Sherlock Fanfiction: Revisionist

[saki101]

Author: saki101
Title: Revisionist
A gift for: elanorofcastile
Characters/Pairing: John/Sherlock
Category: Slash
Rating: Mature to Explicit
Warnings: dub/con vibe
Word Count: ~10K
Summary: What if Sherlock met John when he was training at Bart’s?
Author's Notes: Thank you dear beta; your input and tutelage make everything I write better. All shortcomings, not surprisingly, are mine. (Written for the Sherlockmas 2012 exchange.)


Revisionist

High above Bart’s Rare Books Room, John picked up a file from the floor of an alcove, checked the title and eased it back onto the shelf where it belonged. “I spent a lot of time up here,” he said.

“I know,” Sherlock replied. “I had hoped it would occupy you, soothe you perhaps.” John snorted. “I realise that wasn’t quite the effect,” Sherlock said, reaching above John for a thick volume.

“When Harry and I were children," John said, "our parents would take us down to the beach in the summer; I used to play pinball in the arcades on the rainy days.”

“Were you any good?” Sherlock asked, opening the book, leafing rapidly through the pages.

“Very good; but there would always come that moment when the silver ball sped between the flippers and there was nothing I could do about it,” John replied.

“Excellent hand-eye coordination, fast reflexes,” Sherlock murmured, eyes skimming down a page.

“I felt like that metal ball when you were gone.” John sat on the floor, leaned back against the bookshelves. “I hated whoever was operating the flippers.” Sherlock glanced down for an instant. “Hope, melancholy, patience, wonder, despair. When I woke in the morning, I never knew which emotion would be lit up by the end of the day.” Sherlock handed John the book, reached for the next one on the shelf. John settled the book on his lap, smoothed the open pages. “On the days when I thought there was no miracle to be had, I used to think about how it would have been if we had met here years ago, what an opportunity that would have been. How we could have had all that time.”

“You mightn’t have liked me back then,” Sherlock replied, running his finger down the index of the book he was holding.

John huffed. “More like you wouldn’t have had any time for me,” he said. “I definitely would have had time for you.” Sherlock passed John the second book and pulled out a third.

“Why do you think so?” Sherlock asked. He found the article he wanted quickly and gave the book to John.

John tipped his head back, watched Sherlock stretch for an even higher shelf. “I was up here reading what you’d written, day after day. I could tell your moods from your handwriting. I followed your mind as it dissected ideas, abandoned trains of thought, returned to them months, or even years, later.” John took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Back then, you were writing on subjects about which I know a fair bit. I could keep up rather well.” John opened his eyes and caught Sherlock’s glance. “And if at first I couldn’t, I had time to think it through or do background reading until I could catch up. I always did.” John steadied the books on his lap with one hand, shifted his legs under their weight and swallowed. “I chased your mind through here,” he said, arm sweeping an arc through the air towards the bookshelves opposite him. “And that’s what you wanted most, wasn’t it?” John stared at the packed rows of notebooks and files. “Someone to fall in love with the contours of your mind rather than lusting after the long lines of your body.”

Sherlock let his hand fall without grabbing another book. “You considered this very carefully,” he said.

John nodded, “And in great detail.”

“I see,” Sherlock said. “You worked out all the particulars in your head.”

“No, I worked them out in print,” John clarified. “And I would reread and revise them.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows lifted. He noted the slight curving motion of John's hand, as though he were caressing something. “And I thought you were working on your article.”

John smiled. “You see, even though you were checking up on me, you didn’t know everything I was doing.”

Sherlock tilted his head, training his gaze on John. “Clearly not. But I searched your computer.”

John’s smile grew. “Flash drive,” he said. “I was more worried about Mycroft getting hold of it than you. Although there were times when I couldn't believe it, I hoped you might be able to read it someday.”

“You thought it might appeal to me?” Sherlock asked, dropping to a crouch, his eyes almost level with John’s. “Where might this flash drive be now?”

John tilted a hip and slid his hand into his trouser pocket. There was a faint jingle as he held up his key ring.

“In plain sight,” Sherlock said, reaching for it. “Very good, Dr Watson.”

John drew his hand back, closed his fist around the device. “Thank you, Mr Holmes,” he said. “High praise coming from you.”

“Yes, it is,” Sherlock replied. “I have some tests to run in the lab, using these protocols.” He tapped the books on John’s lap. John shifted again beneath them. “You could bring your laptop and your flash drive and read to me while I work.”

John met Sherlock’s eyes. “You think you’d be able to concentrate?”

“I often had a look at your blog while I was experimenting,” Sherlock answered.

“This is a bit different from my blog entries,” John said, adjusting his hold around the flash drive.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked towards the movement and back to John’s face. “Let’s see then, shall we?” he said. Sherlock scooped the books off John’s lap, stood and was out the door in one smooth motion. John grabbed his laptop bag and followed.

***

“I saw him in the hallway today," John said as he set his tray down in the canteen next to Mike.

“Who?"

“Fellow I noticed in our biochemistry lecture, last week. The one who pointed out the error in Campbell’s diagram," John said.

“Oh, Sherlock. Yeah, he does that regularly," Mike replied.

“I saw it, too, and I’m sure others did, but who was going to tell the lecturer?" John asked, before biting into his sandwich.

“Sherlock. I suppose it’s one of his functions," Mike said.

“So you know him? He barely looks old enough to be an undergraduate," John said.

“He is young," Mike agreed. "I see him in the Rare Books Room now and then. A lot of his research is archived there; his published works are mostly in the main library. He’ll talk about them if you ask the right questions." Mike added. “Not much for chitchat though.”

“Wait. He’s published already?" John said.

Mike nodded and tucked into his pasta. "The stuff that isn’t published is even more interesting that what is. Not all of it’s accessible to students. It’s up in the restricted section, but since I’ve been working in the archives during holidays, I’ve shelved some of it. His doctoral thesis, for example, is on the effects of several rare poisonous plants on the human nervous system."

“OK, that’s more than a little amazing. Still, I’d’ve thought Campbell would be annoyed. I was surprised when he just smiled," John mused.

“Campbell was one of his tutors when he was a boy," Mike said. "I’ve read a couple papers they co-authored. Sherlock researches connections you wouldn’t imagine existed.”

***

“You liked those papers?” Sherlock interrupted to ask. He was shaking a stoppered test tube while reaching past John for an empty one. The liquid turned a brilliant blue.

“I did,” John replied. “Particularly the idea that we each have a unique chemistry, as distinctive as a fingerprint.

Sherlock’s eyebrow went up. “You know rather more about that now. And you’ve included Mike. Interesting,” he remarked, suspending one of the test tubes over a flame.

