fiction, fiction, fiction

Fic: To The Last Drop - 6/6 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Fri, 28 Feb 2014 21:48:20 GMT

Title: To The Last Drop
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 1.7k out of 31k
Beta: seijichan, lifeonmars, prettyarbitrary, airynothing
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: “If you want me to comfort you over my imminent death, I will be kicking you in the head,” John warns.
Warnings: Eventual off-screen character death, illness both physical and mental, assault, graphic violence, blood, bloodplay, explicit sexual behavior, dubcon, plague, attempted suicide

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six

"Sherlock--"

"No."

"Somewhere else, then," John says. "Just keep going."

Sherlock groans. His hands clench between them instead of tearing into John's skin. "I told you, it's not transferring. There's no point."

"I'm bloody freezing: that's the point."

"Bloody and freezing," Sherlock corrects.

"Right, now get down here." John tugs. Sherlock wavers and John tugs harder. "Look, you don't have to bite me, just come here before hypothermia sets in."

Sherlock settles on top of him like dust motes waiting for a breeze, soft and slow and uncertain of his true direction. John's body withstands the shifting pressure of his weight, but poorly, exquisitely. He warms his hands on Sherlock's back and Sherlock's nose presses into his ear. The rest of John freezes, but at least Sherlock is once again in his proper place. John grips his own wrist behind Sherlock's spine.

"We'll try again," John says. "Give it an hour."

"It won't transfer."

"You don't know that."

Sherlock groans against John's cheek. "It won't. It hasn't."

"Sherlock, if you don't want to bite me, it's not ready to transfer."

"Yes, which is why we know it's settled."

John finds the implications, though it takes him a moment to track them down. He breaks into a grin. "You want to bite me?"

"Obviously."

"Right, so what's the problem?"

Sherlock lifts up enough to stare John in the eyes. "I'm going to kill you."

"Yeah, I know," John says. "What's the problem?"

Sherlock opens his mouth but says nothing. His eyebrows pull together, his forehead wrinkles, and the dried and drying blood on his chin flakes.

John lifts his chin higher, and Sherlock's eyes pierce him. John swallows, a loud and obvious gulp of air. Sherlock sways closer before biting his own lip bloody. It drives John to distraction, but Sherlock doesn't seem to notice.

"You're going to do it," John says. "Don't pretend you won't." He sets his hand on Sherlock's nape and tries to draw him down. Failing that, John props himself up on his elbows. A fresh flare of bliss shatters his back, his spine, his arse.

"You said you wanted it together," Sherlock says. "Both of us."

"Okay, fine. We can still do that."

Sherlock climbs off him. He doesn't go far, but John can't catch him. John's body fights to collapse in on itself. His body refuses to obey. Even beneath the bitter chill, it feels amazing.

"Stay where you are," Sherlock orders. "Stay there. Don't come near me."

John snorts. "Yeah, that's going to happen." He nearly manages to sit up without groaning. "Get back here before I freeze."

"Pay attention." Sherlock tosses John's sheet at him. "We need to restrain me. Handcuffs, muzzle, now." He shakes as he sways, barefoot and naked on the floor. His thighs are stained, his arms mottled.

"It's okay," John says. "Really. Honestly. Come back here."

"No, John, listen--"

"Come here and I will."

"If I kill you here, Mrs Hudson will find the body." Sherlock staggers back until he can lean against the wall. Poor git looks exhausted.

"Okay," John says.

"Or I might find her first."

John nods. "Right, yes. That car's coming in a few hours, isn't it?" Christ, hours. "We don't really have to wait that long, do we?"

"I need to be away from people," Sherlock says. Though he lies back against the wall, he still gives the impression of pacing. "Removed or put down. I don't know how long I can hold out."

"You don't have to," John says. "Now is fine."

"Now is not fine," Sherlock snaps. "Never is fine." He pushes off the wall to stalk over to his closet. He rips out one of his housecoats and flings it at John. "Bundle up."

John doesn't have to be told twice. His body protests every glorious motion as he wraps the heat around himself. It even smells like Sherlock.

"You'll drive," Sherlock says. "When the car arrives, get in and drive. Just get away from me. Wait, no." He tears at his hair. "No. That would leave me with Mrs Hudson. You'll have to move me somewhere."

"And then you'll do it?" John asks.

"Only then."

"What if I freeze to death first?"

"Only then," Sherlock repeats. "Somewhere else. Away from Mrs Hudson. Promise me that."

"We're not going to last that long," John says. An assumption, but a powerful one. He manages, barely, to stand up from the bed. His arse burns without true warmth. He tries to step forward. He doesn't fall. "Come here."

"Somewhere else."

"Here's fine." John gestures sharply. "Now is fine."

"Somewhere for only the two of us," Sherlock says. "Will you do that, John? Will you give me that?"

"Would you stop stalling?"

"I mean it. Last request. Just the two of us. Somewhere without people outside in the streets."

"Sherlock--"

"Please. Just us. Only us."

"It is just us," John says. "Right now. Come here. It could still transfer back, give it another try."

Sherlock shakes his head. Some of his hair flops. Some, plastered to his skull, stays in place. There are lines in his hair, visible lines from where John grabbed it. John should grab it again. Hold Sherlock in place until he understands. He should do that. Now. He should do that now.

John steps closer, and Sherlock is speaking. John steps closer, Sherlock moves, and John hits the floor. Sherlock steps over him. John catches at his legs. He tears at skin but cannot hold. Sherlock kicks him and stumbles. Sherlock leaves the room. His footsteps travel down the hall.

The hardwood floor hits John's face and slaps against his hands. It bruises his knees through the housecoat. The sheet slides and the floor strikes him a second time. The room twists until John shoves it in place with hands and feet and a snarl. He pulls himself down the hallway. His breaths shake worse than his legs. He barrels into the sitting room and Sherlock is on the floor.

John lunges. Sherlock catches. John seizes him with both arms and Sherlock makes no attempt to escape. John pins Sherlock on his back. Sherlock lets out a muffled grunt. The leather of the muzzle shines, clean, against his face.

"What the hell are you doing?" John asks. The question comes out quiet and winded. "Really, Sherlock, what the hell?" He reaches for the straps behind Sherlock's head and Sherlock catches his wrists. Sherlock squeezes, but not hard enough, not so John can feel it. "You're supposed to be here, you can't fucking run away!"

Sherlock's head rolls back and forth on the floor in denial. The pressure of his grip changes deliberately rhythmically.

"Do I look like I'm awake enough for Morse code?"

Undeterred, Sherlock continues. John licks his lips and listens. He mouths each letter, straining to spell. He screws his eyes shut.

John shakes his head. Sherlock groans and digs his fingertips in for emphasis.

"But we don't have to wait," John says.

Slowly, achingly, Sherlock argues. His debate is one simple statement, one John already knows. John reaches for the straps and they tussle. They grapple. They capture one another and lie between the armchairs, shins knocked and shoulders bruised. Sherlock wheezes, his breaths laboured through his nose. His eyes are a self-righteous accusation.

"You're supposed to stay with me," John says. "You need me, Sherlock. That's what you're for. You don't get to go away. Never again. You understand that."

Someone's sweat evaporates off John's cold, prickling skin. Someone's blood dries on him.

"You understand that," John repeats.

Sherlock taps his reply.

Make it last.

John's chest unclenches. "Yeah. Yeah, okay. I can do that. We'll do that."

Sherlock sighs. His wild eyes slide shut. He presses his cheek against John's chest as if to push back inside him. Maybe he will.

"The car's outside."

Arms bound behind his back, wrists cuffed, Sherlock growls.

"Heard the keys fall through the mail slot." As John sits up, he pulls Sherlock with him. John's limbs are heavier than his eyes. "C'mon. I know where we're going. The perfect spot." The first bite and the last, brought together. A place with no more leaving. He wonders if Alexis' body is still there.

John makes the slow climb to his feet and stands as frozen as he would at any true peak. Coordination gone, Sherlock contorts. His focus is on John, not on standing. His focus is always on John. It always will be.

He pulls Sherlock upright. He nearly overbalances. Sherlock staggers into him, presses against him, shoves his face against him. Sherlock keens. Already bundled up in countless layers, John buttons Sherlock into his greatcoat and draws him by the empty sleeves. They sway down the stairs. Sherlock nudges against him with chest and face.

"Soon," John says.

John picks up the keys. He unlocks the front door. He opens it, and Sherlock shoves up behind him hard enough to slam the door closed.

"I won't run away." The promise comes out with a small laugh. "Don't worry."

A desperate noise resonates in Sherlock's throat, bottled.

John opens the door. He checks the pavement for any people, anyone who Sherlock might want instead. Jealousy flares, but it's late and close to quiet. Good. Only when he's certain they're alone, he leads Sherlock outside. He opens the passenger door and climbs in, all the way in to the driver's side, and Sherlock follows without a pause. John buckles him in. Sherlock's attempts to bite hardly hinder him. John reaches over him and pulls the passenger door shut.

He inserts the key and the engine rumbles. Beside him, restrained in triplicate, Sherlock strains closer. John turns on the heat. He reaches out and touches the cut beside Sherlock's eye. Sherlock turns his mouth toward John's wrist, seeking.

"I know." John picks at the forming scab. "Want you too."

Sherlock groans, his eyes dark and unchanging, and John's fingers itch for the straps behind Sherlock's head.

"Almost there," John promises them both.

His stained hands on the wheel, he pulls away from the kerb and into the night.

previous |

Fic: To The Last Drop - 5/6 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 22 Feb 2014 02:34:17 GMT

Title: To The Last Drop
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 6.3k out of 31k
Beta: seijichan, lifeonmars, prettyarbitrary, airynothing
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: “If you want me to comfort you over my imminent death, I will be kicking you in the head,” John warns.
Warnings: Eventual off-screen character death, illness both physical and mental, assault, graphic violence, blood, bloodplay, explicit sexual behavior, dubcon, plague, attempted suicide

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five

“Jesus, it’s cold.” John searches about blearily and without success. “Where are your sheets?” Even sitting up against the headboard, he can’t spot any in Sherlock’s bedroom.

“Kitchen floor.” Lying more or less facedown, Sherlock flops his hand in the approximate direction.

“Why?”

Sherlock turns his head, arching his neck. “You were about to kill yourself. Why stop to pick up blankets?”

“About that,” John says.

“I will restrain you if necessary,” Sherlock answers without moving.

“How did you know? What I was... doing.”

Sprawled and twisted with an unblinking stare, Sherlock does a remarkable, if unwitting, impression of a cat. “I didn’t hear you in the loo.”

John picks at a spot of blood on the mattress.

Heavier than lead, Sherlock’s gaze transfers to the gooseflesh on John’s bare arms. “Here,” Sherlock says. He reaches backward, folding his arms behind his spine to pull at the sleeves of his open shirt. After a quick squirm, Sherlock deposits the stained garment in John’s lap.

“Thanks.” He spreads the formerly white shirt over his crossed legs. Again, smudges of blood distract him. He traces them with one finger before daring to look at Sherlock’s back. “I should do something about that. And your front.”

“Hm? Why bother?”

“Because—” No, a doctor’s line of reasoning won’t work. Reason itself won’t work. “Because,” John says, “I could make it sting.”

Sherlock crawls up onto all fours before settling back on his haunches. “You could.”

“Do you want me to?”

“Do you want to?” Sherlock counters.

“That’s why I’m asking.”

“Fine. Where are your supplies?”

Leaning heavily on each other, they fetch them together. Sherlock’s robe squeezes at John’s arms, but it’s sufficiently wide in the middle and certainly more than long enough. Already immune to the cold, Sherlock accompanies him in only his trousers.

“I want this on my bed,” Sherlock tells him.

“The sofa would be fine. Or a chair. Anything, really,” John says, but Sherlock’s arm slips from around his shoulders. They both wobble until John staggers after him. “Fine, okay. Wait, no, hold on.”

Sherlock groans.

“I need a few more things, that’s all.” They backtrack into the kitchen. John rifles through the cabinets. Sherlock’s hand rides his left shoulder. Sherlock’s forehead presses into the right shoulder. “We have to eat before we collapse.”

“Don’t want to.”

“Eat and I’ll hurt you.”

Sherlock lifts his head.

John turns around. Their faces are close. Sherlock’s teeth are at the level of John’s eyes, but John’s mouth is of a height with Sherlock’s neck.

“I eat or you’ll hurt me,” Sherlock corrects.

“I said ‘and’. I meant ‘and’.”

“Would you?” Sherlock asks, but there’s no question in his low tone.

John reaches up. Under Sherlock’s greasy hair, John pinches the cartilage of Sherlock’s ear. He digs in with his thumbnail. Eyelids at half-mast, Sherlock sways closer. John lets go.

“Eat,” he orders.

“You were going to see to my chest first.”

“I’ll take care of your back while you eat. Now sit.”

Sherlock doesn’t obey, not immediately. John raises an eyebrow and sets his hand on the knife drawer. Sherlock sits.

John heats up the last tin of soup. He stands close to the stove, arms wrapped around himself as much as the robe will allow.

“Multitasking, John,” Sherlock whinges.

“Shut up, I’m taking care of you.”

“Not enough.”

John is standing at Sherlock’s side. John must have moved from stove to table, but his mind neglected to record that moment. John holds Sherlock’s head between his hands, feeling for clamminess and fever. This is the important fact.

“All right?” John asks him. Sherlock’s face is hotter than John’s hands. This means little, all told. The pallor could be blood loss. Sherlock’s eyes look bruised, and there’s a chance they might be.

“Fine.”

“Liar.”

Sherlock smiles faintly. He sags, his head lolling against John’s hands.

“Observe your symptoms for me,” John says.

“What for?”

“Show off for me.”

“Mm. The heat isn’t as intense. Before, it felt like it was seeping through me. This time is more... submerged. More rapid.”

“What else?”

“Restless.” Sherlock murmurs only a few more details before trailing off, his eyes dull in his pale, discoloured face.

“You look exhausted.”

“Yes, that too.”

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry yet.”

“I’m not waiting until the next round to feed you,” John says. “How’s your stomach?”

“Fine.” A pause. “Acidic.”

“Can you eat without being sick? Honest answer, Sherlock.”

A sullen nod. His hair tickles John’s palms and John lets go.

“Water, first,” John says, moving to fetch him a glass. A searing pain shoots through John’s shoulder, and John cries out, hand flying to his old wound, before he registers Sherlock’s grip on his left arm. Another sharp yank and John topples into the chair and Sherlock both. Momentum carries them only an instant before dropping them to the floor. The chair breaks, some part of it letting out a wooden snap.

Sprawled on the floor, Sherlock grabs at him, eyes as wild as his clutching hands. Sherlock pulls at the robe, pulls himself up by John’s shoulders, and John goes after his wrists. He breaks Sherlock’s grip and shoves him down. The back of Sherlock’s head smacks against the floor. Hands planted on Sherlock’s shoulders, effectively on all-fours, John pins him. Even this doesn’t put an end to Sherlock’s onslaught: he kicks and thrashes, nearly bucking John off him. Sherlock switches tactics as suddenly as he’d begun, and he clamps his legs around John’s waist.

John backhands him across the face.

“John—”

“What the hell are you doing?” He doesn’t bother with another slap, not when he has Sherlock’s neck beneath one hand. “‘I’ll attack John, what a good idea!’ No, it bloody well isn’t!”

“You moved.” Sherlock’s eyes turn the words to poison. “I ought to hamstring you.”

“I took one step! One. In the kitchen.” He increases the pressure of his hand with each phrase. “Where I am staying until you eat your damn food.”

“You can’t leave.”

“Do I look like I’m going somewhere? In my pants, really?” A hard squeeze for emphasis.

Sherlock’s fingers dig into John’s forearms. He gets out one strained syllable: “Stay.”

“I’m staying.” John eases up on the pressure but keeps his thumbs over Sherlock’s throat as Sherlock gasps for air. “Of course I’m staying.”

“You tried to leave.” Sherlock coughs. His legs drop from around John’s middle.

In return, John releases Sherlock’s neck. He rises into a crouching kneel, sitting on his own feet. He keeps one hand on Sherlock’s stomach for balance. “I tried to get you a glass of water, you twat.”

“What, with a gun in your mouth? Is that what you slipped away to do?”

“Christ, Sherlock, I’m not going to do that again.”

“You were about to kill yourself.”

“I changed my mind,” John says.

“John, your gun was in your mouth.”

As Sherlock’s chest heaves, the bite marks over his collarbones glisten, his skin parted to give way to fresh blood. John touches one of the imperfect circles. Broken skin sits better with him than a broken voice.

“John, look at me.”

“I am looking at you.”

“Look me in the eyes.”

John traces the bites. Sherlock’s chest rises and falls. Once, twice, thirty-odd times. On the stove, the soup begins to make sounds soup shouldn’t make.

“I’m going to stand up,” John tells bloody collarbones. “I’m going to turn off the stove. You are going to eat.” Slowly, John stands. His body doesn’t want to move. It’s heavier and more sluggish than it was before the scuffle. “I might eat, too.” He leans down and offers Sherlock his hand.

Sherlock grasps John’s wrist, John returns the grip, and they stagger until more or less vertical. Sherlock doesn’t let go, but John doesn’t expect him to. He turns off the stove with his other hand. His skin prickles with the sudden cold.

“Did I hurt you?” John asks, eyes on the stove dial. “I heard your head hit the floor.”

“Nothing hurts.”

John looks up at him.

“Nothing hurts,” Sherlock repeats. A tinge of awe enters his voice. “I feel it, but it’s not... I wouldn’t call it ‘pain’ any longer.”

“What would you call it?”

“I don’t know.” Looking down at his own chest, Sherlock presses his fingertips into the bite marks. He shivers, a minute tremble of the shoulders. “It’s like scratching an itch. Or stretching. Somewhere between the two.”

“I don’t think I had that, my round,” John says. “It’s changing, it—”

“What was it that you had, during your round?” Sherlock interrupts. “Hm? An itch in the back of your throat, perhaps. Is that what you were feeling?”

Jaw set, John opens the cupboard. He retrieves a bowl and slams the cupboard shut. “Drop it. Just, just eat, all right? You have to eat. Whatever you want afterward, just eat.”

Sherlock steps closer, as if about to bite out John’s eyes. “Tell me why you tried to kill yourself.”

“I’ll tell you after.”

“Tell me during.”

“Fine,” John says. “Fine, have it your way.”

“Excellent. Sit on the floor and wrap the sheet around your legs.”

“What?”

“My sheet, John. It’s right there.” Sherlock gestures to the site of their previous nap.

“For Christ’s sake, you don’t need to tie me up.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You’re cold. Your legs are bare.” He stares John down until John does as told. Only then does Sherlock join him with bowl and spoon. Some soup sloshes onto the floor. He sits on the sheet, pinning John down without the smallest attempt at subtlety.

Steam rises from the bowl. John leans toward it. The steam dwindles slowly, and the soup takes even longer. When Sherlock has choked down a reasonable amount, John says, “I would rather kill myself than you. That’s all.”

The spoon clinks against the bowl as Sherlock abandons them to the kitchen floor. His eyes never waver from John’s. “I don’t care.”

“Do you want to kill me?” John asks. “I mean, really, do you?”

“If I wanted to kill you, I would have called emergency services days ago.”

“Look,” John says, “there are only so many ways for this to end. But you don’t want to kill me and I don’t want to kill you, and we’d both stop the other from committing suicide. One way or another, we’re going to tear each other apart.”

“But that doesn’t matter.”

John stares at him. “Sherlock, are you listening to yourself?”

“Always.”

“How does that not matter?”

Sherlock groans and tugs his hair into a strained, oily shape. “Everything is gone, yes? You understand that. We no longer have the rest of the world. I am here. You are here. That is everything.” He grips John’s arm. A gleam that has nothing to do with the kitchen light shines in his eyes. “That is what we need to hold onto. We stay together regardless of what follows.”

John presses the back of his free hand to Sherlock’s forehead. “Right, that is definitely the fever talking.”

“You’re simply cold.” Sherlock captures John’s hand and holds it between his palms to demonstrate. He curls John’s fingers, rubs them, and even breathes on them. Sherlock’s teeth come close to John’s fingertips, and John merely holds steady. Catching his eye, Sherlock grins.

“Do you see?” Sherlock asks. “You have to see it, do you see it? It’s so obvious, it’s right there, John.”

John looks at their hands. Scabs and bruises decorate skin drawn over sharp bone. Perhaps they’ve both bled from beneath the fingernails. Maybe that’s each other’s blood. The bite marks on the backs of their hands nearly match.

“We’re all that matters,” Sherlock explains. “No one else is important for the rest of our lives.”

John shakes his head. He begins to pull his hand away before a bright warning in Sherlock’s eyes stops him. “We’re not going to die at the same time,” John says.

“It’ll be close enough.”

“No it fucking won’t,” John says. “I’m not going to survive you again. You do not get to do that to me twice.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. “Meaning, you’d force me to endure it instead.”

“What happened to us dying ‘close enough’ together?”

“I could engineer that, if you’d be willing.”

“Load my gun and put our heads together, you mean.”

Sherlock turns John’s hand over, baring John’s wrist. He runs a fingertip down the line of John’s tendons.

John shivers. His skin prickles into gooseflesh. He doesn’t pull away.

“There’s another possibility I’d prefer,” Sherlock murmurs.

“You mean...mutual.”

A small nod, far too heavy to be a larger gesture. “I’ll cut you after you do the same for me,” Sherlock promises. “Hold you down if I have to.” Sherlock pins him already, skewers him with eyes and hands and one careful stroking fingertip.

John frees his dry tongue from the roof of his mouth. “We slit each other’s wrists and then we...?”

“Drink each other, yes.”

All the air evacuates John’s lungs in the shape of one word. “Jesus.”

“John, listen, it’s the best way—”

“I can’t believe I didn’t think of that,” John interrupts. “That is, that’s brilliant.”

Sherlock grins, wild teeth framed by bitten lips. “Obviously.”

“How do you want to do it?” John leans in and, dizzy, he knocks his forehead against Sherlock’s. “It would be cleaner in the bath.” No carpets stained, no linens ruined. Less of an upset to Mrs Hudson. “D’you want to?” Rising to a kneel, he tugs at Sherlock’s arm, the skin hot beneath his cold fingers.

“Somewhere else. The car will be dropped off within the next twenty-four hours.”

“What car?” John frowns at him and Sherlock frowns back.

“The car to leave in before Mrs Hudson returns. You were quite insistent.”

“Right, that car.” John settles back on the floor. “That was quick, though, wasn’t it? Can’t believe we don’t have forever left.”

Sherlock grins faintly. “We have the rest of our lives.”

John snorts. He catches Sherlock’s eyes and giggles take them both. Breathless, shoulders shaking, John slumps to the floor and curls in on himself, arms folded across his centre. Sherlock lasts only moments longer, soundlessly laughing as he crumples over John. His chin digs into John’s back in a way that would once have been painful.

They subside slowly. Any giggle or hiccup sparks their laughter anew. After a measureless time, they simply fit together on the floor. Their bodies shift as they breathe. Sherlock’s warm weight presses without restraining.

“It should be like this,” John mumbles.

“Hm?”

“When we do it. Me on my stomach with my hand behind my neck. You on my back with your arm on the floor.”

Sherlock hums his approval. “Extremely difficult for you to escape, in that position. Though, hm. You’re not afraid you’ll try to leave me again. In fact, you’re certain you won’t.”

“Is that a yes, then?”

“What do you get out of the position?” Sherlock asks. “You’re getting something you want. What is it?”

“I just... want to, all right?”

For an instant John nearly believes Sherlock might not answer. That instant passes.

“Oh. Oh.” Sherlock’s weight and warmth vanish from John’s side. John grabs him, unthinking, and Sherlock smirks down at him. “That’s it. You want me on top of you so you’ll feel I’m still there, even if I do die first.”

“No,” John says reflexively. “Well, maybe. I don’t know.” He sits up as well and adjusts the sheet around himself. “Are we doing it like that or not?”

“We are. We will.” Sherlock sways or lunges forward, and his hands either cup John’s face or wrap about his neck. So difficult to tell which. “I’ll make it amazing, John. It will be the best way anyone has ever died. I promise.” His thumb brushes over John’s throat, tracing his windpipe. “That is what you want, isn’t it?”

John nods between two blazing palms. “What about you? Is there anything else you’d like?”

Sherlock’s gaze doesn’t shift from John’s eyes. It freezes, as if restrained. “No,” Sherlock answers after a pause. He removes both hands from John’s neck and returns them to his sides. “This is enough.”

“What is it?”

“I said, this is enough.”

“What would make it more than enough?”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock snaps. “I know it’s difficult for you, but try.”

Brow furrowed, John licks his lips. His healing, bitten lower lip. He swallows thickly. “Ah. I’m, um. I’m not... Well. You know I’m not.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Everyone knows you’re not.”

“Sherlock, everyone thinks—”

“They’re morons,” Sherlock interrupts. “Oblivious and thick. Stop talking about them.” He grabs onto the edge of the worktop overhead and drags himself upward. His bare feet shuffle. He wobbles. He leans over the counter and his face leaves John’s line of sight. His ribs place themselves on display instead, bone a poorly kept secret beneath his skin. Here and there, an untouched patch of flesh peeks out between the contusions and abrasions.

John studies Sherlock before inspecting his own hands. He rises into a kneeling position. The sheet barely cushions his knees from the floor. He holds steady. His hands, both hands, hold steady.

When he stands, his head spins. The sheet slips and falls. He catches himself on the counter, on Sherlock. His palm warms on Sherlock’s back while his legs freeze. Without withdrawing from the touch, Sherlock turns his face away.

“I can hear you grinding your teeth,” John says.

Sherlock snorts.

John curls his fingers against Sherlock’s fever-hot skin. He scrapes his fingernails over layers of scratches, some half-healed, most otherwise.

“Something you’d like to do, doctor?” Sherlock drawls, the title an insult. “Still going to bandage me up?”

“No. I want to cut you open.” John picks off a scab and smears the revealed, shallow red over Sherlock’s spine. Another scab, another smudge. Sherlock looks so much better, bloody. Not as pale. With thumb and forefinger, John draws nonsense with rapidly drying ink.

In slow, almost sleepy increments, Sherlock’s head lowers. Tension fluctuates through him, but his varying heart rate doesn’t visibly impact his rate of bleeding. On an exhale, Sherlock makes a noise.

“What was that?” John asks.

“I said, I thought you didn’t want to kill me.”

“I don’t.” He rubs his red fingers against a relatively unmarked spot, but the blood has dried. “I’d keep it light. Make sure you don’t go into shock.”

“We might not be able to now, biologically.”

“Right. So.” John clears his throat. “Let me? Before I fucking freeze?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I’m not ready to transfer it back. It's still the same strain.”

“No, not what I meant, no,” John says. “I don’t need you to bite me, I don’t need to drink, I just...” He drops his words in an untidy mental jumble and sighs. “The biting is too messy. I want it clean. I, I don’t know. Let me.”

“Where?”

“Your back? To start.”

“In the kitchen?”

“Oh, um.” One chair broken, the table small and cluttered. He doesn’t trust the counters to be sanitary half the time. “No, not in here. The sitting room.”

“You want me on the coffee table,” Sherlock says.

John nods.

Sherlock tugs open the cutlery drawer. “Fine.”

John cuts.

Skin parts. Blood wells. Here a trickle, there a drip. Red obfuscates the clear lines of his making.

There are many lines among the scratches. Never too deep, never too close, never too long. His hands do not slip. His head may spin, the room may rock, but his hands are utterly in control. His right hand presses against the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Stop arching into it.”

“Go faster.”

John doesn’t.

Sherlock’s back continues into his front, skin wrapping over muscle and bone all the way around. There is angle and pressure and speed. There are hisses and gasps, and none of them are from John. John makes them louder regardless.

John kneels next to him. John leans over him. John sits across from him. They move together, John to take a better angle and Sherlock to offer one. Undamaged skin is hard to find. Sherlock sits up while John considers the undersides of his arms.

“I wish we could start from scratch,” John says.

“Hm?” Swaying, Sherlock blinks his eyes open. “Oh. You mean a blank canvas.”

“Yeah,” John says. “Wish you could see your back, too.”

“Take a photo.”

“With what?”

“My phone.”

“Where is it?”

Sherlock pauses, a tiny break in his natural fluidity. “I’ve no idea. Never mind, I can feel it well enough to piece together how it must look.”

John glances up to Sherlock’s eyes. Looking up is far easier than looking away, and so John sits, blade in hand, skin under his palm, watching hazy eyes in a flushed, bruised face. “How does it feel?”

“Sublime. Keep going.”

Choosing the site carefully, John indulges him. John muses, “I should rub you down with salt.”

“Would you?” Sherlock asks, as if this is marvellous, stupendous, as if John has had an unexpected stroke of genius.

“Do you want me to?” John sits up a bit straighter and cracks his back. He can walk to the kitchen, could stand long enough to retrieve the salt, he’s almost sure of it. “Sherlock? Do you want me to?”

“I’ve...” Sherlock swallows. “I’ve had another idea.”

Ah. John had only sparked the stroke of genius after all. “A better idea, you mean.”

“Obviously, I always mean that.”

“Just so we’re clear, I draw the line at flaying you,” John tells him.

Sherlock scoffs. “This is about drawing blood, not losing skin. No.”

“So...?”

“There’s one area that’s effectively untouched. Your blank canvas, if you would.”

John frowns. Matching Sherlock’s gaze, he waits, but no clarification comes. John’s eyes drift upward. “I could give you a good nick on the temple.” He reaches up and lifts Sherlock’s greasy hair out of the way. “Not a big one, I don’t want to risk that on your head.”

“A second area,” Sherlock corrects. “Larger.”

John’s frown returns, deeper than before.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’m sitting on it.”

“Oh,” John says. “Oh, right.”

“You don’t want to.”

“I’d prefer the forehead,” John says.

“Go ahead,” Sherlock says, and John can’t bring the knife so close to Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock closes them, but the worry remains.

John lowers his hands carefully into his lap. They stain the sheet immediately. He wipes the knife clean on the cloth over his thigh, one flat of the blade and then the other. Beneath the sheet, his own skin is frozen.

“John?”

“Forgot how cold I was.”

“It’s not ready to transfer,” Sherlock says. “Soon. I can feel it... becoming ready.”

“I’m okay. I ignored it for the past...however long that was. It’s not that bad.” The cold brings its own kind of pain. It’s sharp, for all it does not slice. It feels the way winter smells. “Do you want to cut me or bite me?”

Eyes on John, Sherlock absently touches his own chest. His fingertips smudge neat red lines. John could lick them clean. “No preference,” Sherlock says, but his voice tightens.

“Do you... want something else?”

Sherlock groans. “Why does it matter?”

“Because we’re dying, you git,” John answers, an incredulous laugh trying to interrupt him. “Go on, last requests, what do you want?”

“My last request is that you stop asking.” In a cross between a flounce and a fall, Sherlock propels himself from table to sofa. “Here, cut on my arm.”

“I was only offering.” More deeply than intended, he digs the knife into Sherlock's skin. “You don’t have to be an arse about it.”

“You were offering to let me fuck you until you bleed? Really, John?”

John looks at him sharply.

Sherlock meets his gaze.

“No,” John says, “I wasn’t offering that.”

“There we are, then.”

“It hadn’t really crossed my mind.” He keeps the knife against Sherlock’s skin, over tense muscle.

“Obviously not,” Sherlock says. “I don’t have to be at the top of my form to see that.”

“Right. Okay.”

“You can keep cutting me.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm.”

John swallows. “Okay. Thanks.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Dying?”

Sherlock shakes his head. His clumping hair clings to the sofa cushion in spots. “The other bit.”

“Well,” John says, “did you want to make me bleed out the arse before I bit you?”

“No,” Sherlock answers. His eyes narrow as he frowns into the middle distance. “I'm not sure why not, now. Why, does it matter?”

“Not sure. Maybe. I don’t know.”

“Very succinct.”

John responds with a jab of the blade.

Sherlock hisses. His eyes close. On his arm, drops of blood drip by the scars of track marks.

John lifts the knife. A damp, red shine follows the edge. As he tilts the blade, the shine shifts, flowing, thickening, never quite able to drip. He licks his lips instead of licking metal, but it's a close thing.

“We should have done this sooner,” Sherlock says. “We could have been doing this for days.”

“God, that would have been lovely. Would it—” again, he licks his lips “—would it be all right if I gave you that nick on the forehead after all?”

Sherlock leans toward him in a casual sprawl. “Go on.”

John shifts. One knee presses into the sofa cushions as he rises up. Snake-like, Sherlock moves his head in response, continually offering the right side of his face. John steadies him with one hand. John steadies himself on Sherlock. Sherlock’s eyes move beneath their closed lids, but he reacts no further at the touches. Not at John’s fingers. Not at John’s knife. He is simply still, as if relaxed into sleep.

John flicks him on the ear.

Immediately, two indignant eyes blaze open. “What?”

“You didn't look like you.” Problem solved. With a grin he can’t stop, he turns placement into pressure. Skin resists, surrenders, and bleeds. Sherlock freezes, his mouth caught open. John drags a slow crescent around Sherlock’s eye, over the eyebrow, down the temple. “That's brilliant.” John’s tongue sneaks back out between his lips.

Sherlock tilts his head in a simple offer.

John bends his neck and kneels lower on the sofa.

The blood is simply blood. No transfer. No fulfilment. The taste arrives, but the yearning remains. He licks the curving cut. He presses his lips against Sherlock’s temple. He swallows. He drops the knife onto the floor.

Blazing, Sherlock’s hands burn through the back of John’s shirt, the light touch of fingertips still torch-like. No grip, no clutch, no pulling or pressure. Only heat, solid instead of liquid. John climbs on top of him in an easy straddle. The contact pushes some of the chill from his legs.

It feels right. It is right. The two of them, together, waiting to become. It won’t be long now.

The bleeding slows no matter how John scrapes his teeth over the cut. He suckles until all he tastes is skin. Under him, Sherlock shifts. His thighs shake beneath John’s, and he pushes John back with a hand on each hip.

“It’s fine,” John says.

Sherlock snorts. “Wrong.”

“No, I mean. It’s okay,” John says, and it is. He breathes in stale sweat and the sweet fever tang, and it is more than okay. “How much would it hurt?” He pulls back only far enough to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock’s hands shift on John's back, falling lower. “...You’re offering.”

“How much would it hurt?” John repeats.

Without hesitation: “I could make it agonising.”

“Yeah, okay. Good.” He takes another lick at Sherlock’s temple, but it’s not much. His forehead ends up on Sherlock’s shoulder, the crown of his head propped against the sofa. “Think I might just lie down for it, if that’s all right.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “You can do that, that’s all right. I don’t expect—I mean, you look exhausted.”

“Only half feel it.”

“Then you’re obviously numb.”

“Mm.”

John doesn’t move. Sherlock curls hot fingers around the back of John’s neck. John closes his eyes. “Ta,” John mumbles. He might doze. It might be his turn to take care of Sherlock, or it might be the other way around. He doesn't know.

A quiet eternity drifts around the flat. It’s almost, but not quite, warm. A chill sneaks in when Sherlock eases him back by the shoulders. The light against John’s face hurts his eyes. The air against his face is cold and dry.

“If we don’t move now, I’ll bite you here,” Sherlock tells him.

John hums his permission, but Sherlock pushes at him, pushes and pulls until they’re upright. John shivers, Sherlock shoves, and they stumble their way out of the sitting room. He hears the crack before he feels the hit, his shoulder’s impact against the door frame. He groans and tries to go back for seconds, but Sherlock bullies him forward, his grip unrelenting until they make it into the bedroom.

Inside, Sherlock shuts the door and locks them in darkness. He flicks on the light. One arm raised against the lamp, John squints around the room for the blankets. Sherlock seizes him by the wrist. Bones grind. Bruises twinge. John makes a sound. The sound is distinctly a whimper until it becomes a moan.

Sherlock grins, more teeth than lips. “Good?”

“God, yes.”

Sherlock pushes John onto the bed. He follows with a heavy body and crushing hands. His eyes shine. “Better?”

John nods, a rapid bobbing of the head. “More. Please.”

“Shirt off.”

“Cold,” John protests, but Sherlock shoves a searing palm against John's neck.

“I'm a furnace. Shirt off.”

They strip John without John ever sitting up. John fights him, makes Sherlock beat him down. Sherlock digs his fingernails into skin. With the weight of his body behind them, his scratches nearly pierce.

John writhes. He groans and he trembles. Gripping beneath the knee, Sherlock yanks John’s legs up, and the force of it, Sherlock’s fading balance, everything, topples them over and nearly off the bed.

Fit to break his ribs, John laughs. Sprawled half on his back, half on his side, he slams his elbows down on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock growls and fights open the trembling vice of John’s legs. John’s thighs burn, his hips scream, and Sherlock hasn’t even shoved John’s knees against the mattress yet.

“That’s it,” John spurs him on. “Rip me open, do it. Just fucking do it.” He lifts his chin, bares his throat, and grins all the wider at the absolute focus in Sherlock’s eyes. He arches his back, trying to emphasise the vulnerability of his belly, but the motion devolves into shaking, gasping, when Sherlock strikes him in the gut.

Kneeling, Sherlock tries to hoist him up a second time. John’s legs slip from his hands. John’s bum lands on Sherlock’s thighs, and Sherlock is actually warm, so warm.

More adjusting, more shoving. Nearly tipping over, Sherlock ruts against him as if attempting to stab John open with a too-blunt blade. Gasping, groaning, giggling, John tugs at Sherlock’s hair until Sherlock will spare a look for John’s face.

“Not going to happen,” John pants.

Sherlock’s colouring, already splotched and pale, grows even worse.

John shakes his head. “Not on my back.”

They flip John over, kicking and clawing through the process. His aching legs fold beneath him like broken bird wings. His arse hits his heels as Sherlock drags him back with a vicious hand on each hip.

“Cold—”

“I know,” Sherlock interrupts. One hand leaves John’s hip. “Just let me, let me—”

“I'm fucking freezing—”

There is, at best, half a second of warning.

John’s mouth opens. In his throat, there are swears. In his mouth, there is nothing. Not breath. Not air. A vacuum of agony.

“Better?” The second hand returns. Two hands, blazing, one on each side. Against John’s back: an inferno. Heat, heat everywhere, heat inside him, heat stinging him apart. "John?"

John nods against his folded arms, teeth digging into his forearm, his hair scraping against the bed.

Dry friction and jerky movement spark the best agony his nerves have ever known. Sherlock’s chest against his back, Sherlock’s piercing lap cradling his bum, Sherlock’s heat invades him. The sides of Sherlock’s thighs slide against his, so warm, warm, warm. John’s muscles rebel, his limbs twist, and the stabs nearly soften into a slide. Slicker, somehow.

“Did you just come?” John asks on the second attempt.

“No.” Sherlock grunts. His pace slows to a stop. He moves one hand and touches with one finger. John keens at the sting, but he could cry at the loss of so much contact, so much heat. “You’re bleeding.”

“Oh.” He lets his head drop back down. “Good. Now get on me.”

Sherlock drives them both down. He pushes and tugs and slips out, and it stings, it hurts, shit and sweat and blood in the wound, but Sherlock shoves back in and John could cry with relief. Torn skin tears further. The raw burn builds without chance to fade. His body keeps trying to curl in on itself. His insides fight to rearrange, to break or burst or bend from the pressure.

Pinned on the bed, face flat, body rocking, John gropes blindly behind his head. Sherlock pants against the back of his neck. His stubble scrapes, but it doesn’t scrape John open. So much below and so little up here. John rips at Sherlock’s hair, pulling Sherlock’s mouth to his shoulder.

“Bite me,” John orders in a high, winded whisper.

Sherlock’s teeth pinch skin without puncturing it. Reduced leverage or not from where he sprawls on John's back, Sherlock keeps pushing into him. Keeps dragging out. The stretch grows. The sting grows. It grows so slowly.

John digs his untrimmed fingernails deep into Sherlock’s scalp. “Sherlock.” John can draw blood too.

With a grunt, Sherlock scratches down John’s side. Scratching, shoving, burning, breaking. Does the skin part? Does John open? Sweat or blood, what is that between their skin?

Without biting, Sherlock’s mouth rides on John's neck, on his shoulder, below his ear. Shallow breaths and straining slaps of movement speed up. Faster and not enough. Sherlock works deeper, deeper, and John is still waiting for piercing teeth on his shoulder when Sherlock’s balls hit his. “Jesus Christ, would you fucking bite me,” John chokes out.

“Won't need to.”

“Sherlock, I swear—”

Sherlock nips him. “You’re bleeding.” Short, rough thrusts. Very short. “Down here.”

John’s body tenses, clenches. He is only tension and blood.

“Yes?” Sherlock asks.

“Anywhere. Now.”

“In a minute.”

“Now.”

“Please.”

John gives him his minute.

Sherlock’s movements slow. His breathing falters. He groans and shoves and strains. He slips out and lays his cheek on John’s nape. He sets his palm over the back of John’s hand. Their skin sticks together, bound in drying red.

“Tired,” Sherlock complains. “Not finished. Merely... tired.”

“Bite me, all right? Bite, rest, try again later.”

Sherlock lifts his head. “Again?”

“When you’re the one freezing his arse off, yeah.”

Sherlock’s mouth touches John’s skin. It is not a bite.

Sherlock pulls back. John shivers. Sherlock moves down John’s body. John shivers more the farther he goes.

Sherlock’s tongue touches John’s skin. His teeth follow. The sting and the stretch, the burn and the bleeding, it is all there, all under his mouth. John freezes. Except for that one tiny, inconsequential part of himself, he freezes.

Sherlock bites and gnaws. Sherlock spreads him open, pulls each tear wider, sharper, but the heat still fades, the heat is still gone. John’s skin prickles into gooseflesh. Every hot breath against his arse only brings shivers.

John turns over, nearly kneeing Sherlock in the face. “Up here. Give it to me, c'mon.”

“It can transfer through your arse.”

“Yeah, well, it’s not.” When Sherlock’s eyes remain on John’s lower body—the trickle of blood on his thighs, his chaffed, flaccid prick—John yanks him up by the hair and shoves his other, much abused hand in Sherlock's face.

Sherlock bites the meat of John’s palm. John bleeds. The shivers continue.

“Somewhere else,” John says.

With a growl, Sherlock tries higher. He bites John’s arms, he scrapes open scab after scab and sets his mouth to all of them, but it’s still not enough, it’s still freezing cold, and the only bit of warmth John has is Sherlock, only Sherlock.

Sherlock who bites, who tears, who opens John with teeth and frustration. John holds on to him. John holds on, and holds on, and holds on.

Sherlock is a fire barely contained in human skin. Sherlock is burning up. Sherlock is burning him up. Oh God. Oh thank God.

John’s hands slip. They fall. He lies back against the mattress, sinks into it. He nudges his chin higher. A sigh wavers out through his lips. Sherlock’s teeth settle against his throat. They frame his windpipe. Yes. This.

Sherlock’s ragged breath puffs against the side of John’s neck. Exhale, inhale. Puff, scent. Then, at last, pressure. Two curving lines of pressure, each sharply punctuated. John closes his eyes and prepares for warmth.

It doesn’t come.

It doesn’t happen.

Nothing happens, except Sherlock rearing up, except Sherlock leaving him cold and alone.

“The hell is wrong with you?” John's words fall out as more of a mumble than a demand.

“It’s not transferring.”

“I noticed, keep going—”

“John. It is not. Transferring.”

“So keep going—”

Sherlock shakes him by the shoulders. “It won’t transfer.”

“Try anyway.” When Sherlock refuses to move, John adds, “Please.” He pulls at Sherlock. “Please?”

“I’m going to kill you,” Sherlock says, his voice as broken as John’s body. “Do you understand? This is it, John. It’s settled. I’m going to keep biting you until you die, I’m going to rip your throat out, do you understand that?”

“Yeah.” A tiny breath for a small word. Two more: “Do it.”

Sherlock stares down at him, mouth bloody, face ashen. “No.”

back |

Fic: To The Last Drop - 4/6 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 15 Feb 2014 00:47:51 GMT

Title: To The Last Drop
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 6.1k out of 31k
Beta: seijichan, lifeonmars, prettyarbitrary
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: “If you want me to comfort you over my imminent death, I will be kicking you in the head,” John warns.
Warnings: Eventual off-screen character death, illness both physical and mental, assault, graphic violence, blood, bloodplay, explicit sexual behavior, dubcon, plague, attempted suicide

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five

The warmth beneath John’s cheek moves. John tightens his grip, murmuring discontent. He cracks open his eyes. “What?”

“Transport.” Even muffled against John’s pillow, Sherlock’s distaste is clear.

Sleepily blinking, John lifts his face from Sherlock’s back. His skin peels away from Sherlock's like a piece of an orange. Or a blood orange, John muses, studying the scratches and bite marks he’s left. Some initial scabbing, no signs of infection. “Stomach?”

“Bladder.”

John settles back down. “Piss in one of the bottles.”

Sherlock works his arm free and his shoulder blade becomes a threat to John’s face. John rolls off him accordingly. “I’m going downstairs,” Sherlock says without moving. He lies face-down, sprawled without modesty.

“Yeah, okay.” John also doesn’t move. The separation from Sherlock cools John on his overheated bed. Additional movement wouldn’t make him too hot, not yet, but it would be unpleasant. He can feel warmth like syrup dripping down his throat and under his skin. It feels like it ought to be sweet, but his mouth tastes only of blood.

Sherlock turns his head to face toward John. Sherlock’s neck makes an unpleasant sound. John winces and Sherlock doesn’t. Sherlock simply says, “Come downstairs. You should eat.”

John grunts agreement and sits up. Sherlock gestures John off the bed before hauling John’s sheet out from under the duvet. He bundles himself up as if the sheet were swaddling clothes, but then, Sherlock hasn’t much in the way of clothing. The biting urge must’ve taken him in the bath.

For his part, John adjusts his trousers—and immediately pulls his hand away. He looks down. Very calmly, he wipes his hand on the side of his leg. “Sherlock, there’s semen on my trousers.”

His arms wrapped up in the sheet, Sherlock shrugs. “It’s not as if you’ll live to wash them.”

John gapes at him.

Sherlock frowns. “You’re not seriously about to do laundry now?”

“No,” John says. “No,” he says again, and this time he lifts his hand in a halting gesture. “That’s not—No. I’m not asking how to get dried semen off, I’m asking how it got on.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock says. “That bit is on the outside of your trousers, so clearly it’s not yours. Someone else’s penis must have ejaculated it. An utter mystery, John.”

John stares. He stares at Sherlock in his sheet. He stares at his mess of a bed. There are other words, but the one he says is still, “No.”

Sherlock stands up. He is very tall and very rumpled and, now that John’s paying attention, looks like he just had an hour-long snog. Sense memory promptly hits John in the face. And hands. And cock.

Jesus fucking Christ.

“Not good?” Sherlock asks.

John takes a deep breath and doesn’t let it out in a bloody fit. He exhales harshly instead. “Just go to the loo.”

Eyes wide and fixed on John’s face, Sherlock doesn’t move.

John stomps to his dresser, shucks his trousers, and pulls on a fresh pair of jeans. He pointedly ignores how bruised his hips feel. The entire time, Sherlock’s gaze drills into the back of his head.

“I quote,” Sherlock snaps, biting the harsh consonant, “‘What the hell are you waiting for?’”

“You couldn’t settle on a place to bite!” John shouts within a whisper. Hushed voices, they have to stay quiet. He wheels around to make sure Sherlock can’t miss a cubic millimetre of John’s immense ire. “That wasn’t sane behaviour! We’ve gone mental.”

Sherlock lifts his chin. “I haven’t.”

“No, you were a lunatic to start with.” John rubs his hand over his face. “You can’t just—”

“John.” Sherlock darts forward and seizes John by the wrist. John tugs back, the motion automatic, but Sherlock rides out the movement in order to manhandle John’s watch. No longer secured, the sheet slips to the floor, but John’s stomach drops even faster.

“How long were we asleep?” John asks.

“I’m not sure. At least forty-five minutes. I wasn’t exactly in a state of mind to check the time beforehand.” Sherlock releases John to touch his own hair. “Completely dry,” he reports. He steps out of the pile of the sheet, unselfconsciously displaying his abused back. Sherlock looks down, adjusting his pants, and makes a noise of discomfort. He mutters something, but John can only focus on the red lines and livid circles across Sherlock’s skin. John scratched those, sucked them.

John touches his split lip. There’s blood under his fingernails, Sherlock’s. He’s literally red-handed.

Sherlock turns around and the sight of his relatively undamaged chest shoves John back into the moment. “John, you’re not listening.”

He grimaces in apology. “Sorry. You were saying?”

“It’s been over an hour.” His tone brooks no question. No one should look that authoritative naked and soiled, but Sherlock might as well be in a full suit.

“Are you cold yet?” John asks.

“Still cooling off,” Sherlock says. “You?”

John traces a half-circle, shoulder to sternum to shoulder. “It’s that far down. Feels like it’s dripping.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rise. “Quick.”

“First time through a new place always takes the longest,” John reasons. “It's true for people, could be true for this.” He worries at his bottom lip with his teeth. “I don’t know how much faster this will be.”

“Too many variables,” Sherlock agrees.

“Yeah.” John nods, unable to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “Even for you.”

“John—”

“I’m sorry.”

Sherlock weaves into John’s direct line of sight with a confused frown. “What?”

Fists clenched, John closes his eyes. “I’m sorry I’ve killed you.” He’ll never know how his voice remains steady, but he’s forever grateful for it.

“You’re an idiot,” Sherlock says with next to no inflexion.

“Yeah, I worked that out when she bit me, thanks.”

“I noticed that yesterday when I offered you your life and you refused,” Sherlock snaps.

Guilt slams into anger and John stares him down. “Not at the cost of yours. We’ve been over this, Sherlock. You fucking promised you were never doing this again.”

Sherlock groans and tugs at his hair. Dried while dishevelled, his curls are a wild mess to start with. The tangled nest only grows as Sherlock rakes his hands through it. “This isn’t the same!”

“How is this different?” John demands. “Really, how?”

“Don’t be blind--”

“Give me one reason. Just one.” John stares him down. His arms tremble, taking after his clenched hands. “You can’t, can you?”

“Fine! Yes, John, everything is my fault. I put your life above your trust.” Colour rides high in Sherlock’s chest and cheeks. He gesticulates with harsh, abrupt slices of his hands. “I want you to live: what a betrayal!”

“You would have fucking lived.” John invades his space, sheer proximity forcing Sherlock’s hands down and baring his stomach. John doesn’t need height to loom. His rage towers by itself. “You risked everything on a stupid gamble without telling me—again—so don’t you dare blame me for not cooperating.”

“It was the only solution!”

“Clearly it wasn’t! You didn’t even let me loose intentionally!”

Sherlock’s eyes dart down to John’s mouth. He sways forward before stepping pointedly back. “John...”

John checks with his tongue and discovers he’s started bleeding again. Lovely. He wipes his mouth with the back of his bandaged hand. It’s not that much blood.

“Okay,” John says. “You, downstairs, get changed. Water for both of us, food for both of us. We finish Star Wars and then we call emergency services.”

Sherlock frowns.

“We aren’t dying in the middle of an argument,” John tells him. “Let’s just say it evens out.”

For a moment, Sherlock looks ready to protest, because of course he would. Instead, his shoulders drop and his expression turns tired, exhausted. He says, “Fine. But I need another bath first.”

“You can manage on your own?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You’re the one who won’t be able to manage soon.”

“Right,” John says. “Right. Sorry.”

Sherlock shrugs and they head downstairs, Sherlock’s clawed back leading the way before John’s itching hands.

Nothing appeals. John searches the fridge and scavenges through the cupboards. His stomach insists he’s not hungry, even though the last thing he ate was popcorn last night.

A sure sign of the end of the world, Sherlock gravitates to the tins of soup and heats one up with marked impatience. Though Sherlock’s back is now covered by a crisp purple shirt, John retreats from the stove all the same. Too hot. He takes shelter in front of the open fridge. He sticks his head in.

“How far along is it?” Sherlock asks.

John stays put. “It was trickling before, but now it’s more of a slow ooze.” Trickling. Yes. He wants water. He closes the fridge to open the freezer. Ice water. “Hand me a glass?” He reaches without looking and Sherlock sets the glass against his hand. “Ta.”

Sherlock’s spoon scrapes against the sauce pan as he stirs. “It’s stopped giving you growing pains, I take it.”

“Mm.” His glass piled high with ice, he fills up the remaining space with tap water. He drinks, ice knocking against his lips and teeth. Much too cold and absolutely perfect. “It feels more syrupy. Like it ought to taste sweet.”

“And not burning?”

John sits down at the kitchen table to keep him company. “Not really, no.”

Sherlock hums, eyes on his soup.

“You’ve cooled down,” John notes. Shirt, trousers, socks: not yet freezing but certainly closer to a normal temperature. Faint, dark smudges discolour the back of Sherlock’s button down, as if it went through the laundry with a particularly vicious pen.

“It would take at least a day for me to arrive at the same state you were in.” Sherlock’s words come out detached. “Not that it matters. You’re progressing far more rapidly than I am this round. You’ll bite me well before I freeze.”

John will. The certainty of it aches in his jaw. He licks his split lip. “Where do you want it?”

Sherlock stops moving. Not as if frozen, but as if paused, as if reality had to stop and take a breath before the plunge. Sherlock doesn’t turn around. He does lower his head slightly, eyes resolutely on his meal, the back of his neck bare to John’s gaze.

“A central spot works out better than an extremity,” John says. “I don’t feel so lopsided this time.”

“I think it might be best if you kept to my back.” Sherlock’s voice is tight. The line of his shoulders is tighter. He’ll keep pulling the scratches open, this way.

John rolls his glass between his hands. The pile of ice within turns this way and that. He says nothing more until Sherlock piles his research to the side and puts down a bowl in its place. Then Sherlock puts down a second bowl in front of John. Beef and lentil.

“Not hungry,” John says.

Sherlock skewers him with the grey metal of his eyes. “Eat.”

He shakes his head. “Too hot.”

Sherlock continues to glare.

John meets his gaze and bursts into giggle.

“What?” Sherlock snaps.

“You badgering me to eat.”

Sherlock’s face cracks into a grin. He ducks his head and turns his face away. He clears his throat. “It’s my turn to take care of you.”

They bicker until John’s soup goes cold, but that’s for the best anyway.

John sets the DVDs up to the last point Sherlock can remember watching. They sit in their armchairs unrestrained. Sherlock watches the telly with a bored, sleepy expression. John’s eyes glaze over. The sound of Sherlock breathing beside him is far more important than anything coming from the speakers. Sherlock won’t leave him, not while the syrup pools in the bottoms of John’s feet.

John shifts in his chair to better curl up on it. He unbuttons his shirt and considers taking off the sweaty t-shirt beneath, but the air against his forearms is sufficient. He bundles up his shirt and uses it as a support for his head. Sleep rises up behind his eyes.

He wakes in the night. He reaches for Sherlock. Sherlock’s armchair is empty.

John scrambles to his feet and promptly tumbles, his blood pressure wrong and his back aching.

“John?” Sherlock calls, an abrupt cry from the sofa. A lamp clicks on, blinding John even with his face against the floor.

“Oh, thank God,” John sighs. His heart pounds, the world wobbles, and yet, all will be well. “Don’t ever do that again.”

Sherlock joins him on the floor. A trail of blankets whispers as he settles. “Do what?”

John forces himself onto his side and squints up at Sherlock. “You were gone.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I was directly behind you.”

“Yeah, well. Don’t.” He half-stretches, half-reaches, and his hand finds what might be Sherlock’s knee beneath the blanket pile. “You’re supposed to take care of me.”

“I am.” Sherlock frees an arm and touches John’s forehead. His fingers are cool. John sighs and relaxes into the touch. “I’m going to get up and bring food from the kitchen.”

“Not hungry.”

“You’ll eat,” Sherlock promises. The blankets rustle as Sherlock stands. They slither after him along the floor.

John sits up. He cranes his neck and then stands. The walk into the kitchen destroys him. He collapses into the nearest chair and slumps onto the table. He straightens only to peel off his damp t-shirt. Immediately after, he presses his face against cool wood. Cloth brushes against his side and a plate clinks down in front of him. John lifts his face from his arms. His skin sticks together, much like his tongue and the inside of his mouth. “Really not hungry.” Neither sandwich nor water tempts.

Sherlock sits opposite. He shifts the blankets down and pulls John’s plate over. With some effort, he manages to reach into an inner jacket pocket, and John learns that their mail is no longer knifed to their mantel. Sherlock holds the jack knife steady and opens the scab on his hand.

Blood wells to the surface, droplets blooming with immense colour. Red and dark with a glint from the light above them. Sherlock holds his thumb over John’s glass. One drop. Two. John watches them unfurl. Sherlock clenches his fist over John’s sandwich. The bread immediately soaks in the blood. Sherlock draws two more red lines into the bread. He pushes the plate back and John is ravenous. He turns the sandwich upside-down to better taste the blood.

“I know how to take care of you,” Sherlock says as John chomps and swallows. “It’s not that difficult.” One-handed, he folds up the knife and slips it back to whence it came. His other hand, his cut hand, lies on the table in tacit promise. “I said you’d eat.”

John nods along in apology. The tastes of ham and cheese override everything else. John watches Sherlock’s hand. He forces down the remainder of the sandwich with the water. He forces down the rest of the water. Sherlock takes a cursory inspection of plate and glass before giving John his hand.

