Chapter Text
Sherlock has preferred to leave the whole business of actually finding somewhere to live entirely in John’s hands. If he’s learned anything in his life, it’s that his own plans for the future have a habit of being derailed and it doubles as a nice distraction for John in those difficult first few months after their return.
Some days it seems as if their decision to move out of London is the only the certain thing between them, the only thing that they can do, and yet Sherlock’s heart lurches at the thought that it might just be a sticking plaster over a wound that’s too large to heal. Perhaps they are forever going to be people who are tied together because the weight of what’s happened to them is simply too heavy to carry alone.
They argue frequently. Sherlock is unoccupied and – until the phone call days before they leave – has no prospect of work. John is mired in the bog of mundane problems surrounding the move, still recovering from his wound, and (though he’s living in only one world) he’s still mentally living three lives. Grief often takes over.
But they carry on because, for all the what-ifs, they both chose this life. Sherlock didn’t know the sacrifices it would involve when he chose this world, and John chose Sherlock – this Sherlock - before he lost Mary and Rosa.
And despite their fears there are sweeter moments that hint of something right between them: tender kisses on the sofa that grow more charged the longer they go on, the way John’s hands venture further and further over Sherlock’s body every time, the ache as they regretfully pull apart – determined as they both are for their first time together to be as part of their new life rather than their old one – and the thrill of knowing that even as they pull apart they still have a round of goodnight kisses to look forward to before John goes home for the night.
John’s touches grow more frequent and intimate, fingers casually brushing across the back of Sherlock’s neck, or the wonderful moment he reached across and brushed his thumb across Sherlock’s lower lip affectionately, without seeming to even realise he was doing it.
In short, it’s a time of recovery: difficult, painful, and very necessary. By the time the taxi finally pulls away from 221b for the very last time they look back at Mrs. Hudson’s crying figure until she’s out of sight and then they meet each other’s eye. Wordlessly John holds out his hand and Sherlock takes it.
Both grip at each other hard enough for it to hurt.
--
The cottage is not what Sherlock’s expecting. He’s not really paid much attention to the process of house-hunting, something John claims to find strange considering the effort Sherlock had put into the equally dull planning of John’s wedding.
Sherlock had merely shrugged when he’d brought it up. “You have a habit of surprising me,” he’d said. “I never realise I need it until you’ve shown me I do. I’m sure this will be the same.”
John had squeezed his shoulder in a way that suggested Sherlock had said the perfect thing.
Still, as the taxi pulls up to the cottage, John is more than a little nervous.
“I did suggest you came to the viewing,” he says, for at least the third time since they left London.
Ignoring him, Sherlock peers out of the window for his first look and then gets out of the car. John comes around the side of the car to join him.
“It was an absolute steal,” he says, clearly trying to sell it. “I negotiated another three per cent-”
Sherlock hushes him. He’s still taking it in.
The cottage is made of stone, with the four-windows, chimney-on-roof-door-in-the-middle layout of every child’s drawing of a house. There’s a small walled garden out front and what looks to be a large one behind. It’s perfect. He can even hear bird-song.
What he can also hear is laughter from the pub on the opposite side of the green and a dog barking from the gate of a cottage twenty-yards away from their front door. It’s surrounded by people. His parents’ house is more isolated than this.
“It’s not exactly in the middle of nowhere…” he ventures.
“Well I thought you’d go a bit stir crazy without some people around,” John says defensively. “Besides the garden isn’t overlooked and you haven’t seen the best part...”
He takes Sherlock’s hand (and this open intimacy in itself is thrilling) and leads him through the gate and around into the wild back garden. There are two doors, a white one leading into the kitchen and a scratched, bolted wooden door which John unbolts. A short stone staircase leads down to what turns out to be a large, well ventilated cellar.
Sherlock stops in his tracks.
“I know this place,” he says. “This is – oh! This is-“
“This is the cottage from the Cider Press Murders,” John finishes. “This is the cellar it all happened in.”
Oh the Cider Press Murders had been great fun. Sherlock hadn’t been invited onto the case and been more than a little put out by the fact, especially as the solution had been so very elegant. He’d been glued to the case-notes for weeks and now he was going to live in the very house it happened.
“And,” John adds, “I got the cottage at a ridiculous price as a result. Serial murders put people off buying cottages, as it turns out. I thought that whatever no doubt messy career you intend to throw yourself into, you could work in here without causing any damage.”
John doesn’t have to say another word. Sherlock moves closer to him, enjoying the warmth radiating from his body in the cool cellar, and whispers into his ear. “It’s perfect.”
“You think so?”
No, it’s not really, Sherlock knows. Small village life will drive them both mad eventually, but it will be a shared madness. It’s not perfect, but it’s just right.
He doesn’t say all that, because all that will destroy the moment.
He captures John’s mouth instead.
--
That night they share a bed for the first time. They’ve slept side by side before, but this time it’s meaningful. This time it’s their bed.
Sherlock had hoped that after a day of hauling boxes and furniture about they’d both be too tired to be bashful when it came to bedtime. Mostly that’s true, but as he waits for John to finish in the bathroom he begins to panic. Should he get into the bed first, or should he wait?
He gets in. Then he scrambles back out in alarm at the realisation that he’s just got into his ‘usual’ side automatically: what if John doesn’t want that side? John comes out of the bathroom and finds him standing at the side of the bed almost guiltily.
“I didn’t know what side you wanted,” he blurts.
“I don’t mind,” John shrugs. Sherlock nods, and then skirts around to the other side of the bed. It’s a pointed reminder to himself that things are different now.
He watches John take off his dressing gown and notes that he’s dressed in a similarly neutral way to Sherlock: a t-shirt and boxers alongside Sherlock’s t-shirt and pyjama bottoms. He hooks the gown over the bedknob at the end of the bed, just as Sherlock had done on his side, and looks around the bedroom, taking in the little things you do when sleeping in a new place: the slight draft from the window, the creaking floorboard by the door, the spot where the Cider-Press Killer had seduced the wives of his victims in front of the fireplace (admittedly, he might not have noticed that one.)
“We’re going to need more wardrobes,” John says, gesturing to the suitcases lined up against the wall (most of them Sherlock’s.)
Sherlock is going to agree (or to weakly offer to throw away some of his disguises) when a strange, unexpected smile breaks out over John’s face.
“It’s strange,” he explains, “I used to hate all that domestic talk… wardrobes and curtains and what-have-you… but it’s weirdly brilliant talking like that with you. I suppose it’s the novelty of it.”
He goes to his newly designated side of the bed and opens the bedside table, carefully storing the box that Sherlock recognises as his gun. Domesticity and weaponry, a combination he’s never been able to resist.
The awkwardness faded, John slides into bed and suddenly they’re not shy Victorian Honeymooners anymore, they’re familiar and intimate. A peaceful sensation settles over Sherlock. They’ll wake up in their own bed every day and slowly this will become their lives, they’ll be OK. And sooner or later the fear will lesson and this thing between them will suddenly spark into life and it will be just them, together, in love, touching and taking everything they need from each other.
Patience hasn’t been Sherlock’s strong suit in the past, but he’s waited for this, and now there is nothing to stop this new shared life from happening.
They inch closer, facing each other in the bed, and John winds his arm around Sherlock’s waist, rubbing his back.
“So, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” he asks.
“We’re retired,” Sherlock shrugs. “What makes you think there’s a plan?”
John grins and leans forward to press a kiss to the side of Sherlock’s mouth.
“Because I know you, you mad bastard, you always have a plan.”
Sherlock leans forward to return the kiss, mouth against mouth this time. After he’s pulled away he keeps his hand resting against John’s face, rubbing his thumb over the lip he’s just tasted. John hums and his eyes stay closed.
“Then you know I like surprising you,” he says.
“Fine” John murmurs, half asleep already, “so long as it’s not too surprising.”
It’s only in those few moments before Sherlock follows him into sleep that he realises that John didn’t seem to need to hear any more of his secrets.
“I love you,” he whispers. It’s not a secret, but he feels like saying it anyway.
--
Sherlock had his surprise all planned out. They would wake early, indulge in a leisurely breakfast (something more complicated than either of them would usually attempt without the direct involvement of Mrs. Hudson) and then there would be a surprise delivery…
He supposes that, if he’d thought about it, he should have been ready for John to once again defy his expectations. From the moment he wakes up his plan goes out of the window.