“Shh now. You’re disrupting the flow of the story,” John said.

Sherlock smiled and emptied a tiny spoonful of white crystals onto a scale.

***

John set down his tea. “I can’t picture Campbell teaching schoolchildren. He barely tolerates the trainee doctors' questions,” John said.

Mike stirred the sugar in his coffee. “Campbell’s only taught at Bart’s, started straight after his own training. He tutored Sherlock privately before Sherlock went up to Cambridge. A lot of the faculty here did, but mostly his grandfather,” Mike explained, reaching for his pudding. John raised an eyebrow and caught a bit of salad that had escaped his sandwich. “Dr Arthur C. Holmes, the archivist, is who I work for in the library, sort of the embodiment of the professor emeritus. Sherlock’s his grandson. One of them,” Mike explained. John kept chewing. “You haven’t noticed the name around here?” Mike asked. John shook his head. “Have a look,” Mike suggested. “Read some of the plaques under the portraits or the names carved into the walls.”

John tilted his head, glanced at the clock over the dining hall’s doors. “Damn. I’ll be late meeting Harry,” he said.

“Haven’t found another place?” Mike asked.

John shook his head again. “I’m stuck with Harry until I locate something I can afford.” John saw Mike’s eyebrows go up. “Yeah, I know it’s not great, but things have been fairly calm and hopefully, it won’t be for long,” John said, gulping down the last of his tea and standing.

“A few of us are meeting up at the Rat and Anchor at eight,” Mike said as John slung his bag over his shoulder.

“Can’t tonight, I’m afraid,” John replied.

“Date with pretty Jennifer?” Mike asked, as John lifted his tray.

“No. Pretty Jenny gave me the heave-ho for some bloke in obstetrics,” John sighed. “Seems she prefers them tall.”

“Maybe Jenny’s not the only one,” Mike said.

John pushed his chair in with his foot, raised a finger to his lips. “Harry got me to agree to help one of her friends move house tonight. It’s the second friend she’s loaned me out to and I haven’t even been there two weeks.” John shook his head and frowned. “I need to find somewhere else soon.”

***

The librarian slid a half-sheet of paper towards John. “Just fill in your name, ID number, the authors and/or titles of the documents you’re requesting.”

John glanced at the form and back up at the young woman. “I can’t just browse the shelves and select what I want?”

The woman pushed a longer form towards John. “You can apply for reading privileges in the Rare Books Room if you’re doing extended research. If it’s just two or three titles, the specific request form is quicker.”

“Right, then. Let’s start with the short one,” John said, rapidly filling out the authors and putting the subject on the lines for the titles. When he glanced up, the librarian was smiling at him.

She turned the paper around and tapped it with a long nail. “These articles are on the mezzanine in the periodical section, here in the main library,” she said, pointing behind John. “It will probably take awhile to get authorisation for the thesis. Check back in a few days. If you leave your phone number, I could call you, if it’s authorised sooner.”

John smiled at her. She had dimples and a fair skin that showed a flush easily. So there, Jennifer. John leaned further over the counter to write out his number. “Thank you…” John tilted his head to read the librarian’s name tag, but her hair obscured most of it.

“Sarah,” the librarian said, brushing her hair back over her shoulder. “Thank you, Sarah,” John replied and headed for the spiral stairs to the mezzanine.

***

Sherlock cast a sideways glance at John, pressing his lips together and saying nothing.

John’s eyes remained on his monitor; he continued to read.

***

Sherlock was seated at the end of a semicircular row in the lecture hall, staring at his phone when Mike stopped next to him, grabbed John’s arm to halt him, too.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone? I can’t get a signal in here,” Sherlock said, without looking up.

“Mine never works here either,” Mike replied. “Sorry.”

John pulled out his mobile, checked the signal bars. “Mine’s working,” he said, holding it out.

Sherlock glanced at the phone and up at John with eyes rendered an electric blue by the fluorescent lighting. Like a hypnotist’s. The eyes blinked. John felt the phone being lifted from his hand. Sherlock turned away and tapped out a text.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, handing the mobile back. He checked his own phone. “Got to run,” he explained as he slipped out of his seat and past Mike and John. “I’ll text you the address of the flat, John,” he added over his shoulder.

John stared at the door swinging shut. “You told him about me?” John asked.

“Haven’t had a chance,” Mike replied. “I went down to the morgue this morning and Molly...Do you know Molly?" Mike held his hand near his forehead, “Pretty eyes, long brown hair. Wants to specialise in pathology?” John shook his head. “Anyway, Molly lives in a big block of flats, so I was telling her about you looking for a bedsit in case she knew of any, when Sherlock swooped in and swept her off to show him the body of a drowning victim.”

“Did she?” John asked as his phone pinged. Mike shook his head.

Tonight at 7. 221B Baker Street.

“That’s a bit far,” John murmured, staring at the text.

Mike craned forward to see. “I think that’s Sherlock's new address,” he supplied.

John looked back at the door.

***

Sherlock turned off the burner, grasped the tube with a pair of tongs. “You weren’t angry at me this time,” he observed.

“I was younger. Less scarred,” John said. “Shh.”

Sherlock watched John, but his attention remained fixed on his computer screen.

***

The chaotic jumble of half-opened boxes and eclectic artefacts stopped John a few steps into the sitting room. Everywhere his eyes lit, some item told him something more about its owner. John patted his back pocket. The paper he had found in Sherlock’s thesis, with the initials, SH, in the bottom righthand corner, crinkled. John's photocopy of the hand-written page of musical notation was safely stored in his laptop bag.

“This could be very nice…” John began, gaze still sweeping the room.

“I could tidy up a bit,” Sherlock said, gathering a few papers and stabbing a knife through them on the mantelpiece.

“…for me,” John finished, running his finger along a framed print of the morphology of the emperor moth, enthroned in one of the chairs. “It's fascinating.”

“Do you know you're saying that out loud?” Sherlock asked, tossing a pillow onto the sofa and turning back towards John.

As he did, John saw it. He pointed at the music stand. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. “I found this in…a library book,” John said, pulling the folded paper from his pocket and holding it out.

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curled as he plucked the paper from John’s hand. “Did you play it?” he asked.

“I haven’t practiced clarinet since school,” John said. He glanced at Sherlock, saw him waiting. John looked at his shoes, then the sofa, unable to repress his smile. “I gave it a try.”

“Good,” Sherlock said, handing the paper back. He was closer than a moment before. It made him seem taller as he stared down at John. The eyes were darker in the dimmer light, greener than in the lecture hall, a fleck of brown in one, the irises ringed with a deeper hue, but the effect was the same. They held John in place. “Practice more. I scored that part for clarinet. The violin part’s on the stand.” Sherlock stepped away.

John took in a breath; there was a sweet trace in the air. Mrs Hudson moved a dressing gown, revealing a violin case on the sofa. “You don’t play the clarinet?” John asked.

“Sherlock, you should be more careful with your things,” she chided fondly, carrying the case to the table.

“Obviously,” Sherlock said and John wasn’t sure if the remark was to him or Mrs Hudson.

John followed her little efforts at straightening before looking back towards Sherlock. “How did you know…”

“That you’re reading my thesis? I had to authorise it. That you play the clarinet? Reference letter when you applied to university. That you would have reached Chapter Nine by now? You’ve returned the Campbell articles and taken out several others I wrote with Bart staff," Sherlock rattled off as he stared out the window. "I’m quite good with databases,” he added, turning away from the glass and narrowing his eyes at John. "You’ve been studying me, Dr Watson.”

John didn’t reply. Instead, he studied the face regarding him, the high cheekbones under the pale skin, the wayward curls, the extraordinary shape of the mouth, the mesmerising eyes. Dark lashes lowered over them and John took a breath. He couldn’t deny the researching, but he could make up some academic excuse for it.

“There’s another room upstairs, if you’ll be needing two,” Mrs Hudson interjected into the silence.

John felt his cheeks warming at the implication. He gestured around the room, “Sherlock needs lots of space for his things.”

“So, you’ll be taking it, then?" she enquired. "When will you be moving in?”

“You don’t have much at your sister’s,” Sherlock stated, with a small smile. “I asked Mike,” he clarified. “We can take a taxi there now and collect it. You can bring what you’ve stored at Mike’s place tomorrow.”

John nodded, making a quick calculation as to where Harry was likely to be at this hour. “All right,” he said,

***

“No indignant protestations?” Sherlock remarked, adding drops of blue liquid into a murky mixture cooling in a flask.

“It’s fiction. I can correct my mistakes,” John said.

“I didn’t even need to seduce you with danger,” Sherlock murmured.

“I hadn’t just encountered you. The seduction was already well underway,” John replied.

“And who was seducing whom?” Sherlock asked.

“That is a subject which will be explored,” John said. Sherlock’s eyebrow flickered.

***

John had calculated correctly and Harry was out. A suitcase, a box of textbooks and a couple bags of shoes and toiletries were on the pavement a half-hour later. John left a note on the kitchen counter with the spare set of keys, loaded his freshly-washed linens into the dryer and felt his muscles unwind as he shut the door to the flat behind them.

In the taxi, Sherlock summed up John and Harry’s relationship. John had seen Sherlock glance about the tidy rooms, browse the titles on the bookshelves, open a cupboard or two.

“Did you research her as well?” John asked.

“No,” Sherlock replied, looking out the taxi window. “I observed.”

“What?” John asked. “Every surface is polished, each thing in its place. She’s like that in person, too, the façade immaculate. Not so tidy underneath.”

“And you haven’t taken a free breath since you moved in,” Sherlock murmured, watching John’s reflection in the dark glass.

“How could you possibly know that?” John asked. Sherlock kept his eyes on the streets sliding by outside and explained.

“I didn’t realise I tensed up that much just unlocking the door,” John said. “It was good of her to invite me to stay ‘til I found another place, good of her to give me her old phone…” His voice trailed off. “It’s amazing that you could observe all that.”

Sherlock turned to John. “That’s not what people usually say when I explain,” Sherlock remarked.

“Then they’re idiots,” John replied and he realised that he liked the crescent-shaped lines that appeared by Sherlock's mouth when he smiled.

***

The bedroom window was open a crack, the cool air clearing away the last of the stuffiness of an unused room. John burrowed deeper between the fresh sheets, beneath the warm blankets. He wasn’t sure he would be able to fall asleep with Sherlock moving about downstairs. John adjusted the pillows and chuckled. There had been an American boy in his tutor group at school who had shared, in great detail, the system of rating one’s amorous progress using a baseball analogy. John wondered how setting up house with the person you fancied on the same day you first spoke to them would be described.

***

“A grand slam,” Sherlock suggested, as he added several drops of the blue liquid to the Petri dish in front of him, several drops of the murky liquid to the one beside it and a few drops of the combination to a third dish.

“I thought you were going to say it was juvenile.”

“Well, it is, but I respond in the spirit of the narrative. I believe that is what the extension of the metaphor would be.”

“How would you know this?” John asked.

“I took a case for the owner of a baseball team,” Sherlock said. “I spent some time in New York one spring.”

“Ah,” John said.

***

There were several thumps, a loud thud and a moan. John was out of his bed and down the stairs in a flash, emergency medical response reflexive. “Sherlock!” John called.

Only the lights in the kitchen were on. “Emetic,” Sherlock whispered.

“Christ,” John said and crouched by the kitchen table that Sherlock was half under on his knees. “Where?”

“Cupboard above the toaster,” Sherlock hissed between clenched teeth.

“You sure?” John asked, already rummaging through the cupboard with the tea and coffee in it. “Got it. Vomiting’s not always the right course.”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, head on the floor, eyes squeezed shut, arms around his stomach. “Quickly.”

John checked the concentration and unscrewed the cap. “One mouthful,” he said. “Not more.”

Sherlock swigged and swallowed. A spasm contorted his face and he rolled onto his side.

John opened the drawer under the oven and yanked out a large pot. Sherlock leaned up on one elbow and half filled it.

John held Sherlock’s shoulders. “Do you know what it is?” he asked. Sherlock nodded and threw up again. John dragged a tea towel off the counter and wiped the sweat off Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock heaved once more.

Sherlock lay on the couch, his skin green-grey. The empty and rinsed pot sat next to him on the floor. “Text Lestrade for me,” Sherlock said softly.

“What?” John asked as he walked in from the bathroom with a wet flannel and a clean sheet. One went on Sherlock’s forehead, the other over the rest of him.

Sherlock gestured weakly. “Text,” he repeated.

“OK.” John picked up Sherlock’s phone from the coffee table. “Lestrade, you said?” Sherlock nodded. John scrolled through the contacts to Lestrade’s name. “What am I saying?”

“Not necessarily food,” Sherlock dictated and stopped to catch his breath. “Could be a stamp, an envelope, lipstick.” He paused again to breathe. “Highly concentrated. Use extreme caution.” He stopped again, waved his fingers at John. “Send,” he whispered.

“It’s gone,” John confirmed and set the mobile next to the newspaper on the table. He looked at the photo under the headline about a spate of poisonings being investigated by Scotland Yard, saw DI Lestrade’s name below a small photo. John looked back at Sherlock, saw the grey tint fading from his cheeks, the muscles relaxing around his eyes and exhaled.

When the morning sun crept past the curtain, Sherlock had rolled onto his back with one arm over his eyes, and one foot on John’s hip. John was on the floor, wedged between the coffee table and the sofa, curled up in his duvet.

***

“You saved my life the first night again.”

“Well, some things I got right the first time,” John replied.

***

“So what exactly is it you do?” John asked, later in the morning as he handed Sherlock a cup of weak tea.

Sherlock dropped his other foot onto the floor and managed to sit up. He tried holding the mug of tea, but John had to take it back. John blew across the surface, held it up to Sherlock’s lips. He took a small sip and let his head fall back against the sofa cushions. John set the mug down.

“What do you think?”

“I’d say private detective, but the police don’t work with private detectives,” John answered. “More?” John gestured towards the mug.

“Not yet,” Sherlock said. “You’re right, they don’t work with private detectives. I’m a consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job. So when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me.” Sherlock closed his eyes, caught his breath again.

“Do you almost kill yourself regularly?” John asked. Sherlock waggled his fingers. “Tea?"

“Mm.” Sherlock lifted his head and John brought the tea to his lips. Sherlock managed a larger sip. “I try not to do that too often,” he added when John took the cup away.

“Drink tea or get yourself killed?” John asked.

“Funny,” Sherlock murmured and motioned for more tea.

***

John's mobile buzzed on the nighttable.

Meet me at Angelo’s at 8. SH

Are you all right?

Yes. At NSY. Should be done by 8. SH

Where’s Angelo’s?

The box of matches in your jacket pocket has the address on it. All moved in? SH

Yes.

Good. SH

John set the phone down and felt in his pockets. When he found the small box, he scratched his fingernail over the rough sides, closed his hand around them for a moment, felt the corners dig into his palm. John didn’t take the matches out. He continued unpacking the boxes and suitcases Mike had helped him carry up to his room, stopping from time to time to dip his hand into the pocket of the jacket hanging from the bedpost. He’d touch the matchbox and smile.

In the last box, John found what he was looking for. He took out his clarinet case, unfolded the sheet music and began to play.

***

“A symbol of blind trust,” Sherlock commented.

“Something like that,” John said.

“Love is also characterised as blind,” Sherlock said.

“Love works, too,” John said.

“And blind justice?” Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. “I was trying to imagine what it would have been like not to have been blinkered.”

“Why would you have known yourself better when you were younger?” Sherlock asked.

“Fewer walls erected,” John answered. “Like I said before, fewer scars.”

“Maybe you needed walls to climb over,” Sherlock suggested.

“That’s what all of this is, Sherlock. Me, climbing over very high walls…of time and absence…and my own stubborn blindness,” John replied, rubbing a hand across his face. “Shall I stop reading for a while?”

“No.”

***

John set down the clarinet and flexed his hands. He hadn’t stretched them regularly that way in years and the muscles protested. Surgery required a different precision, but his fingers still remembered the dance over the dark wood. He took the clarinet apart, dried it and nestled it in the worn velvet of its hand-me-down case. He didn’t close the lid, didn’t want to shut it away just yet, the pleasure of replicating the tune, however slowly and clumsily, had been too great. The silver keys winked at him knowingly.

Instead, John shelved his textbooks on the low bookcase next to the window, left Sherlock’s thesis, his biochemistry textbook and his medical dictionary on the nightstand and carried the remaining books downstairs to the sitting room. He left the open box near the shelves by the door, unsure whether or not Sherlock expected to share any space in the sitting room.

***

Sherlock cast a quick look at John, said nothing.

***

The matchbox guided John and at two minutes to eight he stood before the small restaurant, peering through the window panes and not finding Sherlock among the patrons. A taxi stopped behind him. John turned in time to see Sherlock emerge in a flow of perfectly synchronised nerves and muscles. John knew precisely which ones were flexing and contracting beneath the long coat.

***

Holding a test tube up to the light, Sherlock said, “I’m not sure medical knowledge is supposed to be put to such lascivious uses.” He glanced sideways at John’s profile. John was leaning forward over his laptop, looking past it, remembering an image instead of reading a description of one.

Sherlock slotted the test tube into a rack and teased, “I didn’t know you admired my coordination so much.” He lowered the flame under a crucible.

“Yeah, you do. The way you walked towards me at Bart’s that first day, the way you swirled back from the door. Every move you made was a display of strength and grace.” John was still looking into the middle distance. “You say you disavow your body, but you don’t. You groom it with care and present it with style, almost teasing, but not exactly. I didn’t get that the first time, the intelligence behind your eyes distracted me. I took you at your word that the flesh was just transport and suppressed my attraction to it. But it isn’t just transport, it’s a mirror of your mind. In repose, it lies ready to strike. In motion, it’s the orchestration of a million impulses, so like the way you re-order a million observations until you find meaning in them.”

“Your view may be unique, John,” Sherlock said, but he breathed in deeply and stood straighter.

John shook his head. “Following behind you gave me a lot of opportunity to observe. Having an interest, even one I didn’t admit, sharpened my awareness. That was so clear in retrospect. I'd seen the heads turn, the eyes follow. Not everyone, no, but so many.” John paused again. “But you didn’t let them touch and when I first touched…I couldn’t believe I could finally touch… had not…really had not understood how I had been yearning to trace those sinews, to feel them move beneath me…” John’s voice grew faint.

Sherlock slid his hand along the lab table towards John, stopping short of touching.

“We had barely begun, Sherlock. I had been so late in understanding.” John rested his head on his hand. “And then you broke it. Shattered all that grace. Reduced it to bloodied stillness.”

Sherlock had stepped closer, raised his hand. “May I touch you, John?”

John hung his head, swivelled on the lab stool towards Sherlock, but didn’t look up. “I was so, so late.” Sherlock’s hand settled on the back of John’s neck; John dropped his forehead onto Sherlock’s chest. “I hate him so much. You don’t know,” John whispered.

Sherlock glanced towards the ceiling. “I think I have an idea,” Sherlock said.

John felt the motion and snorted.

“Would you rather not read any more now?” Sherlock asked.

John inhaled. “No. I want you to hear how I fixed everything.”

“All right,” Sherlock agreed, moving away. He picked up a bottle and poured something clear in the crucible.

“Although you really have disrupted the narrative terribly,” John said, scrubbing his hand over his face and through his hair. Sherlock nodded slowly and John didn’t know whether it was about the chemical reaction or his last remark. “Right." John took another deep breath. "Back to Angelo’s.”

***

“Perfect timing,” Sherlock said, opening the door, greeting the waiter and settling into the table by the window. John followed suit.

“Sherlock!” an older man called, extending his hand to Sherlock. “Anything you want, on the house, for you and your date.” John’s heart thudded, but he managed a polite smile. “This man got me off a murder charge,” the man said to John. It wasn’t easy to process information like that, John found.

“This is Angelo,” Sherlock said by way of introduction and John tried to focus on the exchange, the explanation of what Sherlock had done, shook the hand proffered in the midst of the words. John heard the praise being modestly turned aside, saw the wry smile.

“You’ve helped a lot of people,” John commented when Angelo had bustled off after one more expression of gratitude and hospitality. He had left a candle burning cheerily on the small table, saying it was more romantic like that. Sherlock shrugged. “How are your abdominal muscles?” John asked.

“You know,” Sherlock said, one hand dropping to rub for a moment.

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d feel strong enough to be out most of the day,” John said. “Do you feel well enough to eat?”

Sherlock scanned the menu. “I suppose I should. The case is over.”

“You don’t eat when you’re on a case?” John asked.

“It slows me down,” Sherlock said. “But the case is finished and anything I ate yesterday is, well.”

“Quite,” John said.

***

“No married-to-my-work speech for me,” Sherlock said.

“No boyfriend/girlfriend interrogation by me to require it,” John said.

“Why?”

“Mrs Hudson, and then Angelo, assuming we were a couple hadn’t suddenly opened a whole new range of ideas for me to respond to bloody awkwardly. Here, I already know I’m pursuing you and I plan to be subtle about it,” John said.

“Like moving in with me right after you meet me,” Sherlock stated.

“Well, that was another thing we did right the first time,” John said.

“Quite.”

***

John slipped into the last row just as Dr Campbell began his lecture. John saw him glance up and slouched lower in his seat. Mike caught John’s eye and John grimaced.

“Everything all right?” Mike asked after the lecture. “Have time for tea?”

“Yeah, sure,” John replied.

“How's the flatshare working out?”

“Great,” John said as they headed down the stairs. “I just haven’t sorted out the commute yet.”

Mike nodded. “It is a bit far.”

“The walk wasn’t too bad from Harry’s flat and my other place was around the corner,” John said as they pushed through the doors to the canteen. “Now it’s either the bus or the tube.”

“Tube’s much faster,” Mike said, grabbing a tray.

“Fifteen minutes on a good day, just one change, but it’s pricy.”

“You have a student card, right?”

John nodded. “I never needed to use it much before.”

“I suppose Sherlock's hours are too irregular to share a taxi...and that'd still be more expensive," Mike mused. "Where is he? I haven’t seen him lately.”

“In Russia, or possibly Belarus,” John said, reluctantly selecting the macaroni and cheese.

“On a case?” Mike said, setting a bowl of soup on his tray.

“So, you know about that?” John asked.

“Been doing it for as long as I’ve known him,” Mike said. “That’s why he’s often down in the morgue, with that fellow from Scotland Yard.

“Lestrade?” John asked.

“You’ve met him?” Mike asked.

“No, but I texted him a while back for Sherlock. He’d figured out something about a poison.”

“Ah, he was in on that one,” Mike said. “Should’ve known.”

“But they didn’t mention him in the paper,” John said.

“He prefers it that way,” Mike replied as he paid for his food. “Doesn’t make the police look that good, does it?”

“No, I suppose not,” John agreed. “But he puts everything he’s got into solving them. Almost poisoned himself the first night I was at Baker Street.”

“Yes, that would be Sherlock. He’s a big believer in hands-on experimentation,” Mike agreed. “I’ve read some of his lab write-ups. He’s often his own guinea pig. He’ll use anyone else around, too, if they’re not careful.”

John raised his eyebrows and Mike looked past him. John turned to see a shapely brunette standing just inside the doors, scanning the crowded canteen. Mike waved to her and she headed towards them, smiling. “Let me introduce you to Aditha,” Mike said and John noticed an expression on Mike’s face he hadn’t seen before.

***

“Here,” Sherlock said, from his reclining position on the sofa. He held something up in one hand.

John strode straight past the couch to the windows and looked out. “I just had a ride in a shiny black car and met your archenemy in a deserted construction site.” He glanced over his shoulder at Sherlock. “Weren’t you due back next week?”

“The case was boring. Was the woman pretty?” Sherlock asked, eyes closed.

“Yeah,” John replied, scanning the street. “What?”

“The woman who asked you to get in the car. He knows what bait to use for some things,” Sherlock said.

“Excuse me?” John said, glancing back at Sherlock again before returning his attention to the window.

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock continued.

“Yes,” John said, turning away from the window. “I refused.”

Sherlock smiled and opened his eyes. “He got that part wrong. Still, you could use the cash. We could have split it. Think it through next time.”

“He knew about my cadet training, my marksmanship scores, my psych evaluation. Things he shouldn’t know,” John said.

“He likes to know everything. Always has, but he fails with me and it’s irritated him since we were children.”

John narrowed his eyes at what was in Sherlock’s hand. “So who is he really? He said he worries about you,” John added, glancing back down at the street.

“He always says that, too,” Sherlock commented, moving his wrist from side to side.

John felt in his jacket for his Oyster card. It was possible that Sherlock had picked his pocket on his way past the sofa. John had already learned that. “You went to school together?” John asked.

“We spent some time under the same roof when we were young,” Sherlock started flipping the card over and over. John found himself distracted by the rhythmic movement of the long fingers. “This is your replacement Oyster card.”

“I haven’t lost my card,” John said. “Got it right here.”

“It doesn’t work anymore,” Sherlock replied.

“I used it this morning,” John insisted, taking the card from Sherlock’s uplifted hand and opening the blue plastic wallet. His photo stared back, his name neatly printed in Sherlock's script beside it.

“You can check tomorrow,” Sherlock said, “on your way to Bart’s.”

***

John slid his card into the slot in the turnstile. The metal bars remained stationary when John pushed against them and the card slid back out. The boy behind John crowded closer. An attendant near the luggage gate motioned to John. John apologised as he squeezed past the people queued behind him, back stiffening, jacket suddenly too warm.

“It’s malfunctioning,” John said. The crank of the stiles turning for the people who had been behind him didn’t escape John’s notice. His neck reddened. The attendant held his hand out for John’s card and opened his mouth to speak. “I have at least five pounds on it,” John added.

“This card has been cancelled,” the attendant explained, trying it on the gate. “Did you report it lost?” John shook his head and glanced at his watch, grateful that he’d planned to stop by the library before his rounds. “I’ll just check to see what’s happened.” The man stepped inside the ticket office and John tried not to look like a miscreant with someone’s stolen card.

The attendant opened the door and motioned for John to step closer. “There’s been a replacement card issued. Haven’t you received it yet?”

John drew the card Sherlock had given him out of his pocket. “This came yesterday,” he said, holding it out. “But I didn’t request it.”

The man withdrew into the ticket booth once more and John strove to ignore the impatient looks of the people manoeuvring past him with suitcases and shopping.

The door opened again, to a smiling face and an extended hand. “Dr Watson, it’s a pleasure to meet you. Don’t worry about your balance; it’s been transferred to the new card.”

John shook the hand. “Oh, well, that’s fine, then,” he said, reaching into his pocket for some notes. “I’ll just top it up a bit, then,” he said.

The man leaned closer. “No need, sir,” he replied. “Sherlock explained that you’re working with him now.” The man’s voice dropped lower. “Heaven knows how long those murders would have continued if he hadn’t identified the gang members.” He shook his head. “It was a horrible business, pushing their rivals off the platforms in front of the incoming trains. And we could never identify them from the CCTV tapes. Hoods, glasses, denim trousers, they could have been anyone. Like phantoms, they were. But Sherlock found them.”

The time slipped John’s mind. “How long ago was this?” he asked.

“Must be four years now. It had gone on for months before Sherlock came down from uni and offered to help.” The attendant’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The police weren’t having any luck at all.”

“I don’t recall reading about this,” John said.

“They were calling them suicides in the papers, until it was all sorted that summer,” the man explained. “He refused any recognition or reward for it, you know, but we convinced him to accept travel passes for himself and any relative or friend he wanted to name. When he came in yesterday, we were so pleased he finally added someone. He doesn’t use his very much,” the man said, handing John back the card.

***

“You’re not turning me into a self-effacing hero, are you, John?” Sherlock asked. “You know my views on heroes.”

“Self-effacing isn’t the first adjective that comes to mind when I think of you, but you never wanted fame.” John sighed. “I brought that on with the blog.”

“I had a blog, too.”

“That ten people read,” John said.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. “And one of them was the homicidal cabbie and another was Moriarty. So it was enough.”

“But Kitty Riley and her ilk wouldn’t have been interested, except for me. Couldn’t have done what they did, couldn’t have been used against you by Moriarty,” John persisted.

“I never cared, John, one way or the other. And I used what they did, and what Moriarty did, for my purposes. When they finished, they had convinced most of Moriarty’s underlings that he was a front for me. Rather helped with the unravelling,” Sherlock said, “so it worked for the best.”

John looked at the floor.

“I need to leave this for an hour,” Sherlock announced, waving at the various beakers and dishes ranged along the lab table. He turned to the opposite counter, opened the tap. “We can continue in the office. Eat something, if you like.”

John nodded, noting his place. He slipped the memory stick in his pocket, his laptop back in his bag. The tinkle of glassware identified Sherlock’s location in the supply cupboard. John followed, edging the shelving quietly back into place before following Sherlock up the narrow, dark steps.

***

“I never suspected that stairway existed,” John said, lifting his chin in the direction of the bookcase to the side of the desk through which they had entered the office. “I used the ones in the Rare Books Room almost every day, but it never occurred to me to look for others.” He leaned over the arm of the sofa to plug in his laptop.

“Wine or beer?” Sherlock asked from the sideboard. “You’re neither an architect nor a historian. Why would it have occurred to you?”

“Beer,” John said. The computer thunked as he inserted the flash drive. “Seems so obvious now, I suppose.”

“You haven’t seen a tenth of them,” Sherlock replied, handing John a beer and setting a bottle of water down on the coffee table. “Bart’s is honey-combed with them. Even Mycroft doesn’t know where they all are.”

“Really?” John said as Sherlock turned away.

Sherlock smiled before he ducked down to take several containers out of the small refrigerator. “He didn’t wish to be the archivist, so my grandfather only showed me.” Plastic lids snapped. Sherlock set black and green olives and pickled turnips on the table, returned for the grape leaves, the hummus and pita bread.

“I know something Mycroft doesn’t,” John mused. “That’s a pleasant feeling, although thinking about Mycroft generally isn’t.”

“You’re a surgeon, John. You know lots of things Mycroft doesn’t.” Sherlock cracked open another container, took forks from the drawer next to the fridge, closed it with his hip. “He likes to act omniscient, but he’s not.”

John raised his eyebrows and moved a few books off the coffee table to make space. “I’ll be right back,” he said, heading for the loo.

“Mm,” Sherlock said, counting out a few serviettes.

“You don’t have anything lethal on your hands, do you?” John asked, disappearing into the lavatory.

“I washed my hands before we left the lab, didn’t you notice?” Sherlock replied.

“Right,” John answered and shut the door.

“Sherlock!” John exclaimed when he re-opened the door and found Sherlock leaning over the laptop. “I thought you wanted me to read it to you?”

Sherlock slid over on the sofa. “You were taking too long. I wanted to know what happened next.”

John half-smiled, trying to decide whether he was being manipulated or if he had really piqued Sherlock’s interest to that extent. Sherlock held up John’s beer. “Slake your thirst and continue, bard,” Sherlock said.

“Now you’re just ridiculing me,” John replied, snatching the bottle of beer.

“Not at all,” Sherlock averred, lifting his legs onto the sofa and leaning back against the armrest. “I find the characters singularly interesting.” He smiled at John.

“Fine,” John said, sitting down. “Where did you read to?”

Sherlock tapped the middle of the screen with a toe. “You appear to have left out Sebastian.”

“We wouldn’t have gone to see him, if I hadn’t asked you for a loan,” John explained, not looking at Sherlock. “He was one of my big mistakes,” John said.

“Yours?” Sherlock queried.

John leaned back on the sofa, beer resting against his thigh, eyes closed. “Your words would echo in my head. You introduced me as your friend and I corrected you, denied you. It amused him,” John said and sighed. “Whenever I was down in the City, I’d see your face looking back at me from the plate glass windows. For an instant your eyes had been downcast, recovering from the rebuff. It didn’t register on me at the time, although I had seen it, because I remembered it and the sound of my disloyal voice.”

“You are very loyal, John,” Sherlock said.

“I wasn’t that day,” John replied. “So I erased our meetings with Sebastian. I considered going further back and erasing him from your life as well.”

“It wouldn’t have been a loss,” Sherlock agreed.

“I figured,” John said.

Sherlock edged his toes under John’s thigh. “I was reading your daydream when you came in,” he said.

John’s head was tilted back on the couch cushions. He opened his eyes and followed the rosy outlines of the painted clouds on the ceiling, the spaces between them ranging from pale blue to cerulean, violet to navy, complete with stars. He’d often stared up at that immutable sky when he awoke on the sofa. “What did you think?”

“I’d like you to read it to me,” Sherlock said in that tone that made people give him things, information, permissions, forgiveness. John heard the water splash against the sides of Sherlock’s water bottle.

“I re-wrote that section, I don’t know how many times, until it almost said what I wanted it to,” John told the sunbeams glimmering between the clouds directly above him. “When I couldn’t sleep, the scene would scroll through my mind. I’d consider changing a few words, finding a different pulse point. I could recite it to you, more or less.”

Sherlock shoved his toes further under John’s leg and John understood. He set his beer bottle on the end table, clicked off the lights and cleared his throat.

“Sometimes John would find Sherlock in the dark, silent and still. The first time, John's stomach had clenched at the thought of having arrived too late to thwart some fatal experiment. As his eyes adjusted, the light filtering in from the street had shown the measured rise and fall of a white shirt and John had taken a cautious step forward, and then another until he'd reached the quiet form on the sofa. Bending down, he could hear the faint susurration of Sherlock’s breathing and instead of ease, a different dread stole over him and his knees buckled.”

John took a deep breath. The beer bottle clinked against the lamp when he reached for it. He took a long drink and then another.

“He sat heavily atop the books and papers on the coffee table and the air finding its way in and out of his lungs cloyed. John thought of poisons and paralysis and a mind trapped inside a prison of muscle and bone. He forced himself to touch one of the pale hands rising and falling with the motion of Sherlock’s chest.”

John set the bottle back down on the table and twisted towards Sherlock.

“He lifted one hand away from its mate, brought the wrist to his mouth and what had eluded his fingertips felt strong and hot against his lips."

“Tactile,” Sherlock murmured. "I should have realised sooner."

John pulled Sherlock’s foot onto his lap, peeled his sock away and stroked along the instep, fingertips still cool from the glass of the beer bottle. Sherlock took a deep breath as John's other hand feathered along his calf, not quite touching the skin at the top.

“I should have helped you realise sooner,” John said, resting his cheek on Sherlock's knee and working a thumb into the underside of Sherlock’s arch, fingers firm along the instep. “Did you read what I did next?” Sherlock shook his head. “I unbuttoned your shirt and checked your heartbeat with my lips.” John drew his hands away, rose up on his knees and made quick work of the buttons before him. “Like this,” he added and his lips hovered above Sherlock's heart. “Your pulse is racing,” John murmured.

Sherlock inhaled slowly before he spoke. “I did not stir and berate you for distracting me from my thoughts?” Sherlock asked and John felt the words vibrate through the skin.

John lifted his head. “You were still, except for your heart pounding beneath my lips,” he replied, "so I searched for other signs of life, lips ghosting over the rest of your chest.

“But that would have been away from my heartbeat,” Sherlock protested.

“Yes,” John agreed. "There were delicate places I needed to explore."

“To what end, Doctor?” Sherlock enquired.

John moved to the other side of Sherlock’s chest. “I needed to see if your responsiveness was within normal parameters.”

“Of course,” Sherlock breathed. “Certain poisons slow autonomic functions.”

John raised his head again, his hands nimble on the fastenings at Sherlock’s waist. “I wanted to touch your lips with mine, but I didn’t dare,” John said. John tugged at Sherlock’s garments and he lifted his hips.

“But you dared this?” Sherlock asked.

John sat back on his heels and freed Sherlock’s legs one at a time, set to work on his own shirt buttons. “A proper reaction would be a clear sign of health,” John explained.

“Many poisons leave a scent on the breath,” Sherlock remarked.

John pulled off his shirt. “It didn’t occur to me,” John said.

“You were distracted by your carnal thoughts,” Sherlock observed.

John leaned forward, his face directly above Sherlock’s again. “Nothing, Sherlock, is more carnal than my thoughts about your mouth,” he said and bent down to demonstrate.

Sherlock touched his fingertips to his lips when John finally raised his head. “So you were being reserved when you undid my flies?” Sherlock mused. “What was my response?”

“I was being reserved,” John answered, still getting his breath. “Your response was decidedly healthy.” He paused for air. “And you put your hand on the back of my head when I took you in my mouth.”

“To pull you away?” Sherlock asked. John edged down the sofa, loosening his belt and sliding it off as he went.

“No,” John said and his breath gusted over Sherlock’s skin, his fingers working on buttons and zip.

“To push you down, then?”

“No,” John replied, shoving his clothing over his hips. “It rested gently, your fingers curved slightly as though you were assessing the shape of my skull and you considered it a fragile thing.”

“Like this?” Sherlock asked, curling his hand around the back of John’s head.

John closed his eyes a moment. “Exactly. And you kept it there as I moved," John explained and kissed the skin of Sherlock’s belly. "Once I started, I don't think I could have stopped myself and the warmth of your hand there just spurred me on.”

“I offered no comment?” Sherlock asked, his fingertips stroking lightly through John’s hair.

“None,” John replied, then kissed Sherlock’s hip. “You were totally silent, the only responses I could detect were your turgidity and your rapid pulse, until…” John paused and ran his tongue along the crease of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock stretched up into the caress. “...you drew in your breath and said, ‘Oh!’ as you ejaculated.”

“And you?”

“A new fear seized me. Your taste still strong in my mouth, I imagined being pushed to the floor and ordered to leave.” John’s voice had dropped to a whisper.

“What did I do?” Sherlock persisted.

“You continued stroking my hair until you were soft and I let you slip from my mouth,” John said. “Then you asked for your phone.”

“Did I?” Sherlock asked and John could hear his smile.

“It was on the edge of the coffee table, so I reached out and gave it to you, moving my head as little as possible.”

“Why?”

“Your hand was still on the back of my neck and I didn’t want you to take it away,” John replied. “One-handed, you texted and I watched your face by the light of the phone. Message sent, you looked down at me and I thought your anger might manifest then; whatever puzzle you had been contemplating solved, your attention freed to consider and condemn my audacity. Instead, you started brushing though the hair on the back of my neck and asked if I could do it again.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock said. John nodded as his lips nuzzled the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, nudging the legs to open a little further. “And did you?”

“How could I not? Your fingers had shifted to stroking my cheek and I could feel the calluses on your fingertips. I envied your violin their touch. Perhaps you had seen my covetous glances and knew the effect the sensation would have. I wanted to make rapturous sounds in response, as she could, but all I was able to do was hum against your skin."

"She?"

"They share a shape." John shrugged, his blush hidden, and continued, "Rather than arousal being a distraction or orgasm having a dulling effect, like digestion, you said my touch had seemed to accelerate your thinking. You wanted to see if the effect could be replicated.”

“You let me experiment on you?” Sherlock asked.

John slid back up Sherlock’s body. “So willingly, Sherlock,” he whispered in Sherlock’s ear, pressing their chests together, hips undulating slowly. “I repeated every step, although I longed to touch your mouth, I didn’t dare, so I started with your wrist as before, but without moving off the couch, barely raising my head from its place of repose.”

“But starting with you seated on the coffee table would have been more accurate,” Sherlock said, lifting his hips against John’s.

“It would have been, but you didn’t insist. You just let me kiss over the vein. I did it for longer and kissed the centre of your palm as well, pressed my tongue against it and you let out a small sound, so I increased the pressure and worked my tongue between your fingers. Mere centimetres from my eyes, you were becoming firm already and I was heartened.”

“Daydreams.”

“Youth. And the intoxication of being desired,” John said, pushing himself up on his elbows. “I wanted your mouth so much,” he whispered and kissed Sherlock again, his tongue more insistent than before, matching the rhythm of his hips. John drew back and rested his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “I advanced up your chest, teased each nipple lightly with my teeth, felt the pulse at your throat. You were quiet again and I feared it was too soon. It should have been too soon, but you had asked and I wanted to give you whatever you asked for.” John’s lips were again near Sherlock’s ear, “I always want to give you what you ask for. I should have known what you wanted without your asking.” He nipped an earlobe. “I retreated slowly downwards. When you bumped against the bottom of my chin, already hard, I was so relieved and you were so still, gone away again where I couldn’t follow and yet, somehow, I was lighting your way. The idea was exhilarating. Emboldened, I went further, tracing my tongue over your testicles, tasting, tickling, suckling. They tightened, but otherwise you were motionless.” John took a deep breath.

“You were deep among your thoughts, and I began to think I could do anything as long as I did it gently, didn’t startle you back from wherever you’d gone. The thought sharpened my desire.”

Sherlock’s breathing had grown rapid and John kissed him once more, hand in his hair, thumb stroking across his cheekbone. Panting, John pulled away. “I experimented. Gently. My heart pounding at both the idea of failure and the vision of success. I breathed softly over the moisture on your testicles, pressed my tongue beneath them and eased your legs apart with my hand.”

John stretched out, half on Sherlock, half on his side, his hand stroking from Sherlock’s chest to his thigh, his face nestled by Sherlock’s shoulder, his mouth below Sherlock’s ear.

“After that, if I found you stretched out on the couch thinking, I would repeat some variation of this approach, never sudden, never too bold at the outset, each time edging closer to my fiercest desire.” John pressed his lips to Sherlock's throat, drew the skin between his teeth, then eased away and continued speaking, “The first time I found you slouched in your chair, lost in thought, I simply knelt between your legs, breathed through the thin cloth of your pyjamas and soon your hand was in my hair.”

Sherlock turned onto his side, drove John against the back of the sofa. “You make no mention of yourself. You imagined me as selfish as that?” Sherlock demanded, his hips rotating.

“That was when you were thinking. You could not consider me then, you were finding other answers, but when you were bored, you had a great deal of time to ponder what might please me.”

“I experimented on you further?” Sherlock asked.

“You discovered everything I liked,” John replied. “Things I had no idea about.”

“I like to be thorough,” Sherlock said, hooking a leg around John’s.

“Yes, you do,” John agreed.

“I wasn’t purely self-centred,” Sherlock concluded.

“Not at all.”

“Did you write up any of those…experiments?”

“I did,” John affirmed, his hand sliding down Sherlock’s back. “Speaking of which, don’t you have one downstairs that needs attention?”

Sherlock flung an arm behind him to grab his phone off the table. He held it in front of his face and glared at the screen. “Yes!” he said, leaping off the couch and striding towards the bookcase.

“Clothes,” John reminded.

Sherlock looked down at himself, walked back and yanked his trousers out from under the coffee table. He stepped into them and turned again towards the bookcase.

“You’re not going to wear more than that?” John asked.

“Lab coat,” Sherlock replied. “And it was superstition making you avoid the classic gesture of awakening,” he added and was gone down the stairs to the lab.

***

John heard the soft shift of leather as the bookcase began to move. He closed his laptop, the office darkened, but for the wink of tiny blue and green lights.

“I couldn’t stay away,” Sherlock said in the gloom, walking towards the sofa.

“Why?” John asked.

“I knew how you’d feel.” Sherlock sat down, still wrapped in his coat, next to John.

“I was just buying a ticket to follow you,” John said.

“You knew where I was going?”

“You leave your computer open sometimes,” John said. “I look.”

“Learning my methods, John,” Sherlock said.

“Is this why we came back to London? To drop me off? Why for this? You’ve been gone for days before, a couple weeks to South Africa. Was this going to be longer than that?” John paused. “More dangerous?”

By the fey light, John could see Sherlock staring straight ahead. “Did you leave the train booking there for me to find? Did you want me to stop you?” John asked.

Sherlock remained silent. “Have I ruined it? Injected sentiment where cold planning was needed?” John probed.

“No,” Sherlock replied. “But I was going to send a text this time.”

“Good. But why not discuss it first? I dealt with your needing to go alone those other times,” John asked. Sherlock was quiet for longer. “You’re unsure. You knew I’d see that, try to dissuade you.”

“It’s not the day you think it is,” Sherlock said.

“What?” John’s voice came out a little higher than he’d intended.

“It’s Sunday night, not Saturday,” Sherlock explained. “I drugged you. I’ve been in Amsterdam for the last twenty-four hours.” He took a deep breath. “It’s done. Fewer people taken into custody, some data lost, but it’s over.

A low sound escaped John, the beginning of a question perhaps or the end of one.

***

John awoke, chilled. He tugged the blankets higher. His hand skimmed over the cool sheets. Raising his head, he saw the faint line of blue-grey light glowing along the floor. Quietly, he got up, grabbed the dressing gown from the bottom of the bed. He listened at the door, pushed the handle down slowly, easing the door open, but Sherlock didn’t look up. John went to sit next to him on the sofa. By the silvered light of the computer monitor, he could see the flash drive jutting out from the side of his laptop. He leaned forward to see which file was open.

“That’s what you fear the most. Still,” Sherlock said, his voice contemplative. “I haven't resurrected your trust.”

John turned to watch the shadowed face. “It never died. It's just beset by fear now and then.”

Sherlock drew his bare feet up onto the couch, rested his chin on his pyjama-clad knees. John stretched out a hand towards him. “Maybe I should write down what I could have done differently,” Sherlock murmured. John’s hand settled on Sherlock’s shoulder. “But I’d rather tell it to you, John. In the dark, while you sleep.”

John’s hand rose. He brought it down softly on Sherlock’s dishevelled curls. “I’d be listening.”