Chapter Text
John heard a distant church bell, seven bells tolling, the echo warm, the sound soft and full.
And unfamiliar.
Right. Not in London. His mind engaged as he remembered.
The warm body in the bed next to him snuffled, a repositioning of the pillow, and for a moment, John wasn't sure if he was looking at the back of Sherlock's head or the top. Another rolling shift, and a forehead, eyebrows, and closed eyes with long lashes appeared. Top, then.
Seven am, too early to get too excited about the day outside of their hotel room yet. He rolled over and scooted closer, tucking his bare back against Sherlock's bare front. An arm, as expected, coiled around his middle, drawing him close. He exhaled, comfortable and secure, as Sherlock's breathing also settled, evened out. Between their bodies, the small space, the warm air an insulated comfortable state of being.
Back to sleep a moment then, perhaps, the day without significant deadlines or urgent matters for the morning.
The bells tolled again later, soft, echo more muted against the sounds of the city awakening. This time, Sherlock's arm tightened a bit, and there was the faintest awareness of other body parts, deeper under the duvet shifting, filling, poking, making their presence known. Part reflex, part simmering desire, John wriggled his hips back against Sherlock.
"Oh yeah?" Sherlock's voice was gravelly and rough, sweet and quiet against John's ear.
"I was thinking, yeah, might be a nice way to start the day."
"Indeed." Sherlock's hand reached between them, adjusting John's body angle, sliding his erection such that it could move unhindered. So that it could fill and thicken against the top of John's thighs.
A stretch, a long arm snatching the bottle of lube, a snap open, the sounds of application, of skin. Sliding, gently gliding, a sharp inhale, John's cautionary hand against Sherlock's hip, fingertips making small indentations - wait, please, give me a moment - and an immediate freeze - long as you need.
A second, a lifetime later, Sherlock's whisper, "You good?"
John's pursed-lipped puff of air. "Oh yes."
Sherlock's hand came forward to find John's already there, already pressing, his fist a circle, the friction delightful and even better once Sherlock's hand got involved. They were warm under the covers, hands and bodies, skin and legs, breathing and moving.
god yes
just like that
wait, more, yes, don't stop
you close?
oh yes, right there, god
i can't wait
harder
hurry, I'm gonna
together then?
oh god
and then joint gasps, pauses, hesitations, a crest, a peak, a shudder, and tense muscles slowly relaxing, that sated moment of satisfaction, pleasure, relief. Mutually spent.
A few moments, Sherlock's lips against John's shoulder, John's head arching back toward Sherlock's jaw, connected, intimate, aware, together.
"Want to shower first?" John asked, knowing Sherlock, post orgasm, usually enjoyed a few minutes abed. He didn't wait for much of an answer, didn't expect one, his feet touching the floor, the day beginning.
"Travel?" Sherlock had asked, skeptical and with distaste. "Why on earth would we want to do that?"
"Well, I can think of a few places we could go. Your website and the work you get from it makes you pretty portable these days. You barely ever need to actually meet with anyone or visit an actual scene."
"Because people are idiots and if they applied themselves a little more they would already know the bloody answer."
"Paycheque for you. More opportunities to call them idiots."
"As if I need to go looking for that."
John forged ahead. "And with my mum's life insurance money, I could take a few weeks off." The settlement had been quickly decided, the cheque surprising for its existence, and the amount such that, in truth, John could take more than a few weeks. "It might be fun. And the timing is good."
"Where exactly do you want to go?"
John had tipped his head, treading carefully. "Well, for starters, maybe a couple of days, we could poke around Wales. Cardiff, anywhere really. We've never done that. A few days, someplace."
"Hastings."
"Yes, the crime museum you've been practically drooling over." John chuckled, knowing Sherlock had heard about it, looked into it, indeed had been quite curious about the place. "If you want, I suppose." Sherlock almost looked disappointed that an argument or protest was not forthcoming. "Although, actually, I was kind of thinking ..."
"Bloody out with it."
"... well, expanding a little, I'd like to show you Afghanistan."
"Desert, scorpions, sand, extreme heat, wind, fighting, unrest. Lovely."
"I just think now might be a good time to go, with your ... taking a break from working police cases."
"You can say suspension. It's not a secret from me, you know."
"Suspension." John smirked. "Mandatory disciplinary action. I can continue. Maybe enforced lay-off --"
"Stop, you're exciting me."
With another chuckle, he looked close at Sherlock's teasing manner, opted to continue with his earlier, more serious suggestion. "And then I thought, perhaps, if you're interested, we could think about stopping somewhere else on the way home, maybe go find that hospital in France, only if you wanted." He spoke gently, careful not to push, and very much with a question, definitely looking for input. The hospital he'd mentioned, the rest of the description didn't need to be said: The hospital from when you were sixteen, from the treatments you don't remember, from the details hidden from you until recently.
Every now and again in those rare moments it was even discussed, he'd expressed a bit of frustration at not even remembering the area, most of the circumstance, the location, the building. Sherlock had stilled, his mind apparently whirling, his mouth quiet, body seemingly hibernating, brain deep in thought.
"We don't have to, it was just a --"
"No. Let's do that." Sherlock's voice was steady, confident. "I'd like to see it. With you." He smiled a bit then, a small, warm smile. "And Afghanistan, absolutely yes to that as well. You'd like to meet Ramin again, as would I."
"I was hoping."
He nodded again, more confident, smiling and interested.