The table is narrow enough that John doesn’t have to strain, but he does have to bend. Elbows planted on the table, he secures Sherlock’s hand in both of his. The first taste is a tease. John scrapes his teeth against the meat of Sherlock’s thumb, coaxing the cut open. If he bites, the blood wells up. The table’s edge digs into John’s stomach. He ignores the touch of fingertips on the side of his face.

It’s not enough, but he’s not ready for it to be enough. The hint of blood is enough to chase after, an elusive tang between skin and tongue. Soon, he’ll need more. Soon, he’ll be ready to transfer. Not yet. He can savour this. He has to savour this.

Following the curve of John’s jaw, the backs Sherlock’s fingers curl under John’s ear. The stroke rubs his scruff. John opens his eyes at the unfamiliar sensation. He looks at Sherlock. A grey pallor, save for the blaze across his cheeks. Swaddled in blankets. Hair an unwashed mess. Eyes dark and hooded. His hand offered as a chew toy.

“Jesus fuck.” John jerks his head back. “What the hell are we doing?”

Sherlock shushes him. He doesn’t pull his hand away and John can’t seem to release him.

“The hell are we doing?” John repeats, voice lowered out of respect for the small hours of the night.

“I’m taking care of you.” The unspoken obviously echoes off the walls.

“For what? No, Sherlock, seriously: for what? We’re dead. We are going to die. We missed both windows and now I’m fucking gnawing on you.”

“I don’t mind the gnawing,” Sherlock says.

Sherlock’s neck too far away, John throttles Sherlock’s wrist instead. Sherlock hisses, a sharp intake of breath, but he doesn’t pull back. If anything, he leans forward.

“This is not good,” John tells him. “This is the most not good thing we’ve ever done, do you even realise how bad that is?”

“I could still think of something—”

“The best scientists in the world haven’t thought of something,” John interrupts. “For months. While sane, even!”

Sherlock looks at him with such haughty disapproval that John nearly takes it back, but that’s only proof they’re out of their minds. “Do you want to end it, then?” Sherlock asks. “Hm? Because we can end it. A phone call and we die. One good shout out the window could do it.”

John releases him. Immediately, his chest tightens and his heart shoves itself up into his throat. Sherlock takes hold of John’s hand and John can breathe again.

“I can’t do it,” John says. “Jesus, I can’t...” He swallows a lump of impossible size. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand tight. They secure each other, anchored on either side of the table by their mutual hold. The concepts and terrors clump together inside John’s head, but they never manage to fit into his mouth.

Sherlock summarises the problem in its simplest form: “You know we’re going to die, but you can’t let them kill me. Which is fine. We take care of each other.”

“What does that even mean?”

Sherlock turns John’s hand over. He inspects the initial bite mark and runs his thumb from wrist to knuckle. “We go down together, obviously.”

“I picked up on that part, yeah.” John twitches as Sherlock picks at his scab. “We’re going to get other people hurt, Sherlock. Killed. Maybe a lot of people.”

“We’ll move when the time comes.”

John snorts. “Right. We’ll jump in a cab. ‘Yes, hello, we’d like to go to the outskirts, please. Don’t mind my friend, he always travels with a muzzle.’”

“I can rent a car and have it dropped off outside.” Sherlock works a fingernail beneath the scab and delicately begins to peel it from John’s skin. “We won’t have to so much as speak to anyone.”

The wet sheen of unshed blood glistens from the back of John’s hand. His heart rate slows. They wait, but the blood never wells up to form a droplet. John clears his throat. “Can you set that up now?”

“Hm?”

“The car,” John says. “Can you make sure it comes before Mrs Hudson gets back?”

“Of course I can.”

John pulls his hand away and hides it under the table. “I need you to do that right now.”

“It’ll be fine.” Sherlock reaches for him. “Come here, I’m cold.”

“No,” John says. He stands and keeps the table between them. “You get us the car first. Anything you want after, but the car comes first.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’ll send an email.”

“Now.”

Sherlock sets off at a wobbling pace, bumping against the kitchen doorframe and the hallway walls.

“Mm.” Sherlock fetches it and returns the battery to its proper place. He works his arms out of his sheet and drums his fingers on the keyboard. “It’s loading.”

Nodding, John leans against the cool plaster of the wall. “How long for a confirmation email?”

“Not until regular business hours.”

“Right.” John closes his eyes. Sweat follows the lines of his body, a slow drip over riverbeds of skin. He picks up his abandoned t-shirt. He wipes himself down. Sherlock types.

“Here, look.”

John leans down to read over Sherlock’s shoulder. He follows Sherlock’s pointing hand and sees the email in the sent file. He skims the contents and breathes for the first time in too long.

“All right?” Sherlock asks.

John nods, sits on the cool linoleum, and flops onto his back. The laptop clicks shut. Sherlock lies down beside him with a great rustling of blankets. They stare at the kitchen ceiling.

“I’ll need to bite you in a few hours,” John says.

Shifting onto his side, Sherlock offers his hand.

John glances at the red gleam along the cut. “Hours, I said. It doesn’t want to switch now.”

“I’m taking care of you,” Sherlock explains, an implacable argument. He lays his hand on John’s overheated chest.

John closes his eyes.

Sherlock shoves a bit of a blanket under John’s head.

“This is how I know you’ve gone mental,” John murmurs.

Saying nothing, Sherlock curls a bit closer.

John dozes. John wakes. His body blazes. His back aches. A yawn cracks his split lip open anew. Beside him, a bundle of blankets rises and falls slowly in its middle. Watching, John licks his bloody lip. John ought to warm him.

There’s so much heat inside Sherlock. All John has to do is let it out.

His tongue runs over his canines and incisors. Sharp, but not sharp enough to make it clean. Flesh will tear. Propping himself up on one elbow, he reaches for the top layer on Sherlock’s pile, the afghan from his armchair. Whatever spurts or splatters, John can catch it with the blankets. He’ll press the cloth over the wound, sopping up the blood, and he’ll suck it clean once the bleeding stops. He’ll rip into Sherlock and, after, he’ll apply pressure.

His hand stops. John sits up fully. He stares at the layers of cloth, largely clean. He watches the rhythm of undisturbed breathing. He thinks, for one instant, that perhaps he ought to clean the area before he bites, as if preparing to traditionally draw blood.

He could do that instead. Take the blood, drink it, and his stomach churns at the thought. It’s not the blood. It’s the biting. It’s flesh between his teeth and the sweet moment between pressure and puncture.

John runs his hand over his face. His tense shoulders fall in a shaking exhalation.

He shakes his head. Once, twice. Careful, as close to silent as he can come, John pushes himself to his feet. The room spins. He holds onto the counter. The kitchen stops spinning. He pads away in just his pants, no need to worry about the rustle of clothing.

In Sherlock’s bedroom, all the blankets have been pulled from the bed. The room is more bare and stark than ever, and that makes it a simple task to find what he needs.

John sits down with it on the edge of the bed. He loads it. Shoulders hunched, he takes off the safety.

His throat tightens. His hands do not shake. His pulse counts out the moments of his hesitation, resounding louder and louder in his ears.

He licks his split lip and opens his mouth. The metallic tang of his gun is nothing like that of blood. It disappoints. He adjusts his grip. Sherlock’s bedroom blurs. John blinks until it stabilises.

A sharp noise comes from the kitchen, the crash of a chair kicked by a flailing leg.

Pull the trigger. Pull it now. Do it.

His hand won’t obey.

“John.”

Back to the door, John keeps his gaze straight ahead. His teeth chatter against his gun, the chill of a fever heat.

Behind him, the mattress dips.

“I’m directly behind you,” Sherlock informs him. His voice is a steel bar, cool, unyielding, entirely ready to strike or support. “If you fire, you shoot us both.” Sherlock draws closer, moving on his knees. His hands touch John’s shoulders. His chin nudges against the top of John’s head. His chest presses against John’s back.

Sherlock shifts, sinking lower. His hands creep forward to cover John’s. His touch quenches, a promise pulsing beneath cool skin. John bites the gun instead of him.

“You’re going to stay with me, John. Don’t ruin it.”

John sobs around the barrel. His arms tremble. Sherlock peels John’s fingers away from the grip.

“Stay with me. Hold onto my hand instead, John, hold on--”

John relinquishes the gun.

In one impossibly swift movement, Sherlock flicks on the safety and unloads the gun. He hurls firearm and ammo in opposite directions before John can reach for them.

“Sherlock--”

Sherlock slams him down and shoves him onto his back. He digs his fingertips into John’s scar. “What were you thinking?” Sherlock hisses between clenched teeth. “You are mine to kill, even you have to be able to see that.”

Winded, breathless, John shakes his head.

“There is no leaving, John.” His fingernails twist into John’s skin, though his skin. Sherlock’s weight pierces him and John’s arms fall to the bed, limp. Tousled and splotchy in his rage, Sherlock rips John apart with his eyes. “I’ll chain you down if I have to.”

John’s muscles twitch and jump, but Sherlock shifts his weight without hesitation or blinking. The clutch of his clawing hand stings. It stings until John shivers. Sherlock clamps down all the harder. Pain becomes a chip of ice, melting on his tongue, dripping down his spine. John shakes. He trembles. His eyes flick down to the new wound opened over the old, to bloody hands and ripping nails.

“I’d break your leg if you ran,” Sherlock promises. “A quick dislocation of the kneecap. What would you do to me?”

“I’ll fucking paralyse you.” Though the threat flies from John’s lips, his hands lie dormant. He makes no attempt to protect himself.

Sherlock’s eyes gleam. “How? Where?”

“Down low. Let you keep arm mobility.”

Breathing heavily, Sherlock loosens his grip to sit on John’s stomach rather than kneel. His palm pulls across torn skin.

John groans. His feet twitch. His toes curl, involuntary.

Sherlock freezes. All his body but that arm remains perfectly stationary as he drags his fingers through the injured area. Gentle at first, light and slow, smooth save for where blood turns the slide sticky. More pressure now, more force. Hints of fingernail tease at the damage still left undone.

Sherlock’s hand slows. Stops. The touch fizzles and flattens into a background sensation.

When John can’t stand the lack any longer, he inhales deeply, pressing his chest into the stinging contact. He’d arch his back if Sherlock weren’t sitting atop him. God, he needs the chill.

“This is how I stop you from killing yourself,” Sherlock reasons. “You can’t disengage when I hurt you.”

“Doesn’t hurt.”

“No?” Sherlock digs his thumb into John’s shoulder, hard.

A strangled whine fights its way between John’s teeth. His limbs jerk and his body shoves into the touch.

Sherlock leans in, his weight on John’s sweaty shoulders and stomach, his eyes much too close. “What does it feel like?” His sour breath heats John’s cheek. His trousers sticking to the sweaty skin of John’s belly, Sherlock’s weight restricts John’s breathing. “What else can I do to you?”

“Anything,” John says, and Sherlock’s face goes slack.

“Say that again.” His voice drops so low, it vibrates in John’s stomach. Sherlock’s eyes roam down John’s throat, across his bare and bloody chest. Without either moving, the contact between them changes. It is the difference between a touch and a caress.

“Not that kind of anything,” John says.

Without breaking contact, Sherlock stops touching him. The form remains, hands against skin, and yet the essence vanishes, as if Sherlock has withdrawn into an unknowable depth within his own body.

“I see,” Sherlock says.

“I was thinking more along the lines of a knife or something.” His tongue darts out to his dry lips. “Cleaner than scratching.”

Sherlock shakes his head, refusing eye contact. “You could kill yourself with a knife. No.”

“I won’t.”

“Don’t be an idiot, you were about to shoot yourself.”

“Not anymore.”

“It was minutes ago.”

“Yes, and now I’ve changed my mind,” John insists.

Sherlock presses his weight down on John’s chest. The heat smoothers him. “Do I have to contain you? Or merely hold your interest until you need to bite?”

“Let me cut you instead.” John picks up Sherlock’s hand from his chest and runs his fingertips over the circular scab, the purple contusion. His own blood smears between their fingers. “There’s too much damage in biting. Look at that. It’s not precise enough. I’d stay shallow with a knife. Less bruising.”

“I won’t arm you,” Sherlock says, but he hesitates first.

John digs his fingernails into the bruise and grins when Sherlock hisses. “Fine. I’ll get one next round.” He keeps picking at the scab until blood rises. Sherlock’s blood on the back of the hand, John’s blood across the palm. John lifts his head, his mouth already open, but Sherlock twists his arm free. John immediately seizes Sherlock by the shirt and rolls them both.

Pinned in the centre of the bed, Sherlock makes no further move toward escape. His legs relax on either side of John’s thighs. His chest rises and falls against John’s fisted hands. Face flushed beneath the stubbly beginnings of a beard, Sherlock says, “Make it fresh.” He lifts his chin, offering his jugular. John sways forward but does not bite.

“Git.” John unbuttons Sherlock’s cuff. “Now who’s suicidal? My teeth, your throat? Not going to end well.”

“I don’t mind if you kill me.”

They both stop.

John blinks at Sherlock. Sherlock stares evenly back.

“I mind,” John says.

“Each possibility has its merits,” Sherlock answers with the certainty of a man who has considered his options. “Either way, it will be amazing.”

John thinks about it. John swallows. He resumes pushing up Sherlock’s sleeve.

Sherlock gives an abrupt thrash. John slams him down, reflex, instinct, and Sherlock laughs. “Yes, just like that. You see?”

“All right, yes,” John says. “We finish this together.”

Smug as only he can be, Sherlock grins and relaxes into the bed. He displays his throat. “As you will.” His pulse visibly pounds beneath his skin. Too tender, too vulnerable to accept, and now a bite to the arm wouldn’t compare.

John unbuttons Sherlock’s shirt instead. Tight cloth parts willingly over cool skin. Sherlock shivers under John’s hands, and John doesn’t look at his face. “Over the collarbone,” John says. “I can...”

Barely breathing, Sherlock answers, “Yes.”

“You wouldn’t bleed out.” John lowers himself and eases down. No rush, not with Sherlock so far from freezing, not when there’s no threat of escape. He can take his time. He can aim.

Sherlock nods and his chin brushes John’s hair. “Do it.” He takes John by the back of the head, his fingers tense and cold.

John wets his lips and his tongue brushes skin. Sherlock jerks under him, against him. Ignoring the pressure against his stomach, John sets his mouth over bone and bunches the skin with his teeth. Harder now, harder, harder still. His is a slow, stubborn bite. Skin gives way against his incisors, the first true puncture. Heat spills against his tongue, into his mouth, over his lips.

As John sucks him up, Sherlock’s hand tightens in his hair. Save for this, Sherlock holds himself perfectly still. His tense legs frame John’s. Though hot where he presses against John, the only movement there is in line with Sherlock’s pulse. John's own disinterest is clear within is pants. Sherlock must be able to feel that lack, but he says nothing, does nothing, asks for nothing.

John bites. He gnaws. He leaves a line of wreckage along Sherlock’s collarbone, glistening with blood and saliva and the damp flesh between skin and bone. The damage remains within his control.

With a gasp, with a twitch, Sherlock’s tense body begins to unwind. John gives him more teeth, more pressure. He slurps audibly, and Sherlock’s hand in his hair at last relaxes.

John bites, and he sucks, and he licks, and he keeps at it until his elbows ache from holding him up. Falling asleep, his forearms tingle. In an uncertain motion, he lowers himself fully, cheek against abused flesh. Sherlock hisses.

John lifts his head. He looks up, toward Sherlock’s chin and his nose and his eyes beyond. When John digs his fingernails into Sherlock’s side, Sherlock looks back at him. They lie chest to bloody chest.

“All right?” John says.

“I’m warmer, but I can’t be sure it’s an effect of the transfer.” Sherlock’s voice rasps beneath the clinical phrasing.

“Should be. I’m cooling down.” Taking his weight on hands and knees, John lifts off Sherlock. He lies down beside him, curled a bit awkwardly on his side.

Sherlock mirrors him. His eyes stray downward to where John doubtlessly sports bloody stubble. John wipes at his mouth with the back of his hand. He licks his lips and can’t tell if the blood is Sherlock’s or if his split lip has opened again.

“Let me,” Sherlock says, not a question or a request. He licks his thumb and smudges gently at John’s cheek.

John closes his eyes and leaves him to it. A damp slide across his cheekbone precedes a tactile inspection of his nose. Increment by increment, cooling spit replaces congealing blood. Sherlock has the most trouble at the corners of John’s mouth, prodding at him until John giggles.

“Hold still,” Sherlock chides. “This is why you’re so sloppy.”

“Sorry, next time I’ll use a straw, would that be better?”

Sherlock snorts. “This is fine.” He scratches at John’s jaw, his eyes lingering low. “Do you need a blanket yet?”

“I’ll all right.” Cool at the edges, but what else can be expected for a man in his pants? “Maybe in a bit, though. You all right?”

“I just told you.”

“You said you were warmer.”

Sherlock bites his lip, his own lip. His fingers on John’s face stall. The intent behind them feels fuzzy, like a paused tape. Then Sherlock removes his hand, licks his fingers perfunctorily clean of blood, and John understands. It takes him a moment to speak. The silence is too heavy. He squeezes out from under it.

“You can... directly, if you want,” John offers. “I mean, that would be easier. Than. Than that. You’re practically a cat already, half the time.” He makes the statement and he closes his eyes. He lies there, one arm folded beneath his side, the other carefully not touching anything, and he waits for Sherlock to do as he will.

The tip of Sherlock’s nose is cold. His tongue is not. His tongue is not cold and not dry. There is a great number of things Sherlock’s tongue is not, and John thinks about those for a bit. First is the tongue, then the sucking, then the hint of teeth. Waiting for a bite, John’s muscles relax. He could almost fall asleep as Sherlock holds his head and angles him this way and that. The oral inspection roams. Jaw, cheek, nose, even behind his left ear.

John’s mouth, Sherlock leaves alone, or perhaps leaves for the last. Sherlock pauses, his breath on John’s lips, and John opens his eyes.

Sherlock waits. He doesn’t move. He doesn’t ask to.

John shifts his head between Sherlock’s hands. He angles his forehead closer, and Sherlock meets him in kind. One sweaty, one clammy, they press their brows together, close their eyes, and sleep.

previous | next

Fic: To The Last Drop - 3/6 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 08 Feb 2014 04:24:02 GMT

Title: To The Last Drop
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 5.3k out of 31k
Beta: seijichan, lifeonmars, prettyarbitrary
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: “If you want me to comfort you over my imminent death, I will be kicking you in the head,” John warns.
Warnings: Eventual off-screen character death, illness both physical and mental, assault, graphic violence, blood, bloodplay, explicit sexual behavior, dubcon, plague, attempted suicide

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four

The floor hard on his knees, John sits on Sherlock’s stomach, rising and falling incrementally with Sherlock’s breaths. Though Sherlock’s pulse visibly throbs at his neck, Sherlock’s breathing is relatively slow.

“You’re trying to calm down,” John pieces together.

Sherlock nods, his unmarked hand still over his eyes. His lips remain pressed together.

“It’s okay,” John says.

Sherlock swallows. “I know.” He lifts his hand and turns it over, his palm upward in a command. “Phone.”

Unthinking, John digs into his trouser pocket. He very nearly puts the mobile in Sherlock’s hand.

“Please,” Sherlock adds, voice firm. He looks up at John with clear eyes. Stress and exhaustion line his face, the bags under his eyes like bruises, and yet Sherlock radiates control.

John scrambles off him. His leg strikes the coffee table, and with windmilling arms, he falls backward onto the sofa. John’s mobile remains clutched in his hand.

Stiffly, Sherlock climbs to his feet. He follows John and sits on the coffee table. “This was the deal, John,” he says, his words even and slow as if speaking to a particularly thick client. “If I couldn’t contain you, we would call emergency services.”

“But I was going to...” John trails off, a mental weight lifting and a moral one descending. “Oh. Oh, God.” He drops the mobile on the sofa and grabs Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock flinches but doesn’t pull away. John inspects the damage. “I bit you. Jesus fuck. I broke the skin.”

Sherlock leans forward, his left hand retrieving John’s mobile. “It’s happened, and now we have to call.” Leaning back on the coffee table, Sherlock manages to slide his bleeding hand into his tight trouser pocket. He winces but persists. The first battery he pulls out is the wrong one.

“That’s what I thought I was doing,” John says. “I swear. Sherlock, I promise I thought I was going to call.”

Sherlock slots the correct battery into the mobile. “We’re calling now.”

“I just killed you.” The words literally taste of Sherlock’s blood. John needs to wash his mouth out. No, more. John needs to go back in time and tear himself limb from limb.

“Don’t bother me with your guilt. Consider it my last request, if that will keep you from sulking.”

“I came down to get help, and then I...” The memory floats past him, through him, vague and dreamlike. “I wouldn’t even have gone for you if you hadn’t—what are you doing?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “You wanted to call and now I’m calling.” John’s mobile lets out its usual chime as it turns on.

“Why were the batteries in your pocket?” John asks. “You never turn your phone off. What were you doing with your phone off?” He reaches for the mobile. “Do you mind? You’re the carrier now, I should be calling.”

“I’m closer to lucidity,” Sherlock says. “Though you are returning to it more rapidly than expected.”

“‘Expected’,” John repeats. He watches blankly as Sherlock’s thumb presses on the number pad, and he grabs Sherlock’s hand with both of his. John’s mobile lets out a series of beeps as it hits nine again and again, Sherlock tries to pull away, and John holds fast. “Fucking hell, Sherlock, you knew this would happen!”

“There was a possibility you would get out, but it’s sooner than I’d thought.” He twists his hand away, giving John the phone. “Fine. You call. It’s what you came down here for, isn’t it?”

“You let me kill you. You just...” John stares at his phone in one hand and, with the other, touches Sherlock’s dead mobile in his pocket. “Sherlock, that’s insane.”

Sitting on the coffee table, Sherlock meets John’s gaze without hesitation or guilt or shame, or any other non-Sherlockian emotion. He is, by a very strange standard of normal, still normal. “Make the call, John.”

“Tell me--” John turns his head to the side. He looks up at the ceiling and blinks until his eyes can be trusted not to leak. He clears his throat. “Look, just tell me why you didn’t do anything about the hinges. You can’t have overlooked that. You could’ve nailed a plank down, or, or anything.”

“You’re stalling.” Sherlock leans forward. “You’ll go into withdrawal before I lose lucidity, John. Once that happens, neither of us will call.”

“Tell me.”

“I’ll tell you once you call.”

John turns his mobile off. He tucks it onto his pocket alongside the handcuffs and switches his grip to the cuffs. “Then there is a reason.”

“John.” Sherlock grips him by the shoulders. “Your mind has been compromised. I will explain, but we cannot delay. Call first.”

With a forceful shrug, John shakes off Sherlock’s hands. “You mean, I’m going to hate the reason.”

“I mean, you’ve become a human incubator and an increasingly large part of you is going to try to stay that way. Call now, or give me my mobile back.”

John grits his teeth. “I’m not—fine. Fine.”

Sherlock holds his left hand out, his right hand resting on his knee and bleeding.

John whips the cuffs out and goes for Sherlock’s left arm first. Sherlock resists, but then, he would. John shoves forward and they topple over the coffee table together. Sherlock lands hard on his back, John again straddling him. Sherlock thrashes, flinging his right hand as far away from John as he can. Lunging forward, John jerks Sherlock’s left arm up to the metal bar on Sherlock’s armchair. Sherlock tries to shout and John promptly punches him in the solar plexus.

Winded, Sherlock curls in on himself involuntarily. He makes a rattling, gasping noise somewhat like John’s name. John locks the other cuff tight, securing Sherlock to the side of the armchair. He pats down Sherlock’s pockets immediately after and retrieves the handcuff key. Panting, John kneels on the floor while Sherlock thrashes. Sherlock keeps trying to shout without air.

In a very simple solution, John sticks his fingers into Sherlock’s mouth. “Go ahead. Bite me.”

Sherlock immediately opens his mouth as wide as he can. Chest heaving, he breathes through his nose.

“...Okay,” John says, mentally adjusting to the sensation of Sherlock’s breath and tongue on his fingers. Sherlock doesn’t feel cold anymore, or maybe it’s John that doesn’t feel hot. “You don’t want to bite me. It’s too soon for you to be able to transfer it, but... you want to be the carrier when we call. Why?”

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock makes a sarcastic noise around John’s fingers.

John removes his hand and wipes it on his trousers.

“There’s always a chance it could be lost in transfer,” Sherlock says. “That’s why I let you bite me. That’s all.”

“And then I’d die of withdrawal,” John says. “Now it’s both of us dead. That’s a terrible plan.”

Sherlock shrugs.

“If it could be lost in transfer, bite me. Doesn’t matter.” John reaches for Sherlock’s mouth a second time and Sherlock turns his head away. Impossibly early for risk of transfer, and still this. “...Right. You do want to be the carrier. Why?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer.

Knees aching, John stands.

Sherlock watches him from the floor. “Are you going to call now?”

“Give me a minute,” John says. He looks around. “Where’s my laptop?”

“John, you can write your final goodbyes after calling.”

“Never mind, I see it.” Barefoot, John pads into the kitchen. His laptop’s fan whirrs on the table. He watches his screensaver for a moment, a new photo of his army mates and civilian acquaintances being added to a digital pile every five seconds. Shaking his head, he taps the touchpad.

His investigation takes only moments. It helps that Sherlock left the tabs open. “Oh.” John reads.

A screeching noise of metal on wood distracts John for only a moment. In response, John unplugs his laptop and goes to the stairs. He stands in the landing, still reading. In the time John takes to finish, Sherlock manages to lug his armchair to the sitting room door.

“John, we can’t wait,” Sherlock insists, possibly more out of breath than before.

“Because surviving withdrawal from the first round of incubation might be possible?” John pulls the laptop lid halfway down to better glare at Sherlock. “Oh, lovely! A doctor in Argentina’s managed it twice! Did you even read the study, Sherlock? She lost over ninety-eight percent of her patients!”

“Except for the two who began treatment within an hour of their first time biting someone,” Sherlock counters. “And she kept seventy-three percent of patients alive, on average, ten hours longer than previously thought possible. Her methods are in the process of being adopted by all major hospitals for early cases. Now call.”

John snaps his laptop shut. Keeping out of Sherlock’s reach, he stomps toward Sherlock’s bedroom. He finds Sherlock’s laptop quickly enough and returns to the landing. In John’s short absence, Sherlock wedged his armchair in the doorframe and is now apparently bent on dislocating his arm or simply his hand. John bats Sherlock’s straining arm away and climbs up the stairs. He puts both laptops on the upper landing and leaves the mobiles on top of them.

“John? John, what are you doing? We’ve only half an hour left!”

John shakes his head.

“John, I am dying for this!” Sherlock shouts. “Call them now!”

“No,” John says. “When you bite me back, then I’ll call.”

Sherlock blanches from pale to ashen. He stops tugging at the handcuffs. “You can’t be serious.”

“I fucked up with Alexis,” John says. “I die. You don’t.”

“Don’t be tedious.”

John shakes his head.

Sherlock frowns.

John shucks his t-shirt.

Sherlock’s frown deepens.

A small scuffle occurs. It ends with John’s t-shirt twisted into a thick rope and forced between Sherlock’s teeth. John holds fast, his chest pressed against Sherlock’s back, Sherlock pressed against the hallway wall. The handcuff anchors Sherlock’s left arm to the chair, forcing Sherlock to stoop and compromising his centre of gravity. Gagged and with only one arm to fight with, Sherlock takes far too long to stop struggling, but at least he’s quiet about it.

Straining his ears, John doesn’t hear anything from the adjacent apartment. Mrs Turner’s married ones are much too accustomed to the noise of Sherlock’s experiments to become worried now.

“I don’t need to hold you for a day,” John says. “You’re hoping I’m too stupid to see that, but I’m not. Thirty minutes, Sherlock. Then I’m dead, no question about it, and we’ll put you through the withdrawal treatment.”

Sherlock beats his head against the wall, a loud, percussive thump. Stunned, John watches the first impact, the second, and then he thinks to prevent the third, yanking back on this t-shirt with both hands like reins to a horse’s bit. Despite the horrifically awkward angle, John manages it. Sherlock chokes.

John kicks him in the back of each knee. Sherlock goes down, hard, and John maintains his grip on the t-shirt all the way. “None of that, you arse. Someone has to save you from yourself, and, like it or not, that’s me.”

More thrashing. More groaning. John rams his good shoulder against Sherlock’s spine and keeps him pinned against the wall in a kneeling position.

“I’d rather kill myself than you, do you understand me?” John demands. “I’ve seen you die once and I am never seeing that again, you hear me? I put up with so much of your shit, you arrogant prick. I am not putting up with that.”

Via his nose, Sherlock responds with a disdainful sigh.

“You’re an idiot,” John tells him. “You shot Alexis on sight, but God forbid we call emergency services on me.”

Sherlock slaps his foot against the landing. John presses him harder against the wall, forcing Sherlock’s other arm tight against his back.

“You’re going to behave yourself now,” John continues. “Because I’m dead, Sherlock. These are my final hours and they might be yours too, so you are going to shut the hell up, and you are not going to call until you bite me, and you are not going to die.”

Gagged, cuffed, Sherlock’s struggles amount to little more than tense twitching. John holds him fast anyway.

“Bored,” Sherlock whinges. He flops this way and that in his armchair, still tethered.

John doesn’t look away from the telly. “You’re going to hurt yourself, doing that.”

Sherlock snorts. “Says the man who practically tore my arms off.”

John turns the volume up higher. Late night talk shows prattle on about things John doesn’t much care about.

“Is this really how you want to spend your final hours?” Sherlock asks. “Five hours into untreated withdrawal, you might have as long as two days left.”

“I have less than a day left,” John corrects.

“I refuse to bite you,” Sherlock says.

“We’ll see how you feel in a couple hours.” The programme goes to adverts. John can feel his eyes glaze over.

“We should have a film night,” Sherlock says. Hunched in his chair, he hugs his knees with his right arm and tilts to his left. His eyes are lost where hair turns to shadow on his face. “We can marathon the list. It’s hardly as if we have any other plans.”

“We wouldn’t even get through Star Wars.” On the other hand, no adverts. Also, Star Wars. It’d give Sherlock something else to complain about, at least.

“You want me to watch them, and I am not watching them without you. Now or never, John.”

John crosses his arms and pretends to mull it over. “Do we have any popcorn?”

“I haven’t touched your stash since the last time,” Sherlock says, naturally omitting which last time he’s referring to.

Rolling his eyes, John abandons his armchair and blanket to walk briskly into the kitchen. “Is the microwave safe?”

“Should be.”

Not exactly comforting, but John leaves it running and heads upstairs for socks and a jumper. Sherlock eyes him oddly upon his return.

“How can you bear it? It’s stifling in here,” Sherlock complains.

“It gets cold at night, Sherlock.” John settles back into his pocket of warmth, pulling his blanket over his legs. “That whole bit where we turn away from the sun for a few hours?”

Sherlock glares at him before attempting an ill-fated flop. He groans and favours his arm, but John bets on frustration as the cause. “If anyone should be snippy, it ought to be the one handcuffed to a chair.”

“Nope,” John says, listening to the popcorn pop. “It should be the one dying.”

With a wrinkled nose and disdainful eyes, Sherlock stands, manoeuvres around the armrest, and whips the blanket off John’s lap.

“Oi!”

Sherlock immediately plunks himself back down into his chair and bundles the blanket up as best he can with one arm. He hunches around the blanket sullenly.

“Right then,” John says. “No popcorn for you.”

John’s resolve lasts nearly twenty minutes into the film. Ultimately, he drags his chair next to Sherlock’s, effectively pinning Sherlock’s arm between the furniture. He sets the bowl over the gap between their armrests. Sherlock sighs and passes back John’s blanket. “It was too hot anyway,” Sherlock complains.

Unthinking, John reaches out and touches Sherlock’s forehead. “Bit warm. Don’t think it’s the fever yet. Do you have any aches?”

“All my free limbs are fine, thank you. Pleasingly mobile.”

John lowers his hand with a sigh. “Arse.”

“My arse is also fine.”

John giggles and nudges the popcorn bowl closer to Sherlock. Beside him, Sherlock chews obnoxiously loudly. He chomps away until there’s another spot of dialogue, and then he promptly talks over it.

God, John will miss this. Or not. Death’s like that, he supposes.

Sherlock kicks him in the leg.

John promptly takes the popcorn back. “Oi, what?”

“Stop thinking like that.”

“Like what?”

Sherlock simply looks at him. His face is a bruised shadow.

“Yeah, okay,” John says, and he starts talking about the film instead. Sherlock even pretends to listen.

John jolts awake, clapping his hand to his neck. Though he makes his heavy armchair jump beneath him, there’s no point: he’s not bleeding. Sherlock hasn’t bitten him yet. That might hurt less than sleeping in his chair. Jesus, that’s painful.

“Stop kicking,” Sherlock groans.

Squinting through the light of the telly, John makes out Sherlock’s shape on the floor. Sherlock’s trousers blend in well enough with the shadows, but he’s shucked his shirt as much as possible. His pale back looks like a cross between moonlight and radioactive milk.

John moves his feet. “What are you doing down there?”

“It’s cooler.”

With some contorting, John bends down and nearly touches Sherlock’s back. He doesn’t need to. Like so much sweat, heat pours off Sherlock, much more than is remotely safe.

“Water and ice,” John promises, standing.

“Don’t go.”

“I’m only going into the kitchen.”

Sherlock props his head up on his right arm. “You can’t leave me alone like this.”

“I’m not leaving. I’m right here.” John hesitates between the kitchen doors before returning and putting the next DVD in. “See? Still film night.”

“Tired,” Sherlock whinges.

“Do you hurt yet? Like it’s pushing into your extremities?”

Sherlock makes a low moan of what can only be pained agreement.

“...Okay,” John decides. “I’m going to unlock you. You can sprawl on the sofa, you’ll be more comfortable.”

Another groan.

“While you decide on that, I’ll get you water. I’m right here. Not going anywhere.”

“I know that. Rationally.”

“Makes you nervous, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock makes a sound that John hopes is a laugh. Watching Sherlock’s fake tears on a case is bad enough. Real ones might do John’s head in.

When he returns to Sherlock with a glass, John forces Sherlock to sit upright and finds Sherlock’s face reassuringly dry. Excluding the sweat. The sweat is worrying, but as long as he still has water left to sweat, it could be worse.

“Drink,” John urges. “It’ll feel cold, c’mon.”

After the first reluctant sip, Sherlock begins to chug despite John’s instructions not to. He finishes with a gasp and immediately passes the glass back to John. “More.”

John claps him on the shoulder and stands. Night blurs into morning as John tends to Sherlock. With the creeping sunlight, there follows the tiniest rise in temperature. John is thankful, though Sherlock is decidedly not. Somewhere in there, John transfers Sherlock to the sofa. John nods off in his armchair a second time, and when he wakes, Sherlock has stripped down to his briefs.

“John,” Sherlock rasps.

“Coming.” John wobbles as he stands, his head pounding. More water for Sherlock and another damp cloth. John makes a token attempt to hydrate as well.

Sprawled for maximum surface area, Sherlock groans. “Hurts.”

“I know.” Keeping his hand above Sherlock’s skin, John feels the heat radiating off Sherlock’s back and arm. Warmth surges into burning heat over Sherlock’s forearm. “Here?”

Sherlock nods into the sofa cushion.

“And it’s about hit your knees, too?”

Another nod, this one with an accompanying whimper.

“Okay. I’m going to try something.” He fetches another glass and fills it with the last of the ice. This, he places on the coffee table. He cups his hands around it before slowly laying his palm on Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock groans, a sound of pure relief.

John starts a gentle massage, periodically cooling his hands. He begins to shiver, but Sherlock doesn’t. “I’ll be right back,” he promises. “No, I will be, it’s okay.” He works his wrist free from Sherlock’s trembling grip. “Shh, it’s all right.”

“Don’t go.”

“I’m getting a jumper. Just going upstairs.”

Sherlock shakes his head against the sofa cushion, but John hurries off anyway. It’s fucking freezing in here and the ice isn’t helping. He comes back wearing his thickest socks and two jumpers over a button-down and a t-shirt. Still a bit nippy, but not so bitter cold as a minute ago.

At the sight of John returning, Sherlock flops off the sofa in an ill-fated attempt to stand. He lies where he lands, his head toward John, one foot under the coffee table. Lying on his back with sweat-soaked pants, he’s practically giving John the full frontal.

“You usually have a sheet when you’re sprawling about naked,” John says. “Never thought I’d say this, but I miss the sheet.”

“Ugh, hot.” Sherlock gestures vaguely toward the cup on the coffee table. “Do my legs, they’re unbearable.”

John rolls his eyes but circles around the table and helps the little he can. His calves tinge in sympathy as he kneels, muscle memory of the inferno too fresh to ignore. “Can’t use too much ice. If you start shivering, that’ll only raise your core temperature.”

“I know. I’m not an idiot.”

“Yes you are.” He works his hands against taut muscle and overheated skin. It’s not John’s area of expertise, but a patient is a patient and John can finish his life with at least some professional pride. Gradually, Sherlock’s tension eases until muscle can be distinguished from bone. That’s all Sherlock is, bone and skin and trembling fever. They’ll need more than a damp cloth and some ice for this. “I’m going to draw you a bath before I freeze my hands off.”

“Such a good cold,” Sherlock argues sleepily. Much better.

“You’ll have more of it soon,” John promises. “Give me a mo’. I’ll drag you over once I get the tap running.”

“I can get up,” Sherlock says without moving.

“Can you?”

“Mm.”

Again, John leaves the human lump known as Sherlock Holmes. When he returns, Sherlock has successfully rolled onto his stomach. The effort involved may have killed him.

“Transport failing me, John,” Sherlock complains. “It’s unfair.”

“You poor git. C’mon, up we go.” John doesn’t quite drag Sherlock down the hall. He doesn’t exactly drop Sherlock in the bath and he doesn't quite drown him, but those are very pleasant mental images to consider.

John shakes and shivers while Sherlock sighs. Seated on the toilet with the lid down, John straightens his back. His spine pops. He returns to his hunch immediately after. If the water in the tub weren’t lukewarm, John might have been able to glean some heat from it. Not that the relative chill stops Sherlock’s complaints.

“I’m boiling alive,” Sherlock tells him, his absolute seriousness rivalling a toddler’s.

“Well, I’m not,” John snaps. He keeps his eyes on the closed loo door. In order to submerge his giraffe-scale limbs, Sherlock has folded his legs in the tub and thereby put his crotch on prominent display. Army experience or not, John can’t talk in the loo if someone else’s cock is out. They are two men in a loo, not a locker room. If John had to piss, that would be one thing, but this is another.

“It’s annoying, watching you freeze,” Sherlock says. “Go away.”

“If I cuff you in the tub, you could have an accident.” He could sit outside, but there’s too much risk to that. In a loo, there are many other means for Sherlock to intentionally end his life if Sherlock’s still convinced there’s a chance John will survive withdrawal.

Sherlock sloshes a bit. “Then don’t cuff me. When I want to bite you, I’ll come.”

“I’ll sit in the hall.”

“You realise you need to stay alive until I bite you, correct? Go to bed.”

The thought of blankets, of nesting in a pile of warmth, compels John to stand. “And you won’t go outside?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Not even downstairs.”

John leaves the cold loo and staggers upstairs past his removed door. His second thoughts only occur once the duvet covers him to the chin. Curling up into a quivering puddle distracts him from any further thoughts. He shifts uncomfortably before pulling the cuffs and mobiles out of his pockets. These go on his bedside table.

Shaking and trembling despite his layers, he waits. Time passes. The chill worsens. John’s stomach rumbles, and though he can think of food—of steaming soup and toasted bread—he can’t bear leaving the shelter of his bed. This isn’t what dying felt like, the last time. A bullet really would have been kinder.

Downstairs, pipes gurgle as the tub drains. Please let that be the tub draining. John pulls the duvet over his head, tucking himself entirely within his cloth cocoon. Arms wrapped tight about himself, he strains his ears for any sound beyond the quaking of his clothing against bed sheets.

The air grows hot and humid between his face and the duvet. His skin warms while his core freezes. When he can muster the energy to move, he scratches at his stubble.

Footsteps pad up the stairs and John stops scratching. “...Sh-Sherlock?” His teeth chatter.

The floor creaks as Sherlock navigates around the leaning door. “It’s all right,” Sherlock tells him, voice deep and rough even through the duvet. “I know how to take care of you now.” Sherlock approaches the bed. He settles on the edge, his heat blazing through so many layers.

Sherlock tugs back the duvet, sending a burst of cold air and harsh light against John’s face. The sticky sweet scent of infection clings to Sherlock’s skin. John’s mouth waters. His hair in wet, curling clumps, his body unabashedly naked, Sherlock watches him in turn.

“Please,” John whispers.

Nodding, Sherlock sets his hands along the sides of John’s neck. Sherlock blazes. John gasps as heat presses its way inward, emanating from Sherlock’s touch but still unable to reach John’s frozen core.

“Christ, you’re so hot.” John reaches, touches, the backs of his hands lost to chill while his palms bask against skin. He pulls Sherlock close, or Sherlock tumbles onto him, or Sherlock drags John against himself; only the result matters.

Sherlock presses his face into the ice of John’s throat. John melts. He trembles in anticipation of true heat, but Sherlock doesn’t bite him. John writhes for it and Sherlock only nips. In an ineffectual struggle, Sherlock tugs at John’s jumper. “Stop lying on it,” he demands. His weight pins John’s thighs, his eyes turn wild, and his hands drag John upward to force him to sit. Sherlock tears the first jumper off, but there’s a second beneath, a buttoned cardigan, and two more layers beneath even that.

Dying for heat, John interferes with all efforts to disrobe him. He clutches Sherlock around the middle, over his shoulders, anyway Sherlock can be held mid-struggle. Sherlock burns as if on fire. Wouldn’t that be lovely, to be on fire?

“Do it,” John begs. He bites, hard, on Sherlock’s collarbone, but doesn’t break the skin. Time for that later. John’s turn now. “You’re so hot, Sherlock, you’re just amazing. God, I need this, you’ve no idea.”

“Yes I do,” Sherlock practically growls, fighting his way through John’s cardigan and button-down. He shoves both layers over John’s shoulders and flings them aside before pinning John back against the bed. John trembles and shivers, but he doesn’t resist when Sherlock kicks the duvet off. Not when this puts Sherlock on top of him, directly on top of him, the best blanket the world has ever known. Sharp and impossibly everywhere, Sherlock’s hips jab into John’s. Sherlock keeps shifting as if they might slot together. Seeking out a spot, Sherlock lips along John’s jaw.

John wraps his arms around Sherlock anew, holds tight, digs his fingers into muscle where it flexes over bone. “Do it.” John’s t-shirt rucks up with Sherlock’s motions. Sherlock’s hands wander downward and Sherlock has to adjust, breaking the seal of his lips on John’s skin.

John very nearly cries. Hands slippery with sweat, he grabs at Sherlock’s shoulders. “What the hell are you waiting for?”

Sherlock rears up, kneeling, and scoops up John’s legs beneath the knees. Droplets fall from his hair onto John’s chest. Still tugging at John’s legs, Sherlock plunges back on top of him. Half-winded, stunned from impact and heat, John wraps arms and legs both about Sherlock. His hand slides in a wet, sticky smear on Sherlock’s back. John finds the scratch after a moment of fumbling.

“I tore you open,” John says, marvelling.

His pelvis bruising John’s, Sherlock sets their foreheads together and pants, “I know.”

John laughs. Sherlock bites John’s mouth, his lower lip. John groans. His body jerks. He tastes Sherlock before he tastes his own blood. Sherlock drinks him, gnaws on him more. The sharp pain sets off the chaffing friction between their lower bodies. For one absurd instant, John thinks Sherlock must have three hipbones, all blazing knives, the lot of them, but the thought passes. John digs his fingers into Sherlock’s back. John claws, and Sherlock gasps and twists and never stops sucking at John’s lip.

When Sherlock’s taste overpowers the tang of blood, Sherlock seeks farther into John’s mouth with his tongue. A metallic aftertaste clings to Sherlock, and John cannot sate himself on it no matter how he tries. He’s warm, but not warm enough. Sherlock’s damp hair clings to John’s forehead and brings a chill with it. John shifts to brush the locks away, and the scent of blood spikes.

Sherlock seizes John by the wrist and sucks on his fingers, his mouth taking in three in a comfortable motion. John twitches as Sherlock’s tongue explores his bloody fingertips, his knuckles. Sherlock closes his eyes. His hips stop. His entire body stops, absolutely tense, except to shove John harder against the mattress. Teeth tight against John’s fingers, Sherlock sighs out through his nostrils. John shivers when Sherlock pops off.

“My blood, not yours,” Sherlock reports, eyes hazy.

“Your back,” John says.

“Yes.”

John chews on his lip until the blood begins to well again. He and Sherlock say nothing for a significant time after, enraptured by the taste, enthralled by the heat. John’s hands sticks to Sherlock’s back over the fresh wounds, blood kept in reserve. Tongue lazily flicking out, Sherlock nibbles at John’s lip until the tension in his body slips away.

Eyes closed, John feels the scratch of a stubbly cheek against his own, but the sensation is oddly distant. It doesn’t irritate. It simply is. All of John wants to lie limp, just the way Sherlock lies on top of him. He listens to Sherlock breathing beside his ear. So much heat. John drifts in it. Sherlock’s hips don’t hurt John’s anymore, or not as much.

Slowly drifting, John jerks back to awareness as his hand peels off Sherlock’s back. John nearly forgot. He has to do something important.

Sherlock groans and wraps an arm around John’s head, elbow on John’s shoulder, hand in his hair. “Stay.”

“Not going.”

“Then stay still.”

John finds words for what he wants. “Let me lick you.”

Sherlock turns his head. John also turns his head. Their noses do brief and bewildered battle. Much too close, John can’t focus his eyes on Sherlock’s. Sherlock’s hand shifts on John’s head. Sherlock says, “You’re a little late for that.”

John lifts his hand from Sherlock’s back and looks at the smudge of red. “You’re still bleeding.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, as if this never occurred to him. “You want to lick my back.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock flushes as he nods, blood welling up against his skin, but John moves to lap him up where he already leaks. Sprawled on his stomach, Sherlock groans and sighs. John licks sweat and blood both, leaving only saliva. He swallows each taste of heat.

“Stings,” Sherlock murmurs against the pillow.

John lifts his head, his eyes on Sherlock’s nape. “Should I stop?”

Sherlock reaches back for John’s hand. An odd gesture, but he relaxes so when John lets him entwine their fingers. “Never.”

“That’s longer than we have, Sherlock.”

Sherlock huffs. Lying atop his back, John rides the breath. Sherlock says, “Until we die, then.”

“Yeah, all right.” John lowers his mouth, content.

previous | next

Fic: To The Last Drop - 2/6 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 01 Feb 2014 02:03:51 GMT

Title: To The Last Drop
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 5.9k out of 31k
Beta: seijichan, lifeonmars, prettyarbitrary
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: “If you want me to comfort you over my imminent death, I will be kicking you in the head,” John warns.
Warnings: Eventual off-screen character death, illness both physical and mental, assault, graphic violence, blood, bloodplay, explicit sexual behavior, plague, attempted suicide

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four

Handcuffed to his headboard, John watches Sherlock install the bolts to the outside of John’s bedroom door. He watches Sherlock take care of the window. He studies the supplies Sherlock carries in and can only wonder at what else Sherlock must be keeping in the kitchen.

“I need to move at some point,” John says.

“Yes, that’s what the bolts are for,” Sherlock answers, now rifling through John’s closet. He confiscates all of John’s belts, as well as every shoe with laces. After a small pause, he takes all of John’s ties as well. “I’ll leave you the handcuff key and lock you in once everything’s ready.”

“And then never unbolt the door again? Brilliant plan, perfect. Well done, Sherlock, I’m sure this will end well.”

Sherlock chucks the former contents of John’s closet out into the hall. He stalks back to the closet and tugs out John’s luggage.

“What are you doing?” John asks.

“There are straps.”

“What do you need straps for?”

Sherlock shoots him a sharp look.

John’s stomach drops. “Don’t be an idiot. I’m not going to kill myself.”

“You want to call emergency services. You are clearly suicidal.”

John tries to cross his arms. Instead, he hurts his shoulder and wrist. “It’s called ‘damage control,’ you tit. I’m not going to leave you with my infected corpse.”

Head tilted, eyes narrowed, Sherlock pins his gaze on John’s bitten hand. Sherlock chews on his lip. “Fine.” He proceeds to take John’s laptop and charger next. “I’m going to leave you with the handcuffs and the muzzle. Without visual confirmation that both are in place, I will not open the door.”

“Visual confirmation?”

“I’m taking out your doorknob,” Sherlock explains. “Can’t have you locking me out.”

“Mm, because containment is for morons.”

Sherlock ignores him. “For any instance where I need to open the door, you will put on the muzzle and cuff your hands behind your back. After I bolt the door shut, I’ll pass the key to you through the door.”

John nods along. “And what happens when I refuse to do that? Or did you forget the part where I’ll be going insane?”

“No.” Unmoving, Sherlock stares into John’s desk drawers. “If you stop cooperating, that’s it.”

“Fine. I’m not cooperating.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “You’ll get hungry.”

“For your blood, yes.”

“We’ll see.” Sherlock makes one last search of the room, terrifyingly thorough. Anything that could double as an escape tool, Sherlock takes. Once he’s excavated every other part of the room, Sherlock drops to the floor and peers under John’s bed from a distance. “Last one.”

“What? Oh, Jesus. No, you leave that,” John tells him, but Sherlock pulls out the shoebox anyway.

Sherlock opens it and says, “Oh.”

“Or burn it,” John amends. “When I die, you burn my porn mags. Do not keep those. Oi, stop it.”

With complete disregard for all that is private and excruciatingly awkward, Sherlock quickly flips through the next two magazines. His expression never so much as flickers. Much to John’s horror, Sherlock focuses on the pages themselves instead of the far more interesting pictures printed upon them. “Yes, yes, into the fireplace,” Sherlock says in the most put-upon of tones.

John takes a deep breath. “Look. I know I can’t exactly get it notarised now, but if I write down an update to my will, will you follow it?”

“In the event of your eventual death, yes.” Sherlock drops the porn mags back into the box, drops the tube of lube in after, and shuts the lid. With deliberate flair, he pushes the shoebox toward its home under John’s bed. “Is there anything I’m missing?”

“You already took the bullets?”

Sherlock nods.

“Then I think that’s everything.”

His hands on his hips, Sherlock takes another quick look around John’s bedroom. “I’ll bring up another bucket and the muzzle.”

“That’s biohazardous material, Sherlock.”

“Biohazardous waste, yes,” Sherlock says so flippantly that John nearly laughs. “I know what I’m doing. Stop doubting me.”

“I feel more confident when I can feel my fingers again.” He wiggles them pointedly.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, but it’s like he’s rolling pebbles instead of the usual boulders, like he can't even spare the energy to be overdramatic. “Give me a minute.” He exits without waiting for reply, bolting the door behind him. He rumbles down the stairs and then John can no longer hear him.

John’s chest tightens around his heart, around his lungs. His motion close to involuntary, he tests the restraint and tugs at the headboard. The world tilts and John stops. He forces himself to resume breathing. He adjusts his arm as well as he can.

An eternity later—two minutes, according to his clock—Sherlock returns. “John?” Sherlock’s brow furrows. “Is it worse?”

He shakes his head, more a tremble than a gesture.

“John?”

“It’s, ah.” John swallows. “It’s setting in.”

Sherlock sets down the fresh bucket. “How strong is the urge to bite?”

“What? No, God, Jesus, no.” John futilely gestures with his free hand. “It’s—reality. Reality is setting in. I’m not...” He looks at the wall, its undecorated surface far less blank than Sherlock’s expression. John wets his lips with a dry tongue. “I don’t think I can do this.”

“John, I’m handling it,” Sherlock says.

“Can you just--” John’s voice breaks. “Just call emergency services.”

“John, look at me,” Sherlock says.

John looks.

Implacable, insurmountable, Sherlock stares back. “I’m handling this.”

“I’m going to die.”

“Not yet.” Sherlock tosses John the muzzle.

John catches it. It’s very... leather. “I’m going to die in bondage gear. Lovely.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Something a little more Hannibal Lecter,” John admits. When Sherlock frowns, John says, “Silence of the Lambs? Fine, we can add that to the film list. I think you’d really...” Ah. Right. “Sorry, never mind.”

“I’ll add it to the list,” Sherlock says. He walks to the opposite side of John’s bedside table and sets down the handcuff key with a click. It’s just out of reach. “Do you have enough books up here?”

John nods. He won’t be doing much reading.

Sherlock takes a final look around the room. He takes a final look at John. “Stop thinking like that,” Sherlock says.

“One of us has to.”

“Wrong.” Arm outstretched, his body leaning away, Sherlock slides the key two inches closer to John. He vacates the room, shuts the door, and again bolts it shut.

“Sherlock!” John yanks at the handcuff before thinking to grab the key.

“I’m right here,” Sherlock says from behind the door.

John can still see a spot of colour through the hole that once contained his doorknob. He fumbles with the cuffs and the key until finally freeing his wrist. Cursing, he stretches his arm. The return of sensation has him gritting his teeth, but he endures.

“Toss the key out,” Sherlock instructs.

“Would you give me a minute!”

Sherlock heaves an impatient sigh. “Take your time, it’s only your odds of survival decreasing.”

John doesn’t have any odds, but he keeps his mouth shut. He stands for the first time in a day, wobbles, and proceeds to the door. He drops the keys out. Sherlock catches them.

“Could you break through this door?” Sherlock asks.

“I don’t think so. Normally, but not like this.”

“Try.”

“Shut up and go save my life,” John says.

Sherlock grunts, but he does as told. John resists the urge to crouch and watch through the hole as Sherlock climbs down the stairs. Once he hears Sherlock in the kitchen, he nearly calls out to ask if Sherlock can hear him, but if John can hear Sherlock’s chair scraping against the floor, then Sherlock would definitely be able to hear John shout.

He can probably hear John pacing. He can probably read every ounce of panic from the tread of John’s step. John forces himself to sit at his desk. He shoves aside the two tests declaring him a dead man. Pen and paper, that’s all he needs now.

He clicks the pen and sets to work.

Once he finishes his will, he takes notes. When he can no longer withstand observations of his own body, he returns to bed. Tense, aching and exhausted, he sleeps. A fitful eon later, he muzzles himself, cuffs his hands behind his back, and offers Sherlock visual confirmation through the door hole. He retreats to the opposite wall and stands there as Sherlock leaves him dinner and a pair of water bottles. He only turns around once Sherlock bolts the door shut and tosses in the key. It takes some extremely awkward kneeling, but John manages to pick up the key. He unlocks the cuffs and returns the key to Sherlock. He removes the muzzle.

“Hold on a tic,” John says. He fetches the notes and passes these out as well.

“Flu-like symptoms,” Sherlock summarises.

“No chills,” John says. “Just the aches and heat.”

“And the exhaustion might be from last night.”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock hums. “We’ll see. Eat and get some rest.”

John sets his forehead against the door. The wood feels cool against his skin. Pleasant.

“John?”

“I’m fine.” He closes his eyes. “How much time do you think I have?”

“The carrier was in an advanced stage of mental regression. I’ve only found three documented instances where a new vessel was introduced into an advanced group.”

“Any help?”

“No. The first two were put down immediately, a pair of idiots with emergency services who made mistakes. The third’s body was identified fifteen days after the initial infection.”

“Also put down?”

“Killed by the permanent host. Her situation doesn’t apply to you. You could have as many as five days before experiencing the urge to bite. The fever will settle in simultaneously.”

John takes a deep breath. He lets it go. “I am a doctor, you know.”

“You’re also an idiot,” Sherlock says, and John huffs a tiny laugh.

Forcing himself away from the door, John picks up his dinner, searing plastic container and all. “Tell me you cleaned the microwave before you heated this.”

“No, Mrs Hudson did. I’m not sure why.”

“Jesus.” John lowers his voice. “I thought you were going to get her out of here.”

“I am,” Sherlock says. “She leaves for a week, starting tomorrow.”

“Where to?”

“I called in a favour from an old client who owns a spa. I, of course, would never use the complimentary trip, but Mrs Hudson is delighted. She thinks you caught something at the clinic, so she won’t be coming up to say goodbye, as you need your rest.”

That’s good. That’s sane. Mrs Hudson shouldn’t be anywhere near him. John tries to tell Sherlock this, but he can’t. The only words in his throat are I didn’t get to say goodbye, and he can’t let them out.

“She’ll have a fit when she sees what we’ve done to your door,” Sherlock says.

“What you’ve done to my door.”

Sherlock sighs at this tedious distinction. “I’m going downstairs. Don’t shout for me until after eleven tomorrow morning, or Mrs Hudson might come up instead.”

“Got it,” John tells the door.

Sherlock leaves. The panic isn’t quite as bad this time. John takes new notes as he eats. His notes will be more valuable than his will, in the long run. He hopes so.

He wakes sweating and dizzy, his legs trapped. He thrashes against the duvet only to cry out in a pained whimper. Fire blazes through his blood, against his bones. His skin ripples over muscle spasms.

Slowly, against great pain, he pulls his legs free of the duvet. His pyjama bottoms cling to him, plastered to his shins and thighs. Rucked up to his armpits, his t-shirt is in a similar state.

Exhaustion pulls his eyes shut. He lies in a damp spot of his own making, breathing steady lungfuls of cool air through his dry mouth. Where did he put those water bottles? They can’t be far.

He doesn’t get up. Lying in the predawn darkness, he feels his heart beating, feels the gradual crawl of the searing heat. It inches down his thighs and worms into his left elbow. This is what it feels like to be converted into a habitat, a breeding ground. Terraforming, as if he were some science fiction planet.

A giggle pops out of his mouth at the thought. Sapienforming.

The blaze works its way down to the limits of his extremities. His right arm, though aching with tension from its time restrained, suffers no particular heat pain. It’s simply hot, like his chest, his head. He lifts his arm and forces his eyes open. He should change the bandage on the bite again. Or not. It doesn’t exactly matter anymore.

His left hand finishes blazing before his legs do. Fire turns into glowing coal in his fingertips, but a furnace drags itself ever downward through his calves.

He sits up and his room wobbles. Moving his legs tenderly over the side of his bed, he sets his skin against the metal bar of the bed frame. “Oh my God...” Bliss. So cold. Ice, he wants ice. Sherlock will get it for him if he shouts. Maybe he will. It’s worth a try, except it’s well before eleven and Mrs Hudson is still home.

If she comes up, she’ll call emergency services. She’s good like that, practical. But John has burned through enough of the fever to see it to the end. The worst seems to have passed. The local pain isn’t so hot now. Maybe it’s converting him. Maybe he’s burning it out. Maybe he’s already gone mad and simply hasn’t noticed.

He takes stock. He knows he’s dangerous. He knows he cannot be allowed access to anyone, lest he bite them. He knows his corpse cannot be left for Sherlock to manage alone. He knows he absolutely must not bleed on anything. Most of all, he knows Sherlock’s being an idiot.

Temporarily assured of his sanity, John lies back until his legs are fit for walking, and then he downs both water bottles. He’s still so thirsty.

The heat only worsens as the morning crawls toward noon. John strips down to his pants and lies on the wood of his floor, trying not to stick to anything. When Sherlock comes to check on him, John’s lying face down.

“John? What are you doing?”

John groans. “Hot. Bring ice.” His jaw feels like it needs to pop.

After a small pause, Sherlock tromps down the stairs. John hears him at the freezer and listens to the returning footsteps. They sound irate. John grins a little. Not all the joys of life are gone yet.

Sherlock forces two water bottles through the door hole first. They hit the floor and roll toward the foot of John’s bed. Ice follows, Sherlock feeding a bowlful through cube by cube. The ice clatters against the floor.

As a matter of principle, John stands. He walks to the door, sits down, and sighs at the unspeakable pleasure of ice. It melts against his skin so quickly, and it burns so cold.

“How far are you into the fever?” Sherlock asks. “Are the aches in your extremities localised?”

“That stopped a few hours ago.”

“Do you have a headache?”

“No. Bit dizzy, though.” He works his jaw again.

Sherlock crouches down on the other side of the door. They look at each other through their tiny window. “Anything else?”

John shrugs. “Extreme tension, grinding my teeth while I sleep?”

“Be more specific,” Sherlock instructs.

John tries to be. He describes the pain, the heat, the ache, the sense of a wave crawling inexorably through his tissues and organs. He details his exhaustion, how he’s too tired to be bored. His mouth rapidly dries out.

“You’re swaying,” Sherlock says.

“What?”

“You should lie down,” Sherlock says.

John lies down. “Oh. That’s much better.”

“More ice and water?”

“God, yes.”

Sherlock brings the water, liquid and frozen. John lies there and lets the ice cubes hit him. It feels like an odd sort of massage. He groans.

“We should have locked me in the loo,” John says. “Climb into a cold bath and stay there.”

“I could work on that,” Sherlock says. “Do you trust yourself enough to be transported?”

“I--” He makes himself consider it. “No. No, actually. I should stay here. Is Mrs Hudson gone, then?”

“We’ve seven days before she returns.”

You’ve seven days, John doesn’t correct. “How long do I have, roughly? Jaw pain means I’ve reached the bite-or-burn stage, doesn’t it?”

“Only if you want to bite someone.” Sherlock peers at him through the door, far enough back that John couldn’t so much as poke him in the nose. John sits up and leans close anyway. “Do you?” Sherlock asks.

John runs his tongue over his teeth. He knows his canines are sharp, a bit nippy. Mucked up foreplay when he was a teen, his first girlfriend not quite as enthused as she’d imagined about biting. But that was only in play, without so much as breaking the surface. He imagines the jolt of pain beneath his mouth, imagines the taste of copper rising against his lips, and his stomach clenches terribly. “I don’t.”

“Are you hungry?”

“No. Maybe later. Drank too much water.”

Sherlock nods. He stands and John’s view is now of his waist. “Shout if you need me.” He turns away.

“Could you—um.”

“What?”

“Nothing, it’s fine.”

“John, it’s important that you tell me everything.”

John swallows. He looks down and plays with the ice melting against his leg. Such a lovely, cold sting. Focus on that. “I know. It’s fine.”

“John.”

“Just make sure you’ll be able to hear me if I need you. That’s all.”

“I will,” Sherlock promises in a shrunken voice. He clears his throat. “Obviously.”

“Right, yeah.”

Sherlock turns to go.

“Wait!” John puts a hand on the door, abruptly dizzy despite his sitting position.

Sherlock stops. “What?”

“Did you solve the case? The smugglers.”

“How else to keep Lestrade from poking his nose in here? I’ve taken care of everything. As far as he’s concerned, you’ve texted him with demands that I sleep before seeing to the paperwork. Also, you caught the flu four days ago and were nowhere near that building and never have been.”

Alibis are well and good, but some things are more important. “You really haven’t slept for days. You’re not going to do either of us any good if you collapse.”

“Are you going to sit there and point out the obvious all day, or shall I get around to saving your life?”

“Sorry, right. By all means.”

Sherlock returns downstairs. John lies down in the forming puddle, seeking all the comfort there he can find.

The bucket stinks, John’s food can’t satisfy, and Sherlock has turned to the violin. He’s thinking. It’s good, of course, that Sherlock is thinking. A thinking Sherlock means a possibly living John. It means a less entirely dead Baker Street. Maybe a not-at-all-dead Baker Street. John can hope.

When the ice puddle turns warm, John stands and towels himself off with a spare t-shirt. He mops up the puddle with the t-shirt and lies down with the wet cloth over his forehead. The violin plays on downstairs.

John listens and aches. He should call Sherlock back up. He wants to. There isn’t a reason, not beyond abject terror. Come sit in the hall, Sherlock. I’m scared. John snorts. He closes his eyes and focuses on the music. He very nearly falls asleep on the floor. For a time, he drifts.

The music stops.

John sits up. He presses the side of his head against the door, his ear in the hole. He hears nothing.

Then, with a groan of frustration, Sherlock must fling himself down on the sofa. That has to be what that sound is. Of course it is. John’s heard it a thousand times. Sherlock’s fine, he’s only lying down.

John listens and waits, and his heart pounds out all other noises. He tries to whisper Sherlock’s name, but again, his mouth is too dry.

His room wobbles less this time when he stands. He pulls on the damp t-shirt and it clings coolly to his skin. The edge of the doorknob hole is rough, and John’s fingers scrape around the outside. He tugs a little but the bolts hold fast. He holds tightly and listens.

Downstairs, Sherlock doesn’t move. It was, what, four days on the case before Alexis? Six days for Sherlock, now. It’s been one hell of a week, and Sherlock is doubtlessly punishing his body for its fallible nature.

The lack of noise continues from downstairs. John sits down in front of the door hole, his bare thighs sticking to the floor. He plucks at the t-shirt, pulling it away from his chest, but he isn’t so hot any longer. The fever has unmistakeably gone down.

When listening to silence and staring at the hallway wall grow torturous, John stand and paces. With the fever reduced, exhaustion has waned. He’s been in this room for nearly two entire days, stuck with an increasingly full bucket of his piss and shit. Even with a lid on it, the smell affronts his senses.

John fetches the handcuffs from his bedside table. He’s healthy enough for them now. He can lock them on and kneel to reach the key when Sherlock tosses it through. Yes, that should be all right.

He brings the cuffs to the door. Staring at the wood, he registers that he left the muzzle. But of course he has: how else to call for Sherlock?

He stands there and he does not call.

Sherlock might be asleep, John reasons. If Sherlock has finally settled down for a piece of rest, John shouldn’t interrupt. That would be awful of him, calling Sherlock up simply to have the moment of company. Sherlock’s downstairs. That’s close enough.

...Provided Sherlock is downstairs. John again sets his cheek against the door, his ear over the hole. Is Sherlock downstairs? He wouldn’t have left John. Not like this. Even that idiot knows better. Unless Lestrade summoned him.

John waits and he waits, and the panic waits with him, crowding him and breathing down his neck. Sherlock’s supposed to help him. Sherlock can’t just leave.

Sherlock wouldn’t, John assures himself. He’s swanned off at horrifically inconvenient times before, but he wouldn’t do that now. For two years, even, but not now. John had heard him lie down on the sofa. Yes, John had heard him.

More waiting, more fretting, and surely Sherlock was meant to bring him dinner by now.

Something’s wrong.

John stares at the door, glares at it, and his eyes fall on the hinges. He takes the handcuffs and sets one edge of the metal against the middle hinge, against the peg holding it together. John pushes, he shoves, he works it up and up, and the peg moves with a metallic shriek.

John freezes. He listens. When no sound comes from downstairs, John paces back to his bed, pulls out the shoebox, and retrieves his lube. He greases the middle peg and pushes once more. This slide gives a squeak, not a scream, and then John holds a slippery bit of metal in one hand. He puts this down on his desk.

The bottom pin takes slightly longer but ultimately gives way to his efforts. Held up by the top hinge alone, the door sags in its frame. The weight of the door pinches the hinge pin into place. John stuffs a paperback under the bottom of the door, and that helps even it a bit. He stands on his desk chair for a better angle. His hands redden from exertion with his makeshift tool, from the friction and innumerable accidental pinches.

He frees the final pin. He holds his hands up, ready to catch the door, but the door does not fall on him. The bolts are still in place.

With a quiet step, he comes down from his chair. He sets down the lube and the pins. He tries to wipe the lube off on his thighs, but that simply makes everything worse. He mops himself up with yet another t-shirt and pulls on a pair of trousers. Hot, but not stifling. He sticks the handcuffs into his front trouser pocket. He’s not supposed to be without them when the door is open.

Gripping the door by the middle hinge and the empty doorknob hole, he eases the door side to side, working outward. He couldn’t have pried the bolts off by pulling the door inward, but as he pushes the hinge-side of the door out into the hall, the bolts on the doorknob side begin to work their way free. His fingers strain and ache. Forward and to the side, forward and to the side, that’s it.

The door slips free.

Gently, John eases his toes under the bottom of the door. He walks it forward one tiny step at a time, easing forward until he’s in the hall. With infinite care, he leans the door against the opposite wall. Now he can check on Sherlock without waking him.

He pads down the hall and takes his care with the stairs. He knows how the third one creaks in the centre, but not on the edges. He knows how the fifth one down can never be silent. Barefoot, he steps down onto the hall by the kitchen. The door to the kitchen is closed, but the one to the sitting room gives John a peek at Sherlock’s chaotic research. Papers and printouts strewn across the room, taped to the mirror, bits of them circled and highlighted and linked together by proximity.

The door opens smoothly beneath John’s hand. John cranes his neck, and yes, a flop of dark hair languishes on the sofa arm.

The ache in John’s shoulders, the tension in his arms, his legs, his every inch; this fades. He’s not alone.

Sherlock isn’t in a particularly good state, he discovers. His hair falls in greasy clumps. Arms wrapped about the Union Jack pillow, Sherlock curls in on himself, the stubborn lines of his body warped into an agonised curve. His chest rises and falls, pushing weakly against the cage of his arms.

It’s probably his first sleep in days. Possibly his first this week. The idiot.

No sign of food on the coffee table. John takes a few steps and peers into the kitchen. No sign of dishes in the sink. John shakes his head. Upon closer inspection of Sherlock’s sofa-turned-nest, he has the paper bin closer than usual. No food wrappers in there, but many more tissues than John would expect.

Take a shower, John wants to tell him. Eat something. But Sherlock wouldn’t be happy to see John outside his room, so John won’t wake him. Sherlock’s a sound sleeper anyway. After a case, he sleeps better than a corpse.

He stands in the sitting room, uncertain of what to do. It’s after dinner. He ought to eat. He checks through the kitchen and there’s nothing appetizing. Can’t go out to eat, can’t leave Sherlock when he’s like this. He can’t call for takeaway, as Sherlock’s taken all the phones.

The phones. Yes. Of course that’s what John came downstairs for. He needs one of their mobiles. Emergency services.

He sneaks into Sherlock’s bedroom first. He tries the drawers. He mucks up Sherlock’s sock index just for the hell of it. As silently as possible, he checks everywhere he can think to look, and when living with Sherlock, that’s a very large number of places. He finds his gun, but that’s not what he needs. He puts it back under Sherlock’s bed.

The bedroom exhausted, John returns to the sitting room. Immediately, he sees his mistake. There, on Sherlock’s armchair, is Sherlock’s jacket. Keeping a close eye on his sleeping flatmate, John crosses to the chair. He lifts the jacket and searches through. There. He wraps his hand around the mobile, but something’s off.

John pulls it out with a frown. Sherlock’s battery is missing.

He pockets this mobile, setting it in the pocket free of handcuffs. Another search through the jacket yields John’s mobile, also without battery.

Where could Sherlock have hidden the batteries? More accurately phrased, where couldn’t Sherlock have hidden them?

John studies Sherlock, lying in his protective curl around the pillow. John’s seen flounces and sulks before, but this is the highest he’s ever seen Sherlock’s knees pulled up. His limbs form a barricade in front of his chest.

Maybe the batteries aren’t scattered through the room. Maybe they’re with the handcuff key in Sherlock’s front trouser pocket.

His approach is quiet. His hands are steady. John shifts the papers on the coffee table, medical papers detailing the withdrawal process. He sits down and simply looks. He lets their breathing sync.

His head toward the door, Sherlock lies facing John. His right pocket might be within reach, but definitely not his left.

John stands. He sets his left hand against the wall. The angle prevents him from approaching Sherlock’s pocket with his dominant hand. Watching Sherlock’s face, John lowers his right hand. Bit awkward, but he touches his fingertips to the top of Sherlock’s thigh and, yes, that’s a metal rectangle.

Beneath his eyelids, Sherlock’s eyes move. John keeps his hand steady until the motion ends.

He eases two fingers into Sherlock’s pocket. The slide down is slow and tight, his knuckles against Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock’s foot twitches and his knee bumps against John’s.

Again, John freezes.

Sherlock adjusts, pulling John’s hand with his hips as he settles against the sofa cushions. John rides the motion as well as he can, but not well enough to prevent Sherlock’s elbow from hitting his bare forearm.

John stares at a pair of closed eyes, at a smoothly rising and falling chest, and yet he knows Sherlock just woke up. He makes a quick grab for the battery—he’s buggered anyway—but Sherlock rolls onto his back and catches John’s wrist in one smooth motion. His skin is so cool. It feels the way fresh water tastes.

“John,” Sherlock says softly. His frown gives way to a sigh. “Hinges.”

“You okay?” John asks.

The frown returns. Sherlock nods, his hair scraping against the sofa arm. “Fine.”

John sits down on the sofa, setting the small of his back against Sherlock’s legs. His left hand drops to Sherlock’s hip. John sticks his thumb into Sherlock’s empty belt loop.

As fluid and natural as any stretch, Sherlock presses against the sofa, into it. “Go upstairs, John.”

John shakes his head.

“Why not?” Sherlock asks.

“I shouldn’t be alone like this.”

“Then I’ll sit in the hall,” Sherlock promises.

John doesn’t move.

“We’re going to go upstairs,” Sherlock tells him. “Together, the both of us.”

“It’s much cooler down here,” John says.

Sherlock touches his arm. “You’re feverish.”

John leans into the cool touch.

Sherlock’s breathing hitches and John tenses in an instant. He stares at the door, at the stairs, and he positions his body over Sherlock’s in a protective crouch.

“John,” Sherlock says, voice strained.

“Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine--”

“But are you?” John demands.

Sherlock looks between John’s hands and his mouth. Sherlock’s pulse visibly beats in his neck. It’s racing. It shouldn’t be racing, not if Sherlock is fine. “John, will you do something for me?”

“Yeah.” John nods. “Yeah, of course.”

“Will you go upstairs with me?”

John tilts his head.

“I should clean up that bucket,” Sherlock explains. “I’d like help. Would you do that for me, John?”

“It’s a lot of fuss over shit and piss.”

“But will you?”

John nods, only because of Sherlock’s pleading expression. “Are you sure you’re feeling all right?” He sets his hand on Sherlock’s forehead. Sherlock flinches. “You’re like ice.”

“No, you’re burning.”

“I was burning before,” John says. “Not now.”

“Please go upstairs with me.”

“You don’t look all right to me.” Pulse too rapid, skin too cool and pale, breathing too shallow. “Are you sure?”

“I’ll be fine once I know you’re safe upstairs,” Sherlock says. “I promise.” His eyes sharp beneath John’s hand, he watches John closely. “I’m going to sit up now.”

John returns his hand to Sherlock’s hip.

Sliding against the sofa back, Sherlock sits up in the oddest way John has ever seen. Belatedly, John realises he’s crowding Sherlock. That’s it. Sherlock and his absurdly long legs, that’s all.

“John, can you bring me my jacket?”

“Yeah, okay.” John stands and fetches it. “Not surprised you’re feeling cold.”

Sherlock also stands. Sherlock holds out his hand.

John gives him the jacket.

Sherlock puts the jacket on and reaches into the pocket where the mobiles were. His expression sticks, not quite frozen, not quite shuttering. “Could you go upstairs in front and make sure the door doesn’t fall on me?”

“It’s fine,” John swears. “You’re safe.” He doesn’t move. Why move? They’re fine here.

“I’ll be upstairs,” Sherlock says. He steps toward the door, toward the staircase, toward leaving and he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t be doing that, so John stops him. John grabs him around the middle, the tightest hug they’ve ever shared, and Sherlock slams his elbow into John’s side. John exhales harshly, his body bends, but it barely hurts.

Letting Sherlock leave, that would hurt. That can’t happen. If Sherlock left, John would just die. He would, he would curl up and die.

Instead, John kicks him in the legs, right behind the knee, and he secures Sherlock to the floor with the full weight of his body. “It’s okay,” John tries to explain. “Sherlock, trust me, it’s fine.”

Sherlock thrashes. Poor, exhausted Sherlock. He lashes out at John’s face. The exertion warms, but in a good way.

Straddling Sherlock’s torso, John catches Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock drags it back, pulls his own elbow to the ground and nearly frees his hand from John’s grip, but John follows, John follows him down and sets his mouth to the scalpel’s scab. He bites and he licks and Sherlock’s only making that noise because he doesn’t understand yet.

Flesh punctures between John’s teeth, pale, veined skin bunched by his mouth on the back of Sherlock’s hand. A trickle of heat touches John’s tongue. Oh, God. It’s everything he never knew he was waiting for.

He bites deeper, sucks harder. Sherlock’s other hand beats against the side of John’s head, but feebly. Sherlock must be so tired.

Slowly, Sherlock learns this is for the best. He holds still and lets John lick the bite clean. He lies on his back with his free hand over his eyes. John applies pressure with his tongue until the bleeding stops, more or less. John feels so much cooler already. He licks his lips, unsure if he’s tasting blood or bliss.

“I’ll bandage that,” John promises. “It’s okay, I’m taking care of you.”

Mouth firmly shut, eyes covered, Sherlock says nothing at all.

back | next

Fic: To The Last Drop - 1/6 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 25 Jan 2014 02:25:55 GMT

Title: To The Last Drop
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 5.9k out of 31k
Beta: seijichan, lifeonmars, prettyarbitrary
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: “If you want me to comfort you over my imminent death, I will be kicking you in the head,” John warns.
Warnings: Eventual off-screen character death, illness both physical and mental, assault, graphic violence, blood, bloodplay, explicit sexual behavior, plague, attempted suicide

Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four

The floorboards creak through the office carpeting. John opens a door and dust rises in the beam of his torch. Only a thin layer of dust, but no obvious tracks.

Which, hm, that might be one. Bit of a smudge, really. Something pulled across the floor? John turns the corner and eases open the stairwell door. Footsteps and dragging patterns are clearer on the stairs.

Nodding to himself, he fishes out his mobile and texts Sherlock, his torch tucked into his armpit. Found tracks on third floor. Maybe 4 people? Something dragged.

The response is nearly instant: Need moment. Will follow. SH

John pockets his mobile and tracks the marks down the hall. His ears strain for any sound beyond his own motions and the idiosyncrasies of the abandoned building. After the two other buildings tonight, all empty, his mind wants to play tricks on him. No squatters in this building, not yet, and the absence of Sherlock’s homeless network doesn’t reassure.

He sees the open door before he fully registers the sound. It’s a noise he recognises from his home life during secondary school, the sound of a teenage girl crying and trying to be quiet about it.

He mouths a curse and softens his steps. So much for finding the smuggler’s drop-off point. He keeps the torch aimed on the floor. Slowly, he approaches the door. A stink rises as he draws nearer.

“...Dad?” a wavering voice asks.

Oh, Jesus. “Sorry,” John says, keeping on his side of the door frame. “I’m not your dad, but I am a doctor. Are you hurt?”

“I’m okay,” the girl says, an absolute lie. He can hear the tears clinging to those words, ready to drip. A girl, but not a young girl: she sounds like Harry in her teens.

“What’s your name?” John asks. “I’m John.”

She shifts on the other side of the wall, a sound of cloth and muffled whimpering. She’s getting further away from the door. The stink worsens as she stirs the air. Faeces and urine, definitely. Below that, the cloying scent of infection. She’s been left here, but the door isn’t even latched. Psychological control or is she chained to something?

John swallows down a bit of bile and says, “I won’t come in if you don’t want me to. Are you waiting for your dad?”

“They’re coming back,” the girl says. “They have to, they need me.”

“They do,” John agrees, his voice soft against her desperation. Sherlock could play along better than this, but John simply wants to punch a hole in the wall. “Could be they’ve gotten lost. I’m doing a bit of walking in the area, maybe I could find them.”

“...We don’t want strangers.”

“They might need help finding you. What are their names?”

“There’s... there’s my dad. And my mum. Mr Zabrick should be with them, but we lost Joel. They’re taking Joel out.”

Is that what—who—was dragged out? “And who should I say is looking for them?” John asks.

“Alexis.”

“Thank you, Alexis.”

Alexis starts to cry, shaking sobs muffled against a blanket. She says something John can’t make out.

“What was that?” John asks as gently as he can.

“I need them back,” she cries. “They’re not supposed to leave, they’re supposed to be here, they’re supposed to love me.”

His stomach turns. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation,” John says, speaking to his circle of torchlight on the floor. “How long have you been here?”

“I don’t know...?”

“Do you know how long they’ve been gone?”

“Too long. I was asleep when they left.” Her fragile voice hardens. “It’s my turn, and they’re not supposed to leave when it’s my turn.”

“Your turn.”

“They can’t leave me alone when it’s my turn. It’s not fair.” She starts crying again and something thumps against the wall. “They’re supposed to love me, where are they?”

“Your turn at what?” John asks.

She sniffles.

John counts to thirty for an answer. Then he asks, “How about we go find your family together, eh? Take a look around with my torch, you and me.”

“I can last until they come home,” Alexis says. “I can, really, I’m good, I can do it.”

John closes his eyes. He takes as deep a breath as he can with the stink. He exhales and attempts to uncurl his tight fist. The torch ought to crack with the force he’s holding it. “If it’s your turn, I shouldn’t leave you alone, then, should I?”

She hesitates before asking, “Stay?”

“Okay. I’m right out here. I’m going to stay on my side of the door unless you want me to come in.”

When she doesn’t say anything, John sticks the torch into his mouth and texts Sherlock. Found abused girl on third floor. Sounds like bad condition, called this shithole “home.”Expects three adults to return, possibly four. He silences his mobile after sending the text. He doesn’t know what sounds might make her panic. As it is, she starts crying again.

“Is there’s something I can do to help?” John asks quietly.

“I need them to come back.” She hiccups a bit. “They can’t just leave me, they’re supposed to be here.” She blows her nose on something and whispers, “It hurts.”

“It doesn’t have you be your turn anymore,” John says. “It’s all right. You can stop.” His mobile flashes in his hand.

On my way. SH

John breathes easier. “Alexis, I can get you help. Do you want help?”

“Yeah... You can come in.”

John shifts his weight slowly, pointing his torch at the base of the door before he takes so much as a step. Through the wall, he can hear her moving, wrapping a blanket tight about herself. He approaches delicately and pushes the door open farther. The reek of the room strikes him like a physical blow.

Alexis whimpers in the corner and John reflexively shines the torch at her rank pallet. Longer limbed than expected, she throws up her arms in front of her face. “It’s bright!”

“Jesus.” He lowers the torch, but the marks on her arms are plain as day. Laceration, abrasion, puncture, compression, his head lists as his heart goes cold. The gun at the small of his back abruptly grows heavy. “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to blind you.” His words sound hollow.

She keeps her hands over her face, and she turns her head to the side. Christ, her neck. Who could maul their own kid like that? Alexis shies away from the light, warier of the glare than the damage her movements bring. “Turn it off.”

John aims the torch at the wall instead. All the light upon her is reflected off the mottled wallpaper. The stains on her nest of blankets overwhelm its indeterminate original colour. She’s not skinny and long of limb, as his first impression implied. No, this is a teenager near her last growth spurt, not after it. She’s emaciated and wasting away. “What hurts?” John asks. “I can help, I’m a doctor.”

“I need them to come back,” she explains. She folds in on herself, forehead against her knees, arms wrapped around her shins. Her t-shirt sleeve rises with motion, and the marks continue up under it. “I love them, they love me, where are they? It hurts, I need them.”

“I know,” John says gently. “What’s hurting you?” There might be restraints on her legs under the blanket, but she’s moving too easily for that. What is it?

Alexis shakes her head against her knees. The snarls of her unwashed hair change her silhouette into something damaged. In lieu of reply, she unclenches her hand from her bruised wrist and reaches out.

John takes her hand. Her fingernails are dirty, torn, but her knuckles aren’t scraped. She’s been clawing, not punching. “You’re safe now,” John promises. “It’s okay. It doesn’t have to be your turn now.”

She lifts her face. Her reddened eyes find John’s, and he mentally adjusts her age up to young twenties. Not an abused girl but a woman wounded back into a child.

The floorboards creak and Alexis flinches, tugging John’s hand close. “That’s not them,” she whispers.

“Sherlock?” John calls.

“John, come out here,” Sherlock says from the hall.

Alexis’ grip on John’s hand tightens. If she weren’t in such poor shape, it would have hurt. “Don’t go. You can’t leave now.”

“I’m not leaving,” John promises. “Can he come in too?”

Sherlock doesn’t wait for permission. He barges in, scans the entire room with a sweep of his torch, and stares at Alexis. Twisted in his kneel, John looks up at Sherlock with a frown. Sherlock takes a slow step forward. John’s fingers protest Alexis’ firm hold.

“It’s all right,” John tells her, looking back to her. The words die on his lips.

Alexis stares at Sherlock as if expecting him to kill her, as if expecting to kill him herself.

“He’s not a threat,” John promises, and Sherlock touches John’s back. Sherlock touches his back, low, and lifts the hem of John’s coat. John freezes as Sherlock draws John’s gun free of his waistband. “...Sherlock?” He glances over his shoulder, and in turning, he pulls his hand back the barest amount.

John sees Sherlock’s eyes widen an instant before pain floods his hand. “Jesus fuck!” John yells, but Alexis bites down harder, her teeth sharp in the flesh of John’s palm.

Sherlock fires into her chest. The blast rings out next to John’s ear. Alexis collapses. Sherlock fires a second shot. Sherlock grips John by the collar and hauls him back. John catches himself on the floor, sprawled on bum and elbows. Sherlock shoots Alexis’ corpse in the head. John’s hand stings. It feels wet.

John picks up his torch. He shines the light on his right hand. “Sherlock,” he says.

“You’re a doctor!” Sherlock bellows. “How could you not see she was infected? Did you even look at the rest of the room?” He crouches down, his torch aimed on John, the gun aimed on Alexis even now. “You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed.” The words fall from his lips as easily as blood from his hand.

“How could you not realise?”

“We’re hundreds of miles off from nearest quarantine zone,” John says. “We’re...”

They both stare at John’s hand, at the ring of teeth marks and the ring of welling blood.

“Do you suppose,” John says, “if I cut my arm off right now...”

“How could you not notice?” Sherlock berates him. He gestures wildly with his torch and the gun. “Look at the bloodstains. Look at the nesting. John, look at her! How could you not see those were consensual wounds?”

John holds out his left hand for his gun. “Stop waving it. Give it here.”

Sherlock very nearly does before snatching it back at the last instant. “No,” Sherlock says. “No. You are not doing that.”

“She was infected,” John says.

“Yes, and now she’s dead.”

John shows Sherlock his hand.

“We don’t know for certain,” Sherlock says. “It's possible she wasn't ready for a transferring bite. We need to run tests.”

They do. God, they do. John exhales a shaking breath before pulling out his mobile. He dials 999 but doesn’t manage to hit Send before Sherlock snatches up John’s mobile and drops his torch in the same motion.

“Don’t be an idiot. The new policy is in full effect now. They’ll sedate you and you’ll never wake up.”

“If I test positive--”

“If you test positive, I’ll buy you a muzzle,” Sherlock promises.

John giggles. He giggles into trembling laughter, and then he catches sight of Alexis again and starts to cry. When Sherlock pulls him up, John very nearly asks where his gun and mobile went, but Sherlock has pockets. Using his sleeve, John wipes the tears off his face. “Sorry.”

“We need to wash that out,” Sherlock tells him. “I’m taking you home.”

“But the case--”

“I’m taking you home.” Sherlock tugs on him until John stands. “I’ve sufficient equipment to run your tests. I’ll not risk an overexcited response team killing you.”

John can’t stop staring at his hand. It bleeds and stings and he needs stitches. “I need to call an ambulance.”

“No, we’re taking a cab.”

“Sherlock, if I go home, I could hurt you,” John says. “I could hurt Mrs Hudson.”

“If you test positive, I will buy you a muzzle,” Sherlock repeats. His words prick at each other as if made of bristles. “If I can no longer handle you, I’ll call an ambulance then.”

“What, for both of us?” John shakes his head. “All three of us? I’m not risking that.”

“The longer we argue, the worse condition you’ll be in when we get home.” He pulls a latex glove out of his pocket. “Put it on. We can’t have you dripping.”

John pulls the glove on as carefully as he can with his shaking hands. He has to pocket his torch. “Sherlock, we can’t contain this.”

“I can contain you,” Sherlock says. “You can’t enter the final stage unless it keeps passing host to host. That much is established.”

“It was hurting her.” He looks at the shadowy mess that was Alexis. “She didn’t even want me in here, she just... Oh, God.”

“She needed someone to bite, yes. And we need to leave before the vessels return. They’d try to keep you.”

“Vessels,” John repeats blankly. His mental dictionary summons up an image of boats before crumpling in on itself.

“The carrier.” Sherlock points at Alexis but his eyes remain on John. “The vessel holding the developing parasite is the carrier. The vessels alternate carrying it until it fully converts one of them. John, you know this.”

“You can stop talking now. The last thing I need right now is a biology lecture.” He takes a step and wobbles. Sherlock grabs his arm and John flinches away. “You really shouldn’t touch me.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “We’re not exchanging body fluids.” He wraps his arm around John’s back and pulls John into the hallway. The stink clings to them, but John breathes easier with every step. His dizziness grows worse.

“I don’t feel so well,” John confesses.

“Because you’re hyperventilating, yes.”

John tries not to. He stumbles as the world spins.

Sherlock tugs him tighter against his side. “Holding your breath won’t work either.”

“Right,” John gasps. “Sorry.”

They navigate far too many stairs. They emerge onto the pavement. John wants to stop and sit. Sherlock keeps him going. Streets later, Sherlock flags down a cab. John hides his hand in his pocket. The cabbie makes no comment on the stink that still fills John’s nose. For his part, John says nothing and tries not to think until they stop and climb out onto the familiar ground of Baker Street.

Sherlock pulls John’s wallet out of his back pocket, making him jump, and John’s money goes to the cabbie. Standing extremely close, even for him, Sherlock keeps John in front of him as he unlocks the front door.

“Upstairs,” Sherlock instructs, pushing on the door and John in equal measure. “Do whatever you can, I’ll order supplies.”

John does as he’s told. He fetches his medical kit from the loo and Sherlock clears off the kitchen table. Whenever John looks up from his hand, Sherlock’s gaze is on his own mobile. John nearly snaps at him before realising that Sherlock’s ordering online.

“What are you getting?” John asks.

“I told you. Supplies.”

“Right. We find out whether I’m playing biological hot potato and,” John swallows, “and then that’s that.”

Sherlock hums at his mobile in clear disagreement.

“Sherlock, we have to.” John keeps his eyes on his hand. Should he go through the bother of stitching it up if he has to die in a few hours?

“We can work something out. We still don’t know if she was ready to pass the parasite into a new host.”

“What are you going to do, lock me in the attic until I get bitey?”

“No, we don’t have one. Your room will suffice. I have handcuffs in case your self-control wanes. The muzzle will take two days for delivery, unfortunately.” Sherlock keeps tapping at his phone. “If we can prevent the parasite from jumping to a new host and enhancing, your immune system might be able to defeat it.”

“Right, because no one’s ever tried that before. Hospitals have never thought of that.” When Sherlock fails to respond, John starts stitching up his hand after all. Thank God it’s his right hand. He’d never be able to stitch himself up right-handed. “Mm, yes, definitely looking forward to the brain-frying fever.”

Sherlock pounds his fist on the table and John jumps, sticking himself with the needle where he doesn’t need any sticking. “John, we have two options. First, we call 999 and there ends any control we have of the situation. Second, we administer the test ourselves. If you’re fine, we bring you to hospital to treat anything else you might have picked up. If you’re not, we take our chances. You live or you die, but we don’t let anyone kill you.”

“This is a terrible plan.”

“Do you want to die?” Sherlock demands. He shoves his mobile into his inner jacket pocket.

“Can I have my mobile back?”

Sherlock’s mouth forms a tight line.

John watches him a moment before returning to the work on his hand. His stitches are neat and regular, his adrenaline keeping the pain down without making him shake. “If you can’t trust me with a phone, we should probably end this now.”

“We won’t learn anything until the morning,” Sherlock tells him. “Until then, you stay in your room.”

John shakes his head. “My door opens inward. It locks from the inside, too. We don’t know how long it will take for me to, well. You know what.”

“You’re going to handcuff yourself to your bed.”

Slowly, deliberately, John blinks. He replays that last sentence. It’s not any better the second time. “What’s a step worse than ‘terrible’? Abysmal. This is an abysmal plan, Sherlock.” He ties off his stitches and snips the ends. He packs away his kit. “I shouldn’t have come home. Jesus, what were we thinking?”

Sherlock takes hold of the medical kit. He grips it until John lets it go. He doesn’t speak until John looks him in the eyes. “There were three vessels returning to that building to find their carrier. Either their carrier is dead and they would have killed us for it, or that carrier is you and they would have forcibly kept you. I would then be in the position of calling emergency services down upon you before your ‘biological hot potato’ game ended and a full outbreak began.”

John’s stomach turns over. Excerpts from medical journals and news reports shove themselves to the forefront of his brain. They boil down into four stages.

Stage one: contamination of the individual by airborne strain. A single host, deemed the carrier.

Stage two: contamination of a group. The original carrier orally passes the parasite into the bloodstream of another. Former hosts, deemed vessels, wait to be bitten again. The parasite is passed among an increasingly tight group. With each new occupation of a body, it develops and further converts that body into a more suitable environment. It goes after the immune system and the nervous system first. The earliest known signs are sensations of localised heat, followed by jaw pain. Waiting vessels experience chills.

Stage three: the carrier becomes unable to transmit the parasite and becomes a permanent host. The parasite can now reproduce in its modified environment. The vessels wait nearby.

Stage four: outbreak. The permanent host kills all remaining vessels. Fresh parasites enter the corpses and continue reproduction. Each corpse produces a variation on the strain. When the corpses begin to burst, the strains become airborne until encountering a new carrier. The permanent host of the original parasite continues the killing spree until killed or dying of exhaustion.

“I can’t stay here,” John says.

“Why, do you want to bite me?” Sherlock asks.

John glares, but Sherlock’s expression remains one of unfeigned earnestness.

“Have you even thought about it?” Sherlock continues. “Picture me bleeding and—there, your face, that was revulsion.”

Though a scream fights his throat for escape, John forces his words below a shout. “I don’t want to kill you, you idiot.”

“Then you are, for the moment, fine. If we monitor you, there’s no reason you can’t stay here, at least for tonight.”

With that, Sherlock hugs the medical kit against his chest. His hands grip his sleeves at the elbows. The contrast between the black fabric and his pale skin gives the illusion of a freezing man. It’s enough to pull John out of his own head and back into the room.

Sherlock looks like he’s dying. No, he looks like his best friend is dying, his only friend, and John supposes that’s an accurate summary.

“Okay,” John says. “Fine. I cuff myself to my bed tonight and we’ll know what to do in the morning. But I want my phone. If I dislocate my shoulder in the middle of the night, I’m calling you.” He holds out his hand, his left hand.

Sherlock shifts the medical kit in his arm and pulls John’s mobile out of his pocket. He puts it in John’s hand without flinching, without pulling away from him in the slightest.

“Where’s my gun?” John asks. “In your coat?”

“You don’t need it for anything tonight.”

“True. I just want to know where it is.”

“Why?” Sherlock narrows his eyes. His grip on the medical kit tightens, as if it’s a teddy bear full of bandages and antiseptic.

“Because it’s a loaded gun.” He doesn’t snap or yell. He states this through gritted teeth and points in the direction of the sitting room wall.

“I’ll empty it.” Sherlock’s eyes drop to some vague middle distance through their kitchen table. “You’re right, it shouldn’t be loaded.”

“What if— ” John stops and forces himself to complete the question. “What if I attack you?”

“Are you likely to?”

“You’re starting to piss me off, so maybe.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches. “Let’s put you upstairs.”

They climb with John in front, Sherlock behind. His presence comforts John almost as much as it worries him. In John’s bedroom, they sort out what can be done to John’s door and which part of John’s headboard he ought to be cuffed to. They plan and they plan, and beyond John’s nerves and fear, he feels fine. He might be fine. God, let him be fine.

When he’s as ready for bed as he’ll ever be, Sherlock hands him the cuffs. John takes them with his undamaged hand. “You do have a key for these, right?” John asks.

Sherlock nods. His eyes are strange, not in colour, but in sheen.

“Right.” John clears his throat. “So. I should...” He points over his shoulder.

Sherlock nods a second time. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, as if a foreign object trapped there.

John doesn’t move. Neither does Sherlock.

“Well,” John says. “Just in case this is my last night sane.” He holds out his hand only to recall the stitches, the contaminated area, and he pulls back before Sherlock can touch his palm.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock pops first his shirt collar, then his jacket collar. When John blinks up at him, Sherlock steps forward, and John’s face fits against that freshly raised barrier of cloth. Sherlock’s arms are slim but firm, his chest solid and stable with his overly controlled breaths.

John nearly jerks away. He should. He doesn’t. Instead, he presses his eyes against Sherlock’s shoulder until the blurring stops. It’s a bit like being inside a cage, which is where John ought to properly be.

“I can solve this,” Sherlock promises.

John lifts his face from a wet patch on Sherlock’s jacket and clears his throat. “You’ll wake me up when you’ve made the test?”

“The earliest delivery is at five.”

“Okay.” John pulls back his duvet and slips underneath. He spends a moment sorting out which hand he wants to cuff and chooses the injured, right one. It’s very much a hand which ought to be locked up. Once settled, he asks, “Could you get the light?”

Sherlock turns off the lights. “I’ll be in the hall.” With that, he closes the door and leaves John in the darkness.

“I have it,” Sherlock announces, entering John’s room before John can do more than let out a groggy groan.

Startled into it, John sits up and nearly wrenches his arm. “You have what?”

“The test.” Sherlock flicks on the lights, blinding John, a small tray in his other hand.

John rubs his eyes with his good hand, his free hand. Otherwise, he sits still until his heart stops pounding so hard.

“John?” Sherlock stops mid-step to pause outside of John’s reach. “How are you feeling?”

“I thought you meant you had the infection,” John says. “So, you know, terrified for no reason, but otherwise fine.” He eyes the tray and the tubing. “Do you know how to take blood?”

“Of course I do.”

John breathes out a shaking sigh. “Okay. Okay, yeah, go ahead. With gloves on.”

Sherlock carries over the chair from John’s desk to sit beside John’s bed. They don’t touch until Sherlock puts the gloves on. John holds his left arm out while Sherlock gets him ready. It’s embarrassing for a doctor, but John looks away from the needle just before he feels the pinch.

“Relax,” Sherlock instructs, voice vibrating with tension.

“You’re a great help, aren’t you.”

“I am.” He jostles John’s arm while taking the second blood sample.

A moment later, John feels the needle slide out and Sherlock presses a cotton swab to the inside of John’s elbow. In an awkward motion, Sherlock manages to tape it down without spilling John’s blood onto the bed.

“How long?” John asks.

“Half an hour for the short test, six hours for the long test.”

“If either is positive, that’s it.”

“Mm. I’ll run it in the kitchen.” Sherlock stands, all materials and wrappers in his gloved hands.

“Use my desk.” John doesn’t mean to beg. He looks down at his lap. “I mean.” He swallows. “Look, it’s going to be an agonising half hour in any case--”

“Six hours, John.”

“—and I want to see it.”

Sherlock looks at him, weighing. “Is that kinder?”

“For me, it is,” John says.

Sherlock nods. He strips off the gloves, deposits them in hazardous waste bag, and clears off John’s desk before snapping a second pair of gloves on. The efficiency of it, the competence, helps John breathe.

He lies back down and closes his eyes. Exhaustion pulls at his tense body, but the need for the loo keeps him awake. He wiggles the fingers of his right hand, keeping it awake as well.

An indeterminate time later, Sherlock snaps off the second pair of gloves. John opens his eyes and turns his head. “Half an hour from now? To be sure.”

“Six hours,” Sherlock says, as if he really expects the first test to come out negative. “We’ll know for certain by half noon.”

“I am definitely going to need the loo before then.”

Sherlock eyes John’s handcuffed arm. “After the first test is finished.”

Careful not to hurt himself, John sits up. He tries to adjust his arm into a comfortable position. “You can stop staring at me now.”

“Do you feel any changes?” Sherlock asks.

“Nothing that stress and terrible sleep couldn’t cause. I don’t know.”

Sherlock twists in the desk chair, shifting his legs so his knees point to John. He sets his elbows atop his knees and fits his hands together, fingertip to fingertip. “Do you want to bite me?”

The laugh jumps out of John’s throat. Sherlock’s eyes widen and John starts giggling. “Oh, thank fucking God,” John says.

Sherlock rises from the chair, his gaze flicking to the handcuffs. “What?”

“I really don’t want to bite you,” John explains. “Sherlock, I don’t even want to punch you.” He sighs, so much tension leaving his body. “Oh my God, it’s actually that simple.”

“Do you want to bite anyone?” Sherlock asks. He draws closer at a cautious pace, as if reeled in by his own line of sight. “Don’t just say ‘no,’ John. Think about it.”

John thinks about it. He looks down at his bandaged hand and imagines putting his teeth against another person’s skin. His mind fills in the details with scenes from horror films. If he tries to picture himself in that role, his stomach turns over.

“You don’t,” Sherlock says for him.

John sags back against his headboard. His head thunks lightly on the wall. He closes his eyes and breathes. Oh, thank God. He could nearly pass out from relief, except he might piss the bed.

Sherlock inhales sharply.

“Sherlock? Oh, Jesus. What the hell are you doing?”

Scalpel in his right hand, blood welling up on the back of his left, Sherlock regards him calmly. “It’s not a deep cut.” Holding his left hand out toward John, Sherlock steps forward.

“Are you mental?” John demands. “Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?”

Sherlock grins. He holds his hand at the limit of John’s reach. “Are you looking?”

“I swear to God, if you bleed on my floor--”

“Still no desire for oral transmission?” Sherlock asks. “You wouldn’t need to puncture my skin now.”

“No, I’m just going to punch you,” John snaps. “Bandage that, you idiot.”

Sherlock’s grin becomes terrifying, otherwise known as his usual grin. “Brilliant. I’m sure you’ll be fine on your own while I take care of that.”

John blinks though the exhaustion, the anger, through everything, and he sees Sherlock’s point. It’s a stupid point, but still a valid one. “We could have waited for the test to finish. No dramatics necessary.”

Sherlock pulls a face. “Dull. Besides, it would have been an agonizing wait.”

“Just take care of that before you start dripping,” John says.

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock flounces away, one hand bleeding, the other holding a scalpel.

“And disinfect that before you put it back in my kit!” John shouts after him. Then he simply sits and waits. He keeps looking at the test on his desk, the small petri dishes positioned in a way that John can’t actually see their contents. When he finally gives in and checks the clock, there’s still the better part of twenty minutes left.

Sherlock returns with nine minutes remaining. He keeps his distance with a stance of condescension, as if merely humouring John’s fears. He behaves as if there is no possibility of John being put down like a rabid animal. Sherlock’s confidence acts as a sealant on John’s and prevents his remaining hope from leaking out of the room.

They talk about the case, about where else the smugglers might be hiding their wares, and John has to tell Sherlock when the half hour has passed. Thirty-two minutes, actually. His back to John’s desk, Sherlock doesn’t immediately respond.

“I need to piss,” John reminds him. His voice remains remarkably steady.

Arms folded, Sherlock glances over his shoulder. His expression never varies. He looks, and an eternity passes in a heartbeat. His arms fall to his side and he turns to pick up the test instructions.

“Sherlock?”

“I followed the protocol exactly,” Sherlock states. “This is the wrong colour. You don’t want to bite me. This is the wrong colour.”

“Oh, Jesus.” His stomach churns on itself, but there’s nothing left to vomit. “It’s still incubating. Of course I don’t want to bite you.” Yet.

Sherlock picks up the quick test and stares at it as if his eyes can rewrite reality. He turns his head sharply to stare at John in exactly the same manner.

For fuck's sake. “If you want me to comfort you over my imminent death, I will be kicking you in the head,” John warns.

“We’ll wait for the second test,” Sherlock says.

“If the quick one is positive, they’re both--”

“We’ll wait.”

“No we fucking won’t,” John says. “We’ll call emergency services, that’s what we’ll bloody well do.”

“They’ll kill you,” Sherlock says.

“Alexis killed me,” John corrects.

Sherlock shakes his head. “We can sort this out.”

“We really can’t.”

“John--”

“We can’t.” John swallows. “I’m a biological time bomb.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Sherlock says, no trace of irony in his voice.

“Would you shut up?”

“Never,” Sherlock says. “There’s another option. I’ll think of one.”

“Emergency services is a clean death,” John insists.

“No such thing.”

“Cleaner than attacking you and Mrs Hudson. Or baking with fever from not biting either of you. My corpse would still burst open and infect everyone in half a block, but at least I wouldn’t be making other corpses. Oh, here’s an idea: how about we track down Alexis’ family and see how well they’re doing in withdrawal? Maybe one of them will actually survive it. I mean, it’s not technically impossible--”

“John, be quiet. I’m thinking.”

“I’m going to kill you,” John says flatly. “And unintentionally, too, which is not the way I planned it. Call emergency services.”

“Fine. I’ll summon the execution squad, shall I?” Feet planted, stance bold, Sherlock’s entire body forms a challenge.

“Yes, please,” John says.

Sherlock slams the quick test down on the desk. He closes his eyes. He fists his hands. His face contorts in a way John would rather not look at, and so John looks at his handcuffed wrist instead. Bruised a bit. Not so bad. It doesn’t actually matter anymore, but it’s something to pay attention to.

Without another word, Sherlock storms out of John’s room and down the stairs. John listens, ears straining, bladder painful. He watches his clock, wondering when Sherlock will make the call, wondering when he made it, wondering why it’s taking so long for emergency services to get here.

The pounding footsteps on the stairs are obviously Sherlock’s. John doesn’t hear sirens outside yet. Sherlock stops in John’s doorway, chest heaving. He tosses a plastic bucket onto John’s bed.

“There,” Sherlock says. When John doesn’t move, Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Piss in that.”

“You didn’t call, did you?”

“Give me time.”

“No,” John says. “Hell no.”

“I’ll get Mrs Hudson out of the house,” Sherlock promises. “She’ll be safe.”

“Right, and are you leaving too? Evacuating the neighbourhood? Because it’s a definite flaw in the plan if you aren’t.”

“Give me time,” Sherlock repeats. “Not that you have much of an option, obviously, but if I’m going to save your life, it would be helpful to have your cooperation.”

“Sherlock, you’re going to get both of us killed!”

Sherlock merely winks at him and closes the door. “Give me time!” he shouts as he thunders down the stairs.

John swears and he curses, and, ultimately, he pisses in the bucket.

| next

Fic: Bedtime Stories - 1/1 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 26 Oct 2013 19:47:38 GMT

Title: Bedtime Stories
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 4.1k
Beta: seijichan, lifeonmars, vyctori
Disclaimer: Do not own.
~~Summary:~~ Prompt: "A Sherlock AU were it turns out Sherlock has made up his whole life with John as a consulting detective while stuck in a coma caused by an overdose. The real John is just a kind doctor at the hospital that sits by Sherlock’s bed and reads him detective stories."

John opens the door without knocking. He doesn’t startle at the sight of the man inside—the conscious man inside—but he does clear his throat. “I’m sorry, sir,” he says, “but visiting hours are over.”

“I’m aware,” the man replies. He makes no move to stand. His eyes remain steady on John’s patient.

“He’s stable,” John says. A moment of hesitation, and he approaches. It feels like walking into church late, his footsteps cracking through silent prayers. He picks up the chart and looks though. He hums positive noises, but the man with the strained face and the ill-fitting suit shows no sign of hearing. John makes an educated guess at the man’s name. “Mr Holmes, if your brother’s condition changes, we’ll notify you immediately.”

“I’m aware.” The posh voice sharpens.

As the likelihood of budging Mr Holmes is roughly the same as moving the hospital walls on his own, John takes the path of least resistance. This is a man who will have to talk sense into himself. John sits in the second chair, opposite Mr Holmes. For the first time, Mr Holmes looks at him.

“Ah,” says Mr Holmes. His eyes cut through John and dismiss him in the same motion. “An addict in the family.”

There used to be. “How many times have you sat with him?”

Mr Holmes’ gaze returns to his brother’s pale face. “You’ve seen his records.”

“Enough to know this is the longest he’s even been out for.” They sit in near silence, the machines murmuring to each other to keep up the conversation. “We’ll get him through the physical withdrawal. After that, he might be up soon or he might not be. He’ll need you more when he’s awake.”

Mr Holmes says nothing. His mouth pinches tighter, and that’s enough for John to guess.

“He only accepts your help when he’s unconscious,” John supposes. “Stubborn git.”

“Isn’t your shift over, Dr Watson?” Mr Holmes asks.

“So are visiting hours.”

They watch the comatose man breathe. His pallor is poor, his weight lacking. His hands are bone and the IV might as well be stuck into his marrow.

“What does he like?” John asks.

“Cocaine.”

“I’ve seen his records.” John shifts in his chair. “What else does he like?”

Mr Holmes doesn’t answer.

“I read to patients, sometimes. Any preferences there?”

“He liked pirates when he was small,” Mr Holmes says.

“Pirates and cocaine. Not a mix you usually hear.”

Mr Holmes’ expression doesn’t change. If his breathing eases, it’s only slightly. “He detests anything dull.”

“Better high than bored? We see a bit of that.” Posh hospital means posh junkies, for the most part.

Moments pass, eased away by breath and heartbeats and humming of machines.

“He’s never still,” Mr Holmes says.

Privately, John disagrees. Stillness happens to be his patient’s defining characteristic at the moment. Along with unconsciousness, poor nutrition, and terrible decision-making.

Mr Holmes rubs a hand over his face. He fishes a ringing mobile out from an inner jacket pocket. It chimes as Mr Holmes turns it off. He closes his eyes, his tired face abruptly similar to that of his brother.

“I’ll read to him,” John promises.

“Thank you.” Slowly, Mycroft Holmes rises from the chair. His trousers are lined with wrinkles much the way his eyes are lined with red. He bends down and picks up an umbrella, though John’s nearly sure it hasn’t rained since yesterday. Mycroft looks down at his brother but does not touch.

John closes the door behind them. He hovers for a little while and walks Mycroft Holmes down to the parking lot. There’s a car waiting, no telling for how long it’s been there. John waits until car, man, umbrella and all disappear into the night before he pulls out his own keys.

His only book that includes a hint of pirates only makes a passing mention of pirate treasure. Overall, it’s an anthology of crime and mystery short stories. Close enough.

“Good morning,” John says. “Slept well? Very well, since you’re still at it.”

Sherlock Holmes doesn’t respond. Good: John hasn’t had enough coffee for that much excitement.

“I’m leaving this here with you.” He sets down the book. “I’m going to read to you later, if you don’t mind and even if you do. If you want your brother back underfoot, just give me the word. No? Brilliant. And it’s John, by the way. John Watson. I don’t know if you’ve picked that up by now.”

Hours later, after patients and paperwork, John returns for the book. He yawns a little as he sits. Sherlock lies in a slightly different position, but he’d hardly moved on his own. He’s been cleaned up and shifted about at some point during the day. Not a bad shave on him either, now that he notices.

“Evening.” John settles down in what has become his chair. “Okay.” He clears his throat and begins.

The stories aren’t too long and John finds he enjoys reading them aloud. Telling someone else’s stories is hardly as nerve-wracking as sharing his own. Possibly, it helps that his listener can’t respond.

Each night holds something different. Here, a detective tracks down smuggled Chinese artefacts. There, a policeman pursues the kidnappers of an ambassador’s children. An undercover agent battles with a grotesque assassin. Four men turn against each other over pirate treasure and far more than four people die. A cleaning lady discovers a deceased dinner party, guests and hosts alike terrified to death. A circus comprised of cat burglars tours through the UK.

At the end of the first week, John warns, “If you expect me to go on for a thousand and one nights with this, you’re going to be sorely disappointed.” He’s not going to be on his own forever, regardless of how the last months have felt. Only a few months left now.

Sherlock doesn’t respond.

“Git,” John calls him. He checks his watch. “I think we’ve time for another.”

During the second week, John discovers Mycroft Holmes once again in his brother’s room. He holds John’s book as if it might be diseased.

“Afternoon,” John says. “We’re on the eleventh story, I think.”

Mycroft doesn’t look up from the book, but he does turn the pages. “He doesn’t like me to read to him.”

“Unfortunate for him.”

Not another word breaks their silence as John performs basic checks. John leaves without Mycroft reading aloud, but Mycroft doesn’t put the book down either.

John skips to the twelfth story that evening, just on a hunch. There are only seventeen. He’ll have to do something else after this.

The third week begins. There’s been worry aplenty, but Sherlock will come out of it when he comes out of it, and not a minute sooner. John tries to put the concern in its professional pen and it digs its way out under his walls.

He finishes the book. He closes it softly and looks at a sharp, angular face that has only grown sharper. “You should stop it, you know,” John says, and quite reasonably, too. “Just stop it.”

Sherlock doesn’t stop it.

“You clearly weren’t prepared for this. Not nearly enough weight on you to stop eating. Have you considered eating on your own volition?”

Apparently not.

“You should give it a try.”

Not the slightest agreement.

John rubs at his eyes and checks the time. “Sorry, I need to get to bed. I’ll find something else for tomorrow night.”

No protest to that at all.

He stands, taking the book with him. “Good night.”

Sherlock, of course, is already asleep.

John brings his laptop. He forgets about it until that evening when he changes into his street clothes and discovers the bag. His stomach plummets. He forces himself to go through with it anyway.

In Sherlock’s room, John plugs in the charger and opens a much edited file.

“As a general warning,” John begins, “this is going to be completely rubbish.”

He wets his lips and takes a moment. He clears his throat. “If it’s too terrible, just say.”

Sherlock’s heart rate remains constant. His respiratory rate neither hastens nor slows.

“Okay. So. ‘A Study in Pink,’ by John H. Watson. It starts with, ah. With a blog entry. You can tell by the formatting. ‘January twenty-eighth. There’s been another of those ‘serial suicides’. It’s weird. There doesn’t seem to be any connection between the deceased. It doesn't make sense.’” He glances up at Sherlock, steadies his nerves, and continues.

Over the next two evenings, he tells the story of the narrator and his unnamed detective friend. He stops to add bits and take others away, but Sherlock never complains at the lag. John works better when he speaks aloud, he finds, and he puts those words into his detective’s mouth. The story isn’t as shit as it could be. It might be better than some of the published ones John’s read to Sherlock.

“‘Dinner?’ he asked.

“‘Starving,’ I answered.

“‘My new friend laughed. With that, we slipped away from the crime scene and into the night.’”

Falling silent, John works his dry tongue inside his mouth. He swallows.

Sherlock doesn’t stir.

“I know, I know,” John says. “It left you comatose.” He shuts his laptop with a click. “There’s, ah. Well, there’s another one. About a mutant dog. Sort of. I don’t think scifi’s my thing.”

He reads that one to Sherlock next anyway.

John receives word in the canteen and promptly abandons his lunch. “You can finish it off, if you like,” he tells Sarah.

“Cheers,” she says as John hurries away.

He takes the lift up and steps into a hallway echoing with shouts. He doesn’t know the voice, but he recognises it instantly.

“Get out! No, get—Stop talking! Get John, he’ll explain—would you shut! Up!”

John enters the room, his terrible self-preservation skills leading the way. He closes the door behind him.

“Jesus, there you are,” Dr Dimmock says, but John’s attention fixes onto his patient.

Excruciatingly conscious and borderline skeletal, Sherlock Holmes trembles on the bed, the sheets kicked off, his legs exposed. He’s pulled off the heart monitor but kept the IV in. Spots of colour dominate his place face. His wide eyes scan John before dismissing him. Sherlock’s wrath immediately turns back on Dimmock.

“You’re not listening!”

“Tell me instead,” John offers.

Sherlock freezes. The whole of his attention focuses on John. Even with him weak and disoriented, the weight of it is incredible. “What?” Sherlock asks.

“I’ll listen.”

Confusion distorts Sherlock’s face, pulling his eyebrows in while dragging his mouth open. “...Why do you sound like that?”

“About twenty years ago, something called ‘puberty’ happened,” John says. “My voice has never recovered.”

Sherlock moves his lips but does not speak. John recognises the mouthed syllable as his first name.

In this moment of relative calm, John pats Dimmock on the shoulder and Dimmock gratefully exits. The door shuts behind him. Sherlock resumes breathing.

John sits in his chair. He keeps his expression bland but pleasant. “In your own time. I’m sure your brother’s been notified of your change in condition, but we can keep him out until you’re ready.”

“You sound like John Watson,” Sherlock accuses. He looks like a dying man but sounds like a toddler.

“Well,” John says, “that’s convenient.”

Sherlock frowns. He looks John over a second time and his eyes stick on John’s ID badge. John takes it off and hands it to him. Sherlock studies it. He turns it this way and that. “Does the ‘H’ stand for ‘Hamish’?”

“Um. No. Henry, actually.”

Sherlock nods as if this is some crucial piece of evidence. He hands John’s ID back to him. “You have freckles,” he says.

“Came with the skin. Believe me, they weren’t optional.”

“I don’t...” Sherlock catches himself. He closes his eyes. His eyelashes are damp and John looks at the equipment accordingly. Given a moment, Sherlock asks, “What’s happened?”

“Twenty-three days ago, you had an overdose,” John explains. “You lost consciousness and we kept you in a medically induced coma for the worst of the withdrawal. We’ve been waiting for you to wake up for a while now.”

Sherlock studies the track marks on his own arm.

“Water?” John offers. “Just a little. Can’t go surprising your body like that.”

“Yes, fine.” Despite the answer, Sherlock doesn’t seem to hear him.

John buzzes for a nurse. They sit in silence until Molly brings the water in. “There you are,” she says, bedside manner impeccable, but Sherlock stares at her as if she has two heads.

“Thank you, Molly,” John says.

Molly nods. “I’m right down the hall if you need me,” she tells Sherlock. She exits.

“John,” Sherlock says.

“Yes,” says John.

“This isn’t real.” Sherlock says this with perfect seriousness. “This is wrong.” Gesturing with his free hand, he indicates the room. He also indicates John, which is a bit more difficult not to take personally. “This isn’t... real.”

“You’ve been through a lot,” John explains. “You’re going to feel off for a while.”

“No, I’m not wrong, this is wrong.” His voice breaks.

John hands him the water. Sherlock takes it automatically but does not drink. John folds his hands in his lap. Sherlock stares at John’s hands. How much is disorientation and how much is brain damage? They ought to run a few more tests, now he’s awake.

“You have a wedding ring,” Sherlock says.

“So I do.”

“You’re married.”

“I am.”

“But not living together.” Like a trick archer, he fires the shot straight into an impossible target.

“How...? No, she’s on sabbatical.” He adds, somewhat defensively, “We email.”

Sherlock stares past him, through him. Whatever he sees is clearly distressing, but he faces it with anger instead of fear. “Was I dreaming?”

“I have no idea,” John says. “What do you think you were dreaming about?”

Again, Sherlock closes his eyes. He slowly sips the water. He coughs a little, nothing alarming. The cup surrenders its last drop before Sherlock answers.

“Detective work,” he says.

“Oh,” John says.

With a sharp turn of the head, Sherlock looks at him with bright eyes. “Oh?”

“I read to you, a bit,” John says, and the light leaves Sherlock’s face. “Short stories. Mysteries, really.” Each word only worsens Sherlock’s reaction. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realise—”

“Of course you didn’t.” Sherlock hands him the cup as if John himself were a rubbish bin. “I’d like to be left alone now. Don’t let Mycroft in.” The IV his tether, he reaches down and pulls the sheets up. “I’m going back to sleep.”

John isn’t about to stop him. “I’ll be back in a few hours. In the meanwhile, Molly might come in to check on you, but she’s very quiet.”

Sherlock simply rolls over, presenting the fragile wall of his back.

John turns off the lights on his way out.

Mycroft Holmes makes it into Sherlock’s room, but it does take him until the following morning. With an exasperated frown, John joins them.

“You realise the entire hall can hear you shouting?” he asks the pair. Not even a day conscious, and Sherlock’s already made more fuss than he ever did during the physical withdrawal.

“Lovely, no need to catch you up,” Sherlock drawls.

Mycroft sighs. An invitation for alliance, he lifts his eyes to John.

John breaks eye contact first. “I couldn’t hear the specifics,” he tells Sherlock.

Sherlock, in turn, glares steadfastly at Mycroft. “Rehab centre.”

John frowns. “You want to transfer? I’d advise against it, at least for a few more days, until we get your diet and physical therapy sorted.” John shifts on the balls of his feet, attempting to draw Sherlock’s gaze. Sherlock glares at the IV in the back of his hand instead.

“I need to be somewhere else.”

“Anywhere specific in mind?” John glances between the two before settling on Mycroft. Speaking around Sherlock as if the man is no more than a boy, Mycroft lists the options and asks John his opinion on several. Despite John’s best attempts to draw Sherlock into the conversation, Sherlock sits with his attention focused elsewhere.

Mycroft narrows the list down to two options before John has to excuse himself. “Other patients to get to, I’m afraid.” He aims a polite smile at Sherlock. “If you’re all right for the moment, that’s me off.”

“Fine,” Sherlock says.

John gives up the attempt for eye contact. He nods to both Holmes brothers and steps out.

Later, much later, he returns after Mycroft Holmes has left the building. “I hear you’re transferring tomorrow afternoon,” John says.

Sitting upright, Sherlock mutes the telly, his only acknowledgement of John’s presence. He wobbles a little, his body trying to sag down without his consent.

“Bit quick, but if you’re sure that’s what you want, by all means.” John touches the chair back. When Sherlock doesn’t forbid it, John sits. “If your brother’s pressuring you into it, I can put my foot down.”

Mouth pulling into an odd shape, Sherlock snorts. “Down on what?”

“Only on his umbrella, probably, but it would annoy him.”

Sherlock glances at John before jerking his gaze away. “At least there’s that.”

John waits a moment, but that’s all Sherlock will say. “Do you want to transfer tomorrow?” John asks.

Without looking at him, Sherlock nods.

“That’s good. I just wanted to be sure.” John stands. “They’ve a good staff. Should have you back on your feet soon.” He offers Sherlock his hand. “Good luck.”

Sherlock looks at it. “I leave around two o’clock.”

John lowers his hand. “Ah. Well. In that case, good night. Do you want me to turn the light off?”

“I can do it from here.” Sherlock turns off the mute on the telly.

John reaches the door and the telly falls silent again mid-advert. John looks over his shoulder.

Still sitting upright, eyes locked on the remote, Sherlock works his jaw like a snake about to swallow sustenance. He bites his lip before he says, “The cases. Where did they come from?”

John frowns. “The...? Oh. Oh, right. I’ve a book. Short stories. I can bring it tomorrow morning.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter.” Sherlock turns the volume back up.

“Here you are,” John says the following morning. He extends his hand farther, not about to retract the offering.

Wholly ignoring John’s face, Sherlock’s eyes fixate on the book. His gaze holds there and his face breaks behind his expression. “I told you, it doesn’t matter.”

John shrugs a little. “If it doesn’t matter, then you don’t mind.”

Sherlock accepts the book. His hands tremble, his arms quaver. Tension keeps him upright even as it shakes him back down. His mouth twitches downward and he closes his eyes. When he opens them, he blinks several times. “I don’t mind,” he says, voice rougher than mere disuse ever made it.

“Good. Can’t have you getting bored in rehab.” John shows him a small smile.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “No hope of preventing that.”

“Try to stave it off, anyway.”

Sherlock sets the book down, its lines carefully parallel to the edges of the bed. He looks up at John and squints, as if forcing himself to stare into the sun. No discoloration of the eyes, no excessive dilation or contraction of the pupils. Mental problem, more likely. In whichever case, Sherlock forces himself to sit tall and offers John his hand. “Thank you, Dr Watson.”

John shakes his hand, cool and weak and tense. Not clammy or sweating. “You’re going to be all right. Just let people help you and don’t be an arse.”

Sherlock releases a tiny, voiceless laugh. He lets go of John’s hand. “Goodbye,” he says.

John nods at the finality. “Goodbye,” he says. Closing the door quietly behind him, he continues on his rounds.

He performs his job, he reads to his patients, and he writes his emails. Steady, static, his life continues. It lies dormant under his skin, waiting for spring to arrive at Heathrow. In the last week of winter, he secures a day off. He greets the changing of the seasons with a sign in hand, and she crashes into him, her laptop bag swinging, her glasses scraping against his cheek. She sags on him, her exhaustion seeping against his body. He holds her up, savouring the twin sensations of being hers and being strong.

“That was too long,” Mary breathes into his ear. She pulls back to reveal red eyes and her exhaustion-lined face.

“I know, stop writing books.”

“Never.” She threads her hand through his.

He squeezes tight. “Damn.”

Her smile pops open into a yawn. They go home.

She writes her book and he pecks at his stories. She returns to the university and he inhabits the hospital. Sometimes, they socialise. Mostly, they watch telly after dinner. She shoves her feet under his bum and he flips from the news to sport until bed. One night, he turns the match off and asks, “Could I read you something?”

Another night, long after that night and others like it, a buzzer sounds. John’s first reaction is to check the slow cooker. Still five minutes to go. The buzzer goes off again before John realises it’s the door. “I’ve got it!” he calls to Mary en route.

John turns the bolt and gives the door an extra tug when it tries to stick in its frame. Outside stands a man. A tall man, taller than John, pale with a dark coat and darker hair. His face is sharp, his eyes sharper. The only soft thing about him is the blue scarf beneath his chin.

“Yes, hello,” John says.

“I’m returning this,” the man says. He holds out a book.

Frowning, John accepts it automatically. Scanning the cover, his eyes widen. “Oh. Oh! You’re, um. Thank you. Jesus, it’s been awhile.”

The man pulls his mouth into a polite shape.

“How have you been?” John asks, buying time to remember a name. It was unusual, it was ages ago, but he should still know it.

“Better,” the man says.

“I’m glad,” John says.

“Was this the only book you read from?”

John blinks. “Um. Book, yes.”

“Where were the other two stories from?”

“Sorry?”

The man very nearly snaps at him—Sherlock Holmes, that’s his name, Sherlock Holmes—but merely settles for an impatient huff. “There was one with pills and a cabbie and another one with a mutant dog. All the rest are accounted for in here.”

“You remember those?” Through a coma?

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Yes, obviously, otherwise I wouldn’t be asking.”

“...What did you think?” John asks.

“They left me comatose.”

John blinks, then laughs. Sherlock laughs with him, surprised and nearly silent. “But they were memorable,” John says.

Hands in his pockets, Sherlock nods.

“Is that Bill?” Mary calls. She pokes her head into the hall.

“Mary, this is Sherlock.” When Sherlock adds nothing to this explanation, John continues, “He’s returning a book.”

“Hi,” Mary says.

Sherlock simply nods and Mary disappears back into the sitting room.

“Well,” John says, a hand on the door. “Thanks.”

Sherlock doesn’t move. “You wrote the other cases yourself.”

“Those two, yeah.”

“Have you written any others?” Sherlock directs the question largely at John’s feet before checking his face.

John shrugs, a lift and fall of one shoulder. “Maybe a couple.”

“Any good?”

“Getting there,” John says.

“Published?” Sherlock asks.

John laughs. “Fuck you.”

Sherlock grins at the doorframe. His expression twists slightly as he says, “You could post them online. Like a blog.”

“Yeah, well,” John says.

“You--”

In the kitchen, the slow cooker’s alarm buzzes. Mary calls “I got it!” and John shouts “Thanks!” back over his shoulder. “Sorry,” John says. “You were saying?”

Sherlock presses his hands deeper into his pockets, his arms straight and his shoulders hunched. He shakes his head. He withdraws his right hand from his coat pocket. He offers the handshake with all the gravitas of a life-debt. Which it might be, but John won’t dwell on it. He doesn’t take Sherlock’s hand either.

Instead, one hand on the door, the other holding the book, John asks, “Dinner?”

Sherlock frowns. “What?”

“Food,” John says.

“What about it?”

“We have it.” He knows how much chicken curry he made. There’s enough.

“And it’s edible!” Mary calls from the kitchen.

Sherlock hesitates, as if still uncertain that what he hears is an honest offer.

“You hungry?” John asks. To be completely clear, he points over his shoulder.

Sherlock looks toward the kitchen and he looks at John. He looks at John’s face and his hands and his clothes, and he stops leaning away.

“Starving,” Sherlock says. With that, he steps inside, out of the cold and into the light.

fic: Just Browsing - 1/1 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 19 Oct 2013 04:03:30 GMT

Title: Just Browsing
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 3.9k
Beta: seijichan, lifeonmars, vyctori
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: “I’m a good kisser,” John says.

Another eye roll. “Everyone thinks that.”

“Everyone? Blimey, someone’s been kissing and telling. Had no idea I was so famous.”

The manoeuvre tight between the close shelves, a man brushes by behind John. Sticking a thumb between the pages of his potential purchase, John glances at him. The first look is automatic. The second is compelled. One word occupies John’s mind, and that word is Hello.

A tall fellow poured into narrow jeans and a tight shirt, the man tucks a blue scarf into the pocket of his posh coat. His sharp gaze scans the books over even sharper cheekbones. Wind-tousled, his dark curls fall into place as he lifts his chin to inspect the top shelf. A hint of red clings to his cheeks and ears, brightening his pale face. Leather-clad fingers slide a high book from its perch. He tucks the book beneath his arm while shedding his gloves, two long pulls of leather from his hands. The gloves join his scarf. Gently, with unthinking care for the book’s spine, the man eases the cover open. Blue-grey eyes rapidly inspect the pages.

John’s mouth goes dry. He tries to look down at his book, but his head won’t bow. People don’t look like that in real life. Jesus, those cheekbones. Hell, that neck. Not even the coat’s popped collar can conceal that neck.

“Get to the point or go away,” the man says, still skimming his book.

John tears his gaze away immediately. “Sorry.” He drums his fingers on the hardcover and pushes out, “I don’t usually see people speed-reading.”

“That’s not why you were staring.”

John smiles politely, not that Cheekbones is looking at him. “I wasn’t staring,” he says quietly.

Cheekbones glances up and his eyes promptly pin John to the bookshelf behind him. His lips turn in disapproval, possibly at the staring, possibly at the poor lie.

“I was looking intently,” John says, all cheek, joking enough that he could still claim to be straight if this bloke lost it. Or maybe he couldn’t, should Cheekbones turn out to be a human lie detector, but John doesn’t think he’s about to be punched in a bookstore.

“You’re new at this.” It’s not a question.

John smiles even more politely. “I take it you’re not.” A miracle: his gaydar is actually functioning for once.

“I’m an expert in looking intently,” Cheekbones replies. John’s gaydar makes a few confused beeps before promptly sizzling and frying beneath that laser focus. Even while dismissive, his deep voice is so sensual that John wants to call it sexual, but he second-guesses himself.

“Oh?” John is nothing if not a master conversationalist.

Cheekbones narrows his eyes. He scans John with such focus that John’s imagination provides holographic lines like on Star Trek. “You’re an army doctor, recently returned from a tour abroad where you came to terms with your bisexuality. You’ve yet to act on your sexuality, but not for lack of trying. You think of yourself as too old for the queer club scene and thus are taking your chances throughout daily life.”

John blinks. John stares. John asks, “Do I know you?”

Cheekbones scowls. “That’s a terrible line.”

“No, I mean, how...?” John gestures with a book and an empty hand.

“Simple.” He takes the book from John. “Medical textbook: you were reading, not skimming, not bored. Haircut and posture say army. You’ve just assumed parade rest, in fact.”

John startles, consciously tugging his hands back to his sides.

With a smirk, Cheekbones continues, “You’re uncertain in approaching other men, but you have the confidence of someone with reasonable sexual success. So, experienced with women. Bisexual, possibly pan, but certainly interested in both men and women.”

“How did you know it was my tour that did it?” John asks.

A small shrug. “Shot in the dark. The decision to act had to be recent and your tan has yet to fade. Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“Afghanistan,” John answers, stunned. “How did you know I haven’t been clubbing?”

“That one’s obvious.”

“Not to me.”

Cheekbones fixes his stare on John’s face. He also clearly doubles as a furnace, as the temperature of the room skyrockets. “If you were in a setting where you were confident of a stranger’s sexuality, you would have succeeded by now. Your hair’s grown out slightly: you’ve had enough time.” He hands the book back to John and promptly resumes looking at his own.

John takes the book and sticks it back on the shelf, hopefully near where he found it. He doesn’t really look on account of being unable to stop staring. “That... was amazing.”

Cheekbones glances up. “What was?”

“That. What you just did. That was amazing.”

“Was it really?”

John nods. “Incredible. Absolutely... incredible,” he finishes lamely.

“That’s not the typical reaction.”

John cocks his head to the side.

“People usually storm off,” Cheekbones explains. “Too invasive.”

“Oh,” John says. “Did you want me to storm off? I mean, I can leave you alone. If you’d like.” He fidgets slightly under that blue-grey gaze. “Do you want me to leave you alone?”

Without looking away from John’s face, Cheekbones snaps his book shut. The sound is loud in their aisle but muffled by the shelves. Abruptly, John worries about being overheard. The bookstore is always cramped, but it’s effectively empty this time of day.

“Why are you interested?” Cheekbones asks.

“What, you don’t already know?”

Cheekbones smirks and promptly sends a flash of heat down through John’s belly. “I’ve seen a mirror, Doctor. Or do you prefer ‘Captain’?”

“I prefer John,” John says. “John Watson.” He offers his hand.

Cheekbones doesn’t take it. “Do you have a reason beyond my face?”

“There’s the rest of you, too,” John says bluntly. “And I don’t see many people speed-reading about snake venom. You’re a bit of a posh prat, but I’m mostly inured to that.” He smiles after, so polite that it comes out on the other side.

For a moment, Cheekbones weighs him. “...You can stay.”

“I can also go for coffee,” John offers. “Provided you came too, I mean.”

At that, Cheekbones rolls his eyes. “Boring. Predictable. No.”

John shrugs, his ego far from stung. “I was going to suggest a shag in the storage room, but that seemed a bit forward,” he jokes.

At least, John thinks it was a joke. He’d meant it as one. Except Cheekbones’ eyes light up at the words and John is suddenly back on the metaphorical table.

“It is a bit forward,” Cheekbones agrees, a distinctly predatory gleam in his eyes. Jesus Christ. “I’m not sure how worthwhile it could be. Experience tugging on your own cock doesn’t qualify you for mine.” Jesus. Christ.

“I’m a good kisser,” John says.

Another eye roll. “Everyone thinks that.”

“Everyone? Blimey, someone’s been kissing and telling. Had no idea I was so famous.”

The sass nearly earns him a smile. “Fine,” Cheekbones says. He puts the snake venom book back on the top shelf. The fabric of his shirt stretches nicely beneath his jacket and coat. “Go on.”

“Go... for coffee?”

“Don’t be tedious.” He steps closer, his long legs negating the small distance between them. An insignificant gap remains. His open coat brushes against John’s hands. His mouth is at the level of John’s eyes, bidding John’s chin to rise. His whisper is low and dark and lovely: “I’m giving you a trial run.”

John clears his throat. “Here?”

“No, in New Scotland Yard. Obviously here.”

They’re in a secluded spot, surrounded by solid bookshelves, but John glances around all the same. They’re quiet, but they could be quieter. “What happened to the storage room?”

“You’ll see it if you pass the trial run.”

“You might not pass,” John says. “You’re a bit of an arse.”

“You’re interested, I’m bored,” Cheekbones replies. He threads a finger between the buttons of John’s coat and draws him forward. “Impress me or leave.”

“I take it back: you’re one hell of an arse.” With that, John rocks up onto his toes to kiss a startled grin. A brush of the lips and little more, the contact is soft and strikingly warm. John slips one hand beneath that thick, popped collar and curls his fingers against a vulnerable nape. Sinking back down to his heels, he draws Cheekbones down with him, withdrawing just slightly faster than he pulls.

Their mouths very nearly part before John finishes his tactical retreat. Cheekbones follows him faster, catches him with mouth and hand. His long fingers tug at the front of John’s coat without unbuttoning it. John tilts his head, playing with pressure. The contrast between soft lips and rougher cheek sends an odd thrill down through his centre.

John breaks the kiss to slide his nose against the other man’s. It’s a quick move, no matter how languid the motion of his neck in performing it, and John switches sides thusly. He curls his fingertips into Cheekbones’ nape and gives him a light scrape of nail, barely any. When Cheekbones inhales sharply through his nose, John focuses on his lower lip. In an anchoring touch, he lays his free hand against a thick lapel.

Their breathing turns muted, hushed rather than soft. They twist into each other a bit more, mouths falling open one tiny increment at a time. John kisses his mouth open with due diligence, and only then does he make the first brush of contact with his tongue. He shifts his weight when Cheekbones presses in and lets himself be backed against the bookshelf. He settles there gently, one hand leaving the posh coat to reach behind himself and hold the shelf.

Face turned upward, he opens his mouth farther and coaxes out Cheekbones’ tongue. He digs in his fingernails as he welcomes his soft, wet guest. A short suck on his tongue teases at a blowjob John isn’t about to give—not yet, anyway, maybe a date or two in—and Cheekbones cups his neck in his pale hands. Their kisses deepen and John giggles at the taste.

“You could have said you’d just had coffee,” John murmurs, too breathless for a full whisper. He feels more than sees the answering eye roll, and he doesn’t really care. The height difference makes it easy to slide his mouth along a slightly rough jaw line. He presses a kiss to Cheekbones’ neck only to lift his face and give a quick nip to his earlobe. John is very, very good with ears. He brushes back dark curls for better access, and Cheekbones tilts into the touch, stooping.

One of Cheekbones’ hands threads through John’s hair, anchoring him in place. John tries to be quiet about the sounds of his mouth on skin. The more ragged Cheekbones’ breathing grows, the more difficult it becomes.

They could be caught. They could be found like this, John snogging a frankly gorgeous man. Bit embarrassing, yes, but also a bit like being walked in on with a model.

John returns to the neck after running through the old ear standbys. He ducks his head down low, trying to make sure he won’t leave any visible marks, but if using his fingernails has taught him anything, it’s that Cheekbones loves a bit of teeth.

Cheekbones presses forward, crowding him against the bookshelf, and hello. God, cocks are hot. He’s never thought much about the heat of his own, but someone else’s is another matter. He shifts his hips, wanting more than hot pressure against his stomach.

Books slide backward on the shelf behind him, knocking against the backboard. A hard line digs into John’s back regardless of how he tries to shift away from it, but, oh, the shifting.

One of his hands threaded through John’s hair, Cheekbones grips John’s hip with the other. “Stop moving,” he hisses, voice impossibly deeper.

“Stop trying to shelf me.” A furtive whisper, he hardly makes it out before his mouth is otherwise occupied. Cheekbones gives him more tongue now, not at all shy. The bookshelf creaks behind John, and they both freeze, mouth still very much on mouth.

They breathe into each other for one tense, straining moment before Cheekbones pulls back. He pulls John with him. “Fine,” he says as if granting John some generous favour. He’d be more convincing if he didn’t sound like a breathless thundercloud. “Storage room.”

John tamps down the reaction to question his luck. Instead, he takes in the man in front of him, sleek lines delectably rumpled. Mouth dry, John nods.

Cheekbones nods back and turns around, walking like a man with a good sense of direction and one hell of an erection. John follows with less of the first and a bad case of the second. He sticks his hands in his coat pockets in the attempt to make it less obvious, holding the fabric forward as inconspicuously as possible.

Two bookshelves over, there’s a locked door and no sign of anyone else. With a quiet efficiency that ought to be worrisome, Cheekbones jimmies it open. He enters and John follows, closing the door carefully behind them.

“Lights?” John whispers.

Cheekbones clicks on a desk lamp. It’s not just a storage room, it’s also a tiny office. They’re going to have sex in someone’s office. Fucking Christ.

“Ah,” Cheekbones says. He swipes a box of tissues off the desk and sets it on top of the filing cabinet next to John. With that, he sets his fingertips against John’s chest and gives him a light shove toward the wall. Feet planted, John sways before holding steady. Cheekbones’ eyes gleam.

“Play nice,” John teases.

Kiss-reddened lips curve into a smirk. “No.” He presses forward, his chest pushing against John’s. His left arm rises up over John’s head, forearm planted against the wall. His right hand strokes down John’s abdomen and John reflexively sucks his stomach in. “You wouldn’t want that anyway.”

John giggles, a high, nervous sound. He shifts against the wall, tugging Cheekbones closer by his coat lapels. Cheekbones smothers John’s giggling with his mouth.

The kiss moves from John’s mouth to his ear. John tilts his head further, offering up his neck, and he hears, “Open your trousers.”

The giggling stops. It freezes in his throat, as if any puff of breath would blow away the tissue paper promise of sex. John’s hands drop to his belt. The sound of rustling cloth dominates the room, blotting out even the pulse racing below his skin. He lowers his zip and pulls himself out through his briefs. His cock bobs up eagerly.

“I feel like I’m in the loo,” John says without thinking. Either the comment or John’s resulting awkwardness earns him a deep rumbling chuckle.

“Do strangers often wank you in the loo?” Cheekbones asks. With that, his hand skims down John’s stomach, over the waistband of John’s briefs, and, God, those fingers. He begins with such a light touch, two fingers in a V framing John, stroking him and making him twitch.

“No,” John whispers, “but you could change that. Really wouldn’t mind.” He lifts his mouth for more kissing, but Cheekbones returns to John’s ear. At once relaxed and tense, John sprawls against the wall as long fingers give way to a confident palm. John rides up into the touch, eyes closed, mouth open, hips seeking.

Cheekbones twists his palm around the head before slicking John with his own precome. Breath shallow, face hot, John bunches the fabric of the posh coat in his hands. The lips at John’s ear move down to his neck to press open-mouthed kisses there.

They find a rhythm, John thrusting, Cheekbones pulling and stroking. When John’s close, Cheekbones drops his hand down to fondle John’s balls through his pants. John’s cock thrusts up against his wrist. John reaches for himself, needing more, and Cheekbones’ hand closes around his. Jesus, his fingers. They work John together.

John’s other hand tugs at the back of Cheekbones’ neck, tugs until Cheekbones’ nipping at John’s neck stops and the mouth-on-mouth kissing resumes. John would show off, but he’s in no state for technique. He gasps and groans, savouring a wet mouth that no longer tastes of coffee. He digs his nails into Cheekbones’ nape, can still do that, and Cheekbones presses him into the wall as if about to fuck him through it. His cock shoves against John’s hip through their clothing. All the while, his hand remains mobile on John’s cock, threaded through John’s fingers, pulling him inexorably closer.

John scratches this time, a hard drag of the fingernails, and a low growl rumbles from the back of Cheekbones’ throat and into John’s mouth. John can barely breathe, can’t keep his eyes open, can only feel wet, sliding heat of hand and tongue. His damp skin blazes beneath his clothes. The heat is everywhere, discomfort and tantalization both, pushing him forward even while it distracts his body. Their hands work faster, their rhythm falling apart. John’s belt jingles.

He chokes out a sound, not even a word. Cheekbones silences him. The arm over John’s head vanishes, and John hears the noise of a tissue plucked from its box. He comes, his breath stopped up against Cheekbones’ mouth. The muscles in his thighs jump. He squeezes his eyes shut even tighter, tension rippling through his body on its way out. His hand twitches on Cheekbone’s nape. He startles at the touch of come-smeared tissue against his cock.

“Oh my God,” John gasps hoarsely.

Cheekbones nips at his ear. “Go on. Show me what you’ve learned.” He tucks John away as he speaks, this touch somehow more intimate than all the rest. He zips John back up and fastens his belt to its correct hole.

John keeps breathing, an accomplishment in itself.

“Well?”

“Give me a minute.” He slips one hand beneath Cheekbones’ coat to pull him closer by the arse. He likes the feel of a cock against his stomach, he realises.

“Now, or I come on your shirt.”

“Wanker.”

“Mm, yes.”

Giggling, his head light and hollow, his limbs lethargic, John strokes his knuckles down Cheekbones’ chest. “Can’t reach.”

Cheekbones shifts back just enough to let John’s hand through. The awkward angle shakes his confidence but doesn’t deter him from unfastening the belt he finds. The buttery leather slides from the belt loops the moment John releases the buckle, the weight of the metal stripping the belt from Cheekbones’ trim waist. The buckle clinks onto the floor, but Cheekbones doesn’t seem to mind. John’s the one who listens for any sound outside the office door.

“It’s locked.” Cheekbones’ whisper holds more condescension than reassurance.

John rolls his eyes. “Right, because no one working here will have a key.” He lowers Cheekbones’ zip anyway, careful not to snag his erection. Christ, that’s lovely. He touches with an explorative hand, not yet seeking to pleasure, but Cheekbones hisses out through his teeth. “Mm, look who’s close.”

“Look who’s, ah, making me wait...” He drops his forehead onto John’s shoulder, his hair tickling the side of John’s face.

Just for that, John starts slow. Half of technique is confidence, of knowing he can touch. The other half is paying attention. Cheekbones loves a thumb circling his slit, almost as much as he enjoys having his foreskin played with. He likes to rock into John’s hand. He holds onto John’s shoulders, still pressing John back into the wall while John works him. John feels a strange sort of scrape beside his neck and realises Cheekbones has just bitten John’s coat.

John’s sweaty hand turns slick with precome. His wrist begins to ache with the unfamiliar angle. “Can I give you a reach-around?” he whispers.

Cheekbones’ hair rasps against the side of John’s face as he nods. Relinquishing his grip on John, he puts his forearms back on the wall. John slips around him, presses against his back through the long posh coat, and uses his hands as he would on himself. He drops his mouth between Cheekbones’ shoulder blades and nuzzles there, the cloth much too thick for any biting to be felt. John’s too short to bite any higher, not with Cheekbones leaning forward and his collar popped.

“Reach back,” John instructs.

Cheekbones gives a questioning hum. His arse rocks back against John’s oversensitive crotch. It fucking hurts, but the hurt is fucking.

“Reach back. C’mon. Like you were grabbing my hair.”

Making little noises against one arm, Cheekbones reaches behind his head with the other. John lifts his head from the posh coat to pull the nearest two fingers into his mouth. He suckles gently, certain to work his hand faster, and Cheekbones grinds his arse against John all the more insistently.

The first scrape of teeth is to see if John is right. The second scrape is to tease.

The third time is a bite.

Cheekbones makes a garbled noise, his middle and ring fingers curling inside John’s mouth. His index finger pets John’s cheek. He doesn’t withdraw his arm in the slightest. John pulls his head back, scraping his teeth down those fingers while giving them a good suck.

With a muffled groan, Cheekbones comes in John’s hands. John releases Cheekbones’ fingers, but Cheekbones tries to push his fingers back into John’s mouth. John sucks on them gladly. Gorgeous hands. He doesn’t mind letting Cheekbones ride out his afterglow like this in the slightest.

Eventually, Cheekbones straightens and pulls out a tissue for John’s hands and another for his own cock. They drop all the tissues in the bin, John a bit embarrassed, Cheekbones evidently shameless.

Cheekbones tucks himself away and stoops to pick up his belt. Watching him thread it back through his belt loops is a delicious joy, a striptease no less effective for being in reverse. Chin lowered to watch his hands on his buckle, Cheekbones looks up at John through his eyelashes.

John steps forward and kisses him, rough about it. He nips at lips and tongue, and Cheekbones’ hands fumble inside John’s coat. No sooner does John hum than Cheekbones removes his hands, instead wrapping his arms around John’s back.

“Tomorrow night, seven o’clock,” Cheekbones murmurs against John’s mouth. “Come over if I don’t have work. Bring takeaway and condoms.”

“Yeah, okay,” John agrees instantly, his lungs empty except for those words.

“Good.” Cheekbones presses a smirk against John’s lips. John tries to kiss it off him, but to no avail.

An increasingly sated snog later, Cheekbones pulls back. “I’ll leave first. If you don’t hear anything, assume it’s safe to follow.”

“Wait.” John catches his arm. “I don’t know where we’re meeting. Hell, I don’t even know your name.”

Cheekbones’ smirk only grows. “The name is Sherlock Holmes, the address is 221B Baker Street, and my number’s in your phone.” With that, he tosses John Harry’s old mobile.

“What--?”

He winks as John gapes at him and promptly swishes out the door.

John stands mystified and well-shagged in equal measure. Then he checks his contacts list and finds an entry labelled “SH.” He looks at it for a moment before typing out a text.

How’s Chinese?

His mobile buzzes before he can so much as pocket it.

Perfect. SH

Grinning fit to break his face in half, John clicks off the office light and sneaks out the door.

Fic: Listen - 1/1 (Welcome to Night Vale)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 24 Aug 2013 00:23:35 GMT

Title: Listen
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 2.3k
Beta: peridium
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: "It’s important you pay attention to what I'm saying. Sometimes, you don’t.”

Cecil’s eyes never leave Carlos’ face. “I always pay attention to you. Always.”

Warnings: Spoilers for Episode 25: One Year Later

Carlos pumps the soap dispenser and leans away from the hovering cat and kittens. Water and pink foam slide over his hands before slipping down the drain with an audible and irregular thunking noise. The rough, brown paper towels scrape his palms, a comfort reminiscent of high school science labs. He breathes slowly as he dries his hands. The cat roars behind him. Carlos tosses the wet paper into the trashcan and squares his shoulders. His remaining bandages pull beneath his shirt.

The restroom door creaks open under his fingertips. It groans closed behind him. Carlos leans against the wall until the lack of noise can’t be trusted. He stands against the other wall, its thrum bleeding into his back.

Down the hall, the radio studio door opens. A man steps through it, turns toward the stairwell, and promptly spins back around like a ragdoll’s best impression of a top. Momentum carries him as he orients on Carlos. He fidgets in the air rather than stands.

“Cecil,” Carlos says.

Cecil slumps into the sound of his name the way Carlos might into a deep couch. “Carlos, hiiiiii,” Cecil says, stretching out the “i” into its own alphabet. “I, um. Hi.” He clears his throat. “Hi there, Carlos. Is there something… science-y going on?”

“Sort of,” Carlos says.

“Oh.” Cecil deflates. “Um, yeah, I just finished the show, so whatever it is, it’s going to have to go out tomorrow... sorry.”

“That’s fine. It’s not about the radio.” Carlos shifts to the side as a wild-eyed intern scurries past without looking at them.

“Oh?” Cecil perks himself back up. His overly alert eyes study Carlos’ face. His arms try to tuck his hands out of the way. He weaves his fingers together and holds his hands over his waist like a seatbelt of bone and flesh.

Carlos nods. “About, um. Parameters.”

“Uh-huh?”

“Yeah…” He presses against the thrumming wall as the intern scurries back from whence she came. “Is there somewhere we could talk?” Then, after Cecil’s face lights up but before Cecil can say anything, Carlos adds, “For a discussion about parameters.”

“Uh-huh. Yeah! Yeah, we can—yes.” Cecil points past the restrooms and sets off behind his index finger. “The break area is right over there. We could have coffee? Do you want coffee? We could have some. I mean, if you wanted. We could do that.”

“I don’t think it’s a good time for caffeine right now.”

“Oh? Is it turning tongues purple again?”

Carlos shakes his head and follows Cecil inside. Cecil draws a glass of water from the kitchenette sink and Carlos sits on the less furry of the two couches. He pats the cushion beside him. In sitting, Cecil nearly spills his water on both of them.

“Tired throat?” Carlos asks.

“A little.” Cecil beams at him. “You’re so sweet.”

“If it’s not a good time to talk, we can do this later.”

“Now is a wonderful time. I’ve had a full day of talking, I can’t just stop without winding down, now, can I?”

“Okay,” Carlos says. “Good.” He shifts, his back against the couch’s arm. His knee brushes Cecil’s leg, and Cecil comes close to choking on his water. “If we’re going to continue in this vein, I want to—I need to—establish parameters.”

Cecil holds the glass in his lap. His interwoven fingers lock together. “Uh-huh? For...?”

Carlos bumps Cecil a second time with his knee.

Cecil’s eyes widen, eyelids fully lifted, pupils dilating. Only his irises retain their size. “Oh.” His mouth expands into a grin. “So, uh. Parameters.”

“Yes. It’s important you pay attention. Sometimes, you don’t.”

Shaking his head, Cecil tosses the glass aside. It falls to the floor, collapses into a puddle, and sinks through the carpet. Cecil’s eyes never leave Carlos’ face. “I always pay attention to you. Always.”

The hairs on Carlos’ nape rise. “But you don’t always give weight to what I’m saying. Like when I tell you about danger toward Night Vale.”

Cecil smiles, his eyes crinkling. “I love how you still think that’s breaking news.”

“Cecil,” Carlos begins. He stops. “What would be breaking news?”

Cecil’s shoulders bob in a quick shrug. “Crime, traffic, local events, whatever station management would destroy us for not reporting, that kind of thing.”

“You’re that desensitized to it?”

“To what? Station management?”

Carlos shakes his head. “Resuming my earlier point,” he says. “It’s, uh. This is an important conversation. For us.”

“‘Us,’” Cecil echoes.

“Yes. In the future, when I say something is important, I need you to believe me.”

A frown, a wrinkled brow. “Is this about mountains again?”

“Mountains are perfectly real. When tectonic plates—we’re getting sidetracked. This is about how we interact, not what we interact over.”

“Okay...”

“Let me phrase it this way: it’s okay if you don’t believe what I’m talking about—I don’t believe a lot of the things you talk about, so that’s fair—but I need you to trust that I can make my own decisions.”

Cecil’s face clouds, a malaise much more similar to a grey morning fog than the Glow Cloud. His unblinking gaze slips to Carlos’ chest.

Carlos ducks his head, forcing Cecil’s eyes back to his. “That was in the line of scientific enquiry. If I didn’t inquire, I wouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” Cecil says. For the first time, his voice sounds hoarse.

Carlos takes his hand. A pause, and they both look down at the point of contact. With a slow motion, the sort devised to avoid scaring wild animals, Cecil threads their fingers together. Carlos’ arm prickles as the hairs stand beneath his sleeve.

“I meant other kinds of decisions,” Carlos says. “Like deciding to get a haircut.”

Cecil stares, eyes wild, mouth gaping. He relaxes only an instant when Carlos squeezes his hand.

“I did decide to get that haircut. It turned out terribly, but I wanted a haircut and I got one.”

“That was a very trying time,” Cecil replies, “and I for one am trying to move on.”

“You drove a man out of town.”

Cecil meets his gaze without hesitation. He tilts his head to the side as silence stretches between them.

“Cecil, you can’t do that.”

“If I can’t do that,” Cecil says slowly, “how did I manage to do it anyway?”

“It’s not good,” Carlos says once his mouth will move again. Cecil holds his hand too tightly to pull away. “Morally, it’s not something you can...”

Cecil watches, eyes attentive, mouth uncertain.

Carlos clears his throat. “Why did you decide to do that?”

“He performed an act of vandalism on your head—”

“No, why did you decide to do that?”

“Oh.” Cecil frowns at the carpet. He prods a piece of it into a ball with his feet. “The radio is what I’m good at.”

“Compared to what, exactly?”

Cecil withdraws his hand. He wraps his arms around his middle. “I’m just... I’m bad at it, okay? Not everyone is cut out to be a vigilante. My aim is terrible and I’m loud, and it has never gone well, not even when I was helping my parents. The radio worked, didn’t it? Was it not enough?”

“Cecil, that—no, Cecil, that’s not—Cecil, no. No. By any stroke of the imagination, that was more than enough.”

Cecil heaves a sigh. “Oh, good!”

“No, I—” Carlos groans. “Look. Where I’m from, we don’t drive people into the desert over bad haircuts.”

“Of course, you drive them into the mountains.”

“No,” Carlos says, not to be stopped here by a flirtatious grin. “No, we don’t. We just… don’t go back. We find a new barber. No exiling, no driving people mad, none of that.”

Cecil’s expression freezes. He leans in. His hands find Carlos’ arm. “You’re allowed to stand up for yourself, Carlos. You have that right.”

Carlos closes his eyes. He opens them again. Afterward, Cecil is still serious.

“It’s okay,” Cecil adds. His voice lowers into a sleek, prowling creature that cares not for locks or keys or the flimsy shelter of a concrete wall. “You don’t have to put up with that kind of thing in Night Vale.” Without warning, the shadow lion becomes a bumbling kitten. “I thought you were too busy with science things to act, I didn’t realize it was so bad, I am so. Sorry. I’m going to kick myself all the way home. I’m here for you, I will always be here for you. If you need someone to speak up for you, I am more than qualified, and I will, just say the word. I—” Cecil swallows. “You’re touching my face.”

“Yes,” Carlos confirms, Cecil’s head secure between his palms. “Are you listening?”

“Uh-huh…”

“What would you do if I cut my hair myself and it turned out terribly?”

Cecil’s eyes widen to unprecedented levels. It stretches the realm of anatomical possibility.

Carlos adds, “What if I let you cut my hair and it turned out terribly? Would you run off into the desert?”

“What if we agree to never do any of that?” Cecil counters. “That is a very sound plan, do you like it?”

“I want a different plan.” Carlos quiets Cecil’s protest with a synchronized brush of thumbs over cheeks. “I want a plan where no one is killed or exiled or hurt over me. I also want a plan for, well. For not being perfect.”

“But you are perfect.”

Carlos shakes his head and lowers his hands. “Perfect is impossible. It’s infinity. It’s an upper limit you can approach but never cross.”

“Uh-huh. What does it look like the other way?”

“What other way?”

“If it’s the limit when you’re going up,” Cecil asks, “what is it when you’re coming down?”

“…First off,” Carlos replies, “we are going over basic graphs in the near future. Second, it’s impossible to reach. It’s not real. It doesn’t actually happen.”

Cecil merely smiles. “Time’s not real, but we’ve still had today.”

“You’re still not listening to me, are you?”

“You don’t want anyone punished when they harm you, and you don’t think you’re perfect. I’m listening. I’m just concerned.”

“I’m fine,” Carlos says. “My hair’s grown back. My injuries are healing. I’m fine, Cecil. This isn’t about me. It’s...”

“Uh-huh…?”

Carlos blinks at him. “It’s about you.”

Me? Cecil mouths, touching his fingertips over where Carlos sorely hopes his heart is.

“Yes. You. When I needed to contact the mayor, did I call you?”

Cecil nods.

“When I need someone to spread my discoveries or gather information, do I call you?”

More nodding.

“When I nearly died, did I call you? Immediately after?”

Eyes shining, Cecil nods.

“I promise, I will tell you when I need help. As long as you promise to wait until I ask.”

Cecil bites his lip. “Even if you don’t think you deserve retribution?”

Logic has failed. Morals have failed. Every semblance of typical reasoning has failed. All other options exhausted, Carlos utters the corniest statement of his life. “I think I deserve what makes me happy.”

Cecil stares at him blankly.

Carlos taps him on the chest.

The noise Cecil makes is not human, but it is a very pleasant sound. It lasts perhaps thirty seconds longer than necessary.

“If, well,” Carlos adds. “If I ever stopped being, um. ‘Perfect.’ To you. Because people don’t actually stay perfect when they get to know each other and we still don’t know each other very well. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“You want to get to know me better, but you’re nervous. Sweet Carlos, you don’t need to be.”

“Things happen in Night Vale. You know that more than anyone. If, say, something happened and I wasn’t ‘perfect’ anymore. If, I don’t know, I rapidly aged and my teeth and hair fell out. How would you react?”

Cecil’s brow furrows, creases riding his skin over the waves of his eyebrows. “You mean, if you became someone else.”

“If I was still me, just old, bald and toothless.”

Hands performing some sort of visual demonstration of his thought process, Cecil takes a minute to answer. “Okay, I give up. How would that stop you from being perfect?”

Carlos blinks.

“Is this a trick question?” Cecil asks. “Is that what’s going on? Carlos.”

“No, it... I think that might be the correct answer. I’m not sure yet. I need time to think this over. And I’d like you to think over helping me only when I want help, in the ways I ask for it. Will you do that?”

“Of course,” Cecil says. “You are, after all, asking me to help in this particular way. See? I listen. Oh, oh! And if you want other parameters later, we can set those up to. But I’m not going ahead with that right now because you haven’t asked. I’m really good at this!”

“When we need more parameters,” Carlos confirms.

“‘We’...” Cecil’s eyes focus on a point beyond the far wall. Gradually, he blinks for the first time tonight. He lowers his head onto Carlos’ shoulder. “Are we a ‘we’ now? It’s just… I’d like that.”

Carlos rests his cheek against Cecil’s hair. “I think we’re in the initial stages.” He reaches without looking and finds Cecil’s hand.

“Uh-huh.” Cecil settles in. “When do I get to give you the trophy? It’s still here.”

“We can get it on our way out.”

“You’re so smart,” Cecil murmurs.

Neither shifts. Neither stands. They sit side-by-side, pressed together in the calm of their own breathing. When the carpet begins to eat their shoes, they pull their feet up.

“I like your socks,” Cecil says.

Carlos hums. He holds tight to Cecil’s hand and says, for the very first time, “I like you.”

Fic: And So I Raise Me Up From Sleep - 1b/1 (Hannibal)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 17 Aug 2013 01:54:10 GMT

part one

He wakes to the sound of a flushing toilet. His arms tighten, but either Hannibal has lost structural integrity or this is a pillow. Will blearily opens one eye. Pillow. Pillow and comforter, lumped into a long pile with Will’s leg thrown over it.

No longer on the towel, Will sits up. He glances to his right to check: white towel still against the blue sheets. His sweat-soaked shirt lies on the carpet. Same night. Morning. Morning following last night.

Will bundles up the towel and takes in the bedroom. Lines of light sneak in through the windows framing the bed. The sunlight turns the blue-tinged carpet grey. Symmetry is the order of the day, the door to the bathroom on Will’s right, the closet on his left. The door in front of the bed is clearly a hallway door. A desk balances a dresser. The bedside tables both bear lamps, but only Hannibal’s has anything else on it: two hardcover books and a telephone. In the closed drawer, there is a notebook, pencils, and a scalpel to sharpen them. Will knows this without looking.

Experimentally, Will shifts back to his side of the bed. Air prickles against his bare skin. He swings his legs onto the floor. He takes the cool metal of the handle between his fingers and pulls open the drawer. Light, it slides open with quiet ease. Empty, save for a phone charger. Folded up rather than tangled, the charger is newer than the one Will has at home.

Will shuts his drawer quietly. He stands and spots his overnight bag at the foot of the bed, along with his shoes. Set against the carpet, it looks old and worn, but in Will’s house, it always looks simply well-used.

The bathroom door opens. Will looks up.

“Shower?” Hannibal asks. His shirt is absent.

Will unsticks his tongue from the roof of his mouth. “I don’t mind going second.”

Hannibal’s expression turns chiding.

The penny drops. “Or not,” Will amends. “Not is also… good.” He rubs at his eyes. “God, I need caffeine.”

“Soon. Now, however...” His quiet murmur is more explicit than the actual words could ever be.

Will doesn’t need to be told a third time. Fourth time. With a decided spring in his step, he enters the bathroom and walks into a Starbucks. Will freezes. He closes his eyes. He opens them. The Starbucks remains.

“Excuse me, you’re blocking the door,” a woman says behind him. Impatient, nerves frayed: Will twitches at her voice.

“Sorry.” He steps to the side. He looks through the set of glass doors at the parking lot. He checks his watch. It’s nearly four in the afternoon.

Will sits in the nearest empty chair. He bites his lip until it stops trembling. He should call Hannibal. Or Alana. Or Jack. If his car isn’t in the parking lot, he’s definitely calling Beverly. That’s a good plan. Contact someone, anyone, and stay grounded. He should call someone.

He has coffee instead.

“Are you sure you should be here?” Alana asks. Alone in the room with him yet again, which is odd as Jack should be behind the desk. There’s another empty chair next to Will as well. Hannibal must be keeping Jack, or the other way around.

Will dry swallows his pills. “I’m fine.” He’s well on his way toward an ulcer, but he hasn’t lost any time since Starbucks yesterday. The automated dog feeder isn’t a permanent solution, but it did work yesterday morning.

“Sorry,” she says. “You just look exhausted.”

“Yeah, well.” He feels exhausted. And jittery. He looks at Jack’s desk, but her anxiety and affection trickle through at the edges of his eyes. Like a cat trying to sit down, her emotions turn and turn inside him, unable to settle, and if he were to try to intervene, they would bound off somewhere else. Belatedly, he forces himself back to the topic. “Sleep is difficult.”

She wants to put her hand on his arm. Small contact, a gentle squeeze. She knows what it would do to him. She knows what it would do to them. She estimates the help of applying the band-aid and the inevitable harm of ripping it off.

Will looks at Hannibal’s empty chair. “I wonder what’s keeping them.”

Alana makes a companionable sound. They stop speaking. When the yawns begin, Will has nothing to hide behind but his own hand.

“Will,” Alana begins, but the door opens, and the flood of concern remains unarticulated. In walks an anchor. Or one of those old stone towers standing in a flooded valley, immoveable and seemingly unaffected by the water. Inaccessible for it, yes, but standing regardless.

“Afternoon,” Will greets.

“Hello, Will. Alana.” Hannibal nods to both of them before taking his seat. “Jack’s wife is visiting. He should only be a moment more.”

Will’s shoulders hurt less. He unclenches his hands.

Alana says to Hannibal, as if Will is a child, “Hannibal, I’m not sure Will’s up for this today.”

Hannibal replies, “I trust Will to know his limits.”

“I’m fine,” Will says. He doesn’t snap. He just says it. He turns his head and asks Hannibal, “How’s your back?”

“Much better, thank you,” Hannibal answers smoothly, as if Will hasn’t just changed the topic to sex injuries.

“Is everyone falling apart this week?” Alana asks.

“Evidently,” Hannibal says. He engages Alana in easy small talk. Will sits between them, feeling the gentle ebb and flow. Their familiarity is such a comfort, long acquaintance cushioning edges and easing friction. Will could fall asleep to it. He takes care to remain awake.

Jack enters and that is no longer a concern. His agitation rattles into Will’s skull. Will closes his eyes. Behind his eyes is the early morning calm of a symmetrical bedroom. Will opens his eyes.

Time to discuss murder.

Checking his watch compulsively, he clings to reality through the investigation.

“Somewhere you need to be?” Beverly asks.

He shakes his pill bottle at her. “Trying not to exceed dosage.”

“Drink some water.”

“What?”

“You’ve been swallowing those dry all day,” Beverly says. “It could be a dehydration headache by this point.”

Will nods delicately and pockets the pill bottle. “Right. Thanks.”

“Just to warn you?” she adds. “Someday, I’m probably going to hug you. The kicked puppy thing you’ve got going on is kind of hard to ignore.”

“I haven’t been kicked,” Will says. He pauses. “Do I get to opt out of the hug?”

“It’s on reserve for when you actually want human contact,” Beverly explains.

Will looks at her, into her, through her, and out of her. The sincerity takes him by surprise. The simplicity of unthinking compassion. When was the last time he saw that? “Thank you,” he says, his mouth feeling odd around the words.

She smiles back. “Just tell me when you’re not okay, all right?”

Will nods.

Beverly rolls her eyes. “Liar,” she says, but she says it like they’re friends.

Seated at his desk, he finds himself staring at strange notes in his own handwriting. They’re all good and they lead his mind through a familiar-feeling pattern. He calls Jack.

“Will, hello.” Jack says. “Anything new to add in the last five minutes?”

Apparently not. “Am I coming with you for the arrest?” Will asks.

Jack sighs at him. Jack has answered this before. “Just go home and get some sleep.”

“Right. Sorry.” He hangs up without so much as a goodbye or good luck. His hands shake. That is, he notices them shaking. He’s becoming useless. He can work because he’s crazy, it’s his strength as well as his weakness. It has to stay that way. He’s crazy, not broken. The puppy may be sniffing through scraps, but it hasn’t been kicked.

This time, he checks his phone’s call record before he dials. It goes immediately to voicemail. He listens to a prerecorded message he’s heard thousands of times in one variation or another, and though it is an emergency, he does not hang up and call 911. He simply hangs up and calls Hannibal’s personal line instead of his office phone. It rings and still goes to voicemail.

At the beep, Will attempts to speak. His open mouth locks into position. His silence races the answering machine, and the answering machine wins. A second beep cuts off his chance and hesitation in the same instant.

He nearly dials a third time. He sits there, nearly dialing.

An intolerable, lost time later, his phone rings in his hand. Will doesn’t check his watch. He answers his phone.

“Will, are you all right?” Hannibal asks.

“I’m fine. I’m just, I’m fine, I don’t know.”

“Focus on my voice,” Hannibal instructs, and Will could cry with how simple it is. He can’t focus on anything else, not even breathing. “Are you in any physical danger?”

“No.”

“Where are you?”

“Classroom.”

“Do you need me to come get you?”

“No. I can—no.”

“Breathe with me, Will.”

Will obeys. He twitches, and then he fidgets, and then he is very nearly still. He closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see the classroom. He doesn’t want to be at work. He doesn’t want to be on the road, or at home, or even outside with his dogs. There is only once place Will wants to be.

“Can I come over?” he chokes out.

“Of course.”

Will breathes with him on the phone a while longer. He wants things he doesn’t know how to say on the phone. He wants things he doesn’t know how to say, period.

“Whenever you’re ready, Will,” Hannibal tells him, but his voice doesn’t reach Will through the phone. Will isn’t holding the phone. Will’s closed eyelids twitch.

“Will?” Hannibal repeats. A breathless quality softens his voice. It sets Will’s skin afire and grips Will by the cock. Will’s hard. Aching and somehow fulfilled. His balance shifts, his body sways, and he catches himself against hot skin.

He opens his eyes. “Oh, God.” Though already completely buried, he pushes forward with an involuntary jerk. His hands grip Hannibal at the hips. One hand slips. His fingers are covered with lube. Will’s knees dig into a wide towel over the bed. His thighs press against thighs. His balls tap against Hannibal’s with his motion. The sweaty line of Hannibal’s back leads to his lowered head.

“You can move,” Hannibal says.

Will has no air in his lungs. “Gonna come.” His tiny voice cracks. He struggles to hold himself together. Can’t let it end so soon. He stares at Hannibal’s back, the shape of his shoulder blades under smooth skin. He barely even has back hair. Think of that, not the heat around his cock, not the fact that Hannibal is on his hands and knees for Will.

Before Will can claim control, Hannibal shifts. Will bites his lip.

“Different position,” Will begs. “I can’t, I, God.”

Hannibal nods. His arms must be tiring. Will holds onto the condom as he pulls out. The lube squishes. “On your back, Will.”

They rotate, bodies orbiting. Hannibal towers over him. Will pulls the pillows closer and sets them behind his upper back. “Okay.”

Straddling Will, Hannibal reaches down to take Will in hand, and then simply to take him. “Eyes open,” Hannibal instructs.

Will meets his gaze, and the flood barriers erect themselves along the shore. The wave rises and crashes and it cannot carry him away. The discomfort of eye contact becomes a much-needed restraint.

Expression calm, almost serene, Hannibal rides him, walk to canter with nothing in between. His hair falls over his forehead. One warm hand presses against Will’s shoulder. Hannibal touches himself with the other, slow deliberate pulls, the kind that speak of stamina. Hannibal will hold him in place, hold him inside, and Will can stay here, right here.

“God, I needed this,” Will mumbles. His head lolls. “Did you need this?”

“Yes. Eyes open, Will.”

Will opens his eyes. He looks. He sees. The exposed skin of his own stomach. The steady movement of Hannibal’s strong thighs. The distance between their mouths. The sweet curve of satisfaction Will needs to taste.

He remembers he has hands. He touches, haphazard caresses and fumbled gropes. He rocks up and Hannibal presses him down. There is motion, and behind motion, there is intent, and behind intent is everything. Will whimpers, knocked against the flood barriers, so close to the wave.

“You love this,” Will gasps. “Taking me inside you. Me wanting to be inside you. Watching me want it. Want to go deeper. Want to—oh God.”

“Tell me more, Will.” Hannibal’s fingers stroke the side of Will’s throat. “Don’t close your eyes, tell me.”

“Fill you up.” He can barely say it. Hannibal’s relentless pace takes and takes, consuming everything Will can give. “You want me to... ah... Want me so deep in you. So deep I can’t, can’t drift away.” His heart pounds and shake. His thighs spasm under the strain.

Hannibal leans down, a change of angle that lets trickles of the flood through. “Let me anchor you,” Hannibal murmurs. His thumb rubs circles over Will’s trachea.

“You do.”

His pace slowing, Hannibal’s eyes fall shut. Fresh dampness strikes Will’s stomach. Will watches, sees into and through and out of. It should pull him through, seeing this, knowing this, but it doesn’t and Will keeps twitching up into the aftershocks.

Eyes once again on Will, Hannibal shifts his hand over Will’s throat. He presses gently, so naturally Will doesn’t think to be afraid. The pressure comforts. They’ve done this before.

“Now, Will.”

The flood doesn’t break the barriers. The barriers willingly fall. They topple, a line of shields playing at dominos. The water rushes over him, surrounds him, drowns him. He can’t breathe. He can’t see. He doesn’t care.

Hannibal lifts his hand. Will mumbles confused protest. Hannibal grips Will’s hair instead. Neck bared, chest on display, scalp burning just enough to feel above the pleasure. Will tumbles blindly into a new and evidently well-explored kink.

More motion follows, hazy adjustments followed by quiet panting. Hannibal eases the condom off him. They lie side by side on the towel. Satisfaction stretches through Will. It reaches into his toes.

“I take it you’ve changed your position on psychoanalyzing in bed,” Hannibal murmurs.

An unexpected laugh puffs out of Will’s chest. He shifts onto his side. “I was babbling.”

“By all means.”

Will smiles, but his eyes insist on falling shut.

Hannibal kisses his forehead of all places. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a mess to take care of.”

“Sorry,” Will mumbles, not at all sorry.

“Forgiven and encouraged.” A warm hand squeezes Will’s shoulder. “Sleep, Will.” The mattress shifts. A door opens and closes.

Ensconced in quiet darkness, Will basks in the sensations of his own body. He touches his throat and shivers pleasantly. He increases pressure slightly and, yes. Thank God he finally trusted someone enough to let them touch his neck.

He manages to get the towel out from under himself. He folds it up, dirty side kept on the interior of the bundle. Holding it, he doesn’t know where to put it. He closes his eyes and drifts instead of worrying. Warm stillness cradles him, envelops him.

The silence stretches. It does not break.

Rubbing blearily at his eyes, Will sits up. He looks to his right and the crack beneath the bathroom door is dark. “...Hannibal?” Will calls. “Are you okay?”

No response.

Skin prickling, Will climbs out of bed on his side. He steps toward the bathroom door before remembering that Hannibal had gone through the one opposite. Will turns around. There’s no light around the second door either.

He finds his boxers on the floor. He finds his undershirt beneath and his shirt and jeans beneath that. He puts on the boxers and undershirt. He turns back to the bathroom door, the door on Will’s side, because he can distinctly recall being invited in there for a shower behind a clear glass door.

Will opens the door. A row of neatly hung suits sways. Will closes the door.

Without breaking his stride, he pulls on his jeans while crossing the room. He knocks on the door. He opens it. He fumbles at the inner wall for a light switch before covering his eyes at the glare.

It’s a bathroom. A different bathroom. The counter is different, the lights are different, the tub is freestanding with clawed feet.

Will enters. Will turns around slowly. He finds two toothbrushes and recognizes one as his own.

He exits the bathroom and closes the door. Then he opens the door. He turns on the bedroom lights and opens the far door. Again, a row of suits. Again, no bathroom with shower stall. And still no Hannibal.

“Hello?” Will calls. He waits. He calls again. He waits. He tugs on his shirt and opens the hallway door. “Hannibal?”

For the first time in conscious memory, Will walks down the upstairs hall. The light from the bedroom spills ahead of him and he walks in the path of his own shadow. He finds a room with a drawing desk and easel. He finds the guest bedroom and adjoining bathroom. He finds the linen closet. He opens every door.

He walks through the entire house. He walks outside, circles around in the dark, and discovers the door locked behind him. Checking his pocket, he finds an unfamiliar key on his ring. He unlocks the door and slips inside, shivering.

Now seeking heat more than company, he climbs the stairs. The doors along the hall are closed. He sighs with relief and opens the bedroom door.

Inside, the bed is still empty. The closet door and the bathroom door are still open. The closet and the bathroom have nevertheless swapped places.

Will exits into the hall, thunders down the stairs, and does not stop until he reaches the kitchen. He sits. He huddles. He misses his dogs.

Eventually, the sun rises. Will doesn’t move from his chair. Beyond the occasional nodding of his head, he doesn’t move at all. If he breaks the still surface, the ripples could send him anywhere. A splash is as good as a tsunami for an ant.

“Will?”

He nearly jumps out of his skin.

“More sleepwalking?” Hannibal asks from the doorway.

Will doesn’t dare rub his eyes. “Apparently.” Very carefully, he phrases his question. “Did, uh, did you hear me get up?”

“No,” Hannibal says, “but you left a trail of open doors behind you. I assumed something had happened.”

“Ah.” Will’s jaw cracks with a hastily covered yawn. “I think I dreamed the bathroom kept moving.”

Hannibal points out the closest door.

Will’s throat tries to chuckle. He chokes on it a little. “No, that one’s stationary, that one is fine.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Hannibal approaches, his steps calm and smooth. “How are you feeling?”

“Cold,” Will says.

Hannibal nods. “Tea or coffee?”

“Coffee.” His head keeps drooping. “Please.”

“Not on an empty stomach,” Hannibal tells him, a clear signal to sit still and let him cook unimpeded.

“Right,” Will mumbles. He dozes off and wakes long enough to accept a plate and fork. He feels Hannibal watching him throughout. The urge to apologize wells up inside Will, an emotion all the more uncomfortable for being purely his own.

“I’m glad you reached out to me, Will.”

Will looks at him, in him, and out him. “Even if this becomes a habit?”

“Even then,” Hannibal confirms.

“I lean on you too much.”

“I enjoy helping you stand, and a walk is more pleasant with company. Now eat your breakfast.”

Will eats his breakfast. Time blurs and the world closes down to his hands wrapped around a thermos of coffee. The taxi stops, Will climbs blinking into the sunlight, and the driver tells him Dr Lecter paid the fare in advance. Will staggers away without another word. He has a vague sense of feeding his dogs, and then his body hits his mattress and his mind turns off.

He wakes in a panic, first at his dreams, second at the time. With a thundering pulse, he realizes it’s Saturday.

His dogs watch him with raised heads and pricked ears, their tails uniformly still and low.

“I’m fine,” he says. No one whines, thankfully. He gets up, pulls off his coat and kicks off his shoes. He wobbles slightly. He sits at his desk until his hands are steady. The rest of the afternoon is lost in his lures.

His phone rings. He nearly doesn’t answer. If it’s Jack, he won’t answer. He checks caller ID. He picks up. “Hello?”

“Good evening, Will. I thought I’d check in.”

Will realizes he’s hungry. Either it’s Pavlovian or Will hasn’t touched food since breakfast. Or both. “Thanks,” he says. “I’m okay.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“Out of curiosity. Is there a cutoff point to you rubberstamping me?”

Hannibal pauses.

“Do you intend to harm yourself or others?”

“No.”

“Do you feel that you will be functional on Monday?”

“Yeah.”

“Then the rubberstamp stays until at least Tuesday.”

Will laughs and it hurts his throat. “One day at a time, huh?”

“Several days, technically.”

He chokes down another laugh.

“Fortunately, your next appointment is also Tuesday,” Hannibal continues.

“And that clears me until when, Thursday?” It sounded like a joke in his head. Aloud, it sounds nothing like one.

“Are you feeling unstable?”

“Just tired,” Will promises. The truth of it surprises him.

“Then I’ll leave you to your rest. Good night, Will.”

“Good night,” Will echoes, automatic, and Hannibal hangs up. The stability drops away, a rope bridge cut. His dogs whine. Will lets out a low whistle. He pockets his phone with shaking hands. The lure sits before him, unfinished. Will stares at it, forcing himself to see his own design.

Other patterns trickle in. Professional, clinical patterns. Courtesy calls. The picture is incomplete. Pictures over the phone often are. He tells himself this and it feels like denial.

Are they just fucking? More accurately, is Hannibal just fucking? Will can’t climb into bed without crawling into his partner’s skull. His intimacy is very intimate. And Will had seen it, had felt the intent, the execution. Hannibal had wanted to ground him, to anchor him, to be Will’s ballast...

…and suddenly, that looks a lot like therapy.

He would have sworn otherwise last night. Today, he doesn’t know anything.

No. He has to stop this. Today is he is tired and hungry and insecure, and he is not going to keep thinking about this until those factors change. Except he does, he keeps thinking about it. He thinks into tight little circles and it hurts, it’s an actual physical pain.

The dogs whine. Will stands, retreats to the kitchen, and downs a glass of water. He sits on the floor, whistles, and the dogs come to sit near him.

Something’s off. No, of course something is off, his entire mind is off. That isn’t a crisis, that’s a personality trait, and he needs to calm down. Just because Hannibal would sleep with him to keep him sane, it doesn’t mean that’s actually the case.

Though it might be. It could have started that way. Will’s been so careful watching his own footsteps on the climb that he never thought to turn around and see how high up the mountain he’s come. He hadn’t even known he was on a mountain, but here he is, struggling to breathe where the wind bites and the air grows thin.

He’s frightened of the height, that’s all. That’s what this is. He knows how his mind works. When expectations beget abandonment, they also beget fear.

Will pets furry heads and scratches ears. Tails thump against the floor. Will’s pulse and breathing slow. His hands shake. He places his palms on fur and the shaking doesn’t matter. “Good, dogs,” he whispers. More tail thumping.

He needs a way of asking without revealing how far gone he is, mentally as well as emotionally. He needs a way of asking, period, and a semblance of social skills would be nice. He has until Tuesday. Unless Hannibal calls before then and they have a non-abrupt, non-professional conversation. Which could still happen.

Either it’s the relationship Will thought it was or it’s an emotional mismatch. If the first, they continue. If the second, Will leaves before Hannibal calmly rips his heart out. It’s actually very simple.

Will pushes himself to his feet. “Dinner,” he announces to a fresh wave of tail thumping and pricked ears. At least he’ll always have his dogs.

He worries the weekend away and twitches through Monday. He can’t be sure if he’s blacking out or simply running on automatic. He realizes his lecture is running long before any of his students attempt to alert him, and he dismisses the class with a quick apology and a promise for continuation.

There are papers to go over. They blur together, but they always do that. He rubs at his eyes and adjusts his glasses back into place. A warm hand settles on his shoulder. It stabilizes rather than startles.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Will says.

Hannibal says nothing.

Will looks up.

The room is empty.

Will checks. The room is very empty.

He sits back down at his desk. At least it wasn’t Hobbs.

Tuesday night, he arrives a full half hour early for his appointment. Impatience, speeding, nerves. It’s a simple question to ask: where do we stand? Hannibal will inevitably counter with where do you think we stand? Will might have to preface the question.

He sits in the waiting room for all of a minute before he has to move. The muted murmur of voices beyond the door pricks at him. Hannibal’s impassive tone terrifies him beyond explanation.

Will exits the waiting room. He mills about in the hall before making his way to the bathroom near the kitchen. He washes his face. When he opens the door, he’s almost surprised to see the hall hasn’t changed.

He tries to shake it off. He checks his watch. Twenty minutes. Time enough to check the bedroom and see the shape of the design.

As quietly as he can, he climbs the stairs. He turns left and looks only straight ahead. He walks to the farthest door and opens it to a symmetrical bedroom. The curtains are drawn. Will turns on the light. He looks. Into, through, out of. He does not see.

Hannibal’s bedside table is devoid of books. Will opens the drawer and, light, it slides easily. Empty. Will shuts the drawer.

He turns to the closer door, the bathroom with the claw foot tub. He opens the door. He looks at a storage closet. Will shuts the door.

He crosses the bedroom and stands before the door to the bathroom with the shower stall. He opens the door. He looks at the shower-bath combination. He opens cabinets. The bare essentials, a guest bathroom. Skin writhing, he backs out. Will shuts the door.

Will looks at the guest bedroom. And it is a guest bedroom.

He exits before the floor can collapse beneath him. A hurried search follows, marked by adrenaline and hyperventilation. Nothing is familiar. The shapes of rooms have changed, not simply their contents. In the hall past the stairs, the doors have moved.

Shaking, Will finds Hannibal’s bedroom, his real bedroom. He opens the door only a crack before the sense of an inner sanctum overwhelms him. He isn’t welcome here. No one is welcome in here. This is private, this is a retreat, this is untouchable from the sheer desire not to be touched. Will closes the door.

His stomach churns and his cheeks grow cold, as if his scruff has vanished. The acidic taste in the back of his mouth explains it: he may vomit.

He hurries back into the guest bedroom, nearly walks into the storage closet, and finally comes to a stop in front of an unfamiliar toilet, insofar any toilet can be unfamiliar. He fights down the contents of his stomach. He spits a few times but nothing solid comes up.

Trembling and exhausted, Will leans against the wall. Everything slips away. This is a cliff, not a mountain, and there’s no telling how Will climbed it. If he moves, he’ll fall. If he moves, reality will change.

He doesn’t move. He holds still. He holds onto his own legs as the bathroom sways and the air grows thin. Sensation slowly drains from his hands and feet. Colors bloom across his vision before turning black. The panic attack passes and Will’s face is wet.

An eternity later, he hears footsteps. Will hugs his legs and hides his face against his knees.

“...Will?”

“Yeah?” His voice breaks. He angles his head just enough to see Hannibal’s shoes.

“Would you rather have your appointment in here today?”

Will doesn’t laugh.

“How long have you been up here?” Hannibal asks. “You’re fifteen minutes late for your appointment.”

“About half an hour, then.”

“Come downstairs, Will.”

Will wipes his face on his jeans. It’s not a subtle motion.

Hannibal waits.

“Where do we stand?” Will asks.

“On reporting to Jack?”

“On us.”

“I consider us friends,” Hannibal answers without pause. “It blurs the professional line somewhat, but I do consider us friends.”

The act of breathing provokes tremors throughout Will’s body. That makes it real. He can only feel safe in his dreams. “Okay,” Will whispers. He doesn’t break or die or shatter. He doesn’t have a reason to lie down and never stand up.

“Come downstairs,” Hannibal repeats. He offers Will his hand.

Will lifts his face, wipes his cheeks with his sleeve, and accepts the aid. Hannibal’s hand feels different. Cooler. Stronger than Will remembers. Stronger than Will would have imagined. Will stands and Hannibal drops his hand. Will washes his face in the sink. His eyes could be red from lack of sleep.

Hannibal leads the way out, leads the way down. Will looks anywhere but at his back.

“You can’t rubberstamp me today, can you?”

Hannibal stops. He looks at Will and shakes his head. “I’m afraid not, Will.”

“What does that mean for me?” Will asks.

“Jack Crawford will no longer send you into dark places. You return to solely teaching, should you feel comfortable in that role. You should focus on something which relaxes you and gives you purpose.”

It doesn’t sound as bleak as it feels. Will nods. “Have, um.” He steadies himself, legs working against the waves. “Have we ever discussed you teaching me how to cook?”

“No,” Hannibal says, surprise clear in his voice. “Would you like to learn?”

“I keep meaning to ask,” Will says. “I mean, if it’s not any trouble.”

“You don’t trouble me, Will,” Hannibal says, and Will wishes he could say the same. “I admit, I would enjoy the opportunity. We can arrange a time after your appointment.”

Will nods and they continue toward Hannibal’s office. Hannibal opens the waiting room door for him. Will passes him while trying not to look at him. He can cope with this. He can get over this. Will opens the office door.

“Will, there you are.”

The world tilts. Will holds onto the door.

Hannibal sits at his desk.

Will looks over his shoulder at the empty waiting room behind him. He looks back into the office.

“Did something keep you?” Hannibal asks.

“Traffic,” Will says. He steps inside the office. “Sorry.”

Hannibal nods and rises from his desk. “We’ve half an hour left.” He gestures to the chairs in the center of the office. “Please, sit. How’re you feeling?”

“Fine,” Will says, and he closes the door behind him.

Fic: And So I Raise Me Up From Sleep - 1a/1 (Hannibal)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 17 Aug 2013 01:52:32 GMT

Title: And So I Raise Me Up From Sleep
Rating: NC-17
Wordcount: 10.9k
Betas: lifeonmars, peridium, prettyarbitrary
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: "Will should call Hannibal and ask for the last time Hannibal saw him. Except that isn’t exactly a landmine Will’s ready to walk over just yet. No, he should call Alana, but nothing says I want to be your stable boyfriend like I’m either hallucinating or sleeping with someone else."

Warnings: Dubious consent, hallucinations, nightmares, Will Graham, Hannibal, explicit sex

Will whistles, the note sharp against the night air. A second whistle and the dogs wait on the porch. Their tails wag as Will pats each down with a towel. New to the drying routine, Winston stands with his ears perked. Everyone else sits patiently for their turn before padding to the door.

Four new paws take more time than expected. Winston loves snow and dislikes towels, which is more than fair. Towels are rough and trap the damp against a shivering body. Snow is cold and real, and Will doesn’t want to go to sleep.

He lets his dogs inside and hangs up the dog towel. He focuses on the sound of clicking paws against the floor. He shivers and remembers to close the door behind him. The bolt slides smoothly into place.

There. Dogs in. House locked. Time for bed. Class to teach tomorrow. Horrors to see, murderers to climb inside. Busy day ahead.

Will doesn’t move.

Will doesn’t blink and yet he opens his eyes.

The neat cut of a hairline intersects the curve of a pillow. Tangential to the pillow, a pajama collar rests in front of Will’s nose. Now, Will blinks. Several times. His arm stiffens. His arm is around a firm body covered by fine cloth. The body is warm, an improvement over most of Will’s dreams. The body is also Hannibal Lecter’s, which is on par with most dreams in terms of confusing content.

Will listens to Hannibal’s even breaths. His own breathing syncs. The sheets are soft and dry. The room is dark and warm. One of Hannibal’s feet is hooked around the back of Will’s leg. Will consciously releases the pajama sleeve he grips. His hand aches with the release.

He pulls back slowly. He eases his leg free. Extremely aware of his boxer briefs, he sits up and touches his undershirt. Folded up into a pocket of nighttime, the dark room reveals no secrets. Slowly, Will makes out the outline of a clock. Analog. He can’t read it. He leans forward, squinting, but the clock is on Hannibal’s side of the bed, and that is not a sentence Will needs in his head right now.

“Will…?” Hannibal doesn’t roll onto his back. Instead, he rotates. The result is the same, the process entirely different. Hannibal might open his eyes. Will isn’t sure.

Will stops leaning over him. His legs fold between their bodies, a low, defensive wall of flesh and bone.

“Dreams?” Hannibal asks. Beneath the sheets, his hand finds Will’s knee.

“Am I dreaming?”

Hannibal raises his eyebrows in a facial shrug. Will knows the expression from Hannibal’s tone of voice: “You were twitching somewhat.”

“Am,” Will repeats. “Am I dreaming?”

A slight pause. “Right now?”

Will nods.

The hand on Will’s knee tightens. “You’re awake. Am I to take the question as a compliment or a point of concern?”

Will makes a noise that he hopes sounds sufficiently like a laugh. “Surreal moment,” Will says, one of the truest truths of his life. “Where’s your bathroom?”

“It hasn’t moved.”

“It’s dark and I’m tired.”

Hannibal starts to sit up. Will climbs out of bed, scurries to the first door he sees, and nearly walks into a closet. He stops before hitting a suit, but only because it’s a walk-in closet. Maybe if he jumps the rest of the way in, he’ll pop out in Narnia and things will actually start making sense.

“What are you doing?” Hannibal asks in his professional voice. No judgment, no pressure; only waiting for an answer. Under the current circumstances, the sound practically gives Will hives.

Will closes the closet door, then his eyes. He listens to shifting sheets and the utter silence of Hannibal’s footfalls on the carpet.

He turns around. Hannibal presses his hand to Will’s forehead, his cheek. Again, entirely professional. Will shivers at the warmth of his hand. “Slight elevation in temperature,” Hannibal announces. “Are you cold?”

He nods, accidentally scraping his stubble against Hannibal’s fingers. “Where are my clothes?”

“Still on the chair, I think.” Hannibal nods toward the specified piece of furniture. His hand leaves Will’s cheek to settle on his shoulder. “Would you prefer the guest bed?”

“I’d prefer the bathroom.” Bathrooms have locks and lights and mirrors. Guestrooms vary.

“A curious choice. You’d certainly be the first to sleep in the tub.”

“What?” A joke. “Oh. No. I just need the toilet. And no, I’m definitely not sleeping in that.”

Hannibal’s hand skims over Will’s shoulder blade to nestle at the small of his back. Guided this way, Will makes it to the correct door. He reaches through the doorway, fumbles for the lights, and blinds himself.

Will rubs his eyes and squints into the blue glare of his digital alarm clock. The world tips. Will sits up, the world tips even more, and Will lies down.

He stares at the clock. He forces himself to breathe and lets out a whistle. At least two of the dogs lift their heads. One whines.

Shaking, Will climbs to his feet and crosses the room in darkness. He covers his eyes with one hand while he turns on the bathroom lights. His eyes adjust. He pulls off his undershirt and turns this way and that in front of the mirror. No marks, except the bruise on his forearm. No telling where that came from, but it’s green and faded. Nothing recent.

He pulls his undershirt back on and returns to bed. His alarm goes off before he can reach a REM cycle, and that’s the way Will likes it.

He starts his lecture and his students shift, unusually restless. He continues until the discomfort, even silent, threatens to overwhelm him.

“Is there a problem?” he asks the class at large.

Several hands rise, more tentative than otherwise.

“Yes?” Will points to one.

“Is this review, sir?” she asks. He can’t remember her last name. She’s the one he wants to say is Smithson, but isn’t Smithson. Her name is something entirely different.

“Review?” Will repeats after too long a moment of wondering.

His students exchange glances.

“You started yesterday’s class exactly the same,” not-Smithson says. “Verbatim.” When Will simply stares at her, she adds, pointing to her laptop, “I took notes.”

“Good,” Will says, which is not at all what he thinks. He makes time by walking back to his desk. He turns around. He leans against it. “Recognizing patterns can be disturbing.” He checks his watch. “Nine minutes of repetition and no one was going to say anything?”

The tension in the lecture hall eases into embarrassment. Will looks down at the floor until the wave passes. He begins to speak. He talks about the line between recognition and realization. His impromptu lesson plan weaves this way and that with no clear conclusion in sight. Ultimately, as his class time ends, he says, “I thought I would have at least five more minutes, but apparently everyone liked yesterday’s lecture too much to interrupt.” He flinches a grin in the general direction of the seats and the people sitting in them. The people respond with a few chuckles, some awkward. The seats don’t respond, which is actually more reassuring.

He waits for everyone to file out. He waits a minute longer. He rifles through his desk. All signs point to one conclusion: today is tomorrow.

Will sits down. Will breathes. He musters up some saliva and takes a couple pills against his growing headache. He checks his phone. No calls from Jack this week. Will hasn’t missed anything important. Finally, some good news.

His headache builds. He tries to think his way through the past two days, but he stops after he mentally retraces his own steps.

He should call Hannibal. Say he’s having an episode, losing time, and ask for the last time Hannibal saw him. Except that isn’t exactly a landmine Will’s ready to walk over just yet. He could call Alana, but nothing says I want to be your stable boyfriend like I’m either hallucinating or sleeping with someone else. No, not Alana. Normally, he’d talk to Hannibal, but that puts him back at square one.

A single option remains. He’ll cope. Be vigilant. Pay attention. His next appointment with Hannibal is in three—no, two—days. Will can find out where they stand then. In the meantime, he has lesson planning. Lots of it. And he’ll wear a watch with the date on it. This doesn’t have to impact him professionally. He won’t let it.

Being in someone else’s head is a nice change, even when it’s a murderer’s head. This killer is precise, methodical, and calm. The violence has a sense of serenity to it, and Jack listens attentively as Will explains his design. This was a soothing act, murder as a detached distraction. It strikes Will as absurdly simple. No one else seems to see it until Will points directly at it. All in all, a normal day leading up to his psych appointment.

“You know, just once, I’d like to have dinner at a regular time,” Beverly tells him.

Will blinks at her, looks around, and says, “Crime scenes put me off my appetite.” He doesn’t ask where Jack went.

“Lucky you,” Beverly says. “My stomach’s gnawing on itself. I had an early lunch: no food in nine hours.”

“Nine…” Will checks his watch. Eight o’clock, nearly. “Shit. Sorry, I need to make a call.”

“Yeah, sure.” A pause and Beverly calls after him, “Thanks for the company! I like having someone to talk at while I work.”

Will nods and his hand does something that might be a wave. Then he exits the house, climbs into his car, and dials. The phone rings only once.

“Hello,” Hannibal answers.

“Hi,” Will says. “Sorry I’m late, I’m leaving a crime scene. It took longer than expected.” He snaps his mouth shut before he can explain himself into a hole.

“I have a twenty-four-hour cancelation policy.”

“Do you have a half-an-hour-late policy?”

“Are you about to teleport here?”

Will buckles himself in. “Do you have an hour late policy?”

“I do not,” Hannibal replies. “I am, however, about to cook dinner. Shall I set a second plate?”

“Please.” He doesn’t mean to say it quite so desperately. “If you don’t mind.”

“I wouldn’t offer if I did.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Will promises. “Or if I don’t, assume I fell asleep at the wheel and call an ambulance.”

“If you aren’t safe to drive, I can call a taxi instead.”

“I was joking. I’m fine. Just tired.” This is where Will ought to make a joke about sleeping in the bathtub. See if Hannibal understands the reference. Will thinks to say it, but the clunky words refuse to assemble themselves in time. “Bye.”

Will drives. He turns the radio on, finds a talk show, and focuses on the continuity of speech. There are no jumps in the show or in the road. He has a bad moment over an abrupt commercial break, but not that bad.

He parks with a sigh of relief. Emergency brake on, doors locked, as secure as his car ever is. Will puts his keys in the wrong pocket. Maybe his blacked out self won’t find them.

Getting to Hannibal’s door is a bit of a blur, but he’s preoccupied over his keys. That’s all right. Will counts while he waits for Hannibal to open the door. He reaches eighteen and stops, the hair on the back of his neck rising.

He turns around.

The stag watches him. White clouds issue from its nostrils.

“Will? What are you looking at?”

“Nothing,” Will says, turning back. “Can I come in?”

Hannibal steps back, Will steps in, and Hannibal closes the door against everything outside. Will’s mind skitters, scrambling up that line of safety. He can see Hannibal closing his bedroom door just like this, Will can see it, or does he remember or is he extrapolating?

“Your coat,” Hannibal prompts.

Will unzips automatically. Hannibal guides it off his shoulders as if peeling away a blanket. Will shivers.

“It’s warmer in the kitchen,” Hannibal says, and Will follows.

Will sits. He eats. The food, as always, has a delicate edge from its deliberate handling. Hannibal doesn’t pry any conversation out of him. He doesn’t even exude the pressure to speak. He’s an untouchable wall, growing higher to block out unwanted stimulus. Will could build a lean-to against him and huddle there until the storm passes.

Dessert follows dinner. Will nearly laughs. “You’re a very quick cook.”

“Practice.” Hannibal pauses. “But I did have it ready in advance.”

“I don’t take much convincing to stay for dinner,” Will admits.

Hannibal smiles. Agreement and pleasure. There is no verbal response.

Will fiddles with his fork as he baits his lure. “I like this.”

Hannibal begins listing ingredients and preparation techniques. Will laughs. It feels good, like stretching after hours sitting. Hannibal’s eyebrow raises with offense.

“I mean,” Will says, “I like…this.” His hand makes a fumbling motion regarding the space between them.

The smile returns. Will risks eye contact before dropping his gaze to the table. Their moment of significance stretches on regardless. It stretches without breaking, not a rubber band but a drawn wire. It cools and becomes comfortable, strong. This can’t be the first one. He wants to ask, but the perfect calm will pass soon enough as it is.

Will’s hands are wet. Will stares down at them. His hands are in the sink. He is holding a sponge. Beside him, Hannibal dries their glasses. After a pause, Will resumes scrubbing.

“Can I stay the night?” Will asks.

Hannibal looks at him with surprise. Is it the question or Will’s need to ask it? “Of course.”

“I don’t feel safe to drive,” Will adds. He swallows. “I’m losing time.”

“When was the last instance?”

“Halfway through dessert until ten seconds ago.”

Hannibal puts down the glass. He puts the towel over his shoulder. “When we began discussing your work?”

“Before that. I don’t remember any shop talk.”

“Will, you need time off,” Hannibal says.

“I don’t think I can work like this,” Will agrees.

Hannibal hands him a fresh dish towel. Will dries his hands even though he’s not done with the washing yet. Soon after, Will is sitting down again, but at least there’s a vague sort of transition this time. Hannibal has taken control of the situation. That’s what’s important.

“I’m not sure how well our conversations will be able to serve you if you don’t remember them,” Hannibal says.

“I’m not sure what else I don’t remember.” When he looks at Hannibal, tension sits in Will’s chest and hammers at his arms. It takes him a moment to see the sensation as emotion. Another moment passes while he inspects the emotion from the outside. It looks familiar. His dogs have it, some more than others, and often in thunderstorms.

Will understands—in a theoretical, detached way—that his body wants physical contact. It feels strange. His dogs pile on each other when they’re like this. Physically, Will is only himself.

Hannibal lays his hand on Will’s shoulder.

Will breaks. His head pounds and his eyes leak. His bones vibrate. His skin strains over twitching muscle. His back aches and his hands squeeze each other too hard. His cheek is on a dishcloth.

“Breathe with me, Will.”

Will breathes. Will holds on. Will is sitting down. He registers the pain in his back the same moment he realizes Hannibal is kneeling in front of him. The loop of Will’s arms has fused shut and will not release him. Will buries his face against the dish towel over Hannibal’s shoulder. A warm hand cradles the back of his head. Will wants to crawl into a hole and die, but he wants to kiss Hannibal first. He does neither.

Instead, he says, “That was unexpected.”

“Was it?”

Will closes his eyes. He tries to straighten up, but Hannibal’s hand shifts from his head to his nape. The hand on his neck holds in Will’s sanity much the way it once held in Abigail Hobbs’ lifeblood. The moments blur: Will shakes in both.

“You will be well,” Hannibal promises. “We will walk that path together.”

“Thank you.” He manages not to cry.

“Even if I have to drag you down it.”

Impossibly, Will laughs. “Thank you.”

“Of course.”

They separate. It feels wrong. Hannibal stands and returns to the dishes as if Will hadn’t just broken on him. That feels better. Hannibal’s motions are precise, contained, and yet partially automatic. Will follows his intent. He recognizes the act of organization as a calming gesture. It calms Hannibal, and thus it calms Will by extension.

Will watches until the stag walks into the kitchen. “I need to use your bathroom,” Will lies, and he follows the stag out.

They walk. Will walks too slowly. He loses the stag between two houses. Did it jump the fence? He peers for tracks in the dark and finds none.

“Will,” Hannibal says sharply.

Neck aching, Will lifts his head from his arms. Something digs into his forearm. Will lifts his arms and a fork clatters against the table. Blinking against the crisp sunlight, Will shakes his head to clear it. If anything, his head becomes even more opaque. The inside of his mouth doesn’t taste stale: he hasn’t been sleeping for long.

He looks at Hannibal, because Hannibal makes sense. Hannibal is holding two plates. Omelets. Breakfast. He wears a grey sweater over a button-down, a significant change from his vest and tie.

Today is tomorrow again.

“Sorry,” Will says and sits up straight. His back cracks.

Hannibal sets down the plates, one between the clear lines of a place setting, one amid Will’s askew silverware. “I’ll make more coffee.”

“I didn’t sleep well.” He has few facts he can depend on, but he can depend on that one.

“I noticed,” Hannibal replies in a voice dry enough to lower sea level. “Will I have to wake you a third time today?”

“That depends on the coffee.”

“I’ll make it strong.”

“Thanks.”

Will picks through his omelet. His stomach is empty. He’d just had dinner. The sun is shining through the window.

Hannibal returns. There is coffee. Or, rather, there is more coffee, as Will’s cup already had traces of coffee in it.

“How did you sleep?” Will asks.

“Soundly,” Hannibal replies.

“I feel like I twitched the entire night.” More bait on the lure.

Hannibal looks pointedly at Will’s hand. Will puts down his fork as smoothly as he can.

“Will, I need to tell Jack how you’re doing.”

“No.” Will shakes his head. “No, I can—I can—”

“You can take something for sleeping, but if you’re having memory lapses, we can’t risk you overdosing. As for the rest of it, it’s mental abuse, plain and simple.”

“I’m not abused, stop telling me I’m abused.”

“You’re caught in a traumatic cycle,” Hannibal says in a lowered tone. “The simplest way of breaking the cycle is stopping the input until you can process what you already have in your head.”

“I can process faster,” Will says. “I can learn how to. We can work on that. I’ll—I’ll wrap up the current case, I can’t stop in the middle, I need it resolved.”

“Does catching the killer ‘resolve’ the crime?”

“No,” Will admits after a pause. “But it’s a start.”

Hannibal nods slowly. “We’ll focus on that.” He pushes his chair back. “One moment, I’ll bring my appointment book.”

Will holds onto reality. The coffee helps. The omelet doesn’t, but Will doesn’t like bell peppers. He considers a quick run upstairs to see if the guest bed has been slept in. Reality might slip if he moves. Will doesn’t move.

Hannibal returns and they slot their schedules together. Hannibal remembers Will’s class times faster than Will does, which isn’t particularly surprising.

“I need you to check in periodically,” Hannibal tells him. “The reminder will ground you. Failing that, it’s a way to track your movements.”

Will hesitates.

“Or I could be responsible and inform Jack.”

“I can handle it,” Will swears.

Hannibal studies him carefully before nodding. “I’m trusting you to know your limits.”

“I do.” Will clearly doesn’t lie well enough to convince him, but Hannibal seems to forgive the attempt. Hannibal pours him more coffee, which certainly feels like forgiveness. His only display of ire is a lifted eyebrow when Will’s phone rings beneath the table.
“Sorry,” Will says, but he picks up. “Jack.”

The conversation with Jack is business as usual. Jack has a lead. Will needs to look at a room. Simple enough. This one doesn’t even have blood in it. At least, they haven’t found any yet. Will nods along until Jack hangs up. Hannibal returns from the sink, drying his hands.

“Sorry,” Will repeats, but then Hannibal’s landline rings. “Hello, Jack,” Will says to the phone. Hannibal answers the call with annoyance clear in his body but absent in his voice. The emotion is a single drop of ink, but it shows up plainly in Hannibal’s typically clear glass.

Jack is interrupting. There is something to interrupt. Will slept with Hannibal last night, in the literal sense of sleeping. He’s almost certain.

Will exits—he doesn’t think for an instant he’s slipped away unnoticed—and retrieves his coat from the hall closet. Again, he considers a quick run upstairs for a bed check, but he hears the conversation reach its quick end.

Hannibal joins him in the hall. Will pats his pocket and says, “I think I left my keys upstairs.”

“They’re in your other pocket,” Hannibal says. “As this was meant to prevent you from driving while dissociating, perhaps we should share my car.”

“I remember now,” Will says. “Force of habit. I can drive.” Will pulls his jacket on. “…You’re going to drive behind me, aren’t you.”

“It would take a great deal of maneuvering to drive in front of you.”

Reality is a convenient excuse. It’s also reassuring. Will sighs. “Right. I’ll meet you there.”

Hannibal approaches the closet and withdraws his own coat. Will’s legs forget that movement exists as a possibility. He hovers. Hannibal lingers over the coat fastenings. Will wouldn’t have to extend his arm to help, simply lift his hand from his side. He doesn’t move. Hannibal wants something else.

Not a kiss, which is Will’s first thought. But that’s his own thought, not Hannibal’s. Reassurance, but not reassurance through physical contact: that’s what Will wants. Will ignores his own wants, simple through practice, and then it becomes clear.

Will meets Hannibal’s gaze. He holds it. He makes himself present.

Hannibal sees him. Hannibal nods.

They exit the house and climb into their own cars without another word, without needing any, and by the time Will regrets the missing kiss, Jack’s in the room and they have to be professional.

The check-ins work, mostly. Will still looks into a timed feeder for his dogs. They’re more expensive than he’d like, but the distress of his pets outweighs that concern in an instant. When he comes home, he feeds them. He gives them individual attention before sitting on the floor with a book. They curl up against him, warm and content, and Will soaks it up like water into roots.

Hannibal calls shortly after the dogs settle in. Will doesn’t get up when he answers. They talk. It’s more companionable than it is intimate, except when they fall into calm silence. Will closes his eyes. They breathe.

A murmur: “You should sleep, Will.”

“I know.” Will musters his nerves and frames his question. His dogs are fed and Will doesn’t mind driving an hour. An hour isn’t so long. “I—”

The front door opens. Hobbs drifts inside. His toes drag on the floor, body somehow supported from the shoulders. He looks at Will. “See?” he asks, except it comes out in a bubble. They’re underwater. Hobbs is floating. Will holds his breath, but the water’s already in his mouth. He struggles to stand, to get out, and Hobbs takes hold of the doorframe to make a barrier with his corpse.

“See?” Hobbs repeats. Will shoves at Hobbs’ chest and only succeeds in pushing himself backward. His lungs burn. All else freezes. A cloud of blood distorts the water between them. His feet find the floor and he pushes anew. His fingers sink into Hobbs’ wounds. His hands push through flesh as if it were a rotting board. The corpse swallows his wrists, his forearms. Sensation from his fingers dies. Hobbs grins and grins. Will’s feet can’t find the floor. He can’t feel them. Tethered but without traction, he kicks the water, desperate and sluggish.

Hobbs relinquishes the doorway and falls backward, tugging Will down into the depths of the porch. Air escapes from his mouth, a burst of obfuscating bubbles. Water rushes in. He coughs only to swallow.

Hands seize Will by the shoulders and rip him free of Hobbs. Will flops onto his back, his body entangled by seaweed.

“Will, breathe.”

There’s no air.

“Will, I need you to breathe.”

Will breathes. He gasps, chest heaving.

“Steady.”

The seaweed unwinds. Will lies on sodden cloth. He coughs and his body fights to curl up. His legs are still trapped. A gentle pressure on his shoulder secures him.

“Open your eyes,” Hannibal prompts, and Will does so. Will blinks up at the shadow of a familiar face and a glimpse of an unfamiliar ceiling. “Hold still.”

Without moving, Will collapses. Tension shakes out of his body, wave after twitching wave.

Hannibal shifts away, clicks on a lamp, and begins to strip the bed. The comforter comes away with ease, but the blanket grips Will nearly as tightly as the sheet binds him. As reality dawns, Will begins to cooperate with his rescue. Hannibal gets up and moves to stand at Will’s side of the bed.

“I can’t feel my hands,” Will says. “Or my feet.”

“Panic attack.”

“I have those, I don’t have this. I mean, I don’t lose sensation, that’s the opposite of what I get.” Will nearly hyperventilates, but Hannibal takes his hands. The pressure registers. As does a certain slipperiness. “The sweat’s normal.”

“Freedom first, water second,” Hannibal promises.

Will shudders.

Hannibal looks at him with a question.

“I was, uh. Drowning.” He clears his throat and looks at Hannibal’s pajamas instead. No, sleepwear. The kind of glossy fabric found in the kind of glossy catalogs no one would ever think of mailing to Will. He focuses on that until he can feel his hands, which means he can feel Hannibal holding his hands.

“You were having a nightmare about drowning,” Hannibal corrects. “You were not drowning.”

Reclaiming his hands for the purpose, Will works himself free of the sheet. His undershirt and boxer briefs cling to him. He sits up and clears his throat. Hannibal perches beside him, hip against the side of Will’s knee. Will budges to the side and Hannibal accepts the space gracefully.

“What do you need, Will?”

He fights down his first response, the nothing of his mind’s desperate insistence. Instead, he says, “A towel. Two towels.” There is an apology in his voice and he manages to aim it at Hannibal’s elbow. “To not be fucking crazy.”

“You aren’t fucking crazy,” Hannibal replies, the profanity all the more shocking for his reasonable tone. His fingertips touch Will’s shin. “Not currently.”

Will snickers, then hiccups his way into a giggle. Hannibal’s hand settles on his leg and remains there until Will’s shaking eases. Though the tremors slow, they do not stop. “Great. So I fuck crazy.” He must. He’d remember it, otherwise.

Hannibal smiles faintly. “Not particularly. I simply wished to break the mood.”

Nodding, fighting down shame which is purely his own, Will says, “You know, someday, you won’t have to look after me so much.”

“And what noble pursuit would I turn to?”

“Uh. Sleep?”

Hannibal squeezes Will’s leg. “I gave that up in medical school.”

A smile cracks Will’s lips.

“Two towels,” Hannibal says. He pats Will’s knee and stands. Just barely, Will doesn’t follow. He shivers instead.

Hannibal goes to the walk-in closet, except when he opens the door and flicks on the light, it’s a bathroom. Will shakes and stares. Then he strips off his shirt and Hannibal bundles him up. Like the sheets, the towels are almost excessively soft.

“Perhaps I could teach you to cook,” Hannibal says.

Will blinks rapidly, head tilting. “What?”

“The next noble pursuit.”

“Well. Go easy on me.”

“Of course. Knives and hand tremors are an unfortunate combination.” His own hand perfectly steady, Hannibal reaches out and brushes Will’s sweat-soaked hair off his forehead. Will leans into the touch. He drifts into Hannibal’s arms. He closes his eyes, not to block out sensation, but to bask in it. Hannibal is a monolith carved from bedrock. However Will leans, falls, crashes, it will make no difference.

The towel around him slips. Will sweats directly on Hannibal’s sleepwear. “Sorry,” Will mumbles. “Sweaty.”

Hannibal eases his fingers through the damp mat of Will’s hair. “I was going to change the sheets anyway.”

“In a minute,” Will begs. His trembling worsens at the thought of letting go.

“Several minutes. Lie down, Will.” Hannibal lies down with him. Will shifts on one towel and pulls the other over him. His body curls up and presses forward.

Hannibal doesn’t quite mirror him. Will’s skin prickles at the first touch against his chest. Hannibal’s fingertips rest against Will’s sternum. To touch, that is the foundation of the design. The next layer is focus. Focus upon focus. As fingertips move, their minds breathe into each other, expand into the same space.

In the face of Hannibal’s tranquility, Will’s concentration quietly dims. His body thrums on without him. He feels Hannibal monitoring his heart rate.

After the slightest moment of rest, Will’s mind demands further exercise. Less calm, more stimulus. Too much adrenaline to be still. Will edges forward and bumps their noses together. They adjust. They kiss. Light. Dry. Physically insignificant and mentally monumental. Will vibrates under his skin.

Forever deliberate, Hannibal strokes Will’s limbs into a more comfortable position. Here a caress, here a lingering touch. Will moves and relief blossoms. He breathes fresh air, although the air is still too thin. Will kisses him again. He can. It’s allowed. The sensation of lips pressed against teeth, the crick in his neck at the angle, the fingertips hovering over his navel; this is not the first time.

Will kisses him harder, deeper. Hannibal’s mouth opens to him, the unthinking comfort of hunger made habit. God, what else has Will missed? How much has he lost? Is he never going to remember any of this? How long until he dissociates?

Hannibal bites his lip hard enough to sting. Will’s focus snaps back to him. Hannibal knows when Will’s mind strays. Hannibal knows how to pull Will back in a way that makes his cock ache. Once Will’s hips start rocking, they don’t stop. It’s only a matter of turning, of pressing, of slipping free of the blanketing towel.

Will tries to climb on top, but Hannibal pushes him back. “Just you,” Hannibal murmurs. Lying on his side, one of his arms settles over Will’s head. The other reaches southward. Will nods his way back into a kiss.

Hannibal’s grip begins loose, nearly a tease, but Hannibal doesn’t so much stroke as he tightens. He takes Will’s tongue into his mouth before securing him with teeth.

Grounded between sucking mouth and squeezing hand, secured at two points, Will sags. He relinquishes his grip on time. There is only sharp heat, only that, and it pins him to the present much as it pins him to the bed.

He has hands when he remembers to use them. He holds on, only that. Hannibal begins to work him. The rough treatment of his foreskin sets Will’s heels into the mattress, legs straining as his hips drive up for more.

Time passes and Will is aware of every second. Each heartbeat. Their shared breaths. He is here and he is now, and he is more Will Graham than he has ever been.

“Will,” Hannibal agrees, voice deep.

Orgasm hits Will like a car strikes light-blinded deer. It leaves him wide-eyed, broken and gasping on his back. Involuntary spasms continue after impact. Will lies limp as Hannibal mops up bodily fluids with the loose towel. He feels his skin cool. His pulse slows. As does his breathing.

Hannibal presses his lips to Will’s temple. “That’s much better, Will.”

Will groans out a giggle. He flops his hand in the right direction and paws at Hannibal’s hip. “Now you.”

A pleased hum answers him. “I wasn’t quite so revived by adrenaline as you were.”

“I can help.” A sleepy mumble as he finds his target. He cups Hannibal through too many layers of cloth. Hannibal doesn’t stir at Will’s hand, but he doesn’t shift away either. “Let me...”

“In the morning,” Hannibal says.

Will shakes his head. “Not enough time.” Not if Hannibal isn’t tethering him. If the rope escapes, so does the balloon, and the terror of falling has long overpowered the thrill of riding wind. He needs land.

“I will make time. Sleep.” He takes Will’s hand, not to draw it away from his crotch, but to draw Will’s arm around his body. In the same motion, Hannibal rolls onto his other side, and Will lets himself be drawn up to lie wrapped around Hannibal’s back. Will’s a good blanket, even if he is damp.

He holds on as long as he can, and then he sleeps.

part two

Fic: No Fixed Point - 5/5 (BBC Sherlock, immense AU of AUs)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 10 Aug 2013 01:24:09 GMT

Title: No Fixed Point
Rating: R
Wordcount: 5.7k/44.2k
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: The AU of AU's: First, he is shot in Afghanistan (again). Second, he wakes on a boat. Third is pain, fourth is normalcy, fifth is agony and sixth is confusion. By the tenth, he's lost hope.

(Original prompt: "ECM!John gets hurt again, and ends up with a few more lives. By overwriting Stranger at the Gate!John and Behavioral Modification!John." Thus, Watches 'Verse with Behavioural Modification and Stranger at the Gate. Prompted and filled here on livejournal. NOT an official continuation of any of these 'verses.)

Warnings: Partial character death, separation, vampire, blood, hypnotism

Red
Green
Purple and Gold
Orange
Blue

He wakes in Chelmsford before his alarm sounds, wakes and stretches. Seventeen more minutes until he has to get up. His bed is warm and safe in a way he seldom trusts beds to be. He yawns and snuffles into his pillow. He falls asleep.

He wakes to the scrape of a key in the lock. Not to violin, not in an armchair. To a door opening, lying on a sofa. To the sound of heavy footsteps and the humming that means Derek is in a good mood.

John sits up. He stares about his Grant Road sitting room. His right hand closes about his left wrist, recognizing the digital watch by feel. Not binary.

Not Binary.

He tries to go back to sleep. He truly does, but he simply starts giggling. He grabs the remote and turns the telly on as fast as he can, lest Derek think he's gone madder than he already is. He has a few moments to recover, Derek proceeding directly from front door to loo, but it's not much time.

John’s going home. He needs to check, needs to make sure that Binary won't pop up on another cycle through his days, but the certainty of it overwhelms. He's never going back to Binary. He can't anymore.

He doesn't know what will happen to the body there, to the John there, but maybe—he hopes—the other John will fill in the void he left there. The right one, somehow.

Flopping onto his back, staring at the ceiling, he pictures it: Sherlock kneeling at his violin case in the sitting room, watching John sleep. Sherlock approaching, perhaps standing, perhaps walking on his knees. Tentative hands easing John awake with a non-triggering touch on the arms. The moment of confusion before the truth of the reunion becomes clear.

Sherlock will think it his doing. He'll probably hold it relentlessly over John's head through the worst of their arguments. And John will call him an arse and forgive him, because that's how they work.

A niggling worry: what if it's the wrong John?

John wonders. He wonders until Derek wanders into the sitting room.

John tells himself he'll never know, then sits up and makes room for Derek on the sofa.

"Good day?" Derek asks.

"Good day. You?"

"All right. Nothing eventful."

"Yeah," John says. "Me too."

Settling down for bed is an agonizing affair, worse than any Christmas Eve as a child. Sherlock was right: John is shaking with excitement. He lies awake, sorting out what the next glamour should be, and that's how he finally falls asleep.

He wakes cozy, his face mashed against something warm and solid. There's a hand on his side rubbing idle circles. A fire crackles in the room. Back in Boat World, then.

He keeps his eyes closed and drifts back down.

His alarm in Chelmsford goes off. John smacks the snooze button, rolls over, and goes back to sleep.

His watch in Digital London beeps ten minutes before it needs to. He's off work today anyway. Again, he goes back to sleep.

"Sherlock...?"

The thumb tracing circles on John's side stops. "Hm?"

"It worked." John pulls his face away from fabric, his face likely marked from the pressure. Judging by the twitch of a smile on Sherlock’s face, definitely marked.

"For now," Sherlock allows. "We'll see if it lasts."

"It worked," John repeats. He rolls onto his back and Sherlock's hand glides onto his chest. "Thank you."

Sherlock very nearly preens, but a weight in his eyes prevents the full extent of his ego from shining through.

"What is it?"

"You want me to do more," Sherlock says. "Obviously."

"Well... yes. It worked, so. Yes."

"I'd prefer to wait," Sherlock tells him. "There could be lasting effects from what I've done. There ought to be, in fact. The unintentional ones worry me."

John wants to protest, but he would have been an idiot not to expect this. "How many days until you need a sane John Watson?"

Sherlock sighs. "As soon as possible. Three at the most, if we're to go over any feasible plan."

"Then why not try now?" John asks. "Just a question. You're worried. You're taking precautionary measures. Any other reason?"

"Do I need any other reason?"

John hesitates.

"I don't care that you think me unreasonable," Sherlock says. "I'll remove the other two dreams tomorrow at the soonest."

"Sorry?" John sits up.

"Tomorrow at the soonest," Sherlock repeats.

"No, the other part. What did you say?"

Sherlock gives him an odd look, which at this point is more of his typical look. "I can still remove the other two dreams, but I don't—"

"No," John interrupts. "Sorry, no, signals crossed. That's not, no. That's not what I want. That won't help."

"The removal of one nightmare helped, but the removal of the other two won't?"

"The nightmare that wasn't mine," John says. "The other two are mine. Those are mine. I'm keeping them."

Sherlock's eyebrows go from arched to furrowed. "Then what do you want me to do?"

John takes a breath before venturing in. "I think I've worked out a way for me to go home."

"You... want to return north."

"No, I—"

"You'll have your head chopped off, have you forgotten that too?"

"No!" John insists. "But that's not what I'm saying!"

"You can't go home!" Sherlock shouts at him. He slams the book down on the bed cover. "I am sorry, I honestly am, but I cannot change it. If you go home, you will die. Do you understand that?"

"I'm not talking about the north!"

"Then what? You're certainly not 'going back' to some other world, John."

The temptation to strangle rises up and John forces it down. "What the hell will it take to convince you?" John demands. "Anything I say, you already have some explanation."

"Because I'm grounded in reality," Sherlock replies. "That makes it much easier to see. Simpler."

"And you've never been wrong before? Hm?" He rises to his knees. "You've never been wrong about what's going on in my head before? Never? Not once?"

Sherlock visibly pales. "Stop it."

"You've no explanation for how this happened!" John shouts. "None! I do!"

"Another vampire—"

"Was there one?" John leans in, hands on Sherlock's knees. "Besides Moriarty, was there anyone at all who could have done this to your John, or does it have to be something else?"

"There's, there's the possibility..."

"Is there? Really."

"You've been hurt," Sherlock says. "Moriarty's glamour was broken, but that doesn't mean it didn't leave damage. It could have taken some time for it to break you, but it is possible."

John sits back with a glare. "And what about how systematic my story is? You said it was a sign of an active glamour interfering with my mind."

That takes Sherlock a moment. "You always were an exceptional storyteller."

Blogger, John doesn't correct. "Fine," he says instead. "Then I'm going to tell you a story."

The look on Sherlock's face is the definition of emotional agony. "You can't persuade me, John."

"And you can't persuade me, so it looks like we're stuck. In a few days, we'll go to court and I'll end up dead or insane. Or you could budge and maybe that won't happen."

"Or you could leave me to my research and that won't happen," Sherlock counters.

"Maybe I won’t die, but I'll still be like this." John leans forward. "This isn't going to change unless you do something. I know you can."

Sherlock seizes him by the ears, hands cupping John's head. "You're still in there. You're not dead, you still know me, you are obviously present."

John grabs his wrists, tugging Sherlock's hands down. He climbs off the bed and paces away, the chill of the floor seeping up through his socks. He crosses his arms, tucking his hands into his armpits. "Will you at least listen to my plan?" he asks.

Sherlock glares at him, pulling the bed cover over his knees. "That depends on how moronic it is."

"Call him back in Anglic and send me away in English."

"There aren't multiple versions of you, John."

"It's my mind," John counters. "My behaviour is based on what I think, not you."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Yes, right until I use my glamour on you."

"If he's still present in me, the Anglic will work on him, won't it?" John demands. "If there's any connection at all. Because I don't understand a word of it. It can't work on me that way, can it? It has to be a language I understand. That's why we had to start slowly when you were teaching me Franc."

"And supposing you understand both commands and the contradiction breaks your mind?" Sherlock counters. "You're an idiot."

"By your logic, my mind’s broken already."

"No," Sherlock says, voice taking on a rasp. "You're improving. You don't remember the damage before."

"The damage caused by what? What Moriarty did?"

Sherlock nods, clearly holding something back.

"Was that like enthrallment?" John asks.

Sherlock's face pales, but he doesn't disagree.

"Then it's all about to come back. Or I die. Sherlock, this is the only logical option."

"No. Because there is no logical option. I won't have you forcing the situation into a false dichotomy."

Distantly, John realises his Franc vocabulary is larger than he'd noticed. "If there's no good choice, then why not the option I actually want?"

Sherlock has no answer to that.

"Are you going to let someone else reach around in my head?" John asks.

"This is obvious manipulation," Sherlock mutters.

"I could just kill myself and solve it that way," John says. "But I'm not."

"Are you threatening to?"

"I'm asking for your help."

"I forbid you from killing yourself."

The order shakes its way into John's bones. It is sharp and staggering, and suddenly, the windows are impossible to leap from. The rails of the staircases will hold him back from any jump. "I wasn't planning on it!" John shouts. "Would you fucking listen!"

"If you'd say something intelligent, yes."

"What the hell was that for, then? You won't glamour me if I ask, if I fucking beg you, but the moment you think it's necessary—"

"The moment you threaten to kill yourself—"

"They're going to kill me anyway!" John shouts.

Sherlock huddles on the bed, legs pulled up, arms wrapped around them. He glares at John over his knees.

"What the hell are you afraid of?" John demands.

"I won't hurt you."

"Oh for—" John turns away to swear at the wall. "For fuck's sake, Sherlock!"

"I won't," Sherlock repeats, eyes on his knees.

A deep breath could never be deep enough to steady him, let alone calm him. "This is my life, dammit! All I want is control over my own fucking head!"

Sherlock looks at him.

John glares back, daring him, just daring him to disagree.

"That's your plan?" Sherlock asks. "Shout and swear until I give in?"

"That's pretty much it, yeah." He sits down on the edge of the desk, arms crossed.

"You honestly think that will work?" Sherlock tilts his head slightly.

"No," John admits. "But that's pretty much it."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asks, as if John's simply forgotten something. Whatever this is, it's not a game John wants to play.

"I'm sure."

Sherlock continues to watch him from the bed.

John sighs. "Fine." He crosses through the open door into his bedroom and closes it. He nearly locks it, then decides otherwise. He sits in front of the fire until his nerves are less jangled, his eyelids more willing to fall. Then he lies down on the floor and buys himself a bit more time to think.

He thinks in Chelmsford.

He thinks in London.

He wakes before the fireplace with an ache in his back. He relocates to bed and does a spot more of thinking from there.

He thinks until he begins to pop back into this world each time he sleeps in one of the others, a sure sign that he's crossed the line from buying time to think and simply stalling.

After that, he gets up and builds the fire back up a little. He looks to the joining door, still closed. Then, just to actually do something, he returns to his desk, pulls out his guide to Franc letters, and begins his struggle anew with the old fashioned pen.

He takes his dinner in his room yet again. He wonders if this body would feel restless if it weren't for the recent boat voyage. This room is absurdly spacious in comparison, but being confined is still being confined. He's adjusted to the chamber pot but not to much more.

As the sun begins to set, he lights his lamps. It feels too early, might be winter, but it's also possible his internal clock is confused beyond recovery due to his napping. He keeps working, revising, making absolutely certain that this is what he wants to have written.

The knock at the joining door, when it comes, is more inevitable than startling.

"Come in," John calls.

Sherlock sullenly enters. "...My room is cold."

John gestures to the chairs before the fire.

Sherlock approaches, then stares at the rug. "Why were you sleeping on the floor?"

"Because I wanted to," John answers. He blows on the drying ink, then stands. "Here. Will you read this?"

Sherlock's smile is absolutely indulgent as John approaches. Sherlock takes the paper, his eyes skimming across its surface as John sits across from him.

Sherlock frowns.

John waits.

"You... wrote this."

"Yes."

"The set of symbols are in a practiced hand," Sherlock says, brow furrowed.

"Of course it's practiced. That's English writing," John says. "I did the best direct translation I could into Franc above it. And the bit below it, you'll have to translate that into Anglic yourself."

Sherlock rereads the note several more times.

"Would it work?" John asks. "As a glamour."

Sherlock shushes him.

John waits. He stands and builds the fire, prodding it with the poker a bit more than strictly necessary.

Finally, Sherlock asks, "And if this still destroys you?"

"Then I asked for it," John answers. "You've forbidden me from killing myself, but I'm still asking for this. What do you think that means?"

"That you don't recognize the danger, obviously."

John sits back down. "Have you considered what it means if I'm telling the truth?"

"Of course you think you're telling the truth—"

"If what I'm saying is real," John corrects.

"Why should I have? It's blatantly absurd."

"But if it is real, your John is in an entirely different world, completely alone and with no one to teach him the language. If it's real, then he's been like that for days, maybe weeks. He could be somewhere, anywhere, and you are ignoring the very real possibility that he needs your help to come home."

Sherlock's eyes grow wide and round. They look like a child's, so surprised at something so obvious.

"Maybe if you do this—" John touches the paper in Sherlock's hands "—maybe I'll think I'm him, maybe he'll come back. I don't know. So... please. Because I could go back to shouting and swearing, but I think I've frightened the staff enough for one enforced visit."

Sherlock's mouth twists. "Can't this wait until tomorrow?"

John nearly laughs. He nearly protests. Instead he says, "Only if you're not stalling for time."

Sherlock looks down.

So much for that.

"Will you sort out the Anglic translation?" John asks. "This will only work if I don't know exactly what you're saying for that part."

"I'll... consider it."

John nods. "All right."

The wait is agony. Too many naps during the day means John wakes in the night. The second time he wakes, he stays awake. He makes the mistake of opening the bed curtains and letting the cold in. Then he hears the noise from the next room, the pacing.

Regretting the absence of his shoes, he gets up and eases open the joining door. Sherlock keeps pacing but waves a hand at him. John enters. He goes to the window where Sherlock actually has glass and gazes out over the courtyard, over the far roof, over the city. There's little light. The stars are amazing.

"I think I have it," Sherlock says quietly, voice hard.

John turns. "Do you?"

Sherlock clearly hasn't slept. His pallor could be from the cold, could be from a lack of feeding. It could be from many things. "I think so."

"Should I sit down?"

Sherlock takes his hand. "You should come back to bed."

John eases away.

Sherlock keeps reaching. "If I'm going to risk you, I'm going to have this first."

Slowly, John gives him back his hand.

Sherlock draws him to the bed. He directs him under the covers. He climbs in after. He doesn't seek as much as a single kiss. Instead, he simply presses his cheek against John's chest and holds on, as if the world were ending.

It's a slow and painful way to lie awake through the night. John rubs Sherlock’s back until Sherlock sleeps, until the fists in John's shirt are no longer self-conscious in their grip. From a great distance, morning approaches.

They sit in the armchairs before John's fireplace, a position at once familiar and foreign.

"Are you ready?" Sherlock asks, a question perhaps better aimed at himself.

John simply nods, simply says, "Yes."

Sherlock drags his chair forward until their knees knock together, until their thighs are tightly framed between the armchairs. "Close your eyes."

John closes his eyes.

"Picture your desired outcome."

John's mind fumbles through overlapping images of 221B before settling on his analogue watch, on Sherlock's analogue watch lying on the bathroom counter beside it. That. Just that. John nods.

The thrumming begins.

Tension flees his body. He sags down into the seat, relaxed, comfortable. Sherlock is taking care of everything.

The thrumming grows, and John leans in to meet it. A pair of hands catches his shoulders. One hand drops away, and the crinkle of stiff paper reaches John's ears.

Sherlock begins slowly, his accent strange upon the English words. Their earlier practice has resulted in a smooth execution. "This is my command to you. When you sleep, your mind will go forth from here. When you sleep, your mind will not return here. No more will you wake here. This world is behind a door, and the door is closed to you when next you leave. Its memory remains, but your presence here is barred. This body is for another. You are to return to your own body, to your own worlds. You will go home. These are the sole changes I ask to your mind. These are my commands to you. Do you obey?"

John nods, and nods, and begins to giggle. He's going home. It's happening. He's going home.

The thrumming rapidly fades. John blinks his eyes open to meet Sherlock's worried gaze.

"You're laughing. Why are you laughing?"

"I'm happy," John explains. "I'm fine." He doesn't make the mistake of telling Sherlock to keep going.

"Not worried?" Sherlock's hand on his shoulder is absolutely tense.

"Can I be worried under glamour?"

"Not unless I tell you to be or you struggle."

"Well, I'm not struggling, am I?" He tries a smile, a small one. "It feels nice." At the time. Disconcerting in the extreme in hindsight, but good during, at once relaxed and focused. His mind doesn't drift, doesn't strain. He vaguely wonders what it would be like to have sex like this. Like being selectively drunk.

"Nice?" Sherlock repeats. He's offended enough that John laughs again.

"Yes," John says. "Nice."

Sherlock glares at him. "Close your eyes."

Grinning a bit, John complies. He sits up straighter only to sag once the thrumming resumes.

Long, gentle moments pass before Sherlock leans forward and murmurs to him, voice rolling and deep in unfamiliar words. The sounds are round and rolling, beautiful in the way they fill his mouth. John makes out what might be his own name, but only in passing. That recognition quickly fades. It's lovely foreign poetry, and though the meaning is lost to John, the beauty wholly remains.

He feels a hand in his hair and a soft press of lips against his own. Quiet words turn to soft humming. John's body begins to droop. The air feels warm, the armchair comfortable. An untold time ago, John's hand had found Sherlock's knee, and the moment John realises this, dreamlike, it fades away.

It all fades away.

Groggy and oddly drugged, he struggles awake. His alarm begins to blare, announcing another Chelmsford day. It's all too easy to slap the snooze button and allow sleep to drag him back under.

Somewhat less groggy, he wakes on white sheets striped with blue. He jolts upright immediately, staring about the room that isn't at all his. He gasps from the motion, an unexpected ache through his back and arms and a sting in his hands. He lifts his palms from the sheets to inspect the low blisters on his skin. Signs of recent physical labor, no sign of his watch beyond a tan line. He checks about his neck for his ID circles to no avail. Strange, when he has his scar back.

He looks around the room again, the small room, ground floor with a window. There's a tree outside, sky lightening behind it as the sun rises. There's a cottage feel to the place.

"Fuck."

Lacking any other course of action, John resorts to his default: he goes back to sleep.

"You all right?"

"Mm." John keeps staring at the electric kettle. Maybe he'll wake up in Boat World, he tells himself yet again. Yes, he'd had so many naps there that he ought to still be snapping back there every time he goes to sleep, but maybe. Maybe.

"You look a bit hungover," Derek says.

"Just tired," John says.

"Yeah, okay." Derek claps him on the shoulder, his good shoulder. "You sit down."

"I'm fine."

"Fuck you. Go sit." Derek makes small shooing motions.

"I'm fine."

"Go sit or I'll put your favourite mug on the top shelf. At the back of it."

"I'm fine," John repeats, sitting down at their small table.

Derek snorts. The kettle turns off with a click and Derek pours hot water into two mugs. "No you're not. Your hand's shaking again."

"What?"

A splash of milk into both, no sugar in either. Derek puts John's mug down in front of him. "When you keep saying you're fine, you're not fine. That goes double with the hand."

John stares at him.

Derek shrugs. "I notice things."

The laugh bubbles up, desperate and trembling, and somehow John keeps it in his throat. "Right," he says instead. "Well. Thanks."

Derek fixes breakfast with a shrug. John doesn't protest, much too busy trying not to vomit.

He effectively collapses after work and wakes up in Chelmsford with no time left for stalling. He rushes through his morning routine, tries not to scare Marta on their morning ride to the hospital, and then he finds the surgeons' overnight room. He sets his alarm for ten minutes and desperately wills himself unconscious.

The first attempt fails. Morning surgery stabilizes him, fortunately for both him and his patient. He succeeds over his lunch break instead.

He wakes in the cottage. He takes stock.

These are his sheets and his pyjamas. As he has the same pyjamas in Chelmsford that he has in his usual Londons, this counts for little. That his watch is nowhere to be found counts for a lot.

Modern technology, though, that is good. He can't find his mobile even when he rummages through the abandoned pair of trousers on the floor. Also his. He swaps his pyjama bottoms for them. He finds a few of his shirts and jumpers in the closet. His shoes were under his trousers on the floor, socks inside. He touches his face for stubble and finds the usual morning amount.

Dressed, John slowly ventures out of the small room. He enters a slightly larger kitchen, the walls an inoffensive yellow, the windows letting in ample light. By now, the sun has fully arisen, but his body insists it's still jaw-crackingly early. Perhaps this John had been sleeping poorly too.

John finds what he wants on the kitchen table. He snatches his mobile up and immediately searches through his contacts.

There. Oh God. There.

Sherlock Holmes.

Not dead here. In his contacts. Not dead.

He sits down heavily, heart pounding, body shaking.

Not dead.

One here, and one in Digital London. That's... not what he wants, but certainly a better fate than the alternative.

Once the shaking stops, he pockets his phone and continues into the sitting room. He immediately freezes. Slumped on the sofa is nearly the man he wants to see. On the coffee table before him sit a laptop and a camera, along with a fair number of cables and chargers. The laptop has long since followed Sherlock into sleep. John edges closer to tap the screen awake. He recognises a video file and can easily recognise himself in it. The landscape beyond the recorded John is unfamiliar.

Sherlock snuffles in his sleep. Probably cold, the git. There's a fireplace in the room, well-used by the look of it, but the fire must have died last night. Looking at the pile of chopped wood in the corner, John suddenly knows what the blisters on his hands and the aches in his body are from.

You arse, John mouths fondly.

Then he goes into the kitchen and makes tea, because this is going to be a tea conversation. He tries to make toast as well, but has the odd surprise of finding only unsliced bread in the breadbox. Then he tries to find the knives and has to come to the conclusion that they've been padlocked into a cabinet under the counter.

"...Right."

Likely provoked by the sound of the boiling kettle and John's voice, Sherlock groans from the other room. The beep of electronics follows.

John looks over his shoulder, no longer entirely certain he wants to turn his back. Then he tells himself not to be absurd—his door wasn't locked when he woke, no danger here—and simply pulls down the last clean mug from the shelf. He pulls another from the pile in the sink and sets about washing up.

Footsteps behind him, the quiet sound of bare feet. They stop in the wide entryway.

John drops a teabag in each mug and fetches the milk from the fridge. Surprisingly well stocked, actually. The sugar takes a bit of finding. He can feel Sherlock's stare on his back. John's unfamiliarity with the kitchen would be obvious to anyone, let alone Sherlock Holmes. By the time he finds the sugar, the tea's finished steeping.

He finishes up, dropping the teabags into the bin under the sink. Leaving Sherlock's mug pointedly on the counter, John turns around.

Standing in the entryway, Sherlock is recording him. He watches John through the handheld’s screen.

John sips his tea, staring back.

"Day twenty-three," Sherlock announces to the room at large.

"Good morning to you, too."

Sherlock doesn't blink. In an excruciatingly noticeable way, Sherlock doesn't blink.

"Day twenty-three, slash day one," Sherlock corrects. "Subject two. English speaker."

John stares at him a bit, then sips his tea. He picks up Sherlock's mug and hands it over.

Sherlock takes it, shifting the camera into his right hand.

"Where are we?" John asks.

"Sussex," Sherlock replies.

"Er. Why are we in Sussex?"

"No longer relevant. If you can function as a doctor, we ought to return to London."

"I... yes?"

"Good," Sherlock says. "Pack your things."

He turns away and John catches his shoulder. "No. Explanations first."

Sherlock glares at him over his shoulder. "It's nearly an hour car ride."

John pointedly takes two steps back and sits at the table with his tea.

Sherlock keeps glaring.

John keeps sitting.

Sherlock groans and sits across from him. He sets the camera down, still aimed at John.

"So, subject one didn't like London?" John asks. "Or knives, I'm guessing."

"No, he liked knives."

God. "That was my second guess."

"Subject one didn't speak English," Sherlock explains. "Or understand electricity."

John's stomach becomes at once light and heavy, unsure whether it can sink or soar.

Sherlock notices immediately, eyes narrowing. He leans forward.

"This might sound a bit odd," John says. "I mean, more than the usual. Did, um. Did he seem to think you were a vampire?"

Again, Sherlock doesn't blink. "He was extremely confused when I ate or drank. Obviously, 'extremely confused' was his default condition. He also panicked when I showered and when I went outdoors in the rain. Overall, I'd categorize him as extremely traumatized and easily triggered. After the first major flashback, we agreed to lock the knives away."

"Okay," John says.

"Why are you asking about vampires?"

"I'll explain that in the car. An hour, you said?"

Sherlock checks his watch, stretching out his arm to pull the sleeve back. "Slightly longer, this time of day," he says, but John hardly hears him.

"That's mine."

Sherlock frowns. "What?"

"You're wearing my watch," John says. "I looked for it when I woke up." He swallows, mouth dry despite his tea. "You're wearing my ID circles, too, aren't you?"

"His," Sherlock snaps. "Not yours."

"No. Mine." He wraps both hands around his mug and asks, "Would you have any idea what I was talking about if I said that Marta thinks I need to quit caffeine and Derek thinks my PTSD is acting up?"

His mouth frozen on the verge of some doubtlessly biting comment, Sherlock's eyes are very, very wide. Finally, he blinks.

"Oh, thank fucking God," John gasps, shoving his chair back as he stands. The table is small and Sherlock's legs are trapped under it, but these obstacles are pathetic compared to the rest. They nearly fall on the floor and stagger into the counter instead.

"Are you certain?" Sherlock demands, gripping John's head between his hands. "Are you absolutely certain? How did we meet, what do you call our world, how long have you been gone?"

"Mike, Analogue, too fucking long," John answers. He shoves forward into a kiss rough and desperate, Sherlock biting his lips in the attempt to talk through it.

"What happened? Where did that man come from?" He pushes John back with that, not enough to shove him away, not remotely that. His hands seize John's jumper as if about to shake him. "Where were you?"

"We switched. We switched, I fixed it, come here."

Sherlock accepts that for all of three seconds, three wonderful seconds. "How? I tried, we couldn't—" His words dissolve into frustrated groaning.

"It's okay," John says. "I swear it's okay. I died in Afghanistan and—"

"That's 'okay'?"

"No, but—"

"Never die again."

"Okay," John says. "That's completely plausible, good course of action."

"Shut up."

Gladly. This snog lasts longer than the others. It stops when their shaking legs force them to sit or fall, but they mutually agree that they are simply that good at kissing and ignore the feeling that they're about to be ripped from one another at any moment.

"How long can you function without sleep?" Sherlock asks. "It used to be forty hours. It must be longer than that by now."

"I already slept," John says.

"Good, because you're not doing it ever again."

"No, I already slept. From here. Woke up, went back to sleep before I came out."

"So you'll, you'll stay," Sherlock says. "Here. And Chelmsford and Other London. But here."

"Probably not going to get shot anywhere else, so. Yeah. Here."

That is obviously the wrong thing to say, but John ignores the ache in his back when Sherlock shoves him down onto the tile and climbs on top. If Sherlock's goal is to chasten him, he fails. The shaking starts up again and the chastising devolves into very forceful cuddling. Eventually, a bit winded and vaguely awkward, they sit back up. They lean against the cabinets, Sherlock slouching to keep his head under the counter top.

"You died," Sherlock says.

John nods.

"You were shot."

"Yeah. In the leg, actually."

Sherlock's mouth twitches.

"Come on, that is a bit funny," John says.

Sherlock's mouth twitches a bit more.

"Could I have my watch back?"

"Mm... no."

"Arse."

"Mm."

They look at each other.

"What if this is simply a very similar version of you?" Sherlock asks. "If there can be multiple realities, some so varied that you speak an entirely different language, then there must be other versions of you living between those realities."

"What if Analogue London split into other Londons after I left and this is the only one I'll ever get back to?" John counters.

They look at each other a bit longer.

After a long moment, Sherlock clears his throat and looks away. "Your tea's getting cold."

"So's yours."

"I don't care about mine."

Shifting onto his knees and about to stand, John leans in and brushes a kiss over Sherlock’s mouth. "Yeah, but I do."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and permits John to tug him standing. "Fine. But then packing. I've been stuck out here for weeks. There's only so long former clients will remain grateful before they start charging rent. Tea, and we return to London immediately after."

"Analogue London," John corrects, slipping his hand about Sherlock's wrist.

Sherlock shifts his arm, twisting, and then they're holding hands the way they never do. Sherlock looks down at their feet as if frightened to speak, the way he never is.

"Immediately sounds good, though," John says. "I've missed being home."

Sherlock looks out the window and clears his throat. "Mrs Hudson missed you."

John smiles a bit. "I bet she has. I've missed her too."

"Be sure to tell her that," Sherlock mumbles.

"Trust me," John says, leaning up to kiss the curve of his jaw. "You won't ever need to remind me."

previous | END

Prompted in spring of 2012, finished in the fall, and finally posted in the summer of 2013. Everyone give a big hand to threebooks3 for prompting it.

For those of you wondering how this actually had a happy ending:

In the many splitting universes, everything happens. One universe gets to work out. This is that one. Everything else is terribly sad. Enjoy.

Fic: No Fixed Point - 4/5 (BBC Sherlock, immense AU of AUs)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 03 Aug 2013 01:52:51 GMT

Title: No Fixed Point
Rating: R
Wordcount: 9k/44.2k
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: The AU of AU's: First, he is shot in Afghanistan (again). Second, he wakes on a boat. Third is pain, fourth is normalcy, fifth is agony and sixth is confusion. By the tenth, he's lost hope.

(Original prompt: "ECM!John gets hurt again, and ends up with a few more lives. By overwriting Stranger at the Gate!John and Behavioral Modification!John." Thus, Watches 'Verse with Behavioural Modification and Stranger at the Gate. Prompted and filled here on livejournal. NOT an official continuation of any of these 'verses.)

Warnings: Partial character death, separation, vampire, blood, hypnotism

Red
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Purple and Gold
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By the end of Sherlock-the-vampire’s explanation of Boat World, John's head hurts again. It hurts a great, great deal, even with lunch and dinner in his stomach.

"All right, I think that's enough," John tells him, holding up a hand. "Actually, wait, no. One question. You actually know about the current political situation?"

Sherlock blinks at him. "Obviously. I did just say."

"Do you need to know?"

A nod there. "In order to remain outside it," Sherlock replies wryly.

"Something tells me that didn't work...?"

"Not in the least," Sherlock answers, his voice devoid of regret. He smiles at John, eyes crinkling. "There are worse results."

John stares at him. "What did he do?"

"'He'?"

"Other me. What—"

"John, stop." He doesn't take John's hands again, has possibly learned not to. "It wasn't your doing." An odd sort of grin, pained and fond both. "The entire point is that it wasn't your doing. I'll explain in full before we dock tomorrow, but I believe you have enough to consider for the time being."

"I think so," John agrees dryly.

Sherlock smiles at him. Amused and open and so incredibly affectionate. It hits John between the lungs and bids his mouth to mirror Sherlock's. He can't, too guilty and strange, but the impulse to try remains.

John coughs and looks away. "Look, um. Until I'm back to normal," he says, "we shouldn't do anything. In bed. Or out of it, really. We might not agree on how, but we do agree that the John Watson who belongs here is not in his right mind."

"You mean last night was a mistake."

"Well, no. We didn't do anything."

"It was the first time I'd kissed you in twenty-two days."

"Ah." John does his best and, no, there is no good response to that. "That must have been very anti-climatic." He only knows the word in English.

"Very what?"

"You, er, thought it would be good but it wasn't."

Sherlock looks away rather than reply.

After a moment, John does this as well.

The awkwardness only increases when they settle down for the night. Sherlock refuses to lie head-toe. In hindsight, rolling over and putting his back to Sherlock was a bad move. Unthinking on John's part, it's clearly a motion Sherlock interprets as extremely trusting.

Ultimately, they settle down back-to-back, but John already knows he'll wake here with at least an arm around him.

In Chelmsford, he takes out the notebook of his current daylist. He flips to the back, the note section. He writes down Everything I thought I knew is wrong. and underlines it.

He has an awful lot of thinking to do, and he does it.

Sherlock stares at him over his morning coffee. He takes a slow sip.

John goes on buttering his toast.

Finally, Sherlock says, "If the differences are no longer exclusive to your personal history, it widens the spectrum of reality to an unprecedented degree. Forcing your subconscious to move may be less feasible than previously believed."

"I'd thought so," John replies. He bites into his toast.

Sherlock continues to stare at him.

John swallows his toast.

At last, Sherlock snaps. "John, honestly, how did it take you four days to realize he was a vampire?"

"It's not exactly a common scenario, last I checked."

"This from the reality-hopping man?"

"It's not hopping. It's jumping. Sliding, maybe. Don't call it hopping. And he went outside in daylight. He's crossing so much running water and he's not in a wooden box."

"He's in a ship! A ship is a wooden box!"

"Oh, come off it! You can't call it obvious in hindsight."

"The hypnosis was highly suspect," Sherlock counters.

"Yes, because that's what makes people think of vampires," John agrees very sincerely indeed. "That's the first detail right there. And it's meant to be eye contact, I always thought, like the Master in Doctor Who."

"Delgado, you mean."

"Yes. And besides, it's not like you eat regularly anyway. Honestly, you- Wait, hold on. You know who Roger Delgado is?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

John starts grinning. "Did he convince you to watch Doctor Who? Really?" It's more than John's ever managed.

Sherlock's chair scrapes against the floor. Standing, Sherlock steals John's other piece of toast and storms off into the sitting room.

...Still sensitive, then.

Compared to Binary, Digital London is a safe haven beyond compare. The limits to what John can say to Derek are fairly low when it comes to personal information, but the lines are clear and orderly. They make sense.

He complains a bit to Derek over dinner. Generic sort of complaints, but Derek hears so little out of him normally that he treats the confidences with respect. It's odd, almost formal, and there's something about the exchange that makes John wonder if he would know what normal flatmates interaction looks like if it were right in front of him.

He honestly doesn't know.

He wakes slowly, lazily, his body exhausted and his mind following suit. He shifts his arm a bit, caught in the half-dozing state which is the closest he ever comes to dreaming, these days. Sherlock, his body registers, pressing his hips against that bum. Sherlock. His cock is the most awake part of him.

John presses closer, snuggles closer. His eyes are closed against the tickle of soft, dark hair. He adjusts his hold, fingers slipping between buttons. Sherlock's heart races under his fingertips and a far off corner of John's mind finds this odd. John takes the obvious, calming choice of action and brushes a sleepy kiss to the back of his neck.

The cloth his lips find is not the neck of an old t-shirt.

Buttons, John realizes. He withdraws his hand. He shifts backward, but Sherlock shifts with him, keeping his arse planted against John's crotch.

John rolls over.

After an immeasurable length of silence, they pretend to wake up.

"Morning," John says.

Sherlock-the-vampire grunts.

John stays where he is, trapped between Sherlock and the wall.

There is another immeasurable length of silence.

There are the sounds of breakfast being called.

John sits up.

Sherlock doesn't budge.

John gives him a minute, then climbs over him and goes to the mess. They're eating better the closer they get to shore, it seems, as they should dock before evening. Sure enough, the cry of "land!" goes up before John is halfway through his meal.

His stomach sinks, taking his appetite with it. There really is a larger world outside this ship he'll have to face soon. He remains in the mess, picking at his food with his fork.

Even at that pace, he's nearly finished by the time Sherlock comes to find him. No other reason for Sherlock to be in the mess or the galley, this Sherlock.

"We need to discuss ramifications," Sherlock tells him.

"...All right," John allows.

"In private."

"Everyone can hear through all the walls."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "With the cows, then. They'll mask our speech." He storms off immediately, not waiting for John to contradict.

John sighs, cleans up after himself, and follows. Down in the hold, sitting on a crate, Sherlock ignores John when he enters. Only once John sits and prompts, "What is it?" does Sherlock so much as look at him.

"We were involved in a matter of difficulty in the north," Sherlock replies, formal and serious in a way John has never known this him to be. "There are going to be repercussions. They will begin the moment we leave this craft. Our story must be consistent."

"What else?" John asks. "You wouldn't be this worried if that was it."

"Were."

"What?"

"If that were it. Grammar, John."

"Sorry, still learning." A pause. "Oh. Is that what you mean?"

"Partially, yes."

"But more specifically...?"

"Oh, I don't know," Sherlock replies. "You appear to have gone mad, for a start. You have no recollection of any of our shared history, let alone your own, and you recently forgot your mother tongue."

"At least I can speak now."

"Yes, in Franc," Sherlock agrees. "You were never fluent in Franc to begin with. You speak Anglic. It simply made more sense to teach you the language of where you were heading, not where you were leaving."

"Will the difference be obvious?" John asks.

Sherlock nods. "If any sort of representative is sent to retrieve you, glaringly. There will certainly be news by letter. Demands, I should say."

"What kind of demands?"

"In any case, I'd hoped we'd be able to discuss what our story was going to be, but now there's little point. No one will believe you to be in a reasonably untampered state. Either you've been snapped along with the glamour or you are currently under glamour. There is no other believable option. As far as I can see, there is no way to cast the situation in a positive light."

John nods gently and tells himself this is seasickness. "And what are the ramifications?"

"You were in the service of a man called Lord Mayhew, Keeper of the Western Domain," Sherlock replies. "Due to Moriarty's interference at Bart's, where you were keeping guard, we believe you are wanted for treason."

John blinks. "Oh. Oh, god. Okay. Um. Am I guilty of treason?"

"The laws for treason are stupid."

"Oh, great. So I am guilty." He stops, shakes his head. "He's guilty." Pronoun difficulty there.

"It won't matter to him what persona you are," Sherlock tells him. "If Mayhew retrieves you, you will die."

"Oh," John says. Abruptly, the situation doesn't look quite so terrible. Life imprisonment would have driven him around the bend. "Quick sort of death, is it?"

"John, don't joke. Now, that is the first threat. The second is from the northeast. By killing Moriarty, I created a power vacuum there. Whoever emerges as the leader will attempt to solidify their rule by binding it to Moriarty's, which means revenge on us. Me, specifically, but you're involved. They'd likely have my head and you would be kept as a thrall."

"I'd rather Mayhew," John says.

"For good reason," Sherlock allows. "Now, there is a chance for sanctuary Belgravia. That’s on the south of the gulf, where we’re arriving. Unfortunately, that chance is entirely based on you being in your right mind and able to consent to a protection arrangement."

"Oh," John says. "You mean, if your John doesn't come back, I'm facing death or life imprisonment."

"Death or enthrallment," Sherlock corrects. "Yes."

"And you didn't mention this until today."

"Between teaching you an entire language and the histories of several species and cultures? No, I didn't mention this until today," Sherlock snaps.

John winces an apology. "Right. Just to be clear, what would the protection arrangement be? And can we fake that somehow?"

Sherlock glares at him. "No."

"All right, no faking. But what is it?"

Sherlock glares at an unsuspecting cow. He fumes.

John waits.

"It's a personal arrangement," Sherlock states. "It carries certain rights. If we were... sworn, then I would have been legally in the right to kill Moriarty."

"...Sworn. Like... Not like..." Twenty-two days without a kiss and John has to marry him?

Sherlock turns the glare back on him.

"I don't know the word," John reminds him.

This doesn't lessen the glare.

"At any rate, neither you nor 'he' is interested," Sherlock tells him, voice as sharp and rough as his eyes. "And as you are literally unable to consent, the point is moot. As matters stand, it will be assumed that I was the one to hide your memories away in order to conceal the damage I've caused."

"But you didn't," John says. Not in protest, simply in trust. "We both know you didn't."

Sherlock shakes his head. "You don't know that."

"No, I do, because I'm not the one with the memories to erase. He is. I know you don't believe me—I probably wouldn't believe me either—but I do know you weren't mucking around with his head."

Sherlock shakes his head. "You assume that. You don't know that. If under glamour for honesty, as you would be in a court setting, you would have to admit that you don't actually know that. You have no knowledge whatsoever of a situation that could potentially be resolved, at least in part, by your willing compliance. It's unlikely this could have been planned in advance by Moriarty, and I never saw another of my kind with him.

"Now, this may point to madness, but it's an incredibly systematic madness, which is symptomatic of an active glamour interacting with a struggling mind. Your world has been rearranged as a result. That's what everyone will say. So, a glamour is in place. You were on a siren ship, but siren song fades. This won't fade. Therefore, it was me."

"But it wasn't."

"But nothing can prove that it wasn't," Sherlock says. "Unless it can be proven that I haven't—" He looks down, bites his lip. His eyes flick up to John's. "That I haven't abused you. Well. It will be assumed that I have."

"And if I swear you haven't?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I could be making you defend me."

John presses his palms against his closed eyes and tries to think. It doesn't help. He lowers his hands. "What do we do?"

Sherlock watches John's hands. He's strangely small and very sad. "If I'm guilty of mistreating you—taking your mind, forcing you from your post, kidnapping you across the gulf—then there will be no protection for you against Mayhew. There may possibly be some against the northeastern vampires, but it will effectively be a race to see which tries to claim you first and which has the better claim."

"But what about you?" John asks.

Sherlock closes his eyes. He shakes his head.

"...Is it that bad?"

"John," Sherlock says, voice thick, "I need you to stop exhibiting concern. Immediately."

"Look, if I die, I'm off to a new life. The dying bit isn't good, but I'll be fine," John tells him. "I don't think the same applies to you."

"Your religion is moronic."

"That's not religion, that's fact."

Sherlock opens his eyes long enough to roll them. He curls in on himself, pale and small as a sick child. "Oh, and I neglected to mention. The only reason you were permitted on this ship in the first place is because we lied and told them we were sworn. All the while you were exhibiting classic symptoms of abuse by glamour."

"Sherlock."

"What?" Sherlock slaps the word down between them, more a verbal strike than a demand.

"We're going to think of something," John says. "News travels slowly, doesn't it? We've been quick with the choice of ship, haven't we? Then we're ahead, at least for a little while."

"Not for long enough."

"It's a start. Just... Don't give up on me and I won't give up on you. All right?"

Sherlock refuses to look at him.

"All right?" John asks, and waits.

Sherlock nods, the guiltiest John has ever seen any of him.

"Is there anything else I should know?" John asks, and Sherlock makes a noise like the underside of a laugh.

"Oh, a few things," Sherlock answers.

"Oh, good, only a few," John says. "And here I was starting to worry."

The ship comes into harbour, and they return to their cabin to gather up their things. There's not much, merely their coats and a knife John is apparently supposed to hold onto. It doesn't match the sheath that fits onto John's belt, neither in material nor shape. It's loose and makes John paranoid of it falling out as he moves.

It wouldn't be worth noting if it weren't for Sherlock's reaction. He eyes John's moment of physical awkwardness with obvious distress. Obvious for Sherlock.

"Why don't they match?" John asks.

"You lifted the knife from a man in Waterloo," Sherlock replies.

"I—" John immediately drops his voice. "So on top of being wanted for killing a vampire warlord, we're going around committing petty theft?"

Sherlock doesn't look at him. "The man in question was about to harm me."

"Oh," John says. "Fuck him, then."

Sherlock looks at him.

John clears his throat and buttons his coat over belt, sheath and knife.

"Like this," Sherlock corrects. His hands take over, adjusting, unbuttoning. John holds his breath as Sherlock unfastens and refastens his belt. Far from an excuse for a quick fondle, the motions are reverent, disconcerting in their dedication. John lowers his gaze and stands his ground as Sherlock reshapes him in another man's image.

"Ready to go?" John asks quietly. "You do know where we're going, don't you?"

"Mm. We're to be escorted. We stay here until then. We might not have an audience for several days."

"Audience with who?"

"The Lady," Sherlock replies, straightening John's collar. He smoothes it out with enough care for John to remember that this man is a vampire. Bit worrisome.

"And who else, the Tramp?" John asks. The mixed-language reference flies over Sherlock's head in two different ways, but Sherlock understands a joke when he hears one. Well, sometimes. He does this one.

"The Lady of Belgravia. She's a" strange word. Sherlock sighs when John looks at him blankly. "Like the captain." Still nothing. "The captain of this ship?"

"Sorry, is the captain not human?"

"No."

"Oh," John says. "How common is that, people not being human?"

Sherlock just looks at him.

"I mean, no. I mean, how many of humans and vampires and whatever else are about, when you line them up together?"

"In numbers, humans are the largest. In influence, the smallest, though that's begun to change."

"How come?" John asks.

"John, I have enough to do right now without explaining" strange word "to you."

"Right. Sorry."

John sits down on the hanging bed to wait. Sherlock leans against the tiny spot of wall by the door. He stares at John in the dim light before looking abruptly away and opening the door. Light shines in. The humidity lingers.

"We still have a few days to agree, then," John says.

Sherlock looks at him sharply, but John doesn't specify. "We do," Sherlock replies after a pause.

"You'll need to work around my position. I can't change." Not if he might be mind controlled into honesty. That's not a terrifying thought at all.

"I know," Sherlock confirms.

"Maybe if we—"

"Stop talking about it," Sherlock snaps.

John falls quiet, retreats into his own head, and waits.

They're allowed off the ship only after the other passengers disembark. John spends a short while waving to those he's spoken to, perhaps befriended, and everyone looks far less guarded before they realize Sherlock is also present. Finally, the captain and one of her officers come. She speaks to Sherlock in yet another language. Of course Sherlock's fluent. Like a bodyguard or a shadow, John is ignored.

Leaving the ship without any luggage is disconcerting, but when Sherlock doesn't hesitate, neither does John. When Sherlock promptly stumbles once on solid land, John has another, less fortunate moment of following suit, but John does recover first. In fact, he can entirely blame his stumble on grabbing Sherlock.

"Well done," John says in English. "We're off to a brilliant start."

"I know what you say," Sherlock replies in kind, under his breath. He links arms with John, his left with John's right, and leans heavily.

John doesn't complain. He has far too much city to stare at. Or town. It's a strange combination of the two, at once thick and sprawling, yet incredibly flat. The stone buildings lean toward each other over alleyways, none of them higher than three or four stories. Though he's the one propping Sherlock up, Sherlock is the one to guide them, following their escort of now three. John's not sure where the third man came from, but the point of his very muscular presence is clear. Sherlock and John follow without complaint. It's hardly as if any other option would benefit them, from what John understands.

The buildings are the most obvious, here older, here patched, here engraved with impressive lines of an alphabet John's barely before glimpsed. The streets are uneven, though paved where they walk. The stinks of burning coal and fish fight for dominance, and then a breeze replaces them both with salt. Horses pull carts, oxen haul wagons, and John minds his step in the street. The general noise of the crowds about them sound familiar only until John tries to parse out the individual voices, the specific words, and his mind slips around what it knows and what it has been made to know.

Clothing is different, thicker and darker. There are more patches, more stains, and no advertising at all. So many people, all bundled up against the cold, and not a single coat sports so much as a logo. No zippers, no velcro, and yet it still defies any sense of being sent back in time. This isn't history. This is life in full colour and full sound, absolutely complete.

"John, you're staring."

"It's another world," John says. "It actually is another world." He says it all the time, this world and that, but he never means it that way. He always means home, always means Earth, whichever world. This world is something else entirely. Different societies entirely, different countries, yes, but possibly, maybe, this is a different planet entirely. Somewhere else in the universe, instead of another when.

Sherlock stoops, ducking his mouth to John's ear, and murmurs, "Welcome to the south."

The divisions in the city grow clear as they reach the edge of the docks and the beginnings of the immense boulevards. They're escorted into a carriage, an actual carriage with horses pulling it and a driver riding up front. Two of their escort accompany them in and they sit across from each other without speaking. Sherlock affects a bored expression, but John quickly gives up the attempt to keep from gawking out the window.

The buildings become finer as they go, bumping and rattling along. Fortunately for John's rear, the roads are also of better quality. Even so, he's nearing his limit by the time they arrive at a lovely prison of a guest house. There's an inner courtyard, complete with sheep nibbling down the grass. Rather than wonder at that, John follows the housekeeper at Sherlock's silent prompting. For some reason, she seems to assume John will be doing the talking between the two of them.

Sherlock remains silent as they're shown to their rooms, large-ish and what might be considered somewhat luxurious. Compared to the ship, they certainly are. They're joined bedrooms and the door between them locks only from John's side. Much of the light is natural, coming through high windows containing some sort of thin, cloudy mineral rather than glass.

John assures the housekeeper that the rooms are lovely when Sherlock wanders away into his own and closes the door. Though the gesture strikes John as rude, the housekeeper only relaxes. They arrange to have dinner sent up, and when John tentatively asks what Sherlock should do, the housekeeper responds with directions to the sheep pen. John thanks her and returns inside his own room to find Sherlock waiting in the open linking doorway.

"Is there a reason I have to do the speaking? I'm not exactly good at it yet."

Sherlock despairs of John's idiocy with one clear sigh. "Oh, no, because it's not as if I have glamour and she's a human with intact hearing. Would you think for once? I could get away with speaking with strangers when they thought I was human, but not now."

"...Huh." John mulls it over and tries not to think about how suited Sherlock is to the archaic surroundings. It's his face as much as the clothing or mannerisms. Maybe that's why this doesn't feel as mad it as ought to. Or maybe it's simply John's life.

"At any rate, you won't be expected to speak for me when we have our audience with the Lady. Until then, yes. Then, no."

"And that will be?"

"A few days," Sherlock answers. "Three, four, possibly the full week."

And if John isn't back to "normal" by then, that's both of them possibly dead here. But three days is nearly two weeks and a full week would give him a month.

"I'm going to take a nap before dinner," John says.

"Off to visit one of your distant lands?"

"Three of them," John says. "Well, two, but one of them twice."

Sherlock simply arches an eyebrow.

John rubs at his forehead. "Believe me when I say I know exactly how mental I sound."

"As if that isn't worrying enough."

John makes a rude gesture he learned on the ship and tromps over to the bed to pull off his boots. Very fortunate he's picked up the knack of falling asleep on command, or close to it. It takes him a few minutes, perhaps as many as twenty with Sherlock still watching him, but he sleeps.

He wakes in Chelmsford and calms himself with routine. Modern equipment is jarring in a way it shouldn't be, but the struggle between life and death is as close to in control as it ever will be. It's a good change.

He sleeps and wakes in Binary. Sherlock's gone missing again, which isn't a surprise. After a morning of rattling around the flat and worrying Mrs Hudson, John finally retreats into his bedroom and simply calls the bastard.

It goes to voicemail. Of course.

"I've three to seven days in Boat World before everything goes to hell. In a big way. We need to try something new."

He hangs up and takes a walk.

When he returns, Sherlock is home. Something smells absolutely terrible in the kitchen. It's nearly reassuring.

Entering, John doesn't hold his nose, but he does come close to it.

"Goes to hell how?" Sherlock asks without looking up from his microscope.

"He and other me are wanted to treason," John says. "Unless other me comes back, our heads are coming off."

Sherlock hums.

"Any suggestions?" John prompts. "We could try the music therapy bit again, but it hasn't worked so far and I really don't—"

"Just wait."

"For what?" John demands. "What good could possibly come of waiting for them to chop our heads off?"

If only to visibly roll his eyes, Sherlock straightens up. "You'll die over there, obviously. It might force you into another jump."

John stares at him. "Or two men will die. Which I thought might concern you, what with one of them being you."

"I'm me," Sherlock says flatly. "I'm fine."

John takes a deep breath, which is a definitely mistake in the current atmosphere. Once the coughing fit subsides, he says, "It's not just beheading."

That has the power to make Sherlock pause, but his voice is still level as he asks, "Torture?"

"Sort of. If it's not beheading, it's this other bit. The hypnotism isn't just for foreign language class, Sherlock. It's for controlling people. To the point where vampire-you apparently isn't allowed to speak with strange humans because they're afraid he'll hypnotise them. They want to do that to me, Sherlock."

Eyes wide, mouth slightly open, Sherlock visibly reaches for a response.

John waits.

"But it doesn't affect you between worlds," Sherlock begins, and that's when John starts shouting.

"Yes it fucking does, you wanker! You arse, how do you not understand that it carries over? It's my mind, Sherlock, my fucking head, and that stays! That's for good! That is all I am anymore, do you understand that?" he shouts, and of course Sherlock doesn't understand that, because John is shouting in Franc.

Sherlock may stop breathing.

John breathes enough for the two of them, chest heaving, horrid stench forgotten. He coughs once, just a small cough, and says in deliberate English, "If that happens to me, that's the end. I don't know what kind of man would be waking up in this body, but... I don't want to know either. I wouldn't be surprised if I couldn't speak English."

Sherlock nods, eyes distant, shoulders tense.

"Any ideas? Anything?" John asks.

"Give me time," Sherlock replies. "Stall. Stay awake here as long as you can and take naps there."

"Already planning on that, yeah. Anything else?"

For one instant, John thinks Sherlock is about to throw the table over, microscope and all. Instead, Sherlock simply shakes his head and rasps, "No."

"You okay, mate?" Derek asks.

"Fine."

The news program plays on. John watches. His eyes remain on the screen, at least.

"You sure?"

"I'm fine."

"Mmhm." The fridge door closes. The sofa cushion beside him compresses beneath Derek's large form. "Here."

John takes the offered beer.

Derek picks up the remote and switches to a match. He shouts at the players until John shouts along, until John stops wondering how in the world he's going to warn Derek before glamour drives him mad.

He wakes to a knock on the door and has to quickly come to grips with lying on a bed that ought to be in a museum. He goes to the door and attempts to cope with the small cart with accompanying tray. Is that silver? It might be silver. If they’re getting silver, maybe John can also ask for a quick trip to a barber. His beard is well underway and his hair tickles his ears and nape.

He stumbles through his manners until the butler—servant? waiter?—nods and departs. The man is obviously tense despite his poise and John realises the fellow had been staring at the door in John's bedroom. The door to Sherlock's bedroom is closed, a small relief, but the servant's behaviour only underscores that John is not at the top of the food chain in this house.

John eats his dinner alone at the large desk in the room. It's fresh and therefore amazing. God, this must be what his grandmother meant about vegetables not tasting right anymore. It's a small moment of happiness, but he holds it with both hands.

Once finished, he leaves the tray near the door—he should have asked for protocol—and then knocks on the door to Sherlock's room. When Sherlock doesn't respond, John wonders if the man simply isn't allowed to shout in here. Possible.

He enters without permission to find Sherlock sitting at a bench set at the base of the windows. He's draped across the cushions, sprawling, his back against one of the bookshelves that frame the window. The book between his hands has a wooden cover and bits of rope visible where the binding frays. It's large enough that Sherlock has to hold it in his lap.

John sits down at his feet, pushing Sherlock's boots to the side. Sherlock counters by planting his feet in John's lap. John secures them there. Best to hold on.

"What does enthrallment entail?" John asks.

Sherlock's eyes flick up from the book.

John gazes back levelly. "I need to know."

"Don't have time."

"You're reading."

"I'm reviewing law practices. As much as I can. I've sent a note for a number of other texts." Protectiveness shines in his face.

John's not about to argue with that. "Has anyone invented the dictionary yet?" Too much of that sentence comes out in English. "Has anyone made a book that explains what strange words mean?"

"Yes, but a dictionary will hardly do you any good."

There: a new word learned. "Is your alphabet phonetic? The bits that make the words, do they mean different sounds?"

Sherlock looks at him strangely now, and that is saying something. "Obviously."

"Teach me that much and I'll do the rest."

Sherlock groans. "There isn't time."

"There is," John argues. "Write out each letter and make the sound for me. I'll make a guide for myself. Maybe I won't be able to read quickly, but it won't just be you struggling alone." And, bastard that he is, he lets his hand on Sherlock's boot rise slightly higher on his calf, onto the material of his trousers. "If it doesn't work, I won't bother you over it again."

"Fine." There's pen and ink on the desk and Sherlock draws out flowing letters with a practiced hands. No capital letters, John notes. Punctuation and sentence structure are going to be strange.

Sherlock makes the sounds for him, glaring at the indignity of it, and John writes them down. The pen isn't at all what it should be, but that's hardly John's worst complaint.

"There," Sherlock says. "Happy?"

"Yes, actually. Thanks."

John smiles and Sherlock smiles back, something helpless in the expression. Unwittingly pleased and so hopelessly young. The impulse is there in John's arms and it remains there until John consciously decides yes.

He reaches and pulls, and Sherlock stumbles into the hug. Sherlock’s arms immediately close around John, hold tight enough that John might not be held accountable for breaking. Then again, he might, and so he doesn't. He simply lets Sherlock breathe him in while John does the same. The scent is different. Of course it is.

He rubs Sherlock's back for a long moment before he pulls back. He clears his throat. "All right, then. Let's get to work."

"Do you remember learning to read?" he asks Marta.

"Good morning to you too. Hold these." She passes over the pair of coffees before pulling the door shut behind her, then slamming it shut the second time. "Cheers."

"Right, yes, good morning."

Before John begins to drive, there is the mandatory moment of coffee sipping.

"What was that about learning to read?" Marta prompts.

"Do you remember learning?"

She thinks for a moment. "I remember flashcards. Why, something come up?"

"Just a dream I had last night," John says, setting his coffee into the cup holder. "Very frustrating dream."

"Have you thought of anything?" John asks the moment he's downstairs. He rolls his shoulder. Sleeping on the sofa upstairs has been rubbish for it.

"Anything, yes." After a pause just long enough for John to get his hopes up, Sherlock adds, "Something helpful, no."

John grumbles his way through making breakfast. Sherlock doesn't move, simply sits in his armchair and stares at John through the open kitchen doors.

"Teach me more of that language," Sherlock orders abruptly.

Halfway through breakfast, John ignores him.

"If they break you, it's more pertinent than ever that we be able to communicate."

"Sherlock, that? Is not helping."

Sherlock stares at him. "Think of it as preventative medicine."

"Yeah, no, not really a comparison. This is a bit more like setting up a funeral fund."

"And? Writing a will is practical, not morbid."

John stares back. "You want me to write a will?"

"Of course not. His current one is perfectly adequate."

"Anything else?" John asks. "Some sort of plan that doesn't count on me going mad?"

"You live in four realities and don't think you've gone mad?"

John nearly yells at him before he sees the smirk. Instead, he grabs the nearest paperback and chucks it at the smug git. "Not funny."

"Domestic violence, John?" Sherlock asks pitifully. "Surely there are better—oh." His eyes go wide. "Oh." He points at John with both index fingers, palms still pressed. "Leider, any reason?"

"The song mine tried to train me on?" John asks, not quite sure how to follow. "I don't think so. It wasn't any reason on my part. I just liked it." Even so, he's never been able to switch realities on command, even with the musical accompaniment. At this rate, John very much considers it a failed experiment.

"So it isn't your associated sound for home?"

"I... I guess it is? I don't know, I don't really have one."

"I've had an idea," Sherlock says, tense and sharp in a way that might mean hope.

"That was the general impression, yeah. What is it?"

"It's your mind, but it's his brain," Sherlock says. "I have two... two pieces that might--They would be familiar. To him."

Though standing well back, John gently eases farther away. "Do you want to play them later? Before bed."

Looking at the floor, Sherlock nods.

"That's something," John says.

Sherlock doesn't reply, slipping away inside his own mind.

"So do you want to learn the Boat World language or not?"

Sherlock groans. "You have to stop calling it that."

John grins. "I really don't."

That night, Sherlock brings out his violin. He treats the instrument with a gentle, careful reverence that seizes John's heart. This will work, Sherlock's soft touch proclaims.

It won't work, John knows. He should entertain the thought that it might—Sherlock's manner nearly convinces him—but it's much too far of a stretch.

Sherlock ignores him, plucking strings and adjusting pegs. He seems more like a Star Trek researcher adjusting dials than he does a musician. Next is the rosin, scraped over the hairs.

"Stand in the hallway," Sherlock instructs. "When I finish the first piece, sit down in the armchair. When I finish the second, fall asleep as quickly as you can."

John nods.

He steps into the hall and Sherlock begins, eyes closed, body tense, slowly lifting hair to string in an aching silence. The first harsh stroke shatters it. He slashes at air and stabs at sound, frustration in disjointed arpeggios and discordant key changes, anxiety in tremolo. He presses hard, driving the bow into the strings. His hand shifts higher on the neck, trilling higher into a controlled cacophony.

Sherlock bends and sways, nearly stepping into the coffee table with his eyes closed. He avoids it, continues flawlessly. The bouncing motions of his bow give way to longer strokes, smooth yet pausing. The minor key cries out in mourning, in irreparable loss. Sherlock's hand shakes upon the neck as if to shake apart. He concludes with harsh, open string chords, vicious in defeat. He rips the last chord from the violin and slashes the bow down through empty air to point at the floor, the swish of it violent and sword-like.

Breathing heavily, Sherlock points to the armchair with his bow.

Heart pounding, John complies.

The second song is infinitely worse. It's the victory to the earlier defeat, celebration rather than mourning. Sherlock sways with the phrases, leans enough that his steps are for balance, not style. This is a fierce supplication, a summoning, the sacrifice torn from beneath Sherlock's ribcage, through it. This is loving in the worst way, careless, heedless, flinging itself forward to the edge of any cliff, too trusting to believe in a fall. It is recklessly beautiful, a plea toward another man.

Though playing with his eyes shut, Sherlock plays with his face open. His furrowed brow and pressed lips are volumes in themselves alone. This will work, everything in him cries. This has worked before and this will work again.

John remembers the man he woke up next to days ago, weeks ago. Remembers the lazy curve of his body, the thoughtless warmth. Remembers the moment that man vanished.

Here he is. Here he is again. Playing to John Watson, but not to John.

The song finishes beautifully, magnificent in the rapid runs of Sherlock's fingers upon the strings. Multiple strings once again, but no longer open. Multiple notes, contortion required. The final notes shine.

Slowly, Sherlock lowers the violin from his shoulder. He exhales, not looking at John. John's breath rushes out of him in the same moment, inexorably linked to Sherlock's lungs.

Sherlock kneels at his case. He loosens the bow and sets it away. He removes the shoulder rest. He wipes the rosin from the strings and body before laying his violin into its resting place. John watches him, can't stop watching him.

Sherlock closes the case and secures it. He doesn't move.

Distantly, John remembers that he's meant to sleep. It seems impossible, completely so. But everything is impossible now.

Breath still linked with Sherlock's, he closes his eyes and reaches toward slumber, that slow and uneasy slide.

He startles awake in Digital London, his alarm beeping. His hand shakes as he resets it. Five more minutes. Just to check.

His alarm goes off again before he can drop off a second time. Muttering under his breath, John readies himself for work and endures a truly agonizing shift at the clinic. The moment he returns home, he flings himself on the sofa and wills his mind blank, his body to quiet, everything to calm and slow.

He wakes in a stuffy bed to the sound of knocking. For a moment, he considers simply closing his eyes again and making Sherlock deal with it, but there's a very real danger of their hosts thinking Sherlock's killed him in his sleep. He has an odd giggle over that, climbing out of bed and pulling his clothing back on. God, he'd like a change of clothing. At least the sheets were good enough for him to sleep in his underwear.

He opens the door to accept breakfast. The servant situation is a bit weird. A maid comes in to do up the fire and grows visibly uncomfortable when he watches her do it. For all their sakes, he hopes he won't have to get used to this. In any case, he has breakfast much the same way he'd had dinner, sitting at the desk. He tries to get through a bit more of the reading while he’s there, but it's slow business, agonizing business.

Breakfast eaten, he paces a bit, not wanting to try to sleep immediately after. Perhaps he shouldn't have eaten it all, but this body has very firm reactions to the thought of going without. Or wasting food, possibly. At any rate, the stress or anxiety the other Watson had toward food supplies here is ingrained into his body. Bit odd, but understandable. And hardly the strangest bodily detail: Chelmsford Watson had known how to dance. Dear God, that man could tango. That had been surprising to discover.

When he exhausts the pacing, he knocks on Sherlock's door. "I'm coming in," he warns.

He enters to find Sherlock exactly where he'd left him the night before, stuck at the desk and bent over books. Though unlit now, the candles on the desk are significantly shorter than they were last night.

"Tell me you've slept."

"I've slept," Sherlock replies.

"Good," John says, hugging himself against the chill of the room. "Isn't there meant to be a fire in here or something?"

"There was a knock at the door, but I didn't answer. Probably the maid." Another page turned.

John retreats back to the door and opens it. Should help, if only a little. John should probably put his trousers and back on. He returns to Sherlock's desk instead. "Find anything?"

Sherlock glares up at him. He sniffs pointedly and his eyes narrow.

"What?" John asks.

"The food's changing your scent already. I don't like it."

"Don't worry," John says. "I'm in enough need of a bath that the rest should overpower that."

Sherlock smirks slightly. "I wouldn't be so sure."

It's the same smug amusement John had seen in Binary before throwing a book at that prat. It's the exact same look, right until it's not.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asks. "This is something new, something distressing you. What? What have they done?"

"It's not—no." John shakes his head. "It's not here. Here is... the same."

"Then?"

"Somewhere else."

"One of your dream places."

"Binary London," John corrects. Where Sherlock Holmes is unquestionably in love with John Watson, with a man John may have overwritten and killed. Much the same as here, in that regard.

Sherlock pushes his chair back from the desk. The slide of cloth-capped chair legs whispers upon the wooden floor. John looks down, and yes, cloth-capped.

"You're upset," Sherlock says.

"I'm fine."

"You've had a nightmare."

John shakes his head, unable to explain. Another version of his best friend, unrelentingly callous and vicious until one last desperate bid for the man he wanted in John's stead. It's not jealousy, can't be, but there's something. An ache. An utter dread of returning to that sitting room only to watch the hope shatter in Sherlock's eyes. For the shouting and yelling or, worse, simply blank despair.

"You were asleep and now you're upset," Sherlock continues softly. His hand brushes over John's hip, holds there. The pull is gentle, slow. Warm. "But that's gone now. I'm still working out how to resolve this as matters currently stand, but I promise you, John, the only world you need worry about is this one."

A second hand now, framing John's sides. "I know we don't have much time left, but there is some. Whatever anyone says or however they attempt to implicate me in unsavoury behaviour, you must know that my first and foremost goal is your continued safety." He guides John to stand between his legs. His gaze drifts lower, to John's scarred thigh. The longing in his eyes is one part hunger, two parts possessiveness, and more parts tenderness than John would prefer to say. "You must know that in many ways, I'm responsible for you."

Let me take care of you, every inch of Sherlock begs him. Give me something I can solve.

John reaches across the small remaining distance, a sigh trapped in his chest, and Sherlock immediately presses his face against John's breastbone, breathing him in. It's too much. It's simply too much, Binary and now this.

The sigh escapes as he pets Sherlock's curls. Sherlock jolts against him, frozen, and then his arms clamp tight about John's middle. John keeps stroking his hair, keeps standing strong and stable until he begins to feel the words actually apply. He's supporting, not supported. He can handle this.

Sherlock groans, a low sound too close to a moan. John stops moving his hand then, merely rests it on the back of Sherlock's head. Sherlock nuzzles closer.

John clears his throat and attempts to ease back. With Sherlock's arms clamped about him, retreat is impossible. All John manages is an awkward lean away that Sherlock pointedly ignores.

"So, ah. How good are you with nightmares, then? I mean, what does a vampire recommend? Probably not a glass of hot milk," he jokes.

Sherlock shakes his head against John's chest.

"Didn't think so," John says.

They hold still for a moment longer before Sherlock sighs and releases him. Releases him somewhat: Sherlock's hands immediately return to John's sides. "How bad is it?" Sherlock asks.

"I don't want to go back," John says honestly.

A flicker of indecision crosses Sherlock's face.

"It's nothing terrible," John assures him. "It's just not right."

Sherlock clearly disbelieves him, but that does little to take the indecision away. Instead, it only increases it.

The answer, so terribly, stupidly obvious, promptly smacks John in the face.

"Can you glamour away, away nightmares?" John asks. "Could you do that?"

"John, if I'm found to have used glamour on you at all—"

"But you already have," John interrupts. He grabs Sherlock by the shoulders. "You already have. You can't make it worse."

Sherlock's eyes widen. "I can make it very much worse."

"Legally, I mean. I mean... you could, couldn't you? Glamour away a specific dream? Recurring, just detail it and tell me not to dream it again, could you do that and make it work?"

"I suppose I should be glad you're recognizing them as dreams now." Sherlock lets go of him entirely, pushing his chair back farther. He stands.

John catches Sherlock by the arm, the chair between them. "Please."

"You don't understand what you're asking."

"I'm asking for your help," John answers. "I need this. I think I need exactly this, and I'm an idiot for not seeing it sooner." If anything is going to work, it's this. It has to be. The music was well and good—the music was amazing—but while that moved John's heart, it's his mind that needs moving.

"You're asking me to reach inside your already addled mind and lay down barriers, John. To something you may need, to something I may not intend, to anything. This would damage you. Possibly irreparably. Certainly beyond my skill to fix, and I'll not allow anyone else near you."

"Just one dream," John says. "We're already dead either way, aren't we? One dream." Just for a start. Just to know if it will work. To make sure John won't wake in that armchair only to watch another Sherlock's heart shatter.

Suspicion shines in Sherlock's face. "You want more than that."

"Just this."

"For now," Sherlock accuses.

John nods. "For now. Why, don't you want normal John Watson, no strange worlds in his head?"

Sherlock's resolve visibly wavers.

"If it doesn't work, I won't ask again," John promises.

Sherlock looks away. "I don't want to hurt you," he whispers.

"I know," John says. "I trust you."

Sherlock squeezes his eyes tight. His hands fist, pale knuckles impossibly white.

"Please," John says.

A bitten lip. A moment of hesitation. And then the curt nod.

And then: "Fine."

They spend the next hour working out the exact phrasing. The slow process threatens to destroy John’s remaining, severely limited patience, but Sherlock refuses to be hurried. Each word is explored for connotation, each sentence inspected for any unintended implications.

John knows this is in his best interest. He knows that, and so he forces himself to wait, forces himself to be cooperative as Sherlock quizzes him time and time again on foreign words and any false connotation John may have imbued them with. Some of the words are English, putting the burden on Sherlock to understand. It feels like a spell more carefully crafted than any Harry Potter would ever encounter.

Finally, Sherlock is satisfied. "I want you as a conscious participant for this process. It will work best that way."

"Haven't I been already...?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "This will be like Bart's, in the gatehouse."

John looks at him blankly before shaking his head. "I don't..."

Sherlock chews his lip. His teeth are remarkably unremarkable. "Possibly for the best," he murmurs. "We don't need to do this right away, of course. We've quite some time before nightfall—"

"I was thinking of a nap."

"John, you are literally shaking with excitement."

About to argue, John catches himself in time. He takes a breath, lets it out. "I just want to sleep normally. For once. I just... Please. I'm exhausted and jumpy."

Sherlock clearly knows there's more than John will say, but after a short staring contest, he huffs and stands. He takes John's hand, so tender and reverent that John feels like a violin. "This ought to calm you. Or panic you, should it end poorly."

"Sounds about right."

Sherlock draws him to his bed, slightly larger than John's and still unmade. Sherlock removes his boots. When Sherlock lies down, sliding under the rumpled blankets, John hesitates.

"Come here," Sherlock bids him. "If you're going to drop off to sleep afterwards, this is the simplest solution."

John climbs into the bed. They each lie on their sides facing each other.

"I want you to listen for my glamour, John."

John nods, unshaven cheek scratching against the pillow. All he hears is the sound of shifting cloth as Sherlock begins to unbutton his own shirt.

"...What are you doing?"

Sherlock shushes him. "Listen." He pulls John's hand to the exposed patch of his chest. The skin is already cooling with exposure to the air and then it begins to vibrate. Sherlock's chest begins to vibrate. It's lovely. Liquid peace flows over him, and John replaces his hand with his ear. Sherlock's arms settle around him, and John tries to burrow deeper, closer.

And then it stops.

The peace drains away, self-consciousness bubbling up. John tries to pull back, but Sherlock secures him. Sherlock pets his hair. And, all right, it's still rather nice. A muscle in John's arm begins to spasm, too long tensed and uncertain how to relax.

The vibrating resumes, and this time John knows what to expect. Calm and relaxation, but not his own. He feels the need to press closer, the urge, and he can look at the compulsion rather than act on it. He considers it for a moment, and then the vibration grows. Contemplation is fine, but closer is better. John presses in.

The vibration stops. John tenses. The cycle repeats. Each time, John grows more aware that there is something to resist, comes more aware that he could resist, that perhaps he could succeed in resistance. Each time, John doesn't care to try. Too lovely to fight.

"Ready?" Sherlock asks softly during a pause in the vibration.

John nods, the top of his head pushing against Sherlock's chin.

Sherlock cradles John's head against his chest, holds him close as the vibration returns in full. "This is my command to you. When you sleep, your mind will not wake in Binary London. When you sleep, your mind will not travel there. That world is behind a door, and the door is closed to you. Its memory remains, but your presence there is barred. No more will you wake in Binary London. This is the sole change I ask to your mind. This is my command to you. Do you obey?"

John nods against him, into him. "Yes." This will work. This has worked. It's already done. He will not wake in Binary London.

The thrum of glamour fades away, leaving him limp, pliant. He feels the soft press of lips to the top of his head, and then Sherlock begins to climb out the other side of the bed.

John catches at him through his remaining contented haze. "Where...?"

"Back to the books," Sherlock answers, gently peeling John's hand from his wrist.

"Stay," John mumbles. Bring the thrumming back.

A pause. Footsteps away, then returning. The mattress shifts. Stiff pages crackle.

"Take your nap," Sherlock instructs, no compulsion in his voice.

John tucks his face against Sherlock’s thigh and complies all the same.

previous | next

Fic: No Fixed Point - 3b/5 (BBC Sherlock, immense AU of AUs)

bendingsignpost — Fri, 26 Jul 2013 23:37:30 GMT

Gold

It's another morning in Chelmsford and he hates knowing a hangover is waiting him. That's the first thought: he's about to be hung-over on a boat without water.

The second thought is a great deal of profanity.

Something about all that gives John an inkling, just an inkling, that the man on the ship still has no idea who John is. Because that? Was not appropriate behaviour. Not for fresh acquaintances. For an established relationship, fine.

A very established relationship, going by the conversation. John's put his foot in that one, no mistake about it.

Because John can't. That was worse than Jake when he was with Sarah. In so many ways, worse.

Was that cheating?

The sick feeling in his stomach tells him it was cheating.

They're going to have a very strange row about this later, John's sure of it. A very strange row indeed. He thinks about that for a few minutes until his mind lapses into predictions of angry sex. They're nice thoughts, and they soon turn gentler. He sits at the table, breakfast half-eaten, until Marta rings the doorbell and forces him out of it.

When he wakes, Sherlock is playing the violin. Not Mendelssohn. Something else. Lying on the sofa, missing his bed, John closes his eyes and decides to wait out the rest of the playing.

It goes on and on, and eventually, he must move or fall back asleep or rage or cry. He gets up. He goes downstairs and dresses in Sherlock's bedroom. He ought to take his things from the closet but knows it would be crossing a line. They aren't truly his things.

In the kitchen, there is again no tea. He sets about making coffee.

The music stops. "What now?"

John looks over his shoulder, confused. "Sorry?"

"This is a new kind of guilt," Sherlock informs him. "I haven't seen this one before."

John closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and does not throw the empty kettle at him.

"Interesting."

"Fuck off."

"Mm, no." A measuring look, but not a long one. "The one on the boat, then."

"No," John says. "Really. Fuck off."

"I'm exacerbating the issue very easily," Sherlock continues. "Too easily. This is to do with the one on the boat."

"Caffeine first, yelling at you later."

"But I haven't done anything."

It wasn't the Mendelssohn, John doesn't say. He'd woken, heard the violin, and it hadn't been the Mendelssohn. It had been the confusing sounds of almost home.

"Ah," says Sherlock. "That's exactly it. Something yours does that I don't, and the difference is-"

"Would you shut up!" John yells. "Can you not do that, please?"

Sherlock grins at him, as bright and vicious as unsheathed honesty. "So you do react."

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You've been unerringly calm since the beginning," Sherlock replies. "You reported your own death as if speaking of little more than a bad dream. Your initial dilemma was whether you could sleep your way elsewhere before you had to tell me the truth. I once imagined it would be an improvement if you thought with your head before your heart, but that was predicated on the assumption that you would eventually use both."

"I need you to stop talking now," John tells him, voice tight.

"You don't."

"Yes," John says. "I really do."

"Can you look me in the eyes when you say that?" Sherlock asks, voice containing nothing but curiosity. "You look away when you speak."

John looks at him. When he opens his mouth, his gaze tries to slip from him.

"You hadn't noticed. Not surprised. You prefer to avoid conflict when it involves a vulnerable emotional component. If you had someone to defend besides yourself, it wouldn't be an issue. It reflects well on your character: many children of alcoholics are extremely adverse to conflict—"

"Will you shut up?" John yells.

"Particularly the children of abusive alcoholics," Sherlock continues. "It's a concern for you, particularly due to your sister's alcoholism. If you've begun over-imbibing on the ship—"

"How-?"

"You're guilty, embarrassed, and the cause is related to me, therefore to a version of me. The only other currently available to you is the one on the boat. Had this changed, your mood would have changed drastically in another manner. Now, it's a guilt you don't feel entirely to blame for, but a strong guilt. You previously mentioned beer as the only available beverage on board. You previously mentioned waking up in his bed as well. You also stated that you've tried to convey your situation to him, but his understanding was questionable.

"Therefore, you were drunk, he presumed, nothing happened, and you feel terribly guilty anyway. It's not the perceived trespass that's bothersome. It's the condition. You're self-destructive when emotionally disconnected."

"Stop—stop talking." His voice breaks into a whisper.

"No. This is the fourth day here, meaning you're finishing your second week. No progress, no change, both for you and your condition. How many days has it been?"

John shakes his head, eyes shut tight.

"How many days, John?"

"Fourteen." He swallows. Clears his throat. "Two weeks."

Sherlock walks away.

The sound of the motions startles John's eyes open. "What...?"

Sherlock returns, briskly tosses John his Belstaff coat, and says, "Get it out of your system. I'll be back late."

"But—"

"It's not that cold out," Sherlock replies and leaves in the suit jacket alone.

John stands in the kitchen, holding the coat. It's very heavy, too heavy for one hand, so he folds it over one arm and hugs it to his chest. He stands like this for a very long time.

Lunchtime finds him in his armchair, still trying to read the newspaper. Sherlock's coat sprawls across the man's empty chair. John hasn't cried on it or smelled it or talked to it, none of those coping mechanisms. He's had his denial and anger, but he's far from finished with bargaining. After bargaining comes depression and John is not doing that again. More anger, more bargaining. He can push his way through this. He'll break it before it breaks him. He simply has to discover how.

Eventually, the coat is an annoyance. It just sits there and sits there and John keeps looking at it. He starts gazing at it, his mind wandering.

He swallows, shakes his head, and pushes himself to his feet. He picks up the coat and heads to the hall, intending to toss the coat onto Sherlock's bed and have done with this forced mourning. He gets as far as opening the door.

On the bed, John's tan knit jumper is bundled up by the pillows. It wasn't there when John dressed earlier. Its presence is a deliberate message, one John understands immediately. Because not only can Sherlock read minds on a good day, he can effectively predict the future. He knew John would come in with the coat, he knew John would see the jumper, he knew John would connect the two, damn him, and John doesn't need this. He really does not need this, knowing that Sherlock thought of giving John his coat to cuddle and cry over because Sherlock's done the same with a jumper. It's like Sherlock has his finger on a button in John's brain, one he never even had to discover because the twat put it there himself.

And this, here. Here with a joint office and a single bed, here with something that is serious and long term, here where John's socks have been incorporated into Sherlock's sock index, it's taken four days, four for Sherlock give up and to skip to the grieving. There's pragmatic, and then there's fucking heartless. John is not finished fighting yet. John is not about to be finished, not ever. His bastard back home had better not be finished either.

He means to throw the coat down, to cast it onto the floor and storm away and slam the door, but he needs to swear more. He curses into the fabric, long and loud, and the scent hits him where it hurts.

He's going home. He doesn't need to know how or when, not when he knows he's going home. He can't and won't stay here. He recognizes this as a lunatic approach to life, but that doesn't, won't, can't matter. His entire life is lunatic. Every damn piece and, no, he is not about to start crying. He's in control, he's all right, he's going to be fine. He's a grown man, a doctor and a solider—

—except now he isn't.

He isn’t a soldier anymore. No more active duty for the rest of his lives. That part of him is gone and it's not coming back.

The thought breaks something, some towering wall, and the crumbling begins before he can take another breath.

A few terrible hours later, John takes a shower and drinks yet more water. His head hurts terribly, but he won't take anything for it. The pain is numbing. Convenient.

He permits himself a bit of a lie down, which is how he winds up on the bed, the coat beside him.

"You'd better be waiting," he mutters to it. “Don’t give up on me, you arse.” There's more to say, but none of it could ever sound right when spoken to an empty coat.

Sherlock returns while John is doing the washing up after a solitary dinner. With the radio on and singing absently along, John doesn't hear him come up the stairs.

"Do you do this often? Mine doesn't sing."

John manages to look at him without flinching. "Derek's influence." He nods toward the plastic bag in Sherlock's hand. "What's that?"

Sherlock reaches inside and lobs a small box toward John.

John catches it with wet hands. Frowning, he turns it over and reads the label. "I didn't know they made binary watches."

"Obviously, they do."

John dries off his hands, opens the packaging and looks at the metal band. "I have no idea how to read this."

"That's hardly the point."

When John removes the analogue watch, Sherlock takes it. John puts the binary watch on in its place. The metal is strange against his skin and the purple LED lights indicating the time give it a very sci-fi feel.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You're not even going to set it?"

"I just said I have no idea how to read it and you think I know how to set it?"

A sigh now, and Sherlock moves in to take care of it. The proximity is strange. Close bodies, fingertips against his wrist: it's exactly the sort of thing that ought to put his body on alert. It doesn't. It's not comfortable, but it's a discomfort that reminds John far more of Mycroft than of his own Sherlock Holmes. Someone who knows too much, has gotten too close, and clearly has a plan for John's immediate future. Someone who is more than capable of taking care of things, and in a way John might not like.

"You can hardly 'go back' to your Analogue London if this one is labelled the same," Sherlock explains, pulling back and stepping away once he's finished.

John blinks slowly. "I thought... Today was some sort of... I don't know, grieving day?"

"Processing," Sherlock corrects. "Fatal physical trauma derailed you here and to the ship. It's possible you're stuck here and the ship reality—and learn the name of it, we can't keep calling it 'Boat World'—it's possible you're stuck because of the finality of your injury. If you can process it, you might return home. Failing that, we find a way to trigger you."

"One? I don't think it works that way. Two, there is nothing wrong with calling it Boat World."

"It sounds stupid."

"Really not the point."

"Yes, you were sidetracked," Sherlock says. "We need to find a cue that would transfer you away. You mentioned music before."

John nods. "It was meant to be like a personalized ringtone for each reality. He'd play the violin when I woke up, but playing a recording somewhere else didn't do anything to send me back to Analogue ahead of schedule. Not definitively, at any rate. Two times out of ten, at best."

"And this when moving between realities you were still stably connected to," Sherlock muses, eyes narrowed into the middle distance. He looks entirely unaware of how ridiculous that sentence sounded. "But it is your mind which travels. Forcing it to reach for connections is the obvious choice."

"Yes, but that didn't work."

"Do you have any other ideas?"

"Ah, no," John admits.

"There we are, then."

He wakes up to the sounds of water and Derek singing. So far, no change. He spends the day jotting down ideas and the evening dreading his hangover to come.

Oh. Oh, God.

Christ.

Fuck.

Footsteps, shouting. Loud talking. Thin walls. The unending creak of the ship itself. John tucks his face against Sherlock's chest and tries desperately to not have ears. It doesn't work.

With the deliberate coordination of someone wide awake and fully hydrated, Sherlock covers John's upward-facing ear with one hand and pulls the sheet over his head with the other. John relaxes marginally, but it's still terrible.

They lie still, very still, until the rush of morning motion passes. Sherlock's breaths are deliberate and slow under John's cheek. Gentle fingers shift over John's face, fingertips languidly scratching at the scruffy beginnings of a beard. John spares a thought to appreciate how his beard no longer itches. The one good piece of this scenario, but he has a good piece.

Stroke by stroke, the scratching transitions into a full investigation. Across his cheek, along his jaw, under his nose. The inspection of his nose bit is strange, but a soft grunt is enough to make it stop. The touch moves lower, moves to his mouth and John turns his face away, moves just enough to lie face-down. One cheek still rests against the bare skin of Sherlock's side, and Sherlock shifts with him. He massages John's scalp gingerly, the touch full of tension until John groans his approval. It helps. Stuck here without water, let alone anything for his head, John will take whatever he can.

They stay like this for what feels like an unreasonable amount of time. Except it can't be. Sherlock should have become too bored and wandered away by now. John chalks it up to modern attention spans and the lack of modern anything here. He closes his eyes and lets himself feel like a lazy old dog on a Sunday. Sherlock's certainly petting him like one, as if he's fragile.

"We need to talk," John remembers. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth as he tries to speak.

Sherlock shushes him.

John is glad to be shushed. The shirtless cuddling is innocent, at least at the moment. He'll lay down the boundaries later. He'd move his arm off from Sherlock's middle, but there's honestly no space.

He feels Sherlock's stomach rumble against his arm. It's an odd sensation. Sherlock ignores it, so John does as well. It repeats, now audibly. Sherlock tenses under him. John entirely fails to respond. Normally, he'd press, but he can't be arsed to make Sherlock get up and eat. A lack of movement is a very good thing. It's very dim in the cabin, wonderfully dim, and Sherlock leaving would let in light and make noise besides.

He hurts too much to doze and attempt to sleep it off, but he hardly wants to. No, he'll force through. Slowly. Even so, he's nearly drifting off despite himself when Sherlock's stomach begins making painful sounding noises.

John grunts at him.

Sherlock sighs. "I'm not going to—" His stomach interrupts him.

John shoves at him with his shoulder. "Go. Don't like the noise."

It's a terrible excuse, but it's enough to make Sherlock move. John stays where he is, face down on the bunk. It smells terrible, but not as terrible as the inside of his mouth tastes. He pulls the sheet up, cold. A moment later, something cloth lands on his back.

"Huh?"

"Your shirt," Sherlock tells him.

"Ta."

"...Ta?"

"Ta," John confirms.

Sherlock rubs his back a little.

John hums. If he knew the word for "disconcerting", he'd use it. Too nice. Hard to protest when all he wants is an aspirin. Still, it makes him feel as if there's some head in the fridge Sherlock is trying to apologize for, as if this Sherlock is the sort to apologize for a head in the fridge, which he probably isn't. Sherlock touches John as if certain permission will be revoked any minute. Admittedly, he’s not far off.

Once John is close to comatose, Sherlock leaves. For some time, John wobbles toward the edge of unconsciousness, kept awake only by the sounds of the ship and the knowledge that he desperately needs to drink something. He repeatedly pulls his tongue from the roof of his mouth. It makes an interesting sound, one he'd rather it not make.

Finally, John remembers the cows. Cows and Sherlock never smelling of alcohol. Milk. Better than nothing. Better than more beer. Hair of the dog never cured anyone.

It takes John a very long time to muster the will to sit up and put his shirt on. He stands, faces the sway of the ship with more stoicism than he'd thought he possessed at the moment, and puts his jacket on as well. Where are his boots? Oh. He puts those on, too.

The journey to the hold is a quick, miserable one. He opens the door without anyone speaking to him and enters. Inside, there is perfect, blessed silence.

Perfect silence in a room full of cows.

Cows and Sherlock.

John's hand stays on the door, a stabilizing touch. Because his head hurts and the ship rocks, and that makes everything a bit dizzy. He blinks a little. This doesn't help. The cows are all still focused on Sherlock, every last one turned toward him like iron fillings to a magnet. Sherlock is still hunched by one, hands gentle on the animal's wide neck. His back is to John, his head bowed.

He's making noises. The only noises in the room. Soft, slurping sounds. Wet sounds, swallowing, gulping sounds.

John backs up. He doesn't move through the door, merely shifts enough to make the hinges creak.

A twitch in Sherlock's shoulders proves he's heard, but it's long moments before he finishes. John waits, his stomach a tight, sick knot. When Sherlock straightens, he doesn't turn around.

"Yes?" Sherlock asks.

"Are these milk cows?" John asks.

"No." His back remains turned, his head bowed.

"Oh."

The cows begin to shift, to properly make noise again. The world feels real again.

"All right," says John. "Never mind, then."

He retreats into the hall and Sherlock fails to so much as twitch. John closes the door. John walks away.

Well, that was more disturbing than a head in the fridge.

Sometime in the afternoon, sitting out of the way on deck and as much in the shade as he can manage, John realizes his headache has diminished. Not gone, not entirely, but diminished. He's still terribly dehydrated, but they'll reach land tomorrow or the day after. He'll be all right.

What he's less certain about is the man currently approaching him.

"Feeling better?" Sherlock asks, taking a seat next to John below the stairs. Their legs may stretch out between them, but Sherlock is close, sitting shin-to-thigh with him.

"A bit," John allows.

He wants to ask.

He should probably ask.

"Sherlock," he begins. There are words to come after, all strange and awkward. He has them in English, but only in English.

"You said you wanted to talk. You mentioned it this morning in bed."

John clears his throat. He looks across the deck, unable to withstand Sherlock's unwavering gaze. "I did, yes. About last night."

"Ah." With a lift of the chin, Sherlock settles back against the barrel behind him. "I've overstepped."

"You were carrying on as usual," John allows. "Nothing wrong in that, but it's awkward now."

"I see." Sherlock looks across the deck as well.

"I know it can't be comfortable having me like this," John continues. It's easier now with the force of those eyes lifted. "I'm not your John Watson and I know it hurts-"

"Yes, so stop saying it," Sherlock snaps.

"-but pretending I’m him won't help," John says over him. "Look. I'm sorry, but I need you to stop treating me like I'm him."

"I'm not. I understand that man wasn't you. I understand that on a very fundamental level, John. He wasn't you. I know. We've been over this."

"I'm not sure you do," John replies. "This is a language problem. It has to be. This isn't the way you'd be reacting otherwise."

"And how would I be reacting?" Sherlock challenges. "Tell me that."

"Resentful. Hurting. Avoidant." To name a few.

"I've already done that."

"Not that I've seen."

Sherlock frowns back at him. "Yes you have."

"No," John says. "No, I haven't. Or else you were very quick."

"I wasn't, and you have," Sherlock insists. He leans forward, hand on John's knee. "Are the—" strange word "—coming back?"

"Sorry, I don't know what that means."

"When you entirely forget an event that you were present for," Sherlock explains. "You'd be standing, talking, moving, but not yourself." And then the word has meaning.

"I'd black out? No, sorry, he'd black out?"

"No, not him. You."

John shakes his head. "No, still no. I haven't blacked out. Look, anything that happened before the morning I couldn't speak, that wasn't me."

Sherlock's hand tightens on his knee. His facial expression doesn't change. "What do you mean by that?"

Oh, Christ. "I only came here that morning," John says. "Until that morning, it wasn't me here. I don't remember anything that came before because I don't know it. It wasn't me who lived it."

Sherlock's eyes slowly widen. "And you simply... woke. With nothing to trigger you. Was it timing? Are you remotely aware of the mechanics?"

"I was injured in Afghanistan and I woke up here," John says. He hasn't the words for a bullet wound. "It's happened before."

"Afghanistan?"

"A place. Far away. I left England and I went to Afghanistan. There's a war. I was there to be part of the war. I've tried to explain before, but I didn't have the words to do it well. I still don't. I was in Afghanistan and I was hurt. I woke up here instead. Then I went to sleep and woke up in other places."

"You dreamed."

"No, I was awake."

"Oh, not this again." Sherlock leans forward. "They feel real. I believe you when you say they felt real. But those are dreams. The war is over, no one is firing at you, and this is where you are now."

"But not all the time," John insists. "I go to sleep and I wake up in London, or Chelmford, or another London."

Sherlock mouths the names before changing tactics. "If you don't remember anything before four days ago, how do you know me?"

"I don't. Not you, this you. I met another man named Sherlock Holmes somewhere else."

"Where?"

"England," John says. "In London. At St. Bart's."

A smile breaks across Sherlock's face. "No, that was here," he says, sounding so very relieved. "We met at Bart's."

"No," John says. "That was you and the other John Watson. I'm talking about me and another Sherlock Holmes. I know it sounds strange, but at least try to listen."

Sherlock tries to take his hands and says with absolute confidence, "You're confused."

"I'm not. It's just... big. And I don't have the words for it yet. But I'm not the John Watson who was here before, not even before that." It's beginning to sound as if there were multiples. Somehow. John's even less certain about that.

"I understand that,” Sherlock says. “Something has caused you to change again. I don't know what the trigger was yet, and I don't know whose—" strange word "—this is, but we can work around this," Sherlock promises him. "This proves it was more than Moriarty who took you from me. This is more than a reaction to broken—" strange word. "You developed your own language overnight. Of course it's more than a reaction."

"Sorry, a broken what?"

Sherlock repeats it.

John frowns at him. "I don't understand."

Sherlock touches his breastbone. "When I speak," he says, emphasizing the last word in English.

"How you taught me all the words?"

"Yes! Yes, exactly. Glamour."

"Glamour," John repeats.

Sherlock nods. "You say you don't remember."

"Because I wasn't there when it happened."

Sherlock holds up one hand to silence him. "I'll tell you. What we know: Moriarty came to Bart's. He put his glamour on you and held you hostage against me. He made you say things and do things that you would never have done otherwise. The man he made you be is not you. I know that. You are not responsible for anything he made you do. You know that.

"I killed Moriarty and broke the glamour. You're all right now. Or, you were all right. You were going to be. You were improving.

"Then this. This is clearly more than a relapse. So, the question arises: whose glamour is this now? It can't be Moriarty and I was sure he didn't have anyone else with him, only those men under glamour. If you can't remember who it was, that makes it all the more difficult to fix."

"Wait, hold on," John interrupts. "That's not, no. That's not what I'm saying."

"No, I know what you're saying, and it's wrong."

John sets his jaw. "Beg pardon?"

"I understand that you believe this, John," Sherlock assures him. "Truly, I do."

"I believe it because it's true."

Sherlock tries to put his hand back on John's knee. John counters by pulling his legs up and sitting cross-legged. After a pause, Sherlock does the same, steepling his fingers.

"John," he says, "your mind has been sorely played with. You may not remember it, but it happened."

"And then something else happened too," John insists. "Are you going to listen to me or are you going to sit here and tell me I'm crazy?"

"You're not crazy," Sherlock says. "You've been poorly used. There's a difference."

"He was poorly used," John corrects. "I'm not him, either of him."

"You're new. I do see that now."

"We do agree on that much?"

Sherlock nods. "We do."

"All right." John chews his lip, looking down at his folded hands. If only his head didn't hurt so much. "I told you all of this before. I had to say it in English. Do you remember when I spoke to you? For a long time."

Sherlock nods. "Yes."

"Right then. This is what I was saying." He explains. For a considerable amount of time, he explains. He pauses only when Sherlock informs him they're attracting attention, which is true. They retreat into the humid dark of the cabin and sit, John in the chair, Sherlock on the bunk. John continues speaking. His mouth turns drier and drier. He uses every detail he has, every detail he can think of, but once the issue of technology enters the discussion, he knows he's lost Sherlock entirely.

"That's very elaborate," Sherlock admits.

"Could I have come up with that on my own? Or could have someone told me all of that and made me remember it all at once?"

"A combination," Sherlock tells him. "You could have been given the basic instructions, told to think of the rest, and only be triggered once the entire situation had been devised."

"Even supposing that was possible, why?" John demands. "You think someone did this to me for, what, fun? To do what?"

"To make you go mad," Sherlock answers simply. "To make you appear mad, certainly. Not to mention, this effectively took away your voice. It's a bizarre yet effective security measure. Barely a fortnight after you were no longer needed and you go mad in a way utterly unrelated to-" strange word.

"Unrelated to what?" John asks.

"People like me," Sherlock says.

"As opposed to...?"

"People like you. As in, animals like cats and animals like dogs."

"You mean... people with glamour and people without?" John asks. It's a strange skill, John will admit, but John can hardly point fingers on that account.

Sherlock nods. "People with glamour who drink and people without who eat, yes." Strange word "—and humans."

John frowns at him. "I... what?"

"What?"

"Sorry, I don't think I followed that," John apologizes. "Did you just say you're not human? Do I understand that word right? Human, as in the kind of animal that I am."

Sherlock looks at him very oddly indeed. "That's what a human is, yes."

"And you're...."

Sherlock repeats the word, voice full of impatience, eyes full of concern. And something else. The fear is back, the dread of rejection to come.

People who drink and have glamour, he had said. Who drink.

John thinks of the cow and the swallowing. John thinks of the scars on his leg and the way Sherlock had proudly, tentatively claimed them.

"You're a vampire," John says, using the new word.

"If you're going to try to stab me over it again, could we not do it on the sheets?" Sherlock asks dryly.

"I'm not... No," John says. "I'm just... surprised."

"You saw me this morning in the hold."

"Yes, and I was surprised then too."

"Less surprised than you should have been, for absolute ignorance," Sherlock counters. "The last time you discovered my species, your reaction was much more adverse."

"You mean, he tried to stab you?"

Sherlock's mouth pulls to the side. "You remember."

"No—you just said."

Sherlock pauses, nods slightly. "The question arises: why the calm reaction now?"

"Um." John blinks a little. "Well, you're not exactly a threat to me. That's a start. I don't hurt people who don't threaten me. I've been helpless here in more ways than I can count, and you've only ever helped me." He scratches the back of his neck. "The rest of it doesn't seem terribly important, really."

"No?"

"Should it?" John wets his lips as much as possible with a dry tongue. "I mean, what's the normal reaction?"

"That depends on where you're from," Sherlock replies. "Where we're going, it doesn't matter as much. Where we met, it mattered greatly. This place you say you've come from in your sleep, what there?"

"Only humans," John says.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "You think there are only humans."

"No," John says, a solid no. "I'm a doctor. I know there are only humans."

Sherlock's eyebrows flick up. "You're a doctor."

"Yes."

"Prove it."

John blinks at him again. "I—How? You've largely recovered from your chest problem and I wouldn't know how to treat a, uh. A vampire in the first place."

"Basic anatomy will do."

"When I don't know the words in your language?" John thinks for a moment. "Is there paper? A pencil?"

"There can be."

John nods. "Get them and I'll show you."

It takes a spot of procuring. John remains in the cabin until Sherlock returns. They go to the galley and the adjoining mess to sit at the table. Then, with utter confidence, John begins to draw. Two versions, one from the side, one from the front. As he sketches the internal organs, he feels Sherlock tense beside him, but John doesn't look up.

"There," John says. He begins to point and name in English. Once finished, he looks up at Sherlock, more than slightly smug. "Any questions?"

Sherlock gapes at him. Any other man, and this would be nothing more than an expression of curiosity and surprise, the brow furrowed, eyes focused and mouth slightly open. On Sherlock, it's gaping. "Where did you learn that?"

"England," John says. "London. Bart's, actually."

Sherlock looks at the drawings and bites his lip. His teeth look normal, which immediately arrests John's interest. They did snog last night (four nights ago) and John hadn't noticed a thing. Retractable fangs? They might fold back like a snake’s. John wonders while Sherlock digests his evidence.

"At Bart's with Mike Stamford?" Sherlock asks.

John startles. "What? Yes."

Sherlock abruptly looks much calmer, much more self-assured. He nods to himself, and John realizes he's somehow negated his own evidence.

"Sorry, no," John corrects. "Not Bart's here. Not this... place, not here. Not a place you know. In England. A different place. The same names, but a different place."

"Might I tell you about this 'place'?" Sherlock offers.

"No," John says. "I'm not from here, anywhere here. I'm from somewhere else. I'm different. You know I'm different. You can tell. I'm not whoever he was."

"He is a soldier," Sherlock replies, eyes flicking down to John's right side, his thigh. "Are you a soldier?"

The answer sticks in his throat.

"Yes," Sherlock concludes.

"I used to be."

"John, that's a poor lie. What's more, it's a sullen one."

"I'm a doctor."

"Defensive now."

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock smiles at him faintly. It could be John's imagination, but John knows his face too well, his nuances too thoroughly. "There's your temper," Sherlock remarks, as if he's opened the front door and let the cat in. "I did wonder where it had gone."

John takes a deep breath and fights down the urge to stand up and storm off. It takes some fighting.

"All right," he says instead. "Tell me about this place. Where we left and where we're going."

Sherlock smiles, all with his eyes, and begins.

back to purple

previous | next

Fic: No Fixed Point - 3a/5 (BBC Sherlock, immense AU of AUs)

bendingsignpost — Fri, 26 Jul 2013 23:35:49 GMT

Title: No Fixed Point
Rating: R
Wordcount: 11.6k/44.2k
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: The AU of AU's: First, he is shot in Afghanistan (again). Second, he wakes on a boat. Third is pain, fourth is normalcy, fifth is agony and sixth is confusion. By the tenth, he's lost hope.

(Original prompt: "ECM!John gets hurt again, and ends up with a few more lives. By overwriting Stranger at the Gate!John and Behavioral Modification!John." Thus, Watches 'Verse with Behavioural Modification and Stranger at the Gate. Prompted and filled here on livejournal. NOT an official continuation of any of these 'verses.)

Warnings: Partial character death, separation, vampire, blood, hypnotism

Red
Green
Purple and Gold
Orange
Blue

Another morning, another lack of Sherlock in the flat. John makes himself breakfast, dumps the mouldy bread, and does the shopping. He comes home to a still empty flat and makes himself tea, opening the fresh box of PG Tips.

I'm off to work, he texts. Let me know you're still breathing.

When he comes back from the clinic, he receives confirmation that Sherlock is alive and, if not well, certainly active. Shaking his head, John pulls out another scrap of paper and puts "tea" back on the shopping list. Fortunately, John had thought to hide an emergency box.

Going to the loo, he discovers Sherlock's door is closed. It wasn't earlier. He chews his lip, considering it. They do need to talk. They're going to have to, if only to confirm whether John should move out.

He settles for a light knock.

No answer.

He checks his phone for texts. Nothing. He waits at the door.

Eventually, he walks away and sits on the sofa, angled to see the hall. Sherlock won't leave without him noticing, which is the best he can muster at the moment. He turns on the telly but doesn't technically watch it.

The buzz of the doorbell comes as a surprise. Realising that Mrs. Hudson is out, John heads downstairs before the noise sends Sherlock into a fit.

"John, there you are," Lestrade says, more of a sigh of relief than a greeting. "Thank God," he adds, as if to make sure John has noticed his tone.

John frowns. "What's wrong?" Oh, Christ, no. Was Sherlock's room empty, the door simply closed on the prat's way out?

Lestrade frowns back at him. "I thought... Sorry, never mind. Is Sherlock in? He's not responding to my texts. I called, but it went to voicemail."

"I think he's upstairs," John replies, leading the way. "What's this about?"

The concern radiating from Lestrade spikes once again. "The case?" he asks pointedly.

"Well, yes," John says, trying to play it off as obvious. "I meant more of the specifics. You wouldn't be here if you didn't have new information."

"Fair point. Think I'll save the telling for both of you, if you don't mind the wait." Now Lestrade knocks on Sherlock's door, much harder than John had. "Sherlock!" No reply. Lestrade levels a look at John.

John nods and opens the door himself. He sticks his head in.

Sherlock is on the bed, on his side of the bed, and his unconscious body is tense in its curl around John's pillow. His arms are locked about it, face buried. He's fully dressed, down to his shoes.

John immediately retreats and pulls Lestrade down the hall after him. "If he's collapsed on his own, he needs the sleep," John states in his best Captain Doctor voice. "I can record anything you need to say on the laptop—the microphone works now."

"Look," Lestrade says, "I don't want to pry—"

"Then don't," John finishes for him, quick and firm. "He's having a hard time right now. I'd rather not go into it."

"Fair enough. But it's always a worry when he shows up at a crime scene without you in tow."

"Sorry about that. My actual job, you know how that is."

"Oh, do I."

John makes them tea and Lestrade tells him about the case. They must be loud enough to wake Sherlock at last, or perhaps the man's body is simply that resistant to sleep. He shuffles into the sitting room, clothing rumpled, eyes blank, and he stares at the scene before him, Lestrade in Sherlock's armchair, John in his own.

"Get out."

Lestrade blinks. John can't fault him his surprise. For all the words are often shouted, he's never known Sherlock to say them like that, to simply state the command. It ought to sound hollow, empty as a cave, but there's an echo of something living in its undertones, the reverberating cries of something lost and hurt in the dark.

"I've told John the details," Lestrade begins, standing.

"Both of you," Sherlock clarifies. "Get out."

John sets down his tea and stands as well, ignoring how Lestrade is gaping by now. "C'mon, Greg."

He doesn't exactly remember the short walk outside. It's very numb, that much is clear.

"Really, what is he on about?" Lestrade glares up at the window.

"It's actually a very bad time," John says. "I can't give you the details, but—" He clears his throat. "He's not just having a sulk."

Lestrade's eyebrows shoot up. Another glance up to the window, and his expression softens only marginally. "That so."

"He's handling it surprisingly well, actually."

"This is handling it well?"

John considers Sherlock as he was that first morning, the simple assumption of contact as their bodies woke side by side. He considers the single bed and the joint office. Whatever John has with his own madman, this Sherlock had experienced to an even greater degree with his blogger.

"Amazingly well," John confirms, and his voice breaks on the first word.

Lestrade looks at him for a moment, then looks away. He puts his hands in his pockets. "Right, then."

"Sorry. About him. The case. Whatever trauma he's caused." His voice strengthens as he speaks. If he keeps speaking, perhaps they'll forget about that little moment.

Lestrade makes a face at that, shrugging. "Hardly your fault."

Christ. John manages a good neutral expression. John manages his way through the remaining moment of conversation before Lestrade leaves. He honestly has no recollection of what he's said once Lestrade is gone. Then, John goes for a walk. A long one.

He texts Sherlock from the far side of Regent's Park. Should I stay at Harry's?

The response arrives before he can pocket his mobile.

No. SH

He walks a bit longer.

Then he goes back to the flat. He hangs up his coat and finds Sherlock on the sofa in the sitting room. The telly is still on the channel John left it. John picks up his laptop, opens it, and reviews the latest blog entries. Always good to know what people will try to speak with him about.

"He didn't notice."

The words take a moment to register. John looks up, looks to the sofa. "Sorry?"

Sherlock waves his hand, a dismissive flick. He glares at the ceiling. "Lestrade. Your impersonation passed muster."

"'Impersonation'?"

"Yes, when you pretend to be someone you're not and successfully deceive others," Sherlock replies. "That is what it's called."

"Hold on now—"

"What you do in Chelmsford," Sherlock adds. "After three years of practice there, it must have been easy to slip into the role here. Mrs Hudson hasn't noticed in the slightest! The clinic too—everything's perfectly normal, isn't it?"

John shuts his laptop with a solid click, wanting to slam it. "I didn't do this on purpose."

"No, only the research," Sherlock acknowledges. "Compulsively scanning for differences, checking the newspapers, checking the blog—you're very efficient. I imagine it helps that the role is similar. It's not technically lying when you have the same name."

"Do you know what happens when I don't cover?" John demands. "No, really. Do you have any idea what happens to someone when they lose their memories and start talking about interdimensional sleep travel? You’re sectioned, Sherlock, not believed."

"And you know this from experience?"

John shakes his head. "No. And I don't care to."

Sitting up, Sherlock rolls his eyes and opens his mouth.

"No," John interrupts. "We're not trying that. It was bad enough in Chelmsford, back at the start. I had no idea who anyone was, barely knew where I was going. It was the worst experience of my life and I've been shot twice—I've been shot fatally."

"That was the worst," Sherlock repeats, voice even. His gaze is level, very, and John has the sense of a trap about to close around him.

Fine. So be it. John barrels in further. "It was. I would fall asleep in pain and wake up there, and then it would be a day of reverse culture shock. The way I stood alarmed people. I would walk down a hall and people would ask me what was wrong, and I couldn't tell any of them, because then I would be crazy. I'd look in the mirror and it wouldn't be me. It was the only place I didn't hurt in some way, but it wasn't my body. But I was still a doctor, still responsible, still every damn thing I was supposed to be, except it's not really mine, is it? I'm a steward in my own body. I take care of his house and his car and his friends, and that is the best I can do, because I don't know when he's coming back. Yes, fine, I impersonate him. It's that or be sectioned."

Sherlock stares at the far wall rather than look at him. "Excuse me if I don't find your guilt a comfort."

"I don't expect you to."

Sherlock’s glare snaps back to John.

"I'm a placeholder,” John continues. “I know that. But a body needs someone in it to run it, so until he comes back to do the job, I'm going to keep moving and breathing. Unless you'd rather give up hope. There's a gun upstairs I can always put in my mouth. It's not me it'll end. Or him either, if you really think he's not coming back."

Sherlock's face is very pale. Noticeably more so.

"Or I can go on lying to people," John says.

Sherlock looks down and closes his eyes.

"Should I go on lying, then?"

Sherlock nods. In his silence, the news on the telly is loud and obnoxious.

"Sorry," John says after a pause. "That was harsh."

"Necessary," Sherlock corrects, a rasp to his voice.

They go out later. John doesn't know where to until Sherlock gives the cabbie the address, and he doesn't know what they're doing until Sherlock ducks behind some bins. John hides as well, they wait, and a bit of a chase ensues. John tackles a man, which is excellent. It's a very rewarding practice, tackling criminals. John restrains the fellow while Sherlock deduces at them and they wait for the police to arrive. It's very neat, surprisingly so, and when Lestrade arrives in the police cruiser, relief bursts across his face.

For a short while, everything is quietly, naturally normal. Sherlock interrupts John while he's trying to give his statement, Lestrade talks over the interruptions, and John tampers down a grin.

Once they're finished, they go out for Chinese.

"Did you come here after the bit with the cabbie?" John asks.

Sherlock nods, breaking apart his chopsticks. "I'm assuming you did as well."

John nods. "Both times."

"Both?"

"Well, not both," John allows. "I only had to get him the once. Over in Digital, though, I emailed Jennifer Wilson. The pink lady? So she never took that cab. And I sent in an anonymous tip to the police. I found out the next day there they'd arrested him."

"And then you went for Chinese on your own?"

John shakes his head. "Not that night. The night before, I staked out the college, just to be sure. No one showed up. So I had dinner."

The waitress comes and the pair of them order in unison, both men ordering the same dishes for the table. There's an awkward pause and a nervous chuckle all around.

"Do you running around saving everyone, then?" Sherlock asks once the waitress has moved on.

"Where I can." John shrugs a little. "It's... odd. Because every time I make a move, I make it all drift apart a little more. Eventually, the differences might mean my foreknowledge will be gone."

"How big of a difference can you make?" Though doubtful, he's not dismissive.

"Well," John says. "You. For a start."

Sherlock frowns.

"Did I mention you're dead in Chelmsford?"

"You did."

"Did I mention that Moriarty didn't blow up Baker Street? Or that the nine million quid hairpin was never found? Or that the painting was accepted as real? No idea what happened to the missile defence plans, but there might be something there too. It stacks up."

A pause for consideration, then the nod. It's flattering, in a way, being complex enough that Sherlock needs to stop and think. "But you still try to save everyone," Sherlock repeats.

"The people I've met or seen dead," John replies. "Yes. Beyond that, not really. Have to put a limit on it somewhere."

The waitress brings the tea. They thank her and remain silent as John pours.

"How well have you navigated the language barrier so far?" Sherlock asks.

John looks at him, tries to find the words to explain it, and has a few nervous giggles as a response.

Sherlock frowns. "That poorly? No, not poorly. Something else. What?"

"You're not going to believe this."

"Oh, yes, because the situation was reasonable until now."

John laughs again and explains.

Sherlock stares at him.

"I'm not lying," John says.

"I can see that," Sherlock replies. "That's why it's so bizarre. Hypnotism doesn't work that way."

"I know," John agrees. "It's... very strange." To say the least.

Their food arrives and they respond with a coordination born of long familiarity. This plate here, that one there, the sauce goes to Sherlock's side of the table and Sherlock asks the waitress for another pair of chopsticks before John inevitably drops one of his on the floor.

As they eat, Sherlock asks after what John has learned since the last time they discussed his condition. Most of what John has to report is about the boat universe.

"Mind you, it's a bit blurry over there."

"How so?"

"It's a boat without fresh water," John says. "I think I’ve been put off beer for life."

Sherlock grins faintly at his look of disgust.

Much later, when they walk home, John carries the leftovers in their cartons, the stapled paper bag in one hand.

"Who else knows?" Sherlock asks as they wait for a light to change.

"Hm? Oh. About me? My flatmate in Analogue."

"Who you still haven't seen."

John shakes his head, eyes on the traffic.

"Was he aware another John Watson might cast you out of your body?"

"We talked about it, yeah. At least, I talked about it, and he told me to shut up."

They walk across the street.

"Then I'm the only one you talk to," Sherlock concludes.

"I tried explaining it to the one on the boat, but I don't think he understands yet."

"I see."

They walk a bit farther.

"I'll take the sofa tonight," Sherlock says.

"No. I'm shorter."

"I'm aware of your height. I'll take the sofa."

"No offense," John says, "but I'd rather not. I orient when I wake up and, well. Analogue watch, waking up in your bed... I don't want to raise my own hopes like that."

Sherlock considers. Nods. "You've been wearing it upside-down."

"Have to differentiate somehow. I don't really need to—it's very obvious—but it helps."

"Are you doing anything in the boat world?"

John shakes his head. "The homespun clothing is a bit of a giveaway."

Sherlock huffs a laugh and John laughs with him.

"Are we okay?" John asks, after. "Because we've just met, but you are the closest thing I have to a best friend at the moment."

Sherlock doesn't look at him, but he does nod.

"Okay," John says. It's a start, and a better one than he'd thought he'd have.

The next day down in Wandsworth, John makes a point of making a few suggestions to Maggie. Anything she wants to do with her friends, she should do—within reason—and if Derek wants an adult to tag along, it can be John. "Best friends are important," John says.

In the end, Maggie rings Alison up. She shifts a bit, biting her lip as she nods to the rings and John nods at her encouragingly. After, Maggie fidgets and fidgets until Alison calls back with the confirmation: she and that boyfriend of hers can do something on Saturday. The boyfriend wants laser tag. Maggie agrees, her eyes lighting up.

"John?" she asks, grinning wide.

"Yes?" John asks, already grinning back.

"Will you come shoot everyone?" She bites her lip and does an excellent impression of a puppy.

"What?" Derek calls in from his bedroom/office.

"Nothing!" the pair of them shout back in unison.

"Should I be concerned?"

"No!"

Considering that John spends the afternoon teaching Maggie hand signals and creeping across the apartment in improvised stealth drills, perhaps some concern is warranted.

It's all very James Bond. John says this, Derek finally comes out to play, and the night closes with the three of them on the sofa, Maggie and the popcorn in the middle, watching a mini-marathon of Bond.

John's good mood lasts through the night, unfailing even in the face of terrible smells and pointy elbows in his side. The smell isn't so bad, now that he's had time to acclimatize, and he stops minding it in a few minutes after waking.

He pulls himself out of a familiar hold, leaving Sherlock to grunt in his sleep, his long arm searching for the missing heat source that is John. Certain parts of John's body take an interest in this, which John's mind pointedly ignores. John sits on the chair, lacing up his boots, before taking to the ship. He talks today, which is new.

Also incredibly overdue. He finally gets a few questions in about where they're going. He learns, almost incidentally, that no one is terribly confused by John's accent, seeing as this language, something like "Frank" (or "Franc"? "Frainc"?), is meant to be John's second language as it is. He asks everything he can about their destination, how much longer it will be (only two or three days left, two with good wind), and whether there's anything to drink besides beer (there is not).

He stands up on deck for a time, watching the waves and the ship itself. As the sun climbs, the sails glow gold. Once the unrelenting heat becomes too much, even for a soldier formerly in Afghanistan, John retreats below deck. Sherlock has moved from their cabin. Where to, John can't be sure. For a moment, he thinks to search, but then he realises that he is, for once, alone.

He closes the door, pulls out the bucket they shit in, and considers whether it's too soon to wank in this body. He lights the candle to make sure he'll be able to aim at least a little, which is essentially the moment he decides it's not too soon. He spends far too much time pressed against Sherlock, and now that the man's illness is improving, their motions in bed have become less sympathetic and more deliberate. Despite everything John's said to him—or tried to say to him, rather—there's a definite sense of expectation coming from Sherlock.

Hopefully, John will be able to explain the situation fully before the issue is pressed. That should be interesting either way. Once the coughing stops, John won't have any other excuse to not kiss him.

All right, this isn't helping. This body hasn't had a wank in days, possibly longer. John unfastens his belt opens his trousers and stands awkwardly between door and bucket. On second thought, he sets the chair in front of the door and secures it there with his foot.

He closes his eyes and lets himself think. The first thing he'll do to Sherlock when he gets home, what will that be? There will be snogging, of course, after the convincing. Yes, John is back, John is home, all is well, let's celebrate, come here, you. So, snogging first. Breathless snogging they try to speak through, messy and determined. They'll shove at each other's clothing, not their own.

Underwear down now. He starts with just his left hand, his right on the bunk to steady himself with the rocking of the ship. Christ, this hand is rough. Okay, that's strange. That is really fucking strange. It comes to the edge of putting him off, but it's been days, and John has only been wanking in his usual universes as it is.

Fingertips, not palm. Try for teasing. Bit less weird. Bit less like Sherlock, too. He'd be all rush, John's first time back. This, though, this is more a few days in. More sure of each other again, more willing to take it slowly. He closes his eyes again, picturing Sherlock kneeling over his legs, smug and chiding as John pushes for more skin. Fingertips stroking John's thighs, a right tease. Stroking and, wait, what's this?

John shifts a bit and draws the candle nearer. Are those pox marks? There's a number across the top of his right thigh. But not his left. Curious. Odd sort of puncture marks, he sees now, not pox at all. It's not illness, doesn't look to be a needle, and unless this John Watson fell naked into a small patch of brambles, the cause isn't obvious. John tries to imagine what might have caused that, but he's no Sherlock Holmes, and he has an erection besides. Limited window of time means he has to have priorities. He'll ask Sherlock about the marks later. John doesn't doubt the man has seen them.

He resumes his wank and manages to push through the strange texture of his palm. It's far from satisfying and close to abysmally lonesome. He cleans up as much as he possibly can, blows out the candle, and sits on the bunk for a few minutes. Once he thinks his recent activities won't be completely obvious, he goes out and rejoins the ship.

Sherlock is in the galley for once. Equally surprising, he's with a book. That's encouraging only until John sees the job the printers have done. Modernity is far away indeed. He sits next to Sherlock, wondering how much else might be out there if the printing press has been invented.

"Where'd that come from?" John asks.

"On loan from the captain," Sherlock answers, not looking up. "I finally badgered her into it."

No electricity, but a lady captain?

"What kind of...?" John asks. He leans forward, hands folded on the table between them.

For a long, very disconcerting moment, Sherlock stares at John's hands. Then he snaps his eyes up to John's face. "The word you're looking for is 'book.'"

"Book," John echoes. "What does it say?"

Sherlock begins the lengthy process of introducing a new concept. Familiar words build into the unfamiliar. "Things that happened where we're going. A long time ago. History."

Perfect. "Read it to me?"

Sherlock does.

Though John's vocabulary expands greatly from the experience, each word imprinted into his memory, the actual content of the history settles into only a vague outline. Certain noticeable bits jump out—"a very similar situation to you and that crossbow bolt, as it happened," Sherlock says of a bodyguard botching an assassination with his own body as a shield—and those are the ones John keeps.

Odd, how he'd not thought to look at his shoulder. The ache in the cold and the morning are too much a part of him to be wondered at. Then again, he's hardly taken his clothes off here. He can't wait for land and a good bath. Only a few days now.

Sherlock reads to him without pause or regard to their audience. The edgy looks the sailors give Sherlock improve somewhat at seeing them like this. John wonders how terrible their previous rows on the ship had been.

Eventually—John doesn't know how long it takes—someone else in the galley chimes in, another passenger John barely knows. They treat Sherlock warily, like a bomb of deduction about to break into insults at any moment. Must be a sensitive soul.

All told, John feels like he's stuck in the exposition portion of a film or a novel, and he presses his advantage there as long as he can. A curious expression and "No, of course I'm interested" bring him far. It also, over the course of the afternoon and then the evening, brings Sherlock to his side, then against his side, and then with his hand a motion away from possessiveness. When John laughs at a man's joke, Sherlock's hand lifts from the table and moves under it. The hand on his thigh is clearly some sort of warning. There's no tablecloth and it's not subtle in the slightest.

The tension returns.

John reaches under the table, elbow hitting Sherlock's arm, and takes the hand off his leg. He brings it back onto the table, threads their fingers together, and resumes the conversation as if nothing has occurred.

In hindsight, perhaps not the best decision for when they are inevitably alone. In practicality, perhaps the only way of demonstrating that Sherlock's mysterious mind control powers do not mean domestic violence is running rampant between them. Really, there's probably no way of doing that, but it does make everyone slightly less nervous.

Even with the protective display, Sherlock vanishes when it's time for dinner. John's side goes cold, missing the solid press of another body, but the benches soon grow crowded. The talk gets rougher, louder, more boisterous. It's more food than usual, the promise of shore relaxing the rationing.

The singing starts earlier than it usually does, but that might be the abundance of beer and yet more sorts alcohol that suddenly emerge from the cupboards. John sings along with a man slapping him on the back. It's a good, laughing time. Jokes and stories and something brown in a bottle with a stopper that tastes so much better than the piss-like beer. When prodded for a song, John responds with a hodgepodge of what Derek sings in the shower, rock and oldies and everything else besides.

This confuses everyone, of course, so they demand he do it more. Drinks all around again. John decides the best thing to do would be to stand up and sing Bohemian Rhapsody, just for the hell of it, but he forgets the words less than halfway through. This goes over incredibly well anyway, partially because of yet more of the brown stuff which hits John in the face. Metaphorically. It hits him in the face metaphorically.

So does the realization. That he's having fun. Right here. This. Having fun. This is a good time.

"Oh God!" he cries in English. "Where's Sherlock?" He stares blankly at a blank look. "Sherlock." Tries again. "Where is he? He doesn't like... this. Parties. Always off on his own. Sad. I gotta. Him. I'll him."

He tries to stand up and promptly falls on the floor. So he laughs. Because it's funny, because it's hard to stand on a boat, and because when Sherlock sees him, Sherlock will know John fell down and Sherlock will laugh too and John misses him.

So John staggers to his feet and keeps a hand on the wall and says goodbye to all of his friends, and he loves them, really, he does, he loves all of them, except for that fellow, him, he's a bit of a git, and John staggers down the hall and is very. Careful. On the stairs.

He succeeds at stairs, which is always a good sign, and he does not crack his head open by falling, because he does not fall. Though if he did fall and crack his head open, he might wake up back home. That would be nice. But uncertain, so he doesn't risk falling and cracking his head.

Except the floor is a bit damp, because this is a ship, and so he slips once he stops being so careful, and the ship lurches, because this is again a ship, and John laughs once he stops being so winded. He curls onto his side, giggling. He didn't crack his head. Good. Good, but still no Sherlock, none.

"John, what are you-? Ah."

And then there is.

"Sherlock," John says. He cranes his neck a bit. His face begins to smile for him. "Sherlock!" He flops his hand back in the direction of the galley. "You weren't there. So I came here."

"The word for your condition is 'drunk'," Sherlock supplies. John has already heard this word back in the galley.

"Lonely," John corrects, though he only knows the word in English. He sits up and takes a better look at Sherlock's face. It's a nice face. Very open, which makes John worry. Sherlock is worried and showing worry, so of course John worries.

He tries to stand up, but can't quite manage it with the swaying of the ship. Sherlock helps him. Sherlock pulls him close and half drags him. John is tucked under that arm, tucked like he fits there, like this is a place he belongs, but he doesn't, he doesn't and he's not about to.

Sherlock manoeuvres them into the tiny cabin and closes the door and then it's them and the candle on the table with the borrowed book. John sits on the bunk, then staggers off the bunk to take off his jacket. It's all damp. Don't want the damp on the bed. Sherlock even thanks him for doing that, an absentminded little word that John hears most during cases and mid-experiment.

In the dark, he's practically the same.

Sherlock reads him well, too well, always reads him too well. He steps into John, against him, and holds on as if Sherlock is the one in need of comfort. John holds on, and holds on, and Sherlock is much too thin, the man is practically starved. Where John touches, clothing falls away, which is strange, because John isn't the one doing that.

Then John has a shirtless man in his arms, which is nice, which is not something he would have thought a few years ago, which is a bit too much perspective to have at this moment. Even in the dark, especially in the dark, he knows this chest. "Sherlock," he says and looks up.

He should not have looked up.

Because looking up means Sherlock is looking down and they're looking at each other. And Sherlock's eyes are doing that soft thing they sometimes do, but usually only after orgasm or when he thinks John won't catch him at it.

So, no, the kiss does not come as a surprise.

The firm pressure, the heat. The overwhelming familiarity. No surprises. Even the sensation of having a bit of a beard while kissing, not a surprise.

Sherlock making a gagging sound after the first lick into John's mouth, that is a surprise.

John hurts himself laughing.

With more than a little bit of a flounce, Sherlock sits on the bed and pulls the sheet over his bare shoulders.

"Don't sulk," John urges. He climbs onto the bunk with Sherlock and remembers to take off his boots. Untying them is a little difficult, but he manages nicely. "There we are." He looks at Sherlock again. "Don't sulk."

Sherlock lifts an eyebrow, clearly sulking.

"Because," John says, "I am drunk. And right now I am happy. And in a... a..."

"Moment."

"In that. I'm gonna be sad."

Sherlock touches John's face. He scratches the beard a little, which is curious, but good. "Because you're on this ship with me."

"Hm?"

"That's why you're sad."

John nods.

"You want to go home."

John nods. He sets his back against the wall and slides sideways, shoulder against Sherlock's arm. He plops his head on that hard shoulder.

Sherlock shifts a bit. John allows himself to be shifted. Sherlock begins to pet his hair again, which is very nice.

"That's very nice," he says.

"Come here," Sherlock says.

John does. He knows Sherlock likes him like this, sitting on his thighs. He holds onto those shoulders and sets his forehead against that long neck and ignores the rocking of the ship. A hand in his hair, a hand up and down his back.

Once his knees hurt, John eases back. This seems familiar, is familiar, but the setting is very wrong.

"Any better?" Sherlock asks.

"I want to go home."

Sherlock touches his face. "Someday. I promise you that."

"You can't. No one can promise that. I can't promise that."

"Quiet." This kiss is hard, upset.

John opens his mouth, huffs out a breath, and the tongue meeting his doesn't shy away a second time from the taste of alcohol. It's wet and messy and it's like scratching the wrong bit of skin, it's like rubbing an itch through trousers. It's close enough to what he needs that it might be what he wants.

The air is cold against his skin. The sheet is rough. John breaks the kiss by pulling Sherlock down on top of him, which is probably not how this should go. His cock continues its attempts to resist the horny stupor of alcohol. It likes Sherlock's hand, even through his trousers.

"Not going to happen," John tells him, pulling that hand away. "He's fallen and he can't get up."

"You don't want to?" God, the fear in that voice. Not rejection: fear.

John hugs him tight. "I'm drunk."

Sherlock remains tense against him until John pets his hair. Once John has the strands between his fingers, Sherlock positively melts. It's amazing hair. John's is in a bad state. No showers, no baths. Sherlock's is soft and fluffy and not actually the texture it should be. John would wonder about that, but Sherlock starts moaning against his neck, and then there is licking and kisses and this is very nice, but it's not helping with the guilt.

John eases him back.

Sherlock frowns down at him. "What have I done wrong now?"

John shakes his head. Distraction, he'd had an idea for a distraction, what was, oh, right. "Think," John says. "You, um. I want you to, to look. And think. And tell me. About what you see."

"Deduce."

"Yes! Yes, that."

The frown deepens. "What, now?"

John nods. "Scars." He touches his own chest.

Sherlock looks. Sherlock looks and he touches and John remembers all the mornings his madman played the violin for him, musical associations of home. John remembers the care of loosening the bow strings and setting the instrument away. The unthinking reverence in those hands.

Sherlock tells him things John will want to remember come morning, but he forgets many of them immediately. Most of them immediately.

He remembers when Sherlock opens his trousers. He remembers lying there so relaxed and watching, feeling the touch to his thigh. The palm against his leg, the thumb stroking the marks.

"Me," Sherlock states, and when John looks, Sherlock is staring directly into his eyes. "These are mine."

Experiment, John translates. John rolls his eyes, a grin pulling unevenly at his mouth. "The things I let you get away with."

Sherlock stares down at him.

Sherlock stares down at him for a long time.

John reaches down and pats Sherlock's hand. He tugs at his trousers, urging them up. Sherlock helps with this.

John turns his face against the pillow. He pulls at the blanket, and Sherlock lies down, covering them both. Sherlock gathers him up.

Eyes closed, heart strange, John begins to doze. Almost there, getting there, and Sherlock murmurs into his ear. The pronouns are simple, "you" and "I", but the verb is one Sherlock hasn't used before. It's one Sherlock may believe John doesn't know.

John wouldn't, if not for tonight, if not for the singing. But love songs are love songs, and that's enough to teach one word.

He falls asleep pretending not to have heard.

Part B: gold

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Fic: No Fixed Point - 2/5 (BBC Sherlock, immense AU of AUs)

bendingsignpost — Fri, 19 Jul 2013 20:58:16 GMT

Title: No Fixed Point
Rating: R
Wordcount: 8.9k/44.2k
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: The AU of AU's: First, he is shot in Afghanistan (again). Second, he wakes on a boat. Third is pain, fourth is normalcy, fifth is agony and sixth is confusion. By the tenth, he's lost hope.

(Original prompt: "ECM!John gets hurt again, and ends up with a few more lives. By overwriting Stranger at the Gate!John and Behavioral Modification!John." Thus, Watches 'Verse with Behavioural Modification and Stranger at the Gate. Prompted and filled here on livejournal. NOT an official continuation of any of these 'verses.)

Warnings: Partial character death, separation, vampire, blood, hypnotism

Red
Green
Purple and Gold
Orange
Blue

Sherlock closes the door behind them, shrugs out of his coat, and demands, "Tell me everything from the beginning."

John does. While John does, he makes tea, because this is one of those talks where tea must be present regardless of whether anyone drinks it. He's explained the watch system and the basic rules of his condition by the time it's steeped. By the time it's cool enough to drink, he's explained the degree of drift between his lives.

Sherlock's expression turns odd at the first sip, a moment of confusion John doesn't understand.

"Sorry, something wrong?" Had John somehow influenced his madman's tea drinking habits differently here?

Sherlock's frown only deepens. He shakes his head, gestures for John to continue.

John does. Chelmsford, Afghanistan, Grant Road, Baker Street.

"Specifics, John. You lost consciousness at the pool—how?"

"I tackled him into the water when he shot the bomb," John explains. "Landed on my shoulder—I'd already mucked it up fighting the Golem—and I passed out."

"I shot the bomb?"

"No, he shot the bomb," John corrects. "Going by your tone, you didn't shoot the bomb."

Sherlock shakes his head. "I was going to."

"What happened instead? Mycroft's rescue team jump in earlier?"

"No. Moriarty's phone rang."

John's eyebrows attempt to rise off his head. "And?"

"And then he decided to leave," Sherlock supplies, furrowed brow speaking volumes. Clearly, John isn't the only one mystified by this. "Annoyingly anti-climatic."

"I nearly drowned," John counters. "Then I spent the next five days being very unhappy."

"When you say 'unhappy', you mean murderous."

"I did shoot the Golem, yes," John admits.

Sherlock gives him a look over his mug.

"To be fair, it seemed like a good idea at the time."

Sherlock laughs at that, a silent puff of air before he angles his face away.

John grins back, has to grin back. If he doesn't have Sherlock here, doesn't have Sherlock on his side, he doesn't know what he'll have to do. It's already a safe guess that he'll be sleeping on the sofa.

"Anyway," John says.

"Mm. So the differences between our realities originate at or before early April."

John nods. "Sounds about right."

"What happened between the day we met and the pool?" Sherlock prompts. "The most significant thing you can think of."

"I realized I was bi," John says without hesitation. It's still strange to say, but it fits his mouth now, an oddity that is nevertheless true.

Sherlock blinks at him. "Then our realities diverged a significant time ago."

"What, really? How significant?"

"Rough estimate of twenty-five years."

"...fuck. Sorry, I don't mean—Well, no. Fuck. So much for being close to my usual life."

"But still closer than in the sixth reality." Less a correction and more prompting, but everything sounds like a correction from Sherlock.

"That one is pretty far off from everything," John confirms. "I've checked everywhere, and there's no sign of modern technology. At all."

Sherlock gestures for him to continue. John does. He describes the boat in as much detail as possible, the food, the drink. He describes the sailors, the clothing he'd woken in, the bunk, the stench and humidity and noise below decks. He relays the parts of the language that he remembers, and this is what brings out the notebooks and laptops.

"And you're certain that's the basic numbering system?"

"Counting to ten is probably the easiest thing to teach," John points out. "I'm sure."

They keep searching.

"You're sure that's the pronunciation?"

"I'm sure."

"Because the International Phonetic Alphabet warps from accents, John."

"Look, that's how he said it."

They keep searching.

"It might not be a modern language," Sherlock says.

"Yeah, the wooden buttons and lack of plumbing were a hint," John agrees with a sigh. He stands up from his hunch, too long spent peering over Sherlock's shoulder at the table. He sits down across from him.

Sherlock keeps searching. He looks just like himself, the way he always does. It feels oddly normal. Comfortable, familiar. Then John thinks about lying in bed this calendar morning, wrapped up in this man, and simply feels awkward. He thinks about following this man to bed—not taking him to bed, just sleeping—and something inside him shies away in apprehension.

God, this is strange.

John shakes his head and continues writing down everything he can think of. He draws out a daylist since his last day in Afghanistan. Eventually, he realizes Sherlock is reading it upside down.

"You're missing one of your Londons," Sherlock observes.

There's an unspoken question there, but John doesn't answer it.

"Do you have a four-reality limit?"

"This didn't come with a book of instructions, Sherlock," John snaps.

"Meaning you have no idea."

"Yes. That's what it means." And he hates having it shoved in his face.

"So you can't tell me whether the proper owner of that body is dead or simply relocated," Sherlock continues, his voice uniformly level.

John hesitates. "I honestly couldn't say."

"And the permanence of this condition?"

"I've, um." He glances down at his lap, has to force his eyes back to Sherlock's face. "I've been like this since October. So, for me, that's three years. Nothing besides being shot has ever made my realities change."

"And trauma causes you to wake in Chelmsford," Sherlock continues, still devoid of reaction.

"Typically, yes. But not anymore."

Sherlock is quiet for a very long time.

"Would you—" Sherlock begins. Stops. He might be thinking better of saying it. Sherlock Holmes might be thinking better of saying something. "I realize there's a dearth of technology in the boat reality, but should you locate a firearm, would you consider shooting yourself?"

"No," John replies.

"No?" Sherlock asks, the question glaringly casual.

"No," John repeats. "I don't know if it's the injury or the injury in Afghanistan that causes the splitting. Not to mention I'd be killing an innocent man." If he hasn't already. Three realities now, three that aren't part of his own life. Those three John Watsons: erased or evicted? He might never know. "It would destroy any chance of that John Watson getting home either."

"I didn't ask you to shoot yourself fatally."

"Oh, no, because gunshot wounds in pre-industrial societies aren't prone to infection," John replies. "That wouldn't be a horrifying way to go at all."

"If you don't take that risk, you'll require a translator for the rest of that life," Sherlock counters.

"So when we can understand each other enough for me to explain and that Sherlock Holmes asks me to kill myself here, you want me to say yes to that too?"

"Obviously not."

"And what makes you different?" John asks. "Because I woke up in his bed too. What makes you different?"

"I asked first," Sherlock answers simply.

"Sorry," John says. "Sorry, that's really not good enough. Look, I can't do anything about whatever's happened to their minds, but I can keep their bodies safe for them."

Sherlock looks down into his mug. No tea left now, not for some time, but Sherlock has carried the mug with him. "You have a gun at Grant Road," he says. "You shot the Golem, you must have—"

"No," John says, shaking his head, shaking just the once but as hard as he can. "No, no, bad. Not good, Sherlock."

"You'd live."

"That's the last body I have that's actually mine," John says. "No."

"Not necessarily true. It could potentially provide you with realities splintering from that life," Sherlock counters.

"Where I would have still shot myself. Which hurts, in case you didn't know that," John tells him. "I prefer not being shot. If you can imagine. I'm not shooting myself."

"Not even a graze?"

"No."

Sherlock looks down at his mug. "Fine."

"Look, I'm not going to stop trying to think of a way out of this," John says. "I do mean that. Not exactly happy myself, thanks. He's probably trying to find a way back here too. Something could crop up that doesn't involve self-harm."

"Probably."

"Probably crop up, yes—"

"No, you said 'probably trying to find a way back'," Sherlock interrupts. "Why 'probably' for him when you're definitely?"

Because this Sherlock's flatmate might be dead. Overwritten. Gone.

"Because," John says, "it's possible my showing up split this reality and he went off on that side without noticing the difference. I don't know. I cannot know, Sherlock."

By Sherlock's absolute stillness, it's clear Sherlock hadn't considered this.

John waits.

When he's done waiting, he stands up, picks up both of their mugs and returns to the kitchen. Time for more tea.

"Coffee," Sherlock calls.

"What?"

"Coffee."

Huh. All right.

By the time that's done, John thinks the choice of beverage was a distraction tactic. That, or it's growing late.

"Do I have work tomorrow?" John asks.

Sherlock grunts at his computer.

"Sherlock."

"What?"

"Do I have work tomorrow?"

"Yes, ten o'clock."

"Okay."

There is a very long pause.

"You're not sure where you work," Sherlock surmises.

"No, actually."

There is another very long pause.

John clears his throat. "Any chance you're actually going to tell me?"

"Oh, please, as if it's not obvious."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock's shoulders are smug. The back of his head. John has no idea how he does that.

Obnoxious, but still better than a sulk, John decides. John does a bit of his own investigating and discovers where his counterpart's schedule is kept upstairs. Nicely in the desk, very much where he would have put it himself. It's probably the only convenient aspect of all of this.

After a bit of thought, he fetches spare sheets for the sofa from the linen closet and finds some pyjamas too. When he returns to Sherlock's side in the sitting room, he's treated to about an hour of Guess the Ship Type, the results inconclusive. By the end, he's yawning.

"I'm going to sleep upstairs," John says. "When I wake up—whenever I wake up—it's going to be four days later for me, all right? So I'll have something to report back in about."

"You don't have a bed upstairs here," Sherlock answers without looking at him. He's getting very good at that.

"No, but I'm less likely to be woken before morning if I'm up there."

"Take the bed. I won't be sleeping."

"All right," John says. When he goes up to the sofa instead, Sherlock doesn't notice.

John wakes up, takes a shower, and attempts to apologize to Derek via newspaper sharing. Typically a quiet procedure involving John asking "Could I look at this?" before reading every section Derek hands to him, it fails terribly when John can't actually sit still.

He's back in his own body.

His only own body.

Christ, that's disturbing.

Not that it's his body. That's the one thing that's comforting. That he's spending three fourths of his time in other people's bodies now, that's the most disturbing thing he's ever done.

"John?"

"Huh, sorry, what?" No, stop, calm down. "Sorry, you were saying?"

Eyebrows raised, Derek pauses before he says, "Never mind."

It's a very jumpy morning. John's glad when Derek leaves for work. Unable to remember, John checks his schedule and finds he's not working today.

He takes a walk instead.

He takes a very long walk.

He's halfway across the city before he realises that, no, he cannot simply show up at 221B Baker Street asking if his Londons simply happened to fuse into this one. As if Sherlock would simply say, "Oh, that's where you went", and that would be the end of it. Except then John would have to wait until the rent ran out with Derek, give the man a spot of warning, and then come up and resume life as usual. As close to it as it ever came. And they'd laugh a bit for being so nervous.

Be a bit strange, trying to juggle Sherlock against Derek and the rugby lads. John doesn't think he'd mind. Probably lead to less rugby, but he's forty now, mentally at least. He doesn't need that much rugby.

He finds a spot to sit and not do stupid things before he actually shows up to look another Sherlock in the eye. Christ, this is going to be a long day.

"PTSD acting up again," John says that night. "I'm not—I'm not going to do anything stupid. I just... I'm a bit off. Sorry."

Derek looks at him over the screen of his laptop and nods. This is what Derek had assumed. This is what Derek always assumes.

"Thanks," John adds. "For putting up with me."

"I sing in the shower and you still don't kill me," Derek replies. "Think we're even."

John tries to grin a bit. They both do, really. It's terribly polite and makes John long to be a better friend. Friends aren't this terribly polite.

"I'm just plotting against you," John says. "Biding my time."

"Shame about that Hippocratic Oath," Derek answers, not batting an eye.

John laughs. It's a good laugh, doesn't hurt his throat at all. "'Night."

"'Night, John."

"Fuck-!"

His back, what has he done to his back?

He sits up from his hunch with a hiss and more than a few choice words. It takes him a moment, but he remembers: sleeping at the tiny table rather than the bunk. Some strange instinct makes him stare at his right wrist, at the lack of a timepiece there. No way of knowing how long he's been asleep. It feels like a while.

"...John...?"

John looks to where Sherlock is but can't see him in the dark. "Shush," he says gently.

Sherlock moves, audibly shifting back. His hand slaps against the bunk rather than simply patting it, a lethargic movement of gravity meant to summon.

Stretching buys him time to decide. The pain in his back tells him he's been asleep for hours, but it might be exaggerating. His stomach tells him it might be time for food soon, or it might be time to rethink the rations on this ship. He's not sure what his bladder can tell him.

A softer pat now, a double-tap to the thin mattress, and John nearly obeys from habit alone. He sits instead, perched on the edge of the bunk.

"You're memorizing everything I say, aren't you?" John whispers. He tries to pitch his voice beneath the rocking of the ship but nevertheless has a sense of interrupting the night. "I hope so. Well, whenever you sort English out, you should know that I did try to tell you from the start. I'm not your John Watson. I don't belong here. I don't know what you two were doing or where you were going. I am trying to fix things, but I don't know how. I just don't. I'm sorry. I don't know if your John is dead or safe or coming back or not. I'm sorry."

As John speaks, Sherlock's hand steals onto his. John pulls his hand away to scratch at his stubble. His hand feels strange against his face, his palm and fingers rougher.

"If I explain everything now, will you record it? No deleting. I probably shouldn't use computer terms for you, should I? No, bad idea. But I need you to listen. Sherlock, do you understand. I—me—I need—I need, Sherlock—you, listen." Gestures work poorly in the dark.

"What?" Sherlock asks. He coughs after that low rasp. Then: "Again."

John leans down. "You. Listen." He finds Sherlock's shoulder in the dark, touches his ear. "Listen." Touch his forehead. "Remember. I speak. You listen." Touching his ear. "You remember." Touching his forehead.

Sherlock catches his hand. Brings it back to his ear. "I listen." Forehead. "I remember."

"Good, yes. That's good."

"You speak." Sherlock's fingers manage to find John's mouth in the dark. They rest against his chapped lips, incredibly soft compared to John's hands here.

John turns his face away, but Sherlock's hand merely shifts to his neck, a smooth brush against his rough cheek leading it there. John catches him by the wrist. "Stop that. You need to stop that."

Sherlock responds in his own language, something like a low, challenging swear. It would sound sexy if he weren't wheezing.

"Shush. Listen."

Once again, John starts from the beginning and tells him everything. When someone hits the wall of the cabin adjacent, John leans lower, tries to speak more quietly, and this somehow escalates into John lying on his side, nose pressed into soft curls as he whispers into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock murmurs each word after John does, a continuous stream of sound that hopefully means memorization. Maybe it's helping the man learn. True to form these days, John has no idea. He talks as long as he has something worth saying, longer than he did even for that other London - now he has that other London to talk about.

By the time he's done, the morning movement about the ship has audibly begun. Realizing he could explain his flatmate's attempts to train his subconscious to music or he could find some breakfast, John concludes with "and that's the basic problem."

"...basic problem," Sherlock finishes a second later. A slight pause. "I remember. You speak, I remember."

"Good." John gets up, which means pulling away. God, he's exhausted already.

This time, John gets Sherlock to follow him to the galley with ease. Sherlock sits next to him, making conversation on John's behalf, and is oddly ignored when breakfast is distributed. When John opens his mouth to protest, he hears, "No. Shush, John," and a hand covers his under the table.

John pulls his hand away. He tries to eat breakfast without elbowing anyone or feeling seasick, but both are difficult this morning.

An uncomfortable moment arises when someone addresses him, a man he doesn't recognize but who seems to recognize him. John smiles back, a quick flicker of an expression, but it's clearly not enough. Sherlock leans in and murmurs, "John, speak," before giving a short statement that John repeats as best he can. John elbows Sherlock away as if his new accent is the other man's fault, and everyone laughs a little, expressions strained. John has no idea what any of that was about.

After that, they try to avoid further contact. John does, at least, and he begins to increasingly notice the odd looks it earns him. He tries to imagine how this must look, him going silent and trailing after Sherlock. This must look strange.

They hole up by themselves yet again, up on deck but out of the spray, and John's progress learning Sherlock's language continues at the barest crawl. It worries Sherlock, obviously so. Still, John is trying. He may not be a genius, but he's not an unintelligent man. It's simply too much to memorize all at once. He can't do what Sherlock can do.

They take breaks. Sherlock quizzes him after each one. Each time, John feels more inept.

Indecision begins to show on Sherlock's face. What over, John can't tell. He tries and fails to ask what's wrong.

"I speak," Sherlock says. Then, clearly meaning something else, he repeats, "I speak?"

John looks at him blankly.

Sherlock sighs. "I speak, you listen, you no remember. I speak, you listen, you remember."

John blinks at him. "I don't remember what you speak."

"You don't remember what I speak, yes," Sherlock agrees. "You remember what I speak."

"I... All right? I don't know what you're trying to say."

"All right?" Sherlock asks. His eyebrows are raised, his eyes wide.

John purses his lips, thinks it over. "All right," he says. He tries to sound confident, but that doesn't stop Sherlock from looking uncertain.

Biting his lip, Sherlock stands and reaches for John's hand. Hand holding must be more acceptable here for men. It's the only explanation John has for it. Maybe more casual? He doesn't know. John simply takes Sherlock's hand and lets himself be pulled up.

"Come with me," Sherlock tells him.

John nods.

Sherlock leads him down into the ship, farther into the stink and noise, until John realizes that there really is livestock being transported on this ship. Cows, all of them looking more than a touch uneasy until Sherlock enters the hold. Then they all quiet down. Mute and adoring, they stare at Sherlock as one animal.

"That's... creepy," John murmurs to himself.

The sailor keeping watch over the animals immediately looks uncomfortable. After a short conversation with Sherlock—very short—the two of them are left alone in there.

Sherlock gestures for John to sit on a crate. John does. Sherlock stands in front of him, leaning down. He enunciates clearly and carefully, but John can only recognize a fifth of the words he uses.

"I'm sorry. I still don't understand."

Sherlock nods, resigned. He closes his eyes and sets one hand on either side of John's face. Sitting down, John's uncertain how he'll be spun in circles this time. He closes his eyes as well.

"John. I speak, you listen, you remember."

"Yes," John agrees instantly. Of course. It's the only thing that makes sense.

Sherlock begins to speak in word-pairs, terms John already knows. He moves on to the terms John has taught him, providing new words, groups of syllables that John has been repeatedly told and has repeatedly forgotten. John listens this time. John remembers this time. Sherlock speaks and John remembers. John likes it when Sherlock speaks, likes the way the sounds catch in his ears, his mind.

He feels very relaxed. Not calm, but soothed. The way Sherlock cradles John's head between his hands, this is very nice. Sherlock's voice is very nice. Warm. John coaxes his eyes to open, temping himself with the sight of Sherlock's face. He pays attention all the while. Sherlock looks very concerned, very focused, and John wants to reassure him. Later, when Sherlock isn't speaking and John isn't learning to remember. Then, John will reassure him. He's not sure how. He'll think of something. He'll remember very well, and then Sherlock will be reassured. It's very important.

Looking nearly stricken, Sherlock shifts his hands against John's face. He closes John's eyes with a gentle touch, pad of each thumb brushing down an eyelid. John eases closer, needs closer if he can't see. He wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, sets his ear against the thin chest, and holds on. Sherlock staggers in the hold, sways with the rocking of the ship, but John has him. It's very important that John have him.

The words stop.

The words have stopped a long time ago.

John's sense of absolute safety begins to sport holes. His back aches. His mind twists into confusion. John shakes his head against Sherlock's shirt, against his buttons, and pulls the man tighter against him. Two hands stroke through his hair, alternating right and left. John would rather Sherlock keep talking.

"You listen. You understand?"

Sherlock's voice is less now, flat and stale. It doesn't sound wrong—it could never sound wrong—but it doesn't sound right.

Sherlock pushes him back, pushes him away. His hands hold fast to John's shoulders, so it's still all right. "You understand me?" Sherlock repeats. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes."

"John, look. Look me. Look me eyes here."

John looks up. The blanket of warmth that is listening and remembering is ripped away, torn by the sight of Sherlock's face. "You okay?" John asks.

Sherlock nods, clearly lying. "You okay?"

"I'm okay. All right." And another word more, a word John gives back to him. He knows he learned it, but he's not sure when.

This seems to reassure Sherlock, but not by much.

"You speak, I hear, I remember," John mumbles, reciting, and it's a moment before he realizes he didn't just say that in English. Wait, what? He shakes his head, shakes it hard. What just happened?

"You remember more, you speak more," Sherlock agrees, his hands steady on John's shoulders. He sways with the ship, riding its rocking, and John just wants to look at him. He wants to look at Sherlock and feel warm and taken care of.

Except John doesn't need that.

He doesn't want that.

"My head..." He touches his temples, but there's no pain to relieve, no pressure to release. There's nothing there. It's an itch he'll only worsen by scratching, a scab that won't heal if he picks at it, and the doctor in him says not to touch, to ignore it. The soldier in him seeks to obey.

But some other part, some deeper part that has nothing to do with roles or training, that part is screaming bloody murder.

"What did you do to me?" The words come out weakly. He sounds drugged. "What did you give me?"

"You're all right," Sherlock tells him, certain and seductively gentle. John wants to pull the man between his legs and press his face back against that chest. It would be lovely. Everything would be good, and safe, and perfectly fine, and what the fuck is he thinking?

John pulls away, tears away, slapping Sherlock's hands off his shoulders. He stands and stumbles, slipping in cow shit and straw, but he catches himself without touching the floor.

"John," Sherlock calls him, a soft warning, and John's attention snaps to him, simply snaps. It takes conscious effort to look anywhere else, to look instead at the cows, and the cows are all staring at Sherlock. All of them. Quiet and serene, every last animal in the hold has turned to look at Sherlock.

"You hypnotised me. Us. Everything in here, you just—Fuck, what did you do?"

Sherlock tries to respond, possibly to yell in turn, and it sends him into a fit of coughing. Immediately, the animals in the room come awake, shifting, making noise, breaking the lulling silence left in the wake of Sherlock's voice.

John darts out the door, slams it shut between them, and avoids a few sailors who look much less than pleased.

"You all right?" one asks in the language John's just learned. Christ.

"I'm fine. I'm fine."

"What's the—" strange word, curse? "—done?"

Already edging past, just keep going. "Sherlock?"

"Holmes, yeah. Watson!" the sailor calls after him.

"It's fine!" he yells back as he runs up the stairs. God, that's making too much noise. Everyone can hear. No, not everyone, or everyone would have been hypnotised, except hypnosis doesn't even work that way. Nothing works this way.

There's no way off a ship at sea, no way but to drown, but John needs a moment alone, John needs a moment to think, so he ignores the voice of reason telling him to find a crowd. Instead, he makes a beeline back to his cabin, their cabin, and the instant he's inside, he shucks his belt and uses that to bind the door shut. The latch has no lock. He shoves the small chair against the door as well. The table is built into the wall and he doesn't force that particular issue.

He yanks off his shoes, climbs into bed and tries to calm down enough to sleep. There's noise from outside, more casual speech than any sign of alarm, but John can understand it now. Snatches, bits, and the more he listens, the more that falls into place. Something inside his head has been taken out and rearranged, and now information is entering it so very easily.

He tries to breathe.

He tries to will himself unconscious.

It very much fails to work.

Before he can drop off, there's a knock at the door. A gentle knock, hesitant. John's recognised the footsteps. He knows who it is. It's not as if anyone else talks to him on this ship. It's not as if anyone else truly can.

John remains curled on the bed. He tries to keep his eyes closed, tries to drop off to sleep right now, but knowing Sherlock is on the other side of the door is unreasonably frightening.

This reality is different. This reality is clearly very different, and trusting Sherlock by virtue of him being Sherlock Holmes may not be a terribly good idea.

Listening to the man on the other side of the door simply stand there, John forces himself to think about that. To actually, honestly think about that.

Eventually, he hears Sherlock walk away.

He breathes easier for it.

He twitches awake in Chelmsford. He sits up and rubs at his eyes and stares at the wall opposite. He'd just been wondering when it would be time for lunch on the ship.

He gets up, goes to his desk, and begins to write down everything he can think of, spelling phonetically. The degree to which his vocabulary has expanded is incredible, and that only serves to unnerve him further.

Hypnosis doesn't work that way. It simply doesn't.

He takes a shower, a more thorough one than he needs. He's filthy on the ship, but his body there is accustomed to it. Remembering it while clean is what makes him feel dirty.

His mind wanders too much this morning and he keeps tightly to his routine. Filling out his daylist is a calming ritual. Then breakfast, then the car, then Marta and coffee. She starts talking about some new programme that was on telly last night and John lets himself hum and nod along.

The operating room is a comfort today. It's order and control, and it's not until John's washing up afterward that he realizes: he's forgotten to worry over getting home. He's distracted, too distracted.

Washing his hands, he closes his eyes and thinks of Sherlock, his Sherlock, his madman. He thinks of eating risotto on the floor, thinks of impatient cries of "hurry up!" in bed. He thinks about Mendelssohn on the violin and Sherlock's insistence that if trauma could send him to Chelmsford, other stimulus might be able to perform a similar function. He thinks until his heart is aching and his priorities are correct.

This takes approximately twenty seconds.

And then it hurts.

Not like being shot, not like bleeding out, but it hurts all the same. A desperate, stupid pain.

John finishes up his shift and goes home. Marta picks up on his mood and fills the silence with the comfortable sounds of familiar complaints. He takes her side, grateful to do it, to be unimportant in his own head for just a moment.

That night, lying awake, he remembers the man on the boat. Running mental fingers over the memory, he thinks of the way that Sherlock had begun to stress his words before taking John down into the hold. Speak and speak. Listen and no remember, listen and remember.

He thinks Sherlock may have been operating under the assumption of informed consent.

Christ.

He wakes to knocking, the rapping of knuckles against an open door.

"Hm?" John turns his head and blearily looks at the blue-striped sheets beneath his cheek. He startles awake, fully awake, adrenaline flooding his system, and then the sheets pull across the sofa. Just a sofa, not his bed.

"Do you usually wake up like this?" Sherlock drawls from the doorway, shoulder against the jamb. His shirt is rumpled, the same as it was here-yesterday, and there's a mug in his hand, the one Sherlock prefers for his coffee.

"Don't have much of a 'usually' left these days," John replies, shifting to sit rather than crouch over the sofa on hands and knees like a tense dog. "Any coffee left downstairs?"

"No." Sherlock sips the remains at him.

"Lovely."

A spasm crosses Sherlock's face, a car crash of emotion where amusement impacts grief.

"Sorry," John says.

Leaning against the door frame, Sherlock keeps his eyes on his mug. His silence has weight, has heft, and it falls with grace.

John gets off the sofa and folds the sheet. His spine gives a few good popping noises as he does. The sheets go to the arm of the sofa, the pillow atop them. He stretches a little and absently does the first of his shoulder exercises.

"Uncanny valley," Sherlock murmurs.

"Yeah," John says, then looks at him. "Could be worse, though."

"Oh?"

"Mm. The Digital London one, his eyes just slid off me the first time we met. No recognition. Bit disconcerting, a man with your face not knowing who I was," John readily admits.

"Meaning it's possible he's in a reality where the same applies," Sherlock says. John makes the pronoun jump just fine: Sherlock means his own John. They always mean their own detective or blogger when there's an unspecified "he", John is beginning to discover.

"Maybe, maybe not," John says.

"Oh?"

Envying Sherlock his mug, his object to hold and deflect with and bury his face in, John shrugs a little. "I told you how things were before I was shot again, didn't I? Right-wrist realities all have you dead from the cabbie's game."

"Yes, so?" Sherlock demands, entirely undisturbed by that particular detail.

"So," John says, "I'm willing to bet that most of you who are still walking around have met me."

Sherlock smirks. "And you think me egotistical."

John rolls his eyes. "No, I think you're an idiot."

The smirk shifts, the transition smooth. What it changes into, John's not sure. It's hard at the corners and soft in the middle, and the meanings behind the shine in those grey eyes are as limitless as starlight.

Sherlock slips into the hallway without another word, and when John follows him down the stairs to the loo, Sherlock hands him the remains of his coffee. "You obviously need the caffeine more," Sherlock tells him, entirely serious.

"I'll make another pot," John replies. "I don't take mine with sugar."

Another flicker across that face, a combination of indignation ("I know that") and resignation ("Yes, that's what I was asking") that John would prefer not to see.

Halfway through mucking around with the coffeepot, John considers tea instead. It's quicker and he does have the surgery to get to. When he checks the cabinet, he finds an empty shelf. He checks the other shelves and everything else is as it should be. On a hunch, he checks the rubbish bin, and there they are, all the tea bags they own. The pile of PG Tips is covered with peelings and shavings of something yellow and the bags look damp besides. More worrying is the Twinings, all the teabags that had to be torn out of their individual paper packets. It's literally all of their tea, used up for John-won't-guess-what.

Some late night experiment meant to take Sherlock's mind off things, he guesses anyway. Coffee it is, then. He gets dressed while it brews, absurdly awkward about pulling his clothing out of Sherlock's closet and getting dressed in Sherlock's bedroom. He's not actually sure where the hamper is. Sherlock's put away the shirt and trousers John wore yesterday. He debates over whether he's allowed to search for the hamper, but ultimately, he takes the path of least resistance and simply wears yesterday's pants.

He makes his toast and pours his coffee, moving as quietly as he can, but when he calls "Want another cup?", he finds Sherlock has already left the flat. His coat's gone, at any rate.

Disappointed to a degree that startles him, he fritters time away until leaving for his shift at the clinic. Everything is normal there, jarringly so. He and Sarah maintain the same pleasant, professional distance. Mr Clarkson is once again convinced he has an ear infection when it's his sinuses. Parents with coughing children refuse to understand antibiotics will not work on a virus. For all he doesn't recognize the receptionist—this reality is months ahead of his own, could be the reason—they fall into an easy banter when John's on his way out.

After that, returning to Baker Street without returning home is disconcerting in the extreme. Sherlock is still out. John's mobile holds no new texts. Out of a terrible curiosity, John makes the mistake of checking the older texts. Most of it is the usual Sherlock, addresses of crime scenes and instructions for the shopping, but some of it...

Molly still attempting to double date. Have informed her you are out of town. Act accordingly. SH

I'm already at Barts!

Not my problem. SH

Yes your problem. Dinner at 7 on Friday your problem.

John, no. SH

Too late.

John, no. SH

We're going.

John, no. SH

Did you set your phone on autoreply?

John, no. SH

Right, then. How about we stay home?

Offer excepted. You will be held to those terms. SH

He stops reading before he finds anything else more... more. He's smiling from it, yes, but....

He clears his throat and tries to find something to do. Fortunately, Mrs Hudson comes in with her shopping a short while later, and John can go down and help her unpack. It doesn't take much prodding for all the recent gossip to land in his lap. Thank God for Mrs Hudson. A cup of tea, a good talk, and John feels steady for the first time since he died.

Hours and a meal later, Sherlock is still out. After an absurdly lengthy debate over whether to text, John thinks better of it and goes back to sofa for the night. He tosses and turns, his room strange from this new angle, and just when he's about to give up and text Sherlock anyway, he blinks and finds himself on solid sheets and in a bed. Not feeling rested at all—does his body toss and turn while he's gone? he always wonders—he climbs out of bed all the same. When he checks his watch, it's close to ten: he forgot to set his alarm here-last night. Nowhere to go today, so he simply gets dressed and skips the shower.

"Is it Saturday already?" he asks, walking into the sitting room. The question is entirely rhetorical.

Magnolia Wilson looks up from her dad's laptop. "Hi, John."

"Hello. Want tea?"

The girl's eyes flick between him and the laptop screen, quick and wide. "I can get it."

"No, stop, I've got it," he interrupts. "Laptop's on you now—that's practically a cat."

He puts the kettle on and makes some toast. This long into their living arrangement, Derek's daughter has lost most of the shy awe that once would have had her helping—or taking over—in the kitchen regardless of whatever John said. John's not sure, but he has the odd feeling that he's entering into Uncle John territory. It's probably the most normal odd feeling in his life, though, so he's not about to complain.

In the sitting room, Maggie sighs.

John says nothing until the second sigh, which is when he realises that was his cue. He carries the tea in, sets it down, and likewise sets his problems off to the side. "Sorry, who's being an idiot now?" he asks.

Maggie makes a face up at him.

"Everyone?" he asks.

"Basically, yeah."

He sits down, Maggie complains, and most of it is honestly very repetitive. Most of it is about how she never sees one of her friends anymore.

"And Dad says Alison's going to wise up and dump him, but she's totally not. This could last for ages."

"Ages."

"Ages."

John nods and says, "It might."

Maggie blinks at him.

"I mean," he continues, "sometimes circumstances separate you from the people you care about-"

"John, my parents are divorced," Maggie interrupts. "I get that."

"Fair point."

Maggie fidgets a little on the sofa. "Sorry. You were saying?"

"Well," John starts anew, "these things always feel longer when you're going through them. You need to remember that you have more than one friend, which you do."

"Yeah, but Alison is my best friend," Maggie argues. "I mean, she's supposed to be. She used to be. But now she's off with her boyfriend and I'm fat and alone."

John lifts his eyebrows, thankful for the opening at levity. "Maggie, do I have to give you the body-mass index lecture again?"

True to form, Maggie ducks her head. "No..." A giggle lurks at the edge of her voice.

"Because I could. I have studies and graphs and all sorts of things," John keeps on. He keeps on until she's laughing and he tries to laugh a bit too. That's the limit of his abilities.

Right when he thinks they're in the clear, Maggie asks, "Do you have a best friend?"

And, Christ, it must show on his face.

"Oh, God, I'm sorry," Maggie backpedals immediately. "Sorry, Afghanistan, I forgot, I'm so sorry—"

He holds up a hand and tries to smile and says something he can't remember afterward, but it does make her stop looking quite so guilty.

"The thing about serving," he says once they're both on their laptops and don't have to look at each other. "It can muck things up. Deployment times, I mean. Not really sure who's waiting for who—" whom, a deep inner voice corrects "—whom. But we'll see each other again. It'll be good." And then because he's meant to be a responsible adult here and not someone who dumps his problems on a child, he adds, "Worse case scenario, you should invite Alison and her boyfriend to something."

At that point, Derek comes back from his mid-morning run, and by unspoken agreement, the pair behind their laptops stop airing their problems.

He wants to text Sherlock. Well, obviously he's texting Sherlock. The Sherlock here texts him now, and often. Showing off here, asking questions there. And John just... wants.

He might be tempted, but he already knows substitution is no solution.

A rumbling stomach wakes him and the unending stench immediately tells him where he is. Grumbling, he gets up and tries to see if there's any sort of dinner left to be had on this ship.

As it turns out, there is, but just barely. He gets a scolding for being late. The strangest part is, he's beginning to understand it. All the words, the way they fit together. It really was more than just a translation dictionary Sherlock crammed into his head. John has no idea how he did it. Days later and still without anyone to talk to about it, he doesn't know what to think. He wanted to talk this out with Sherlock in his new London, but then the man left and never came home.

Came back, John corrects. He can't think of that flat that way.

He eats his dinner listening to the talk around him, each moment feeling more and more back in the army. The more he understands, the better it is. He shouldn't be surprised by that, but he is.

When he dares, he joins in. Just a little. Agreement here, disagreement there, nodding along and smiling when others laugh. Eventually, he risks asking, "Where is Sherlock?"

The conversation around him trips, stumbles, and falls flat on its face. Everyone looks worried, and not casually so.

"Sorry," John says, and stands. He knows he can apologise correctly, if nothing else. "Sorry, I'll, um."

One of the sailors touches his arm, surprisingly delicate contact considering the sharp eyes glaring out from her blistered face. "It's all right," she says. She adds something else, something complicated that John can't entirely grasp.

"He's down with the cows," says another. At least, that's what John thinks was said.

John points downward, and the man repeats himself. Sherlock is with the cows.

"I, um."

"You'll be all right," the first sailor continues.

"No, sorry, I—There's been a..." John gestures as well as he can, considering he has no idea what he's gesturing. "It's all right." More all right, now that he knows he's surrounded by people who look at mind control automatically as assault. That's reassuring, frankly. "I need to talk to him."

"Are you—"

"It's fine," John says. "Thank you, it's fine." He exits the galley as quickly and politely as he can. He wonders, how much does this look like someone going back to their abusive spouse?

Lovely. Just add on another layer of complication. It isn't like he has enough going on, thanks. Just nearly, he didn't have enough to worry about. Glad to have that settled.

It takes some trying and some asking for directions, but he finds his way back to the hold with the cows. The scent and sounds are something of a hint. John lifts the latch and enters. The inside is dim, little light filtering in through the wooden grating in the deck above. The animals shift now, stirring at John's entry. That's how John sees him, by how still he is against the wall.

Sherlock doesn't look at him as John approaches, weaving carefully around the cows. Sherlock doesn't look when John stops in front of him, a respectful distance between their feet. Coat on even in the humid animal heat, Sherlock stands with his arms crossed, his face averted, his eyes distant.

"Thank you," John says. "I can talk now."

If it weren't so heart-wrenching, the look of shock across Sherlock's features would have been laughable.

"Come back?" John asks, pointing over his shoulder to the door.

"Come back?" Sherlock echoes, eyebrows raised high. It's clearly the last thing he expected to hear, entirely beyond the realm of possibility. It bodes poorly for Sherlock's grasp of John's possibilities.

"Yeah," John says. "We can talk now. Come back." Simple sentences are all he can seem to muster just yet, but it's a start. It's a bewildering start. "I'm sorry I...." He doesn't know the word for panic, so he waves his hand instead.

"No," Sherlock begins, but he breaks off into coughing when he tries to add something more forceful. He turns away, presses against the wall, and it's absolutely pitiful.

"Hush. Come back. Sleep." John takes him by the wrist. "Doctor's orders," he adds in English, not in... Christ, he doesn't even know the name of the language he's learning. Someday, he'll find the limit to the madness in his life, but as Aragorn once said, that day is not this day.

Sherlock rasps a bit, saying something John thinks might be "I shouldn't have done that" or "I should have done otherwise," but it all amounts to the same thing.

"I can talk now," John repeats. "That's good. That's, um, good good."

"Very good."

"That's very good," John agrees, pulling him into the hall. "Yes? I learn now."

"Yes, but why" a strange word ends the question.

"Sorry?"

"Why did you not remember?" Sherlock clarifies, and suddenly, that strange word is forget.

John hesitates. "Talk in the room."

Sherlock hesitates as well, then nods. Rather than let John continue pulling him, Sherlock twists his hand and levers his wrist out of John's grip. His fingers thread through John's immediately after, more aggressive than a dare and guiltier than sin. When John looks at him, the man flinches. Sherlock Holmes, flinching. He's so absurdly young.

John will regret this later, he's certain. He'll regret anything he does here later. It's only a question of what he'll regret more and he can't stand that look on Sherlock's face.

He squeezes Sherlock's hand and says nothing.

Back in the cabin, he lights the candle before nodding for Sherlock to close the door. John sits on the bed. Sherlock takes it on himself to sit on the chair.

"Why did you forget?" Sherlock asks. "Is it Moriarty? Part of what he did to you? Was there someone else, someone who could have" so many words John doesn't understand.

"I, I don't..."

Sherlock stops with a noise of absolute frustration. "Someone who... took your head and... made it bad." He visibly winces at the simplistic language.

John's counterpart here has PTSD from something Moriarty-related, that much seems obvious."I didn't forget. I didn't know." He says it as gently as he can. "It's not here." He touches his head.

Sherlock frowns at him.

"I don't know how speak—"

"How to speak."

"How to speak. I need, um. More..."

"Words."

"I need more words," John agrees.

"We'll speak. You'll have more words," Sherlock promises. "It's going to be all right."

John shakes his head. Whatever Sherlock sees in his face, it's enough to keep Sherlock from arguing.

"What's wrong?"

"I need more words." There's not a chance he can explain it properly, the way he is now.

"Say it with small words."

John shakes his head.

Sherlock waits all the same.

John tries to formulate a sentence. He keeps being distracted by the openness of Sherlock's face, the way every bump and bruise is set on display, every injury without bandage or comfort.

Eventually, he settles on "I'm not the John Watson you know."

Sherlock's expression changes slowly. No shock, no confusion. Pain and grief, yes, but these are emotions the man already has well in hand. "Yes," Sherlock says dryly. "I did see that."

John's mouth winces into an apologetic smile.

Sherlock's mouth winces in reply.

"I'm sorry," John says.

Sherlock shakes his head, eyes distant. They slide off John's face and wander through the wall.

"Here and me," John struggles to continue. "I'm not, um."

"You don't belong here. Obviously." Still not looking at John.

"I don't know if the man you know can come back," John apologises. "The man I am now might stay."

Sherlock's response is to look at the candle, his body angled toward John, his face turned sharply away. In the flickering dark, he's a stranger, handsome and young and very alone.

He says something John doesn't understand, something involving himself and John and what an odd corner of John's mind identifies as a future tense. It's a promise, but of what, John's isn't sure, not until Sherlock explains, and explains, and explains until John understands.

"I'm going to take care of you. The shelter you need, I will find. The help you require, I will provide. As long as you would have these words hold me, this I so swear, John."

John swallows, not quite able to hold that gaze, not even in the dimmest of light. "The man I was.... You and he, you, um."

Sherlock's knee nudges his. "Are you John Watson?" Rhetorical.

"Yes," John answers all the same. "A John Watson."

"Then I so swear." He coughs halfway through the sentence but does not, thankfully, keep coughing. He grunts a bit, as if there's a bad taste in his mouth. "I'm going for a drink," he says, and stands.

"All right," John says. He doesn't offer to join him and he certainly doesn't ask for anything. It's obvious Sherlock needs a moment alone.

John is still awake when Sherlock returns. The man smells of cattle even more and of beer not at all. John experiences a moment of confusion before remembering where milk comes from. It's not something he'd expected from Sherlock, but then, Sherlock's alcohol tolerance is laughably low. The beer would likely kill him. Still, dairy can't be helping that phlegm.

"Not sleeping?" Sherlock asks.

John shakes his head. "Words now. Sleep..." He trails off, waves his hand a little.

Sherlock huffs the smallest of laughs. It’s a puff of air, nothing more, but for the first time, John is sure the other man understands him perfectly.

previous | next

Fic: No Fixed Point - 1/5 (BBC Sherlock, immense AU of AUs)

bendingsignpost — Fri, 12 Jul 2013 22:46:22 GMT

Title: No Fixed Point
Rating: R
Wordcount: 9.2k/44.2k
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: The AU of AU's: First, he is shot in Afghanistan (again). Second, he wakes on a boat. Third is pain, fourth is normalcy, fifth is agony and sixth is confusion. By the tenth, he's lost hope.

(Original prompt: "ECM!John gets hurt again, and ends up with a few more lives. By overwriting Stranger at the Gate!John and Behavioral Modification!John." Thus, Watches 'Verse with Behavioural Modification and Stranger at the Gate. Prompted and filled here on livejournal. NOT an official continuation of any of these 'verses.)

Warnings: Partial character death, separation, vampire, blood, hypnotism

Red
Green
Purple and Gold
Orange
Blue

They're pinned down and a part of John's mind is laughing manically. It's this mad little laugh is more than a Bit Not Good, but this can't be happening. It's his last day. This is his last active day in Afghanistan for the next two (eight) years, and now it happens. Now it happens.

Matthews is trying, is holding onto him and trying to apply pressure to the wound, to where the bullet ricocheted into John's body, but the angle is wrong. Across the artery, not straight across, no, oh God. Femoral arteries go wrong quickly.

His head falls back against the wall. The strap of his helmet digs into his chin. Matthews is saying something, but John is too busy dying to pay attention. "I'm going to Chelmsford," he tries to explain. "Essex."

He looks down at his leg, Matthews' red hands. God, his leg. It hurts. It hurts wet.

He tries to look up, away. He can't seem to. The last he sees of Afghanistan is his own bleeding leg.

He wakes up in stinking humidity and there are feet in his face. It should be alarming, but even with the bare minimum of light, he recognizes the feet. What he doesn't understand is why the bed is rocking, why the walls are groaning, and why candlelight is flickering through the boards above his head. He's on a ship. An old ship.

Sitting up, dropping the sheet from his very much clothed chest, John checks his wrists. Nothing. He doesn't even recognize the make of his shirt, let alone the shirt. But he still recognizes the mop of hair at the other end of the bunk.

"Sherlock?"

The legs at his side jerk and Sherlock sits up with a cough. He supports himself on one arm, the other hand fisted before his face. He startles again at the touch of John's hand on his knee. John quickly removes it.

Sherlock asks him something, a once-sharp syllable dulled by sleep and a worn throat.

"Where are we?" John asks. He can't quite make out Sherlock's expression in the limited light, but the resulting silence is a question in itself.

"Sorry, um." Another reality, he knows this is another reality. They're here together, travelling together in bizarre conditions, so obviously John is meant to know where they are. "Strange dreams. I'd like the... reassurance, I suppose."

Sherlock replies. It's his voice, somewhere beneath the roughness, half-hidden in strange syllables. John hears wariness, confusion. Concern.

"You have no idea what I'm saying, do you?" Because the reverse certainly applies.

Sherlock takes a breath, coughs with it. "John," he begins, or says something that certainly sounds like John's name. As he speaks, he doesn't gesture. Instead, he maintains eye contact and begins to edge forward, pulling his legs beneath himself. There are questions here, statements, and John might be able to learn something if only he could see. At last, Sherlock points. John looks, sees a small table set into the wall. Dim shapes sit upon it.

"Those?"

"Sa," Sherlock confirms.

John reaches for them, has to move a bit on the bunk to get them. The board the thin mattress rests on hits the side of the wall with his movements. It's like a wooden hammock. The items on the tiny table are a candle and a matchbox. John takes the obvious course of action.

He shakes out the match and holds the lit candle between them.

Sherlock is... young. Devastatingly young. Conscious effort puts John's guess at twenty-six, but his face is even younger than that. His eyes are open, a far cry from the one-way mirror they'll become.

Then there's the clothing. John's fairly certain he's wearing everything but a coat and boots, and Sherlock even has the coat on. Strange, it being so hot in here, humid and muggy. John feels filthy and not in the way being in bed with Sherlock typically brings about.

The walls creak, the waves murmur, and every breath Sherlock takes turns into a wheeze.

"Are you all right?" they ask each other in unison. Not that John understands Sherlock's words, but he knows that tone, that face. They've asked the same thing, and Sherlock recognises it.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock repeats, his voice carefully shifting around the English words. A certain distracted observer in John's lap takes an interest in this. The accent is as incredible as it is bizarre.

What had Sherlock said before?

"Sa," John confirms.

Sherlock frowns at him, the way he only does when bewildered by idiocy.

"Sa?" he tries again. Does that not mean yes?

Sherlock begins to frown the way he only does when John is bleeding.

"I'm all right," John says, nodding. "Are you all right?"

"I'm all right," Sherlock repeats. The words are broken cups, the meaning once within them drained away. Sherlock continues speaking, slow and low. John nods along, keeps nodding along as Sherlock gestures to John's head and his own throat. The gestures increase, repeat, and Sherlock begins to stress the significant details. John listens as sentence structure breaks down, but he can't make any sense out of any of this beyond there something being wrong with John's head, similar to Sherlock's throat. Sherlock's tense, immensely so, and it begins to sink in that John may have overwritten someone—has overwritten someone who—will be sorely missed.

Then there's a word John does know.

"Moriarty?" John repeats. It comes out sharp, comes with a recoil, and Sherlock's hand grips John’s knee through the blanket.

Sherlock says something involving Moriarty's name and a confident tone. There's a bite in it that turns his young face so much older, that much more familiar.

"Dead?" John asks. "Moriarty, dead?" He supplies a one-handed gesture, the other keeping the candle holder steady on his other knee.

Sherlock nods. He counters with a gesture of his own, two fingers walking across the flat of his other hand before flicking the walker off. There's something immensely satisfying in it. "Moriarty dead."

John grins and, a bit hesitantly, Sherlock grins back. His hand returns to John's knee.

Good to have one piece of good news.

Sherlock resumes speaking, clearly trying to explain something to John. Something involving his own chest. The illness there? He reaches for John after, a cautious gesture that doesn't land a touch. Something about John's head. Believing John confused or crazy, possibly the victim of a stroke. Whatever the John of this world had spoken, it was a language he'd had in common with this Sherlock.

Eventually, John interrupts him, squeezing his hand. Sherlock falls silent immediately.

"I'm sorry," John says. "I just don't know what you're saying."

The gears in Sherlock's mind visibly turn. God, his eyes are so open.

"I'm," Sherlock says. He lifts his chin, clearly indicating himself. "You are," he says, squeezing John's knee.

"Right." Vocabulary required.

"All-" Sherlock coughs. "All right?"

John blinks. "Your memory is amazing."

Though Sherlock clearly recognizes this as a compliment, it makes him squirm rather than preen. "All right?" Sherlock insists.

"All right." John nods. Do nods translate? He makes sure to smile and nods again. "Yes. Good."

It's surprisingly short work to lay the foundations for yes or no questions. The challenge comes in asking them.

By the time Sherlock's voice wears out, they make little progress. Sherlock seems to think John's lost his ability to speak normally because of Moriarty. Or not Moriarty, but something or someone related to Moriarty. John's fairly sure this is a failure of translation—Sherlock can't actually think that.

What is clear is that Sherlock thinks John needs reassuring. Every inch of him is overly careful, not muffled or muted but silenced. When John lets him hold his hand, Sherlock's grip is tense but not hard. John feels as if his hand is loosely held by stone.

Sherlock is saying something about Moriarty and Moriarty speaking when the coughing grows alarming and his already hoarse words fail. John sets the candle on the small table and reaches for him. Fingers on the throat, checking for swollen glands. Sherlock twitches under his hands.

"Not good," John tells him, indicating the cough, the back of his curled fingers against Sherlock's clammy skin.

"Not good. Bad?"

"Bad." John nods.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"You already knew that," John acknowledges. "Now shush. Shush." He puts his finger before his lips, then against Sherlock's as the man is about to protest.

Sherlock freezes immediately.

"Can I...?" John gestures, tapping his own ear, pointing to Sherlock's chest.

Looking away, face turned toward shadow, Sherlock seems caught in indecision. Why, John has no idea. Well, maybe he does. If a friend of his had suddenly gone mad and lost his language, John doubts he would be willing to accept help, too bent on giving it.

When Sherlock doesn't protest, John unbuttons his coat and shirt. He keeps his eyes on his hands rather than Sherlock's face. One thing at a time. Language, this Sherlock's health, anything but the fact that John just died. No more Afghanistan, never again don't think about it.

Ear against Sherlock's chest, John takes a deep breath. "Breathe," he says, then demonstrates again.

Sherlock tries.

John shifts his position, hunched where he sits. "Again. Breathe again."

Sherlock tries.

"Not good," John murmurs.

"Bad," Sherlock agrees.

"Shush."

"No." Petulant, Sherlock through and through.

John doesn't mean to grin. Sherlock has that effect on him. He sobers quickly all the same. God, where is this? If Sherlock is younger, is John younger as well? This isn't a world that's different merely because John caused something to change. The boat and the language are proof enough of that.

"I'm going to take care of you," John tells him. The one thing worth focusing on. He tries to imagine waking up here without Sherlock—any Sherlock—present and that's not a train of thought he wants to follow. He buttons Sherlock back up, and it's too tender, it's much too needful the way John touches him. Insanity and stability at once, that's Sherlock all over.

"I'm going to take care of you," Sherlock rasps in reply. It almost sounds as if he knows what he's saying.

They settle back down and John's habits betray him. They've been sitting up too long. This body doesn't remember which way it was lying down before. It isn't until he registers the extreme amount of tension under his arm that it occurs to him this was a bad idea. That, possibly, this is not a Sherlock to be spooned.

"Sorry. Sorry, I'll...."

Sherlock's hand tightens around his wrist, securing John's arm around his waist.

"...I'll stay?"

"Stay?" A quiet question for clarity.

"Stay," John repeats, not moving. "Go," he adds, sitting up.

Sherlock rolls onto his back. The candlelight turns him into a child. Stay, he mouths.

"I'll stay," John says.

He brushes Sherlock's hair back from his forehead. Frowns. Touches it again. It feels different. Softer, finer. It makes him think of chinchillas, oddly.

Sherlock's breathing worsens, ragged, wheezing. His eyes screw shut. His mouth twists.

John pulls his hand away. "Bad?"

Sherlock shakes his head. His mouth is proud, his closed eyes pained.

"Stop or go?"

Stay, Sherlock mouths again, and John has clearly stumbled into something bigger than he understands.

"Yes, I'll stay." Until he falls asleep. He might want to do that soon, if only for some processing time. God, where will he wake up next? Is this the replacement for Afghanistan? He can't possibly be stuck here.

A light touch on his shirt, not even a tug. