party. My mother's fit to burst, at this rate.”
Sherlock's eyes light up in understanding, and John gives her a bewildered smile. “Still not following,” John says, and Sherlock starts to explain, filling in all the gaps Sarah's plan was going to have before she can say another word.
“...one thing,” Sherlock says, pausing. “How will we-”
“We're going to call your brother,” Sarah answers.
“This plan is rubbish,” Sherlock says, leaning back in his wheelchair.
“Stop that,” John says. “It's a perfectly sound idea. Mycroft may be a pompous ass, but he's got resources that we don't.”
“We're doing this,” Sarah says firmly, “with or without you. Do you want to miss the excitement?”
Sherlock scowls, but she knows they've won.
***
Of course, Sherlock refuses to actually ask Mycroft himself, so Sarah broaches the subject with Anthea at their next lunch.
“Oh, that's easy,” Anthea says. “Half of those things are in place already.” Sarah blinks, but bites her tongue to prevent herself from uttering the half-dozen questions that spring to mind immediately.
“You don't think he'll mind?” she asks instead.
“No, not at all.” Anthea gives an apologetic smile. “I'm afraid he'll gloat about it for a while, though.”
“As to be expected,” Sarah says, and they both laugh. “Will it be any bother for you?” she asks.
“Oh, not at all,” Anthea replies. “I used to do party-planning, before Mycroft found me. Well. That's how he found me. He said I wasn't 'being utilised to my fullest potential,' handed me a cheque with an intimidating number on it, and I never looked back.” She sighs a little. “He was right, but it'll be nice to handle something as simple as this.”
Sarah stares at her. “This involves a bomb squad. And coordinating with the Met.”
Anthea heaves a more dramatic sigh. “Don't they all.”
Sarah decides to give up and change the subject. “So, how's Molly?” Anthea's eyes light up and they spend the rest of lunch chatting about things that don't involve a member of the Holmes family.
***
Sherlock's busy at his microscope, and John tidied the bathroom yesterday. So, unless she wants to tackle the omnipresent clutter or brave Sherlock's moods by attempting the dishes, Sarah hasn't anything to do. She picks up her book and curls up in John's chair.
Sunlight angles through the window and glints off her ring. She stares at it, considering.
It's lovely, having a sign that she belongs to John for all the world to see. And soon enough, they'll have matching bands on their fingers and a hideously expensive wedding with all their friends and family present to watch them promise their lives to each other.
And Sherlock will be... off to one side, probably. Best man, if he can manage to keep from getting caught up in a case that day. And no one will know that when John and Sarah say 'best man,' it will mean more than the usual.
It's perfectly awful.
It's not that she'd prefer to marry Sherlock and have John to the side, or watch from the wings while they two have a service, no. It's precisely as it ought to be, John-and-Sarah Watson -and-Sherlock Holmes. Even if they could all stand up together, Sherlock wouldn't go in for that tripe, pledging troth and all that. “So much to-do,” he's said while watching Sarah flip furtively through bridal magazines, “about something so self-evident.”
As though a wedding is only necessary for dull, ordinary people, and as much of a waste of his time as explaining his deductions to the police force. “People would lead much happier lives,” he's said, “if they would stop wasting all the energy it takes to ignore the world around them.” (That had led to another argument about astronomy, if Sarah recalls correctly.)
He's willing to stand up for them if they insist on this foolishness, but he doesn't want it for himself.
And Sarah's torn. All right, fine, no wedding, no ceremony, she thinks. But I want a symbol. Some kind of sign that he's a part of our lives for as long as he'll have us, same as John and I belong to each other for as long as we can manage it.
She wants a reminder, in case their plans for Moriarty go pear-shaped. Her thoughts shy away from that possibility; it's too much to really process. It needs to be something that won't cause questions if it's seen, or that can be hidden if necessary, though it pains her that they have to be secretive...
An idea comes to her. She pulls over John's laptop instead, typing in her middle name and birth date for the password - Sherlock never bothered to learn either, so it's held him up for a whole three days thus far - and starts searching online.
***
When John gets home, he finds Sherlock pacing. It's slow and careful, but he's out of the chair, and that's... worrisome.
“Sarah popped out,” Sherlock says by way of greeting.
“How long have you been up?” John asks. It's allowed at this point, but he should be supervised.
“Not long,” Sherlock says distractedly. This could mean minutes or hours. John shrugs off his jacket and approaches cautiously, the way one does a tiger that's been shot by a tranquilliser dart. It ought to be safe, but there's no telling for sure.
Sherlock's hand lifts in the beginning of a gesture, though he stuffs it in his pocket before it's completed. John still catches the tremor in his fingers, and the piloerection and sheen of his skin. That's enough for him to understand, and he closes the remaining distance with alacrity, putting one hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock bats it away with a snarl. “I'm fine,” he snaps. “Don't-” But John knows, so he ignores this, holding fast with one hand on Sherlock's upper arm and the other palm over Sherlock's cheek, fingers curling over his ear and into his hair.
“Sherlock,” he says. “Sherlock. Look at me. Come on.” The room could be a crime scene, for the way Sherlock's gaze is darting everywhere, his pulse jumping under John's touch. “Look at me.” Sherlock does, just for a moment, but he looks away again quickly as if John's expression has burned him.
“You know what keeps popping into my head,” Sherlock mutters to the smiley face on the wall. “You and Sarah in your wedding outfits, drowning in the pool with shrapnel slicing through the water like rain.”
“Jesus,” John breathes, wincing in sympathy. “Come on, let's get you to bed. We're not going anywhere, you hear me? Nowhere you can't follow us.”
“I feel like I'll get there first,” Sherlock says, deliberate misinterpretation, and the tremor shakes all the way up his arm before he clamps down on it with a grimace. “And I won't be able to save you.” But he follows John's guiding touch towards the hallway and the solace of the bedroom. “Or that I won't be able to stop him, and you'll go first, and I'll have to follow.”
“Stop it,” John scolds. “Don't talk like that. We keep surviving, don't you see, it's why he's so infuriated by us.” Sherlock's gasp is the dark reflection of laughter, and John eases him to the bed carefully, winds both arms around him and holds him close until Sarah gets home.
***
Sherlock wakes to the sound of the front door opening. He listens to the sounds, identifies Sarah's tread on the stairs, and reaches over to switch the lamp on. John mumbles and stirs behind him, burrowing his face into the pillows to avoid the light.
Sarah enters, a sheepish smile on her face when she meets Sherlock's gaze.
Something is different. It's in the way she's holding her shoulders, the careful way she eases her jacket down her arms, and Sherlock sits up to observe her more closely. John mutters again, then switches to full alertness when he registers another presence in the room.
“Sarah,” John says, relief evident in his voice. “Everything all right?” He fumbles for his watch and frowns. “You were gone hours.”
“Sorry,” she replies. “I went shopping. It took longer than I expected.” She bends down to pull off her shoes, covering a wince, and Sherlock knows. She's lying about shopping, or if she isn't, it was only as a cover for the time she's been gone. She'd gone somewhere else first, and dallied after for at least two hours.
Sherlock stands and crowds her against the door, ignoring the sudden burn in his chest, the clamouring ache of withdrawal, because this. This is more important. “Oh, hell,” she says, recognizing his expression. “I had hoped it would be a surprise.”
“What-?” John says, still muddled with sleep. It reminds Sherlock of the first time they'd all slept together; he'd pinned Sarah against the bookshelf while John watched. He feels himself start to harden, six different kinds of need thrumming in his veins. Curiosity and drugs and sex, addictions all.
“Show me,” he says. “I know it's there, I could tell you its dimensions from how long you've been gone and how you're moving, but I don't know what it is without seeing it.”
“Can't you wait for them to heal?” she asks plaintively.
“Heal?” John blurts. “Are you-”
“She's been inked, John,” Sherlock interrupts. “Do catch up.” His words lack the usual sting, though, because Sarah had said 'they,' meaning 'more than one.' One for each of us? he wonders, barely beginning to hope. “Let me see them.”
She bites her lip, turns her back, and lifts her shirt, hissing as Sherlock's clever fingers peel away the bandage. Sherlock's brain stops - actually stops - for the slightest fraction of a second when he sees the design, still-raised and reddened around the edges. He wants to kneel, but then he'd have to stand up again, and that will be clumsy and awkward and interfere with the next item on the agenda, which somehow involves making Sarah let him fuck her without anyone protesting his health.
“Are those...” John says behind him. Sherlock didn't even hear John standing, but there he is, his reassuring warmth keeping Sherlock steady.
“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “They're brilliant.” It's not two different tattoos, one each for John and Sherlock, but two black shapes at the small of her back, mirror images of each other on either side of her spine. The sound-holes of a cello, the way her hips flare at the sides.
Or of a violin.
These marks aren't for John at all, neither of them. They're Sherlock's alone, permanent symbols beneath her skin, as if she's taken his fingerprints, the pathways of his neurons, and distilled them into calligraphy. John gets a ring, and Sherlock gets this. No one else will ever see these, and that's more than enough. More then he ever allowed himself to hope.
Sherlock runs his fingertips down her spine, stopping where the bridge would rest, wanting nothing more than to play her. Her skin trembles delicately at his touch. Sherlock thinks of needles, and of wire, and wonders if she's mentioned it to John yet.
“John,” he says, not turning away from the sight before them. “I need you to fuck her for me, right this instant, as I'm not allowed strenuous activity. And I will need to watch.” Sarah turns her head, and he can see her cheeks curve up into a smile.
“Yeah,” John says, voice unsteady. He's probably half-hard already. “Yeah, I think I can manage that.”
***
Sarah could have known Sherlock wouldn't be able to just watch.
She's atop John, out of regard for her still-healing skin, and when she leans forward, her hair tumbling over one shoulder, she feels Sherlock's calloused fingertips against the nape of her neck. Fingering technique, she thinks nonsensically, and starts to giggle against John's mouth as he breaks apart below her.
Sherlock's nails catch and drag all the way down her spine, the delicious sting of it wrenching her own orgasm out of her, abrupt and shockingly intense. “Jesus,” she pants, collapsing over John's chest. I'll have marks from that, she thinks. Four parallel lines, like strings. She shivers a little.
John pushes at her, wanting to clean up, and she tumbles to the side, clumsy but cautious of her new ink. She watches John pad to the bathroom on unsteady legs, admiring the view before turning her attention to Sherlock. He has one hand curled atop his stomach, near but not touching his still-hard cock. She trails her fingers up the line of his leg.
“Have we been neglecting you?” she asks, only half in jest. She wraps her hand around him and he hisses.
“You'll make up for it,” he grits between his teeth. “I have faith in your - ah - abilities.”
Sarah licks up the inside of his other thigh. “Do you?” she asks against his skin. “I don't think I've ever heard you say that without being sarcastic before.”
“I do,” he says when her mouth reaches the crease of his hip. “I do. Please-”
That's all she needs to hear. She swallows him to the root just as she feels John's weight dip the mattress, and between the two of them, they exceed his expectations.
***
If John were to be perfectly honest, Sarah's family scares him a little. Her mother keeps making terribly awkward jokes all the time, and her uncle is as tall as Sherlock but as big around as two Mike Stamfords, except it's all muscle.
John's also pretty sure that her Uncle Victor has at least one unregistered firearm hidden in his house. Admittedly, he can't really throw stones on that front. He'd really just prefer to not get shot by his fiancée's relatives, if it's all the same. Especially not the one who'll be giving Sarah away at the wedding, as her father passed on when she was just a girl.
Meanwhile, Sherlock is on his very best behaviour. It is... really unnerving. He smiles and laughs and tells stupid stories that aren't even a little true (well, John really hopes the one about Anderson's unnatural love of dinosaurs isn't true), and half of Sarah's relatives are in love with him in minutes. Including the blokes.
Again, John hasn't any leg to stand on, but it's irritating nonetheless.
“Keep this up,” John says when they get a moment to themselves, “and you'll be fending off their advances for the rest of our lives.”
Sherlock grimaces eloquently. “Well then, let's hope Moriarty makes it quick.”
But there's no sign of the villain, and that makes everything worse. “Maybe we were a little too thorough,” Sarah whispers to John.
“No such thing,” he whispers back. In fact, he suspects that their thoroughness has deterred Moriarty - provoked him, certainly, but the reprisal won't come here. John can feel the premonition creeping up his spine the way it did in Afghanistan, the anticipation of delayed attack. War is as psychological as anything else, and this thing with Moriarty can't be described using any other analogy.
All right, maybe chess.
But John doesn't say this aloud because then Sherlock will tell him that he's being clichéd, and turn back around to charm Sarah's gran. Besides, if this is chess, then Moriarty and Sherlock are the opposing kings, making Sarah and John what? Pawns? Bishops? Knights?
I'm probably a knight, John admits, and Sarah a bishop, the way she thinks in angles. She's off to greet another cousin - bloody hell, how many is that now? Eight? - and she beckons for John and Sherlock to join her.
Sherlock's there first, his hand in the small of Sarah's back as he leans in to introduce himself to the girl, who can't even be old enough to have graduated university, by the look of her. And... three, two, one, there. Now he's got her, John thinks, strolling over to join them. Oh, they're all doomed, every one of my future in-laws, and they don't even know it.
He's glad that most of his own family live far enough away that they couldn't make it. It's just Harry over in the corner, trying to pull the waitress carrying a champagne tray, and two aunts, one uncle, and his cousin George, looking lost in the sea of Sawyers.
Sherlock hears John coming and steps aside to sling his other arm over John's shoulders. “Ah, John, good. Have you met the delightful Tina yet?” John reaches forward to shake her hand, exchanging pleasantries, and Sherlock murmurs almost inaudibly in his ear, “Keep an eye on your watch, she's got sticky fingers.”
Doomed, John thinks, grinning broadly as if the whole world is just marvellous. It is his engagement party, after all, and he's the luckiest man in the world to have Sarah. He gives her a fond look, and her responding smile is a little strained.
Sherlock's hand is still at the small of her back, John realises.
Right over her still-healing tattoos. It must be driving her up the wall, that kind of provocation. John doesn't pretend to understand her predilections, but he's willing to supervise and reap the rewards - under the right circumstances.
For the love of tiny baby Jesus, John thinks to himself, of course he's being inappropriate with Sarah right under everyone's noses, and makes an excuse to drag her away from the insanity of it all. They tuck themselves away in an alcove behind a potted plant.
“You didn't tell me you had nine million relatives,” he says breathlessly. “Did you have to invite them all?”
Sarah throws up her hands. “Mum got the phone tree going, for all I know. Once she gets started, I can't do a thing to stop her. Why d'you think I told Anthea to book such a large place?” She laughs, a little disbelievingly. “I didn't expect to fill it, but this is what happens when you're an only child in a family that usually counts by dozens.”
“Is this all of them?” John asks hopefully.
She glances around. “Mm, no. Some of them stayed home with their kids, I think.”
“Oh, hell,” John says vehemently. “Can't we just elope?”
“I wouldn't object, at this rate,” Sarah says. “We'd save loads on the reception, but Mum would kill us.”
John turns to thump his head against the wall. He's just grateful they decided to keep this party to family.
***
“Any sign?” John asks Sherlock, after Victor had led the whole crowd in a chorus of champagne toasts.
“No,” Sherlock replies, his eyes doing a slow flicker across the room. “I think there are too many innocent bystanders for him to go after without hurting me, as well.”
“Isn't it supposed to be - you know what, no, never mind.” John pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger for a moment. “That's...not good.”
“I'm simply pointing out his probable chain of logic.”
“And you understand it - that's what bothers me.”
“Someone has to, in order to stop him,” Sherlock replies irritably. John wonders if he's having cravings, or if he's tired of shamming normal for all these simple people. Either way, he has an easy solution.
“Want to disappear for a minute?” John asks.
“God, yes,” Sherlock breathes, and drags him off to a disused coat room. John runs his fingers through his hair, strokes his face, and steadies Sherlock's hands when they tremble, fumbling with belt and zip.
“Shh,” John says, and pulls him to the floor.
***
They straighten their clothes and John pops his head out into the darkened corridor to make sure their exit's clear.
He finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun and draws back, slamming the door closed.
“Uncle Victor?” Sherlock drawls, slouching against the door frame with the loose-limbed grace of an endorphin high.
John doesn't get to answer. “Come out, come out, we know where you are,” a familiar voice sing-songs. Sherlock's entire body stiffens “Unless you're having another go. I didn't think guns were your kink, but I'll let you toss a quick one off if you need to. It'll be your last time together, after all.”
Sherlock steps to the door and flings it wide. “Moriarty,” he greets, cool as a cucumber, and steps into the circle of armed thugs. John follows, eyes taking practised tally of their opponents and finding an unpleasant sum.
Also, they have Sarah.
***
“So,” Moriarty begins, rubbing his hands together in theatrical pantomime. “Who wants to start? It's been ever so long since we've all had a chance to catch up.”
“Our families,” John says, and sees Sarah winces behind the hand covering her mouth.
“I put them all to sleep,” Moriarty answers, “gassed the whole lot of them while Sarah was in the ladies'. I wanted some quiet for our reunion, and we can't have that with the teeming masses crawling all over the place.”
He gestures idly, and Sarah's freed of the arms pinning her in place. She's shoved forwards to join Sherlock and John, and she laces her hands in theirs, giving Moriarty a defiant glare as she does so. I'm going to marry the hell out of that woman when this is all over, John thinks with pride.
“However did you manage, Sarah Sawyer,” Moriarty continues. “Your mother widowed, only your uncle and his brood to turn to. It must have been like getting lost in a cloud of starlings.” He rocks on his heels a little. “Did you not get enough attention from your surrogate father figure, Sarah, is that-”
“Oh yes, you've figured me all out,” she spits, her hand tightening on John's to prevent him from doing something foolish and violent and final. “Probably both of us, John and I. All but why Sherlock likes us better than you.”
Moriarty's face flickers into fury for a moment before he schools his features. “Now I regret that I only used sleeping gas,” he replies. “I should have exterminated them like a basket of kittens. Families like yours make me regret not following through on my childhood dream of sterilising the population via the water supply.”
“How did you get past the defences?” Sherlock says, drawing Moriarty's attention in a breath, stalling for time. John could kiss him for it, but that would likely end everything all at once.
“Oh, you'll like this one,” Moriarty says. “Anthea. ...or, you know, whatever her real name is. I've had her phone tapped since she stole my girlfriend. It was very rude of her, and she doesn't seem to have learned from your fine and generous example.” He sighs. “I don't mind sharing-”
“Yes you do,” Sherlock interrupts.
“All right, I do, but I wouldn't turn down a second participant if it were her,” Moriarty admits. “She looks like she would break just like a china doll once I found the right pressure point. And it would be so much fun searching for it.”
John can taste bile in the back of his throat, and Sarah's hand is clutching his with bruising force. She's the only thing anchoring him, keeping the haze of rage from blanking his mind entirely. He squeezes back with numb fingers.
“And speaking of sharing,” Moriarty says with relish, “I think it's about time we test that generosity of yours.”
“What,” John grates out. He knows that Moriarty wants Sherlock, for reasons John won't think about unless he wants to crack entirely. But what does he mean, 'test'?
“Not talking to you, Johnny boy,” Moriarty says, not even looking at him, eyes locked on Sherlock. “See, we have less than two minutes - yes, I've been paying attention - before Mycroft's people come pouring in, and a decision needs to be made before then. I'll walk away with one of you, and you get to decide which.”
“And what if I say no,” Sherlock says.
“I wasn't talking to you, either,” Moriarty says, and those cold, cold shark's eyes swivel to face Sarah. “You, Miss Sawyer, will have the privilege.” John feels his stomach hollow out. “Pick one for me to take when I go. I'll leave the other, won't bother you again. Fair deal, don't you think?”
“Fuck you,” she spits. “What if I say no?”
“Then I kill you all, and leave your bodies in a lot of very small pieces as a scavenger hunt across London for your families to find. You have sixty seconds left, by the way.”
Sherlock takes a quick breath as Sarah looks to John. He knows what Moriarty is hoping for - Sarah will choose John to stay with her, leaving Sherlock to handle Moriarty. He'd run circles around the horrible little wanker, but end up dead eventually. So her best option is to thwart him, buy some time so that Sherlock will have the freedom to end this, once and for all.
It's all right, really. John can do this, he'd suffer anything for either of them, let alone both. Sarah's smile is soft, and apologetic, and he nods to her in reassurance. I'll be fine, he wants to say. I've got training, and experience, and I can hold out till you come for me.
She nods back, and turns to Moriarty. “Take me,” she says firmly, and John's whole body locks up.
“Sarah-!” Sherlock hisses, but she doesn't look at him, doesn't look at either of them as she drops their hands and steps forward.
“No, you stupid bitch,” Moriarty snaps, nostrils flaring, “You're to pick one of them.”
“You only said 'one of us,' and I've made my choice. Take me, or get caught by Mycroft's men as you try to kill us in what little time is left. I doubt we'll make it easy for you.” And, Jesus, but she's radiant in her defiance, glaring their captor down.
“Fine,” Moriarty snaps, and gestures to his men.
“No! Sarah, no!” Sherlock is shouting now, frantic, but the butt of a gun crashes against his temple and he falls to the carpet. John reaches out to Sarah, snags one arm as a thug grabs the other. She kisses him, tasting like salt; one of them is crying, it doesn't matter which.
“We'll find you,” he says against her mouth, not a promise but a statement of fact. “We will.”
“Of course,” she whispers back, “of course you will,” as she's swept out of his grasp. His instincts kick in and he fights to follow her, the crunch of bone beneath his knuckles and blood on his face less important than the ferocious need to keep her face in sight.
But there are too many of them, and John gets knocked to the floor beside Sherlock with a blow that sends his brain spinning in his skull. His stomach heaves, and it's all he can do to keep it from emptying its contents all over the carpet.
Mycroft arrives right on schedule, but still too late.
***
Sherlock jolts to awareness, seeing John's worried face above him, and the first thing he thinks is, I'm going to kill Moriarty. He's going to chase Moriarty to the very ends of the earth, and they are going to die fighting each other.
He knows there's no actual cliff over which the sea pours into the sky, but it's a pleasant image, jumping from it and pulling Moriarty along. They would fall forever, starving of asphyxiating in the vacuum if they didn't strangle each other first. Two mortal enemies, locked together in eternal struggle, spinning through the void. Sherlock has enough rage in him for that, right now.
But that would leave John alone again. Which is unacceptable.
“Sarah,” he says instead.
“We'll find Moriarty,” John says, as if he's read Sherlock's mind, “and we'll kill him, and we'll bring Sarah home, safe and sound,
That's not how it's going to happen, Sherlock thinks. But he doesn't say it aloud, because when John went missing, Sarah taught him how to pretend. So he pretends, and unconsciousness drags him back under.
When Sherlock dreams, he dreams of falling, and of the roar of water in his ears.
- END -
(of this installment, series TBC)
( Next Installment: Lorem Ipsum )
[ Lorem Ipsum Series Masterpost ]
This entry was originally posted at my Dreamwidth; if you wish to comment, you may do so either here on LJ or on DW, whichever is most convenient for you.
Author: saathi1013
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Pairing: varying permutations of Sarah/John/Sherlock (established), mention of Molly/'Anthea' (est)
Spoilers: Absolutely, spoilers for all 3 eps of s1.
Rating: NC-17 and how.
Contents/Warnings: Voyeurism, angst, h/c, drug addiction, peril. Brief (non-explicit) mention of bloodplay/needleplay.
Series: This fic is the sixth in the Lorem Ipsum Series.
Summary: Compromises are Made, as are Plans; Sherlock gets under Sarah's Skin on a Permanent Basis; Sarah gets Sherlock to say 'I Do;' Chess Analogies are Discarded as Cliché and Irrelevant Besides; and a Choice is Offered.
Word Count: ~7000
Disclaimer: Not mine, not earning any profit, due props to Moffat and Conan Doyle and the BBC, etc.
A/N: I am just going to keep apologizing in these notes, ok? So, once again, profuse apologies. Thanks as ever to caoilin_noir for her fantastic beta work, and bonus thanks to accioayla for holding my hand through the creative anxiety. Song title and cut-text from Janelle Monae's 'Cold War' - go listen to her ArchAndroid albums. They're excellent.
***
Sherlock is insufferable. Slow withdrawal and his still-recovering body are limiting him badly, and the little investigation he can do from home on Moriarty leads nowhere. John and Sarah take turns with him, learning when to reassure and when to make jokes and when to ignore his vicious commentary while keeping the pills tucked securely out of reach.
“By the time you turn forty-five, your natural hair colour will be indistinguishable from the grey,” Sherlock comments acidly when John refuses to relinquish the television remote.
John purses his lips, staring at the wall with patient deliberation. He doesn't consider himself a vain man, but still. “Please tell me you don't say anything like this to Sarah,” he replies after a long moment. Sherlock does not answer, and John sighs, tossing him the remote in defeat. “I'm going upstairs. Text me only if it's an emergency; your next dose isn't for three hours and you just ate.”
From his wheelchair, Sherlock glares daggers at him as he leaves.
Half an hour later, John gets a text. This surprises him in two ways: one, it did not come sooner, and two, it's as close to an apology as he'll ever get.
Come back. I have an Experiment in mind. When Sherlock uses a capital 'E' on experiment, it always means 'sex.' And while they've had to be less... vigorous of late, if Sherlock's proposing an Experiment instead of requesting a blow job, then he intends for it to be mutually satisfying. Therefore, apology rather than petulant demand.
John still makes him wait another five minutes.
***
“Bored,” Sherlock announces while Sarah's folding laundry on the coffee table.
“Sort these,” she says, dumping a pile of socks onto his lap. He wrinkles his nose.
“Is it you who feels guilty for having sex without me, or John?” Sherlock asks, deciding to ignore them.
Sarah pauses, one of John's button-downs hanging from her hands in sad surrender. “How do you get that from socks?”
“You're not denying it, and besides, I didn't. I'm changing the subject because socks are boring and our sex lives are not. Generally speaking.”
“Ah.” She tucks the collar under her chin and folds the shirt neatly, not the way John does (thirds and then thirds again, precise squares crowned by collars), but John isn't the sort to complain if he's spared this duty another week. John doesn't mind any single part of laundry other than folding, likely due to the extraordinary thoroughness of military training. Sherlock can imagine him getting yelled at for his shirts not being folded down to regulation size, sighing in resignation, and then starting again. Over and over and over.
“You haven't answered my question,” he says, after his mind spins down, having detoured by way of John in uniform then returned to sex for understandable reasons. It's his favoured distraction when the need for pharmaceuticals jangles through his veins. It's his preferred distraction for any time he isn't involved on cases, really, and he can't go out, so it's on his mind more than usual.
She picks up one of her blouses. “No. I haven't. Tell me how you know and maybe I will.”
“Our bedrooms share a vent,” he starts, and she arches an eyebrow. “Yes, you know that, and aren't we all grateful for it. But. You and John often leave my room at night when you think I'm asleep. You come out here and watch telly for a bit, or talk - probably complaining about me-” he holds up a hand as she's about to protest or explain herself, and he continues, “That's fine, it's well within expected tolerance for the situation so long as neither of you decide to leave again.” Which shuts her mouth and brings a hot flush to her cheeks. “Sometimes one or both of you will come back to bed; if only the one, the other stays up with laptop or a book or more telly before following an hour later. Sometimes neither of you come back, and I hear the third stair creak, and then his bed settles. You've put something over the vent, perhaps a towel, and the other distinctive noises are muffled but still present. So.” He spreads his hands as if all of this makes his conclusion obvious. Which it does.
Sarah tips her head to one side, another shirt beneath her chin. “And you don't think that, oh, this may be because we don't want to disturb the sleep you are evidently not getting if you're aware enough to notice all this?”
“You don't do it in my presence, or when you know I'm awake, and you take pains to prevent my overhearing it,” he points out, grudgingly picking up a sock. If she's going to be aggravating about this, he may as well multi-task by trying to pair socks solely by touch. He drops each neatly-rolled pair into the basket at his feet.
“Mm,” she acknowledges. “Why does it bother you? It isn't as if we've neglected you in that regard, all things considered.”
“No,” he says. “but I am curious.” Also, he's a little disappointed. It's not as if they aren't aware that he enjoys watching them together, observing and waiting and occasionally directing. He knows the cause of the guilt - he can't participate fully yet - but he can't be sure which of them feels it keenly enough to have prompted their 'solution.'
“John brought it up first,” she admits finally, “but we both feel the same about it. It doesn't feel right.”
“As I suspected,” Sherlock says. He drops the last pair of socks, and looks down. They're all perfect matches, even the dress socks that differ only in the thread colour at the toe seams (yellow is more coarse than red, the blue seams are slightly knobbier at one end than the rest).
Sherlock sighs, having lost both minor diversions at once. “Bored again,” he says, staring at the stacks of laundry on the table. “I wish I were well so that I could push you down on this table and fuck you until you didn't care that you'd have to start this batch all over again.”
Sarah's hands clench convulsively at the shoulders of John's oatmeal-coloured jumper, and she lowers it to her lap. “Well, go do your exercises to keep your muscle strength up, and you can do whatever you like to me once your body can manage it.”
Sherlock scowls. “Fine,” he says. “But don't think I won't collect on that promise.”
She laughs. “Oh, I'm looking forward to it.”
***
Lestrade stops by with crime scene photographs to keep Sherlock diverted. “All high-resolution,” he says, tossing a memory stick across the room. Sherlock catches it neatly with one hand, and wheels over to the desk to get his laptop. “I requisitioned the best camera available just for you.”
“So long as Anderson didn't take the photographs,” Sherlock replies absently, already pulling up the files.
While he's engrossed, John gives Lestrade a crooked smile. “He'll be a while. Fancy a cuppa?”
“Sounds good,” Lestrade replies. He follows John into the kitchen and pulls the door closed after them. “You doing all right?” he asks quietly. “And Sarah?”
John looks up from the kettle. “Oh, as well as can be expected,” he says equably enough.
“I can't pretend to understand how you put up with him at all, let alone now,” Lestrade says. “His texts have gotten worse.”
“Sorry,” John says. “We should keep an eye on that.”
Lestrade's face creases into confusion. “You know, it's not your job to-” He doesn't know how to put all of it into words, so he gestures helplessly. “...let alone Sarah's.” The 'poor girl' hangs in the air, unspoken.
“We knew what we were signing up for,” John says. He chuckles ruefully. “Well, mostly. But it's fine, really. Who better to look after an invalid and a madman than two doctors?”
And Lestrade's face creases in answering humour just before Sherlock starts shouting from the next room.
***
“Mycroft thinks that you're both cracked,” Anthea says to Sarah one day. They've taken to having lunch together once a week, barring emergencies. “He has an account set aside just for Sherlock's inevitable crises, you know. It's larger than the GNP of several countries.”
Sarah doesn't know if she's exaggerating. She hopes she is. “We're doing fine,” she says. “We feel bad enough that Mycroft keeps paying the bills while Sherlock's not working.” And it's also quite possible that he loaned John money for my engagement ring, she thinks, suppressing the impulse to twist it nervously round her finger.
“That's a separate account,” Anthea says, taking a large bite of salad.
Sarah blinks at her. “How many are there?”
Anthea shrugs. “There are several for each of you,” she replies. “Just in case. Don't worry, we haven't embezzled from any governments. It's mostly coming from the stock market.” She tips Sarah a wink. “It's best that they're not in Mycroft's name, anyhow.”
Sarah tries not to choke on her soup.
***
Sherlock gets better bit by bit, building his strength with exercise as regular as Sarah and John can make it. His daily walk around the block is the highlight of his day, and he spends the whole time detailing the secret lives of everyone he sees.
They've been banned from the corner café.
He starts taking cases every now and then to offset what he calls his 'crippling ennui.' He sends John to question witnesses when he can't do it himself, and sends incessant texts to Molly at the mortuary until Anthea finally asks Sarah to limit him to five a day, and only when there's an investigation on. “And no,” she adds, “Molly is not available to deliver body parts to his flat.”
“I'll pick them up,” Sarah assures her apologetically.
***
And over everything hangs the threat of Moriarty, a pendulum that's swung away but will surely come slicing back through their lives.
“That's it!” Sherlock shouts one day, flinging his newspaper away so that it scatters in pathetic sheaves across the carpet. “Not a trace of him, a single sign of what that he's doing. I'm sure he's behind several mundane little crimes here and there, but I won't learn any useful data pursuing those.”
“We could always bait him,” John says. “Get one of your Irregulars-”
“No,” Sarah interrupts firmly. It's been on all their minds for weeks, and she thinks she has a solution. All that remains is proposing it well enough that they won't dismiss it, or worse, laugh in her face. Their interested - if profoundly startled - stares are better reaction than she'd expected. She takes a deep breath. “Stop thinking of Moriarty as a criminal,” she says. “That's not how he operates, and that's certainly not how he looks at you, Sherlock. Or didn't you realise?” Sherlock looks wary, so clearly he's noticed.
She explains it for John, “At best, Sherlock is a worthy rival. At worst - and I can guarantee that he's in a black mood now that I've come back - he sees Sherlock... proprietarily. As if Sherlock exists solely for his benefit.”
John's jaw drops, and Sarah's a relieved that she doesn't have to repeat Moriarty's line about 'the one that got away.' It had been faintly nauseating in itself, but then he'd followed it up with a the bit about Sherlock being his victim, and the combination implies rather a lot of really appalling things.
“So, let's pretend for a minute that the only thing comparable to Moriarty,” she continues, “is a twelve-year-old boy.” This startles a laugh from both of them, and she lets John giggle himself out while she gets one of Sherlock's lower-dosage painkillers for his surely-aching ribs.
To her surprise, he refuses. “No, no, I want to hear the rest of this without any fog,” he says, one hand on his chest, eyes sparkling. “Maybe after you outline your plan.”
“The plan, yes.” She doesn't have any specifics in mind, but she's got a sure start of one, and that's loads better than either of them seem to have. “Every girl learns that the best way to provoke a twelve-year-old boy... is to ignore him.”
She's lost them again.
“What?” John asks. “It's not as if he's been around to give attention to. How will he notice the difference?”
“First, Sherlock: stop your Irregulars from whatever you have them doing. Don't act all innocent, I've seen you dropping notes out your window.” Sherlock makes a face at her. She ignores it and turns to her fiancée. “And second, John. It's about bloody time we had ourselves an engagement party. My mother's fit to burst, at this rate.”
Sherlock's eyes light up in understanding, and John gives her a bewildered smile. “Still not following,” John says, and Sherlock starts to explain, filling in all the gaps Sarah's plan was going to have before she can say another word.
“...one thing,” Sherlock says, pausing. “How will we-”
“We're going to call your brother,” Sarah answers.
“This plan is rubbish,” Sherlock says, leaning back in his wheelchair.
“Stop that,” John says. “It's a perfectly sound idea. Mycroft may be a pompous ass, but he's got resources that we don't.”
“We're doing this,” Sarah says firmly, “with or without you. Do you want to miss the excitement?”
Sherlock scowls, but she knows they've won.
***
Of course, Sherlock refuses to actually ask Mycroft himself, so Sarah broaches the subject with Anthea at their next lunch.
“Oh, that's easy,” Anthea says. “Half of those things are in place already.” Sarah blinks, but bites her tongue to prevent herself from uttering the half-dozen questions that spring to mind immediately.
“You don't think he'll mind?” she asks instead.
“No, not at all.” Anthea gives an apologetic smile. “I'm afraid he'll gloat about it for a while, though.”
“As to be expected,” Sarah says, and they both laugh. “Will it be any bother for you?” she asks.
“Oh, not at all,” Anthea replies. “I used to do party-planning, before Mycroft found me. Well. That's how he found me. He said I wasn't 'being utilised to my fullest potential,' handed me a cheque with an intimidating number on it, and I never looked back.” She sighs a little. “He was right, but it'll be nice to handle something as simple as this.”
Sarah stares at her. “This involves a bomb squad. And coordinating with the Met.”
Anthea heaves a more dramatic sigh. “Don't they all.”
Sarah decides to give up and change the subject. “So, how's Molly?” Anthea's eyes light up and they spend the rest of lunch chatting about things that don't involve a member of the Holmes family.
***
Sherlock's busy at his microscope, and John tidied the bathroom yesterday. So, unless she wants to tackle the omnipresent clutter or brave Sherlock's moods by attempting the dishes, Sarah hasn't anything to do. She picks up her book and curls up in John's chair.
Sunlight angles through the window and glints off her ring. She stares at it, considering.
It's lovely, having a sign that she belongs to John for all the world to see. And soon enough, they'll have matching bands on their fingers and a hideously expensive wedding with all their friends and family present to watch them promise their lives to each other.
And Sherlock will be... off to one side, probably. Best man, if he can manage to keep from getting caught up in a case that day. And no one will know that when John and Sarah say 'best man,' it will mean more than the usual.
It's perfectly awful.
It's not that she'd prefer to marry Sherlock and have John to the side, or watch from the wings while they two have a service, no. It's precisely as it ought to be, John-and-Sarah Watson -and-Sherlock Holmes. Even if they could all stand up together, Sherlock wouldn't go in for that tripe, pledging troth and all that. “So much to-do,” he's said while watching Sarah flip furtively through bridal magazines, “about something so self-evident.”
As though a wedding is only necessary for dull, ordinary people, and as much of a waste of his time as explaining his deductions to the police force. “People would lead much happier lives,” he's said, “if they would stop wasting all the energy it takes to ignore the world around them.” (That had led to another argument about astronomy, if Sarah recalls correctly.)
He's willing to stand up for them if they insist on this foolishness, but he doesn't want it for himself.
And Sarah's torn. All right, fine, no wedding, no ceremony, she thinks. But I want a symbol. Some kind of sign that he's a part of our lives for as long as he'll have us, same as John and I belong to each other for as long as we can manage it.
She wants a reminder, in case their plans for Moriarty go pear-shaped. Her thoughts shy away from that possibility; it's too much to really process. It needs to be something that won't cause questions if it's seen, or that can be hidden if necessary, though it pains her that they have to be secretive...
An idea comes to her. She pulls over John's laptop instead, typing in her middle name and birth date for the password - Sherlock never bothered to learn either, so it's held him up for a whole three days thus far - and starts searching online.
***
When John gets home, he finds Sherlock pacing. It's slow and careful, but he's out of the chair, and that's... worrisome.
“Sarah popped out,” Sherlock says by way of greeting.
“How long have you been up?” John asks. It's allowed at this point, but he should be supervised.
“Not long,” Sherlock says distractedly. This could mean minutes or hours. John shrugs off his jacket and approaches cautiously, the way one does a tiger that's been shot by a tranquilliser dart. It ought to be safe, but there's no telling for sure.
Sherlock's hand lifts in the beginning of a gesture, though he stuffs it in his pocket before it's completed. John still catches the tremor in his fingers, and the piloerection and sheen of his skin. That's enough for him to understand, and he closes the remaining distance with alacrity, putting one hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
Sherlock bats it away with a snarl. “I'm fine,” he snaps. “Don't-” But John knows, so he ignores this, holding fast with one hand on Sherlock's upper arm and the other palm over Sherlock's cheek, fingers curling over his ear and into his hair.
“Sherlock,” he says. “Sherlock. Look at me. Come on.” The room could be a crime scene, for the way Sherlock's gaze is darting everywhere, his pulse jumping under John's touch. “Look at me.” Sherlock does, just for a moment, but he looks away again quickly as if John's expression has burned him.
“You know what keeps popping into my head,” Sherlock mutters to the smiley face on the wall. “You and Sarah in your wedding outfits, drowning in the pool with shrapnel slicing through the water like rain.”
“Jesus,” John breathes, wincing in sympathy. “Come on, let's get you to bed. We're not going anywhere, you hear me? Nowhere you can't follow us.”
“I feel like I'll get there first,” Sherlock says, deliberate misinterpretation, and the tremor shakes all the way up his arm before he clamps down on it with a grimace. “And I won't be able to save you.” But he follows John's guiding touch towards the hallway and the solace of the bedroom. “Or that I won't be able to stop him, and you'll go first, and I'll have to follow.”
“Stop it,” John scolds. “Don't talk like that. We keep surviving, don't you see, it's why he's so infuriated by us.” Sherlock's gasp is the dark reflection of laughter, and John eases him to the bed carefully, winds both arms around him and holds him close until Sarah gets home.
***
Sherlock wakes to the sound of the front door opening. He listens to the sounds, identifies Sarah's tread on the stairs, and reaches over to switch the lamp on. John mumbles and stirs behind him, burrowing his face into the pillows to avoid the light.
Sarah enters, a sheepish smile on her face when she meets Sherlock's gaze.
Something is different. It's in the way she's holding her shoulders, the careful way she eases her jacket down her arms, and Sherlock sits up to observe her more closely. John mutters again, then switches to full alertness when he registers another presence in the room.
“Sarah,” John says, relief evident in his voice. “Everything all right?” He fumbles for his watch and frowns. “You were gone hours.”
“Sorry,” she replies. “I went shopping. It took longer than I expected.” She bends down to pull off her shoes, covering a wince, and Sherlock knows. She's lying about shopping, or if she isn't, it was only as a cover for the time she's been gone. She'd gone somewhere else first, and dallied after for at least two hours.
Sherlock stands and crowds her against the door, ignoring the sudden burn in his chest, the clamouring ache of withdrawal, because this. This is more important. “Oh, hell,” she says, recognizing his expression. “I had hoped it would be a surprise.”
“What-?” John says, still muddled with sleep. It reminds Sherlock of the first time they'd all slept together; he'd pinned Sarah against the bookshelf while John watched. He feels himself start to harden, six different kinds of need thrumming in his veins. Curiosity and drugs and sex, addictions all.
“Show me,” he says. “I know it's there, I could tell you its dimensions from how long you've been gone and how you're moving, but I don't know what it is without seeing it.”
“Can't you wait for them to heal?” she asks plaintively.
“Heal?” John blurts. “Are you-”
“She's been inked, John,” Sherlock interrupts. “Do catch up.” His words lack the usual sting, though, because Sarah had said 'they,' meaning 'more than one.' One for each of us? he wonders, barely beginning to hope. “Let me see them.”
She bites her lip, turns her back, and lifts her shirt, hissing as Sherlock's clever fingers peel away the bandage. Sherlock's brain stops - actually stops - for the slightest fraction of a second when he sees the design, still-raised and reddened around the edges. He wants to kneel, but then he'd have to stand up again, and that will be clumsy and awkward and interfere with the next item on the agenda, which somehow involves making Sarah let him fuck her without anyone protesting his health.
“Are those...” John says behind him. Sherlock didn't even hear John standing, but there he is, his reassuring warmth keeping Sherlock steady.
“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “They're brilliant.” It's not two different tattoos, one each for John and Sherlock, but two black shapes at the small of her back, mirror images of each other on either side of her spine. The sound-holes of a cello, the way her hips flare at the sides.