Afghanistan details, coordinated with one of the RAMC offices as well as the necessity of involving Mycroft for some of the logistical permissions, had come together well. They wouldn't stay long on base, only a couple of days, and then a Saturday afternoon visit with Ramin had been scheduled, too. Only a few soldiers remained whom John would have even known, most of them having moved on, been discharged, or transferred somewhere else. The visit to the base was almost impersonal, with very little emotion. The list of Sherlock's prediction of Afghanistan did in fact have desert, scorpions, heat and wind, but was thankfully without fighting or unrest while they were there. John was able to visit the surgery, the various parts of the base, and he and Sherlock managed to stay out of trouble on their few evenings out in the town, keeping safely close to their accommodations.
Ramin, on the other hand, was very familiar, and had come with his parents to meet John and Sherlock. They'd arranged for an interpreter and chosen to meet just for a short time at Babur's Gardens, a rather green park with lots of history that had been recently restored. Terraces, long rock walls, a mosque, wide open grassy fields, and a self-guided walking tour was at least present for them if they needed it. And plenty of places to sit, walk, chat.
John and Sherlock had already gone inside when Ramin and his family arrived.
"Oh god," John breathed, catching sight of three adults and a lanky adolescent coming toward them, "if that's them, wow. Look how much he's grown!"
Had he been planning, he would have been able to orchestrate nothing better. When Ramin caught sight of him, he pulled away from his family and approached John, running the last few steps. There was no hesitation, simply an embrace and a few English words, "hello" and "thank you."
Once the group was together, some pleasantries were exchanged, introductions all around. John spoke for a while with Ramin's parents, catching up a little, and then he tugged at the interpreter, gestured to a low stone wall, and sat near Ramin so they could talk.
As I recall, you've had another birthday.
Yes, I'm eleven now.
I brought you something.
Yes, I see it, the football. Indeed, they had stopped at a store near their hotel and brought the ball in part to have something to do, and to then leave with Ramin to keep with him.
Well, that too, but something else. John patted his jacket.
What is it? There was a smile of boyish excitement, and John was reminded again of how resilient children were, particularly when they had proper support. Show me, Dr. John!
And from his pocket, John produced a new pen he'd ordered online. It was a matte silver one, a globe embossed at the base, the grips in green over a blue ocean background. He also handed over a very small writing notebook that easily would fit in a pocket, and gave it to Ramin to try.
Ramin considered it closely. We studied in science, we are right - and he squinted, very serious - about here. He showed John, his thumb over the Middle East.
Very good
It's wonderful, thank you.
I chose the world especially for you, so that you'll remember to think big as you grow up. John tapped the image on the biro.
Think big. Like the mountains or the trees? Ramin was puzzled.
Well sure, that, and even bigger. More like all the things you could do. Opportunity.
He did not specifically react to that, but his parents were listening, smiling, nodding.
The biro does something else, too, Ramin. I'm sure you can figure it out.
He clicked it open, retracted the tip a few times, then noticed the small, flush button near the clip, pressed it. The LED lights shone from within the grip, lighting up the globe. Even in the daylight, it was a neat little feature.
Wow, cool! The translator chuckled, struggled for the correct English interpretation of the colloquialism, but the energy and excitement in Ramin's voice made it mostly unnecessary anyway. Ramin smiled broadly, spoke himself very deliberately, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," John said back, the interpreter assuring them both that the meaning was quite clear, and some instruction to Ramin regarding the use and timing of the phrase.
Then Ramin stared hard at John, getting a little more serious. Your hair has a little gray in it now.
John laughed, hearing Sherlock mutter something about agreement, and said, a little teasingly in English to Ramin directly, "Thank you."
Ramin's eyes were bright as he glanced between John and the translator, and in his thickly accented English words, he said, "You're welcome."
John chuckled again, shaking his head. "Close enough."
They talked a bit more about how things were going, confirmed that Ramin was getting good medical supervision, that he was completely healed and doing well. Then Ramin started to get a bit itchy, and glanced again at the football that was on the ground behind where he and Sherlock had been sitting and waiting for them.
I've been learning to use my head with the football.
Oh?
We play at school sometimes, and then with my friends too
I'll bet you're getting better now as you're taller and such
I could show you, we could kick it too, kick it around. Your friend too, the three of us.
They kicked the football around a bit, and both John and Sherlock agreed that Ramin, at eleven, was much better suited to be heading the ball than either of them (not to mention, neither of them wanted to risk a headache), until the visit wound down. By mutual agreement the group walked toward the exit of the garden, where they would part ways.
Before you go, there's something else I wanted you to have.
The pen, Dr. John, is enough. And the ball. And you came to visit me.
I did, I wanted to. And I wanted my friend Sherlock to meet you.
That's an interesting name. The interpreter had cleared his throat, leading both John and Sherlock to question his more politically correct translation of interesting. John suspected perhaps odd or funny had been used instead.
John cleared his throat to keep him from saying anything further about it, then glanced at Sherlock, who nodded encouragingly. They had actually talked about this quite a while ago, before they'd even moved in together, and John was quite glad to be doing this in person. The army gave me this after I got hurt. I've enjoyed having it for a long time now. He pulled out his Military Cross medal from the depths of his pocket.
Ramin glanced at Sherlock as if for confirmation, so he spoke up, with a smile and nod. It's been on his dresser by your photo.
I'd really like you to have it. You got hurt, too.
Yes. There was a fleeting frown across Ramin's face of course, but John was ready to continue and not dwell there.
We've both recovered quite well, haven't we?
Ramin nodded.
It's for you, then. Keep it somewhere, or wear it. Or hang it up in your room. Remember that you are ... The translator looked at John as he thoughtfully considered the word. With a questioning gesture, he said ... a survivor. Much more than what happened to you.
The translator smiled a bit, nodded, approving of John's selection and indicating that he could very adequately convey the message.
Okay. Maybe the next time we see each other, I'll bring it to you and we can take turns having it.
John could feel Sherlock's hand rest lightly on his back at the words, comfort, acknowledgement of the tender moment. And that meeting again would require a long trip. He also knew thinking about next time would make this goodbye easier. That would be great.
Maybe I'll come visit you next time. Where do you live again? Ramin fished the pen out of his pocket, holding it out in a small hand toward John.
London. Somewhere near here, John pointed with the tip of a finger.
I'd like that, and Ramin seemed ready to make arrangements with his father.
John chuckled, agreeing, and Sherlock also invited them all to visit as well, exchanging handshakes with both Ramin and the other adults. John bent down, though, giving Ramin a fond hug, patted him on the back before they parted ways entirely.
Later that night, back at their hotel, Sherlock commented on the gray hair.
"Shut it, yeah? And it's light blond."
"No, it's gray. Ramin said --"
"Ramin is used to almost exclusively dark haired people, so his concept of gray vs. blond is --"
"Give up. Gray."
John thought about arguing (even from what he knew was a wrong position, there were indeed, as Ramin had said, a little). "Well, if there are, I earned a few this last year or so keeping tabs on you."
"I would blame them on Mycroft."
"Him too. But more your doing than his." A thought occurred to John then, and he added, "And if you don't watch out, and keep up with the gray jokes, I just might put my reading glasses on simply to annoy you."
Sherlock smirked, then opened the photos of his phone, thumbing through until he came to what he was looking for. "Then again, perhaps not," he said, showing John the picture.
It was what was left of his reading glasses, frames broken, lenses cracked and shattered beyond any hope of repair. John swiped at the photo to enlarge the detail, none of it good, none of it helpful. "What on earth were you doing?"
"Research. For a case, of course."
"Right. Were you researching what happens to someone who destroys their flatmates belongings?"
Though they were both chuckling and good natured, Sherlock did end up looking away as he repocketed his mobile. "Apparently. I may just have to beg for mercy." Both of them remembered the promise, the veiled threat, the excitement, and with a glimmer, Sherlock added, "Twice."
Their return trip made the planned stop in France, a plane to a train, then a bus connection, and then still not there. Internet searching was nearly non-existent for the hospital, but best Sherlock could tell the building was still standing and one source alluded to some historic connections and that the organisation that seemed to run it now assured full and complete privacy for all who seek services there.
Since they were planning a site visit anyway, they hailed an Uber from the nearest town - a right turn into the middle of nowhere already. The cab was disappearing from sight when John finally took a really good look around, seeing the long driveway, the rolling French countryside, the building in front of them.
It no longer seemed to be any sort of healthcare related facility. A small sign designated the building as the previous location of a small, private hospital, which had closed its doors many years ago. The building was owned by a consortium of offices, notary, architects, consultants, a vague counsel office, and an assortment of a few other small businesses.
"You ready?" There was at least a reception desk, a lobby, and a small sign for a nostalgic medical museum wing that was available to the public, according to the sign which John paused to read, 'by special appointment only.'
"None of this looks familiar."
"We don't have to do this, or do anything, you know."
"I hardly think I feel threatened by an office building in almost the middle of nowhere." He did in fact seen to be okay, standing tall, confident, composed. "But even the view, I guess I thought ..."
With a strong hand, John held open the door, using the other to barely skim along Sherlock's back as he passed by. Random touches, both of them knew, all along this trip made for good connections, togetherness, lessen stress, a tactile reminder that neither was alone. To stay grounded in the present despite all that had led them to where they currently were.
John approached the desk where a secretary was typing, a headset and switchboard close by. "Yes, good morning," he said when she looked up at them.
Her eye narrowed. "Do you have an appointment?" Having lived with Sherlock long enough, he picked out a few details, things he tuned into, from the chipped tooth to the dog hair to the slight bend in one earring to the wear pattern of her clothing on her elbow. John could hear an almost barely audible snort of breath from Sherlock as he expressed what he figured would turn into a dead end.
On a whim, John chuckled with a warmth he hoped would help. "Not exactly. We're here about the open office a few floors above. I met the museum curator a week or so ago, Monty, who was telling me about the availability." Sherlock kept his eyes down, realised John had secured the man's name from the small sign they'd passed on their way in.
Her lips pursed, not a promising sign.
John hesitated, hoping he wouldn't be immediately caught in the lie he was about to tell. "He said there was a vacancy."
"Well, there is, but ..."
"I was hoping to stop by and see it, get a feel for the building, before putting in an application."
"Does he know you're coming?"
"No."
"Did you contact the building manager?"
"No."
"Well, I can't just let you in."
"Is he here? Monty, from the museum?"
Her eye narrowed again. "You can call him. He might be." She set a phone on the counter. "Directory's right here."
John tapped the four digit extension while holding his breath, and pressed pound on the keypad which placed his call immediately into voicemail. He left a message knowing it would ultimately make absolutely no sense to Monty when he listened to it. He turned back to Sherlock, finding him watching and intrigued. He turned a smile at the receptionist.
"I don't suppose you could let us in anyway, show us around?"
Arrogantly, she gave a look of almost disgust that they had even asked, that the ridiculous request was outrageous. "Of course not."
Sherlock slid his foot over to step lightly across John's, a warning out of sight from the secretary. "I'm sure he'll get back to us. We'll be back soon, then." He kept his voice light and even, and jerked his head toward the door they'd entered through. "Ta."
A few minutes later, from out of sight and out of the building, Sherlock blocked the visibility of his mobile number and called the desk, having procured the receptionists extension when John used the phone. A few carefully timed lies and distractions later, and they'd found their way to a rear shipping door. He proceeded to break the key code number - seriously John, basic observations, her photo with the anniversary engraving, the number of her grandchildren, her favourite colour, child's play - and while the receptionist was searching behind her computer tower looking for a connection cable Sherlock had sent her on some sort of chase to find, they gained entrance knowing that the small security cameras there at her desk were not being monitored. The wings and hallways were fairly well marked, and the building was not busy or else mostly unoccupied, and they found their way to the also-locked museum on the third floor. This one, however, proved impenetrable. By the door in a plastic rack, there was a brochure, a self-guided tour pamphlet, and a small handbook on the hospital's history. Sherlock thumbed through it, a bit restlessly, handed it to John and tried one final time to slide a chip-and-pin card behind the door lock.
John was just flipping a few pages when they both heard approaching noise.
Footsteps in the hall sounded in the distance, echoing across the lino and the tall ceilings. Very quickly a few people happened upon them, warily looking them over, and one of whom asked if they needed directions. Sherlock declined, while John pocketed the handbook, said they were just leaving, and they moved unhurriedly on as well. A brief eye contact, and John turned back toward the stairwell they'd come from, while Sherlock seemed inclined to find the lift.
"We can't," John began.
"Door's alarmed at the outside stairwell exit, didn't you see the sign?"
"So right back out by your friendly receptionist?"
"Might as well, in plain sight seems the best plan, as if we belong here." John seemed concerned, but Sherlock made another face of frustration at him. "I highly doubt she's going to give chase as we leave. Those doors by the desk are not locked for those exiting the building."
A few minutes later, she was standing up, spluttering slightly, calling for them to wait as they pushed through the doors, walking smoothly back outside into the fresh air.
The hotel room was small but warmly furnished, the bedding thick and the hour late. But neither was tired, not at the moment, after the grounds tour and simply just being present where so much had happened and yet there was no distinct memory.
"You did a great job today, by the way. This couldn't have been easy."
"I'm okay. It just feels ... surreal." Sherlock turned his head on the pillow to look over at John. "Not at all familiar. Rather disconnected, actually. Nothing." He sighed. "A waste of a stopover, here."
"We could try to find the place your family was staying --?"
"No." Frustration was evident. "Really, it's fine."
John squeezed his hand lightly. "Three good things, then."
"Oh god, no. Pass." Now and again, John brought this to their day, the deliberate recall of the days positive notes. It seemed to be used most often in the bedroom when the day had been long or hard and sleep was elusive, finding it particularly helpful when Sherlock was in a bit of a strop, or a sulk, to remind him that perspective mattered so much. "I have no interest in continuing with your rather pointless, shallow exercises --"
"They're neither pointless nor shallow."
"Another useless waste of time --"
John put a hand over Sherlock's arm in an attempt to silence the negativity. "I have three, then, since you've dug your heels in. First, beautiful. The mountains, the scenery. Even the drive of that former hospital site, the tall trees? Absolutely breathtaking. Second, you did so well, in what had to be potentially triggering, memories or no. Not knowing what to expect. That was good no matter how you try to downplay it. Third," and here John hesitated, "lets go with the view as I followed you across the office campus. Your view, specifically. Very nice." He trailed his hand down Sherlock's side toward his bum, his touch and tone light-hearted. "I do think you should consider --"
"No."
"Well, then maybe we can find something else to occupy your mind."
"That's a pathetic line."
"In that case, I have an idea." John waited a moment until Sherlock had made a get on with it gesture. "I was thinking we could try something tonight, if you're up for it?" His careful delivery, serious expression, and light and easy embrace did get Sherlock's attention.
"I think so. Yes."
"Do you trust me?" In the moment, John's question caught them both, and a deluge of memories came rushing back - the bigger events like the feeding tube, the blood transfusion, the endoscopy. Smaller events just as reliable and dependable, morning tea, hand massages, the violin and all that went along with it, the exposure therapy at the hospital. Working through Sherlock's new job and John's cautious steps to their moving in together. The encouragement and the dealing with Sherlock's relapse. "Do you?" John asked again, quieter.
"Of course I do." Sherlock spoke sincerely, meeting his gaze. "You know that."
"I'd like to do something, then. Try, anyway." There was a nod, a moment of eye contact, of trust and more than that. It was exposure to all the scars, the past, the history, the rebuilding of the ruins that had started so long ago. Seeing the scars, blemishes, evidence of hardship. Visiting this place had been both hard and easy - hard for the knowledge, easy for the lack of concrete memories. "Here, nothing too big, roll over on your back, yeah?" Sherlock did so, his naked form relaxed against the pillow, the duvet loosely up to their waists. "Can you reach up, both hands, stretch up? Right, like that, feel the headboard." John's hands came overtop Sherlock's gently, wrapping his fingers around the slats. "Can you hang on like that? Is that all right?"
They met and locked eyes, remembering John's words, Restraints should probably be completely off the table for you in the future
"It's not --"
"I know."
"All right?" John asked again. "We don't --"
"I'm good." His words were quiet and steady.
"Let go anytime."
"Stop making such a big deal." From the mere inches away, John watched Sherlock's expression. Honest, open, calm. "I'm fine." A small smile, somewhere between mischievous and aroused. "What's more, I like it, okay?"
John returned the smile. Sherlock's ribs expanded easily as he breathed deep, toned muscles stretching, the concavity of his belly, cresting up to ribs, the line of his chest through his shoulders, biceps a well-crafted piece of sculpture. John brushed a hand across Sherlock's elbow, the underside of his arm, where the skin was so sensitive. "So, can you keep holding onto that?"
"Yes." After Sherlock's hands were up and he seemed comfortable, John pressed in, his lips starting at mouth, working down jaw, then collarbone, settling on a rosy nipple. John laved and licked, kissed for a bit, then raised his head to make sure Sherlock was engaged, watching, calm.