If Sherlock isn’t working then John is usually the first awake and he had expected that John would be up and doing something. Instead he wakes to the sensation of a warm hand stroking gently across his skin and when he opens his eyes John is next to him, awake and looking fascinated, as if waking up to Sherlock in his bed is the most amazing miracle to ever happen.
“Morning,” he rasps.
John’s echoed reply is barely out of his mouth before he’s putting his lips to more productive use, pressing them against Sherlock’s and then deepening the kiss. It’s as if the mere act of sharing a bed has thrown down the barriers between them and they’ve woken up in a new world.
Sherlock would have guessed, if asked, that they’d finally take the next step when the charged atmosphere between them finally grew too strong, perhaps in a moment of danger or even in a joyous moment, while sharing a joke. He would never, not in a million years, have guessed that it could be as simple as this. That they could simply wake up in a new place and everything would just… click.
But it has. His hands are sliding underneath John’s shirt, touching everywhere he can, and John – without hesitation - slips his own hand into Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms, taking hold of his already hard cock and stroking it. Sherlock responds in kind, frees John from his boxers, and their hands work frantically while their lips never separate.
God… this is going to be quick and messy. There’s no lube but they’re already slick with pre-cum and Sherlock realises that this is going to be over embarrassingly quickly. It’s been a long time for him after all and judging by John’s needy whine he’s just as desperate.
But then John is pulling away and Sherlock must have made a noise close to utter terror, because he hastily leans down to kiss reassuringly at Sherlock’s neck.
“I just- I have to-“ he pants, unable to articulate what it is until he’s sliding down Sherlock’s body, yanking his pyjama bottoms down, and Sherlock gets the message loud and clear.
“Wanted to do this for so long,” is the last thing John says before his mouth engulfs Sherlock’s cock and Sherlock can do nothing but writhe in the sheets and beg for mercy.
John’s hands busily stroke the inside of his now exposed thighs and he can feel Johns tongue swirling around the head of his cock and – and – he can’t hold on. He barely has time to push John away before he’s coming messily over his bare stomach and the t-shirt bunched up around his armpits.
John stares up at him like Sherlock’s just solved a multiple murder, and Sherlock thinks he might be looking as John as if he’s just performed a miracle.
“You- you- gave me a blowjob,” he says faintly.
“Note to self, sex makes Sherlock Holmes as stupid as it does everyone else,” John says affectionately. “And yeah, do you really you haven’t been driving me crazy with need too?”
“Oh,” says Sherlock, proving John’s statement about his post-coital intelligence nicely. Still, he hasn’t forgotten the most important fact: John still hasn’t come.
He bursts into action, flipping them so that John is on his back and it’s Sherlock who is wriggling down his body to return the favour. His mouth works hungrily, switching between firm sweeps of his tongue up and down the length of John’s cock and engulfing it, taking as much as he can. John is babbling incoherently, head still lifted to take in the view of Sherlock sucking him off. Judging by the occasional near-wept cry of ‘oh god look at you’ he seems to like the view.
Sherlock can tell when John’s about to come and despite John’s valiant efforts to warn him, he has no intention of going anywhere. Swallowing cum isn’t his favourite act, but it’s worth it to eke every last moment of pleasure out of John.
When John has finished and is a trembling, panting wreck, Sherlock moves back up and flops down beside him. He catches John’s eye and they grin like naughty schoolboys before reaching in for a well-meaning if not very nice-tasting kiss.
“I suppose that’s a sign that we have to get up and brush our teeth instead of spending the day in bed?” John sighs.
“We can brush our teeth and then come back to bed,” Sherlock offers. But they can’t: John’s surprise is due to arrive and he’s suddenly horribly aware that – not wanting to tempt fate – he didn’t bring any lube with him.
He mentions this to John. “Reckon the village shop will have some?” he asks, poker faced.
“Oh god, this place won’t know what’s hit them,” John snorts. “But do you know what we do have? A really excellent and surprisingly spacious power-shower. It was in the property description.”
This gets Sherlock moving. “I expect you need a good power-shower to get rid of the blood of your victims.”
“I should have known would turn you on.”
--
Despite the fact that they’ve had sex twice in one morning (something they’re both quietly smug about) the world still goes on. A delivery driver is angrily negotiating the narrow country lanes and heading closer to the cottage with every minute.