Or of a violin.
These marks aren't for John at all, neither of them. They're Sherlock's alone, permanent symbols beneath her skin, as if she's taken his fingerprints, the pathways of his neurons, and distilled them into calligraphy. John gets a ring, and Sherlock gets this. No one else will ever see these, and that's more than enough. More then he ever allowed himself to hope.
Sherlock runs his fingertips down her spine, stopping where the bridge would rest, wanting nothing more than to play her. Her skin trembles delicately at his touch. Sherlock thinks of needles, and of wire, and wonders if she's mentioned it to John yet.
“John,” he says, not turning away from the sight before them. “I need you to fuck her for me, right this instant, as I'm not allowed strenuous activity. And I will need to watch.” Sarah turns her head, and he can see her cheeks curve up into a smile.
“Yeah,” John says, voice unsteady. He's probably half-hard already. “Yeah, I think I can manage that.”
***
Sarah could have known Sherlock wouldn't be able to just watch.
She's atop John, out of regard for her still-healing skin, and when she leans forward, her hair tumbling over one shoulder, she feels Sherlock's calloused fingertips against the nape of her neck. Fingering technique, she thinks nonsensically, and starts to giggle against John's mouth as he breaks apart below her.
Sherlock's nails catch and drag all the way down her spine, the delicious sting of it wrenching her own orgasm out of her, abrupt and shockingly intense. “Jesus,” she pants, collapsing over John's chest. I'll have marks from that, she thinks. Four parallel lines, like strings. She shivers a little.
John pushes at her, wanting to clean up, and she tumbles to the side, clumsy but cautious of her new ink. She watches John pad to the bathroom on unsteady legs, admiring the view before turning her attention to Sherlock. He has one hand curled atop his stomach, near but not touching his still-hard cock. She trails her fingers up the line of his leg.
“Have we been neglecting you?” she asks, only half in jest. She wraps her hand around him and he hisses.
“You'll make up for it,” he grits between his teeth. “I have faith in your - ah - abilities.”
Sarah licks up the inside of his other thigh. “Do you?” she asks against his skin. “I don't think I've ever heard you say that without being sarcastic before.”
“I do,” he says when her mouth reaches the crease of his hip. “I do. Please-”
That's all she needs to hear. She swallows him to the root just as she feels John's weight dip the mattress, and between the two of them, they exceed his expectations.
***
If John were to be perfectly honest, Sarah's family scares him a little. Her mother keeps making terribly awkward jokes all the time, and her uncle is as tall as Sherlock but as big around as two Mike Stamfords, except it's all muscle.
John's also pretty sure that her Uncle Victor has at least one unregistered firearm hidden in his house. Admittedly, he can't really throw stones on that front. He'd really just prefer to not get shot by his fiancée's relatives, if it's all the same. Especially not the one who'll be giving Sarah away at the wedding, as her father passed on when she was just a girl.
Meanwhile, Sherlock is on his very best behaviour. It is... really unnerving. He smiles and laughs and tells stupid stories that aren't even a little true (well, John really hopes the one about Anderson's unnatural love of dinosaurs isn't true), and half of Sarah's relatives are in love with him in minutes. Including the blokes.
Again, John hasn't any leg to stand on, but it's irritating nonetheless.
“Keep this up,” John says when they get a moment to themselves, “and you'll be fending off their advances for the rest of our lives.”
Sherlock grimaces eloquently. “Well then, let's hope Moriarty makes it quick.”
But there's no sign of the villain, and that makes everything worse. “Maybe we were a little too thorough,” Sarah whispers to John.
“No such thing,” he whispers back. In fact, he suspects that their thoroughness has deterred Moriarty - provoked him, certainly, but the reprisal won't come here. John can feel the premonition creeping up his spine the way it did in Afghanistan, the anticipation of delayed attack. War is as psychological as anything else, and this thing with Moriarty can't be described using any other analogy.
All right, maybe chess.
But John doesn't say this aloud because then Sherlock will tell him that he's being clichéd, and turn back around to charm Sarah's gran. Besides, if this is chess, then Moriarty and Sherlock are the opposing kings, making Sarah and John what? Pawns? Bishops? Knights?
I'm probably a knight, John admits, and Sarah a bishop, the way she thinks in angles. She's off to greet another cousin - bloody hell, how many is that now? Eight? - and she beckons for John and Sherlock to join her.
Sherlock's there first, his hand in the small of Sarah's back as he leans in to introduce himself to the girl, who can't even be old enough to have graduated university, by the look of her. And... three, two, one, there. Now he's got her, John thinks, strolling over to join them. Oh, they're all doomed, every one of my future in-laws, and they don't even know it.
He's glad that most of his own family live far enough away that they couldn't make it. It's just Harry over in the corner, trying to pull the waitress carrying a champagne tray, and two aunts, one uncle, and his cousin George, looking lost in the sea of Sawyers.
Sherlock hears John coming and steps aside to sling his other arm over John's shoulders. “Ah, John, good. Have you met the delightful Tina yet?” John reaches forward to shake her hand, exchanging pleasantries, and Sherlock murmurs almost inaudibly in his ear, “Keep an eye on your watch, she's got sticky fingers.”
Doomed, John thinks, grinning broadly as if the whole world is just marvellous. It is his engagement party, after all, and he's the luckiest man in the world to have Sarah. He gives her a fond look, and her responding smile is a little strained.
Sherlock's hand is still at the small of her back, John realises.
Right over her still-healing tattoos. It must be driving her up the wall, that kind of provocation. John doesn't pretend to understand her predilections, but he's willing to supervise and reap the rewards - under the right circumstances.
For the love of tiny baby Jesus, John thinks to himself, of course he's being inappropriate with Sarah right under everyone's noses, and makes an excuse to drag her away from the insanity of it all. They tuck themselves away in an alcove behind a potted plant.
“You didn't tell me you had nine million relatives,” he says breathlessly. “Did you have to invite them all?”
Sarah throws up her hands. “Mum got the phone tree going, for all I know. Once she gets started, I can't do a thing to stop her. Why d'you think I told Anthea to book such a large place?” She laughs, a little disbelievingly. “I didn't expect to fill it, but this is what happens when you're an only child in a family that usually counts by dozens.”
“Is this all of them?” John asks hopefully.
She glances around. “Mm, no. Some of them stayed home with their kids, I think.”
“Oh, hell,” John says vehemently. “Can't we just elope?”
“I wouldn't object, at this rate,” Sarah says. “We'd save loads on the reception, but Mum would kill us.”
John turns to thump his head against the wall. He's just grateful they decided to keep this party to family.
***
“Any sign?” John asks Sherlock, after Victor had led the whole crowd in a chorus of champagne toasts.
“No,” Sherlock replies, his eyes doing a slow flicker across the room. “I think there are too many innocent bystanders for him to go after without hurting me, as well.”
“Isn't it supposed to be - you know what, no, never mind.” John pinches the bridge of his nose between thumb and forefinger for a moment. “That's...not good.”
“I'm simply pointing out his probable chain of logic.”
“And you understand it - that's what bothers me.”
“Someone has to, in order to stop him,” Sherlock replies irritably. John wonders if he's having cravings, or if he's tired of shamming normal for all these simple people. Either way, he has an easy solution.
“Want to disappear for a minute?” John asks.
“God, yes,” Sherlock breathes, and drags him off to a disused coat room. John runs his fingers through his hair, strokes his face, and steadies Sherlock's hands when they tremble, fumbling with belt and zip.
“Shh,” John says, and pulls him to the floor.
***
They straighten their clothes and John pops his head out into the darkened corridor to make sure their exit's clear.
He finds himself staring down the barrel of a gun and draws back, slamming the door closed.
“Uncle Victor?” Sherlock drawls, slouching against the door frame with the loose-limbed grace of an endorphin high.
John doesn't get to answer. “Come out, come out, we know where you are,” a familiar voice sing-songs. Sherlock's entire body stiffens “Unless you're having another go. I didn't think guns were your kink, but I'll let you toss a quick one off if you need to. It'll be your last time together, after all.”
Sherlock steps to the door and flings it wide. “Moriarty,” he greets, cool as a cucumber, and steps into the circle of armed thugs. John follows, eyes taking practised tally of their opponents and finding an unpleasant sum.
Also, they have Sarah.
***
“So,” Moriarty begins, rubbing his hands together in theatrical pantomime. “Who wants to start? It's been ever so long since we've all had a chance to catch up.”
“Our families,” John says, and sees Sarah winces behind the hand covering her mouth.
“I put them all to sleep,” Moriarty answers, “gassed the whole lot of them while Sarah was in the ladies'. I wanted some quiet for our reunion, and we can't have that with the teeming masses crawling all over the place.”
He gestures idly, and Sarah's freed of the arms pinning her in place. She's shoved forwards to join Sherlock and John, and she laces her hands in theirs, giving Moriarty a defiant glare as she does so. I'm going to marry the hell out of that woman when this is all over, John thinks with pride.
“However did you manage, Sarah Sawyer,” Moriarty continues. “Your mother widowed, only your uncle and his brood to turn to. It must have been like getting lost in a cloud of starlings.” He rocks on his heels a little. “Did you not get enough attention from your surrogate father figure, Sarah, is that-”
“Oh yes, you've figured me all out,” she spits, her hand tightening on John's to prevent him from doing something foolish and violent and final. “Probably both of us, John and I. All but why Sherlock likes us better than you.”
Moriarty's face flickers into fury for a moment before he schools his features. “Now I regret that I only used sleeping gas,” he replies. “I should have exterminated them like a basket of kittens. Families like yours make me regret not following through on my childhood dream of sterilising the population via the water supply.”
“How did you get past the defences?” Sherlock says, drawing Moriarty's attention in a breath, stalling for time. John could kiss him for it, but that would likely end everything all at once.
“Oh, you'll like this one,” Moriarty says. “Anthea. ...or, you know, whatever her real name is. I've had her phone tapped since she stole my girlfriend. It was very rude of her, and she doesn't seem to have learned from your fine and generous example.” He sighs. “I don't mind sharing-”
“Yes you do,” Sherlock interrupts.
“All right, I do, but I wouldn't turn down a second participant if it were her,” Moriarty admits. “She looks like she would break just like a china doll once I found the right pressure point. And it would be so much fun searching for it.”
John can taste bile in the back of his throat, and Sarah's hand is clutching his with bruising force. She's the only thing anchoring him, keeping the haze of rage from blanking his mind entirely. He squeezes back with numb fingers.
“And speaking of sharing,” Moriarty says with relish, “I think it's about time we test that generosity of yours.”
“What,” John grates out. He knows that Moriarty wants Sherlock, for reasons John won't think about unless he wants to crack entirely. But what does he mean, 'test'?
“Not talking to you, Johnny boy,” Moriarty says, not even looking at him, eyes locked on Sherlock. “See, we have less than two minutes - yes, I've been paying attention - before Mycroft's people come pouring in, and a decision needs to be made before then. I'll walk away with one of you, and you get to decide which.”
“And what if I say no,” Sherlock says.
“I wasn't talking to you, either,” Moriarty says, and those cold, cold shark's eyes swivel to face Sarah. “You, Miss Sawyer, will have the privilege.” John feels his stomach hollow out. “Pick one for me to take when I go. I'll leave the other, won't bother you again. Fair deal, don't you think?”
“Fuck you,” she spits. “What if I say no?”
“Then I kill you all, and leave your bodies in a lot of very small pieces as a scavenger hunt across London for your families to find. You have sixty seconds left, by the way.”
Sherlock takes a quick breath as Sarah looks to John. He knows what Moriarty is hoping for - Sarah will choose John to stay with her, leaving Sherlock to handle Moriarty. He'd run circles around the horrible little wanker, but end up dead eventually. So her best option is to thwart him, buy some time so that Sherlock will have the freedom to end this, once and for all.
It's all right, really. John can do this, he'd suffer anything for either of them, let alone both. Sarah's smile is soft, and apologetic, and he nods to her in reassurance. I'll be fine, he wants to say. I've got training, and experience, and I can hold out till you come for me.
She nods back, and turns to Moriarty. “Take me,” she says firmly, and John's whole body locks up.
“Sarah-!” Sherlock hisses, but she doesn't look at him, doesn't look at either of them as she drops their hands and steps forward.
“No, you stupid bitch,” Moriarty snaps, nostrils flaring, “You're to pick one of them.”
“You only said 'one of us,' and I've made my choice. Take me, or get caught by Mycroft's men as you try to kill us in what little time is left. I doubt we'll make it easy for you.” And, Jesus, but she's radiant in her defiance, glaring their captor down.
“Fine,” Moriarty snaps, and gestures to his men.
“No! Sarah, no!” Sherlock is shouting now, frantic, but the butt of a gun crashes against his temple and he falls to the carpet. John reaches out to Sarah, snags one arm as a thug grabs the other. She kisses him, tasting like salt; one of them is crying, it doesn't matter which.
“We'll find you,” he says against her mouth, not a promise but a statement of fact. “We will.”
“Of course,” she whispers back, “of course you will,” as she's swept out of his grasp. His instincts kick in and he fights to follow her, the crunch of bone beneath his knuckles and blood on his face less important than the ferocious need to keep her face in sight.
But there are too many of them, and John gets knocked to the floor beside Sherlock with a blow that sends his brain spinning in his skull. His stomach heaves, and it's all he can do to keep it from emptying its contents all over the carpet.
Mycroft arrives right on schedule, but still too late.
***
Sherlock jolts to awareness, seeing John's worried face above him, and the first thing he thinks is, I'm going to kill Moriarty. He's going to chase Moriarty to the very ends of the earth, and they are going to die fighting each other.
He knows there's no actual cliff over which the sea pours into the sky, but it's a pleasant image, jumping from it and pulling Moriarty along. They would fall forever, starving of asphyxiating in the vacuum if they didn't strangle each other first. Two mortal enemies, locked together in eternal struggle, spinning through the void. Sherlock has enough rage in him for that, right now.
But that would leave John alone again. Which is unacceptable.
“Sarah,” he says instead.
“We'll find Moriarty,” John says, as if he's read Sherlock's mind, “and we'll kill him, and we'll bring Sarah home, safe and sound,
That's not how it's going to happen, Sherlock thinks. But he doesn't say it aloud, because when John went missing, Sarah taught him how to pretend. So he pretends, and unconsciousness drags him back under.
When Sherlock dreams, he dreams of falling, and of the roar of water in his ears.
- END -
(of this installment, series TBC)
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