"That all right?" A nod, then another nod and a bigger smile. "You can let go anytime you want. It's just your hands holding you there. Your choice." John reached out his fingers, brushing the opposite nipple, his hands touching, supporting, rubbing Sherlock's pectoral muscle. He lowered his mouth again on the closer side while letting his thumb and index finger come around the other nipple, tightening just slightly, a firm sensation of pleasure mixed with tightness and the hint of a dull pinch. With both hands, John grasped Sherlock about the ribs, slid him down a bit lower in the bed, letting his arms stretch out longer, elbows straighter, the angles changing, more exposed. He brushed a caring hand across Sherlock's body, settling him, his fingers taking in an only mildly elevated heart rate over the left side of his chest. With a calm voice, he said his name again, then, "Talk to me. You okay?"
Somber, eyes bright, pupils dilated. "Oh yes." His voice was gravelly and full of anticipation.
"Put your hands on me, on my chest." Sherlock seemed thoughtful. "Bring your hands down, let go up there, and --"
"I believe I'd rather not." Steady blue-green-gray eyes stared back, sure and intense.
John grinned then at him, their faces quite close, bodies touching from the toes up, and he seemed quite engaged. "If you're sure."
For a moment Sherlock didn't answer, and John paused a moment, waiting, certainly not wanting to rush.
"Your call."
"Keep going."
"God you're amazing like this. Unbelievable." With dark eyes, John took in the set of Sherlock's eyes, a slight frown as he tightened his grip as John stimulated a few sensitive, tender areas, lovingly and gently, his clavicle, the area beneath his axilla, the indentation just inside the pelvic bones at his waist. His arms were solid, holding and following instructions. "You like this?" John asked in a breathy tone as he shifted so that he was on his knees between Sherlock's legs, his mouth still close to a nipple, nudging and pressing, a gentle nip of teeth followed by a kiss. A kiss to the sternum, and then John raised up for a full-mouthed kiss, both tongues involved, heated breath. Shifting slightly again, John let his body rest lightly against Sherlock's, a hug of security and togetherness and control. "You can let go whenever you want, remember," John reminded him.
"You just don't want me to panic and bloody your nose." Long ago when the hospital stay and therapy had been discussed, Sherlock had shortly thereafter remembered and shared with John an unfortunate sexual encounter involving being held down that ended in a violent reaction, a bloody nose, and the end of Sherlock's physical affection. Until John.
"That too." John appreciated the lighter banter, then pressed a kiss again to Sherlock's jaw. "But not completely. I just want you to enjoy, like I'm enjoying, and feel safe."
"I am. Safe. I know it."
John licked and then nipped faintly at Sherlock's pink, budded chest. One of them, perhaps both, a faint moan, a beseeching of a deity, a plea.
In response, Sherlock kept his hands tight but pulled at his arms, allowing the sensation to get to them both as muscles tightened, the hint of him pulling at the headboard, finding and choosing to keep his hands held fast. He moaned then, tipping his head away from John and arching his back at John's resumed touch to his ribs, his side, the hair under his arm.
"Oh please. I want," Sherlock breathed, rolling his neck, his hips lifting upward, searching for John, for friction, for relief. "Please, god, John, I'm so ready."
"Of course, I've got you," John whispered, innately and silently pleased that Sherlock had said please twice, that he was calm, speaking, wanting. "How do you --"
"In." A simple answer, a directive easily followed. Fait accompli. Yes.
It was his last coherent thought for long minutes, after that, both of them hunting, chasing, stalking, locating, finding, and then reveling in their mutual pleasures. Curled up later, in their usual positions - Sherlock against John's shoulder, a knee slotted, toes tucked in - John wrapped his hand loosely over Sherlock's as it rested on his ribs, their fingers aligned, his thumb lightly stroking the skin there until he felt Sherlock begin to drift off.
Toxicology Report
Patient's name: S. Holmes
DOB: 6 Jan
Medical record: 561249
Urine drug screen for employment clearance.
Sample submitted using standard protocols in monitored setting analysed for standard toxins, emergency drug abuse panel, and illicit substances as required by municipal government form.
Reportable substances: none.
This can be considered a final report and stands as a legal document.
John pushed open the door, glad to be home, glad to see Sherlock, despite the day and the chaos that greeted him. The microscope was out. A hot plate on the table had a boiling beaker on it, glassware and a notebook and the scent of something burning. Ah, more ash studies then. It was familiar. And a good distraction.
Sherlock took a look, ready to snap something very likely rude when he caught sight - and sense - of John's eyes, his aura. Standing up, whatever paper had been perched on one knee at the table where he was working slithered and fluttered to the floor. "What happened?"
A shrug, a quick swallow, an attempt at a calm smile. "Oh, just a bad patient outcome. Some days it hits hard, you know?"
"Some days, a lot of things hit hard."
Sherlock had moved closer to John, not crowding, simply offering both support and close proximity. John could feel some of the tension leave, an exhale, "I'm okay."
"I know."
"But god, it's good to be home."
The faintest tilt of John's body in Sherlock's direction, and long arms wrapped around him, pressing close, easy and comforting. "Do you want to tell me about it?"
"I don't need to, I suppose. The walk home was nice." They separated slowly, Sherlock's thumb brushing over John's lapel and then lightly over John's lower lip. He pulled back further, removing his mouth from Sherlock's digit, narrowed an eye. "Anything toxic on your hand I should know about?"
An impish grin snuck onto Sherlock's features. "You could taste it and try to guess?" He proffered his thumb again.
John angled his head and pulled back slightly, a faint bit of laughter coming out of his mouth. "Like I said, good to be home." The smile and they way both of them shook their heads at the statement was abruptly cut short when there was the sound of breaking glass and then the laptop dinged, sizzled, hissed, and then was silent.
"Oops."
Transcript: Drug hotline
Hello and thank you for calling. My name is William Scott, this call may be recorded for training and quality assurance.
(silence)
What can I do for you today?
(silence)
If this is a medical emergency and you need assistance, I can get a 999 dispatcher for you.
No.
Gently: Can you tell me why you called today?
(silence, muffled this time)
I'm here to help ... take a deep breath
I'm just tired.
What kind of tired?
Tired of wanting it all the time.
Wanting to use?
I did call the drug hotline, what kind of an idiot do they have answering this line?
Operator, quietly: finally, someone interesting to talk to. Are you in a safe place right now?
Yes.
Are you under the influence right now?
Caller, a pause: Not yet.
Okay, well, please don't do anything right now. I want to help you stay strong and beat this.
It would be easier to just ... do it.
Of course it would. But don't. You're stronger than that.
I'm not, truly.
You can be stronger a little while longer.
I'm tired of resisting.
It took a great deal of courage to call.
Not really.
I think it does. And now I can set you up with some resources, but first, I have some suggestions.
(silence)
Take a deep breath.
Piss off.
Chuckle from the drug hotline operator: Another deep breath.
(caller complies audibly)
Another. Good. Now, are you by yourself?
Yes.
It would be good to tell a friend, someone who can come be with you, someone to talk to.
I'm alone.
Technically, perhaps. But I'm on the mobile with you, and will stay with you until you're feeling better, all right?
Caller, small sob, a loud shaky sigh: All right.
I'll definitely be recommending some ideas and options for you, that will help.
Caller, another soft sob: Okay. Thanks.
Sherlock's first few legit days when he returned to work for Greg had been a gentle easing back into the process, of a few files to review, getting up to date on current cases in progress, creating a few analysis reports. One afternoon he'd gone out along with John to a scene, where he seemed sharper. He'd stalked back and forth over the crime scene, confident, settled, eyes laser focused and intuitive, deductions brilliant and sharp. Even as John watched, he could tell that he was different than before. Both Greg and John made some eye contact, both noting the changes while Sherlock drew connections from a subtle detail to the surroundings to something the victim had in common with a more recent scandal.
Barely a week since he'd been fully returned to his previous workload and role, and there was a case that set them all back on their heels a bit. A note, a game, a bit of remote toying with the police, the bomber a few steps ahead, watching and goading. There was a severed finger left as a clue, and ultimately the trail ended with a live victim but traumatised next to a bloodied, dead bomber, with the details, hows-and-whys yet to be determined. The wailing, however, the babbling, the obvious psychotic break of the victim, holding up his four-fingered hand had been ... beyond horrifying.
Greg, in his calm leadership of the force, dismissed all but those who were absolutely needed, summoned an ambulance, notified the coroner, and sent John and Sherlock on their way. Though walking the entire way home was an impossibility, they did start out the trip by foot.
"I'm all right, you know," Sherlock muttered defensively. "Stop looking at me like I'm going to snap."
John kept quiet, thinking he had more to say about it. Waiting.
"I have no intention of turning to ... anything."
"Never said you were."
"You're still wondering about it. I can hear you thinking."
"Of course I'm wondering." John kept his voice gentle, wanting very much to slide an arm through Sherlock's or otherwise touch, offer support.
"You can if you want to." John cocked his head, puzzled. "With your arm, it's fine."
Smiling, John shook his head a little as they walked, but did in fact let his hand brush down the slim line of Sherlock's back, his long coat. "I'm still not entirely sure how you do that."
"You broadcast, seriously. And I know you." With the mood a little lighter, they walked in silence for short time. "He'll be okay, that poor guy?"
"They'll get him some help." John studied Sherlock's face, trying to sense cues on timing and receptiveness. "So, tonight, that was ...?"
"Unfortunate."
"Explain."
"The bomber's dead, unanswered questions. He was obviously a skilled asset in the past, probably some industrial connections, could have at least used his skills for good..." and he kept on for a few sentences about wasted resources and the sadness of never knowing all of the cleverness of such a "... oh, wait. That wasn't what you meant."
"Not really."
"What do you want to hear, then?"
"Whatever's on your mind."
"I'm all right," he said again, then seemed to stop abruptly, a small self-deprecating laugh, "Though that's the second time I've said that, I suppose." Their steps slowed as Sherlock seemed less focused on walking and more introspective. "It's frustrating to be late. Again. Too late. Too late to help. Could have spared that man," and he gestured a bit with his hand, searching for an acceptable phrase, "some significant distress. I don't think he'll ever be the same again." John watched Sherlock glance at his own hand, all fingers present, then tucked it back into the deep pockets of his coat. He knew they might giggle at that later, but the moment was not about that particular detail.
After a few minutes walking in companionable quiet, John brought the topic back to Sherlock. "Frustration's a tough one. Not particularly fixable." Their steps picked up again, in part, John thought, because the conversation was about to get maybe a little more personal for Sherlock. "But you don't feel as rattled by it tonight?" Without delay, he shook his head negatively. With a steady eye and a calm voice, John put gentle words to the situation, to Sherlock's coping skills. "What's different this time?"
"There's too much at stake. I ... just refuse to risk it."
John could tell he was still processing the scene, the question, and his own thoughts. After a bit, a cab snuck up alongside them, a rolled down window, an offer, a nod of agreement, then a delivery of two, slightly more settled men to their home. It hadn't been a test of extreme magnitude, but it was a good start and had set a good precedent.
Progress.
John had texted Sherlock about a dinner option, a place to meet, and as plans came together, John arrived at the establishment ahead of Sherlock. Sherlock had texted, saying he was going to be a little late, little snag at the flat but that John was not to worry, there was no destruction involved. So still slightly concerned but shaking his head, John ordered a pint, found a seat at the bar, settling in to relax and watch a bit of whatever sports were playing.
There was a moment he was aware someone had sat down next to him, but he didn't look over until an umbrella was placed in front of the newcomer at the bar.
"Hello," John said before even looking over to confirm the identity.
Mycroft inclined his head. "Dr. Watson."
"To what do I owe the pleasure of your company this time?" John took a sip, watching, waiting. Mycroft was rather hard to read, but didn't seem like there was anything urgent that needed immediate attention. "Don't you have a country to run, a war to start, other people to annoy?"
Mycroft simply smiled back at him, but it was a tolerant smile.
"Or," John said, smiling as he turned to face Mycroft head on, "poorly run, private hospitals to shut down?"
The train from France back to London had been mostly empty, thankfully, and both of them were looking forward to being home after the week or so away. Sherlock was engrossed on his mobile when John discovered something interesting, doing a bit of online researching himself on the big gaping holes that still remained in the French hospital from the handbook he'd procured.
The hospital, according to the book, had closed over ten years ago due some foreign investigating initiated by a small, private firm in England. The name of the company was non-descript and benign, but the logo had caught John's eye. It was a modified version of a vintage umbrella. A few clicks, some retyping of some search terms, and he found that it was an anonymous, independently owned corporation. A few links deep, and buried at the bottom of one of the pages, was a listing of the parent company's sponsoring board members.
The top of the list, designated as CEO: M. Holmes.
"Ah yes, you put that together, did you? Or did Sherlock?"
"He doesn't know yet. It hasn't come up."
"It needed to be done. For obvious reasons."
"Yes it did. I hope it was particularly unpleasant for those with a history of inappropriate treatment decisions."
"Oh, I assure you," Mycroft began, and it seemed that John was going to hear about the severity of the closure, but then Mycroft pressed his lips together quite abruptly, his restraint telling as well. "Tsk, tsk," he uttered back, signaling the barkeep, a tap of a top shelf liquor and a minimal nod, and a tumbler of something golden was delivered.
"You come here for their selection of overpriced scotch, do you?"
"Of course not." Mycroft sipped, set the glass down. "I came to talk to you."
"Sure, predictions about the game? Suggestions for new microbrews to sample?" Mycroft shuddered at that as John continued. "Small talk about the weather, or a heads up about something else that's about to drastically alter my schedule?"
"None of the above, but nice try." Mycroft turned slightly so he could face John. "I just wanted to congratulate you."
John had no idea what Mycroft was talking about and kept that close to himself, maintaining silence and waiting for Sherlock's brother to enlighten him.
Instead, Mycroft acknowledged John's silence, took a sip himself, and turned back to the television screen. "You know," John said finally, not wishing to be the first to give in on yet another of Mycroft's little head games, his orchestrations, "Sherlock will probably be along in a few minutes."
A bit of a huff, and Mycroft finished off his drink, then turned. "Congratulations on choosing one of the terms of Sherlock's return to work, on requiring a number of ongoing hours manning the emergency hotline for those who call in for help, trying to stay clean." John was not surprised Mycroft knew. "I was made privy to one of the calls he took last week --"
"You did what?" John breathed.
"Callers are told right off that some calls may be monitored or recorded for training purposes." Mycroft chided him lightly. "So I listened in to the recording afterward. It was quite well handled." There was a smile as Mycroft took in John's expression. "It was a very good idea. And I'm assuming Sherlock does not know it was yours."
"He does not."
A familiar voice sounded behind them. "He does not what?" Sherlock, of course.
Mycroft picked up his umbrella, laid down a few notes on the bar that would cover their drinks and likely dinner as well. "Enjoy the evening, gentlemen."
"What was he doing here?"
"He was just leaving."
"Oh John," Sherlock said sitting down with a scowl. "I think you need to fill me in. Immediately."
John nodded, having absolutely no inclination to hold anything back. "Absolutely. Over dinner," and he picked up his own glass as they made their way to a more remote table, "with pleasure. It's a good thing."
Take-away containers were mostly empty, sitting on the coffee table as the telly, stuck on the ending menu, flickered slightly. Light from the screen illuminated two sleeping faces, their eyes closed, mouth relaxed, one slightly open, the other slightly curved in a peaceful smile. Sherlock's legs were tucked over John's thighs, relaxed, muscles finally at rest after the busy day. The case, long. Their bodies, no longer stressed. Stomachs, full. Minds, at ease.
John's hand rested lightly on Sherlock's bare lower leg, his thumb ever so slightly twitching at times in his sleep, his fingers grazing over ankle bone and lightly haired skin.
Mrs. Hudson carried up a plate of biscuits - ginger for Sherlock, chocolate for John - her steps careful, her hand opening the door not particularly quietly with a soft rap of her knuckle. John stirred slightly, opening one eye half-way as she entered the room, to see her hold up a hand in a plea for silence. Quickly she set the plate down with a muffled thunk, crept from the room and closed the door behind her. His eye settled back shut, the room returning to its former peaceful and undisturbed state.
Hours later, when someone's neck finally grew stiff and tired there on the couch and they'd awakened just long enough to click off the television and stumble into their bedroom, he would not remember Mrs. Hudson even being there.
"Read this."
Sherlock set his laptop down in front of John, where Sherlock's email was open. It was a direct connection from the website, where he still monitored the requests but only took a select few cases as time permitted. His days at the Met were now relatively full, dependable, and regularly gave him things and people to fuss about or otherwise ridicule for their ignorance.
Dear Sherlock
How intriguing to discover this site. I trust it is meeting your needs, and I am absolutely positive that you are quite good at it.