When he finally rings the doorbell it’s John who answers and accepts the delivery of eight large crates which the driver stacks in the hallway.
“Just what we needed,” John says blanky, “more boxes.”
Sherlock is suddenly nervous. He had not anticipated that things would be so settled so quickly and now he has inadvertently introduced something that might shake their new-found peace. But he has to tell John now, because it’s something he needs to know.
John apparently senses important news coming because he slowly sits down on the staircase, looking up at Sherlock wearily.
“I suppose it’s too much to hope that you’ve decided to take up some insane hobby?” he asks.
That’s not too far from the truth, but Sherlock decides not to confuse things further. This isn’t a moment for a grand revelation, John’s not going to fall into his arms like he imagined, this is something that will impact the rest of their life.
“I got phone-call from the psychic,” he says. “The one Mycroft mentioned.”
They’ve picked over every detail of what happened to them both. They’ve discussed the psychic before and what connection she might have had to Mycroft.
“Right.” John nods once, taking it in. “And what did she or he have to say for themself?”
Sherlock can’t bear to drag this out any longer. There will be time to pick over every detail, but he can’t allow himself to let John be frightened for a moment longer.
“It’s not what she said, it’s what she meant. She told me that Rosa was still alive. That’s she’s like Nell: travelling through the universe trying to get home.”
John just stares. Stares and stares. Sherlock can read thoughts in the tiniest flicker of facial expression but he honestly has no way of knowing if John is going to explode, or cry, or just walk away in disgust.
When he finally speaks, his expression doesn’t change but his voice sounds as if there’s a fire burning in his chest.
“How? How can she be travelling. She’s only a baby.”
Sherlock shrugs. “She’s the one people call the Red Princess. Someone must be looking after her.”
“Dorlag!” John says. “Dorlag- I- I told him how to use the Hives if something ever happened. He must have- he must have got her out-“
And then the blankness is gone. His face crumples and he’s sobbing harder than Sherlock has ever seen him. On instinct he drops to his knees and wraps him arms around John letting him weep into his shirt.
“She’s – she’s alive!” he croaks through the tears. “We have to find- find-“
Sherlock lifts John’s chin, forcing him to meet his gaze. “We’re going to,” he promises. “That’s what this is.”
He waves back at the stack of boxes behind him.
“I bought the Hives.”
For a second John blinks stupidly, mind not wrapping itself around Sherlock’s words. “Beehives?”
“Mina Ailis’s Hives. There were hundreds of them in that room and now she and her sister want them as far away as possible. They’ve got a new life to build, just like we have.”
And it had worked out well for the two damaged sisters. They’d sold the shop and earned enough money to start all over again. Fortunately a flat with a very understanding landlady had just become available. Sherlock thinks that Mrs. Hudson’s mothering will do the two women the world of good and that Nell is just eccentric enough to keep Mrs. Hudson on her toes.
“What are we going to do with them?” John asks faintly.
“We’re going to explore them,” Sherlock promises. “Hundreds of new universes, each one potentially dangerous: full of mysteries to solve, worlds to discover and fortunes to be made. We’ll have clients too: people who accidentally end up in our world in need to help. And any one could lead us to Rosa.”
The smile that creeps onto John’s face is blinding. It’s radiantly happy – a man overwhelmed by unexpected hope - and it infects Sherlock too. For a moment they grin at each other like madmen.
They’re both alive. They’re together. John’s daughter is out there somewhere.
And it’s almost certainly going to be dangerous.
--
Several Years Later
The two figures by the campfire make an astonishing sight. One, a huge man, sits hunched over, protecting the smaller figure from the worst of the snow that’s falling all around them. They haven’t been able to find shelter since their arrival, but it’s ok: the pack the larger man carries has supplies for all climates. A small tent is already set up and the two of them wear heavy furs.
They are in Canada but their meal is strangely tropical. The fish they’ve cooked was freshly caught in tropical waters just eight hours before and they sip sweet coconut water.
The man worries about his companion. She is an even more unexpected sight than he: a pale girl of six years old with a hundred-year-old stare. He is not her father, not a relation of any sort, but he is her most devoted follower and guardian.
Recently there has been too much travelling and not enough shelter and rest. She never complains; she’s a strange mix of determination and dutifulness. She tried to give him the bigger share of her dinner earlier; the blood of the Agra really does run through her veins, for she will never be convinced that she isn’t responsible for him.
He wonders sometimes if he made the right decision, agreeing to take her on this journey. After nearly a year of wandering around the jungle with his infant charge and no idea how to get back home, he’d had the strangest experience of all: he ran into a tribe of people who spoke his language. The chief of the tribe was woman and – to his shock – he’s realised that he knew her. She was the girl who’d gone missing from the cell all those years before. The girl who’d been sentenced to die for her strange visions.
“At last,” she’d said, cooing over the baby, “the Red Princess is finally in my arms.”
And then she told him the story she’d been waiting to tell her whole life: what Hives were, and how they worked, and how the Red Princess was destined to travel throughout the universe until she found her true home.
“And until she’s strong enough to make the journey herself, you have to do it for her…”
Dorlag would have died for Rosa. If it was written in the stars for him to take her on a great adventure, then that’s what he’d do.
And he had, but it didn’t mean he didn’t find it hard to see her cold and tired.
“Perhaps we should find somewhere and stay,” he suggests “For a while at least.”
There might be a farm somewhere, perhaps their strange bounty of coconut milk and other oddities from the many world’s they’ve travelled through might buy them a few nights rest and some hot, hearty meals to fill the girl’s stomach.
She frowns. The idea of stopping never seems to occur to her.
“No,” she says. “Perhaps the next Hive will be the right one.”
The End
A/N: So this is it, the very last author’s note. Thank you to all of the people who listened to me whinge, fret, and complain about this story. Truly you’ve all suffered for my art.
- This fic has been the culmination of many years of work. The idea of the Hives (initially called Ports until the genius of Sherlock retiring to look after Hives struck me), Covent Garden and Mina and Nell all hit me in one perfect moment while I was at uni. That was five years ago. Since then I’ve written various drafts of novels about the sisters, but I never intended to turn it into fic until Trillsabells’s prompt struck me as fitting my own universe very well. By then I was frustrated with my original idea and thought I’d write a little fic based in the same universe. The fic is NOT a copy of my own original story: aside from Nell being cut off from her home world and travelling to try and get back, and Mina waiting for her on the other side and taking in refugees, everything else is new
- I still have my original one page of scribbled notes for this fic with the words ‘THIS WILL BE NO MORE THAN 30K’ written at the top.
- The hardest chapters to write were the ones set during S3. My main goal writing this fic was that you could watch S3 and imagine this story was taking place at the same time. It was hard but worth it.
- The location of Milton Gate (aka Mina’s shop) is really called Hanover Place in Covent Garden. I walk past it quite often and it always makes me smile to think of the little part of London I’ve stolen and made my own.
- I’ve placed Agra in France, mainly because FlawedAmythyst assured me that it gets quite nasty in the Bay of Biscay (and I found a couple of historically similar storms to the one used in the fic.) The castle in the fic is near Rennes (which is a strategic strong point in terms of location) and there is Rennes le Chateau there which is quite a good visual idea of Agra’s castle (though in my head it’s a bit more war-like with a bit of visual inspiration from the Fortress of Miolans, which once acted as a prison and held the Marquis de Sade. It’s for sale if you have a spare 4 million euros.)
- Sherlock falls down the escalator at Angel station. It’s the longest one in the underground network (while writing this story I was on that escalator and literally thought ‘this is taking ages to get to the top’ before I remembered where I was and the significance!
- Days before I wrote the final chapters I visited the cottage that is – supposedly – the cottage Holmes retired to in East Dean in Sussex. We all agreed that the particular cottage is nothing like the one in the stories (it’s on a very busy green, in a touristy area, with a pub and other cottages very close by) and basically the sort of place that a bee-keeping loner would find absolute hell. It did strike me, however, as the exact sort of place John would buy if he was buying a place in the country and so I enjoy that it fits in with my world. There have been no murders (to my knowledge) related to cider presses.
- That’s it. Nearly one and a half years later and it’s all over. Finished. I’m stopping typing… now.
- OK I lied. If you liked this I’d love a rec. I’m an insecure writer and I’d love for people to hear about this story. Alright. Stopping now. Really… FINISHED