I'm not writing to request your help with a case, but something else entirely.
John scanned to the bottom of the email for the name. It was from Joe the violinist.
My family and I have decided to offer a musical scholarship in memory of my uncle through one of the local universities, and as such, will be hosting an evening of performances, demonstrations, and showcasing some local as well as professional talent. I will be announcing the scholarship at the end of the evening after sharing my story as a tribute to my uncle. I have a couple of thoughts about the evening and I would be quite interested in your participation. First, I would love for you to speak for just a couple of minutes about music and it's contribution to how you found him, what led you to keep coming back, and then how your involvement helped the police locate and convict his murderer. These are music students so quite well versed in tragic stories, if you know what I mean. Then, it would mean a lot to me if you and I did a small performance, a duet, something lively and complicated, to end the evening.
I will, of course, be playing his violin. I'm even willing that you can have melody if you'd like. I think my uncle would have been okay with that.
Let me know either way if you're interested and available.
Fondly, Joe
Epilogue:
John awakened quite early, his body relaxed but mind suddenly engaged, not sure exactly why. The flat was quiet. The street noise faint and its typical low background night levels. He was comfortably warm and ... just nothing seemed amiss. The other half of the bed, though, empty. A foot sliding out to check, still mostly warm. Sherlock must've got up, fairly recently.
John breathed deep, sat, stretched, pulled on his dressing down to go hunt down his flatmate, make sure everything was okay. The flat was still dark save a faint glow from the sitting room, a soft, low noise, a sense of steadiness, and rightness, of nothing urgently amiss. John could usually feel it when something was not good.
Sherlock was sitting on the couch, leaned forward. The fireplace screen clicked a bit as it settled into place after replacement. The fireplace was still dark, the glow from Sherlock's laptop illuminating the room, a log had just been placed atop smaller kindling. Very faintly from the bottom of the smaller sticks, there was the slightest hiss and crackle as Sherlock leaned farther forward and blew gently, a small stripe of red glow, of flames in the making, of the lick of embers rising from the ashes.
"Couldn't sleep?" John asked, his voice just above a whisper in the stillness.
"Thinking."
"Good thoughts?"
"Mostly, yes."
"Can I join you?"
Sherlock didn't answer verbally, but tapped the spot next to where he was sitting.
"Nice fire in the making," John said slowly, sitting a short distance apart. "Mesmerising."
"Beauty from ashes," Sherlock said as there was a loud pop, a catching of the larger log by the flames, ignition, the spread of the fire slow and even along the bottom of the wood. "Kind of like us." He shifted, their shoulders close enough to barely brush together, body heat shared.
"Yes we are." Leaning a little closer, John propped one leg out straight, his head resting faintly against Sherlock's arm. Their silence was easy, companionable, warm. "Nice fire," he said again, nuzzling his head and adjusting, settling in.
He flicked his eyes to Sherlock's profile, the light from the fire catching his features, playing across strong nose, jaw, cheekbones. There was a small, contented smile.
John sipped his water, glanced out over the small gathering. The ring on his left hand - new, shiny platinum - glistened in the overhead string lights that had been tacked high up on the walls there on Baker Street. The warm room seemed more friendly with the softer, overhead lighting.
Harry was chatting with Mycroft. Molly sipped her wine keeping an eye on Greg Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson fussed about the buffet of sweets and goodies she'd been baking all week long. Mike Stamford stood watching, along with a couple of officers who'd come by to wish them well. A couple of people from John's office were listening to Sherlock, who was apparently telling a story, animatedly gesturing with his left hand. Even from across the room, the newly adorned, matching ring on his hand caught the light as well, a soft sparkle against the etching.
Someone clicked a spoon against their glass, and Sherlock stopped his story mid-sentence with a glare at the room in general. Focused, he approached John, scowling, and in a low, annoyed voice asked, "Will this endless foolishness never cease?"
"Humour them, Sherlock. They're happy for us."
"This is the last time," he groused, bending down to plant a firm kiss against John's lips, then when there was a catcall, he deepened it, mouth opening slightly before John laughed and pulled away. "No more," he threatened. "Next time anyone does that, you're all getting thrown out."
Chuckling the loudest was Greg, who was close enough to whisper, "Plans for your new husband, eh?"
The frown in Greg's direction softened when someone started chuckling quickly joined by a second laugh - and gazes turned toward the siblings of the newly married couple. Harry and Mycroft were both shaking their heads, mirthful and smiling. Mycroft was holding a spoon, gesturing at Harry, who held up her tumbler. With a raised, playful eyebrow, Mycroft tapped the spoon on Harry's glass four distinct times, then deposited the spoon into the glass. "And I believe that carries out our escape plan," he muttered loudly to Harry.
Quickly, the room occupants mulled about one last time, picking up treats upon threat of Mrs. Hudson and issuing their final round of well-wishes and good-byes. The door had barely shut when two pairs of feet left the sitting room, where the debris from a celebratory gathering would wait for the next day. Photos on the mantel shelf - Ramin, various random family members, a candid of the two of them from a crime scene from a newspaper article - sat in the nearly dark room, having been commented on a few times by various guests. Harry's frame in particular had received a few compliments. The skull, unmentioned, having been long part of the decor there. The overhead lights hung dark, the fire behind the screen the faintest flicker of glowing red fading to dark, soon to become white, ash.
Down the hallway, a sigh, a moan, a softly breathed name.
An adjustment of bed linens being tucked in, over shoulders, an easy hug, legs entangled, the soft even breathing of sleeping occupants. Bodies and minds their respective hidden and unhidden, healed scars. Peace and contentment over unrest and pain. Soulmates with a solid foundation, of acceptance and healing.
Beauty from ashes indeed.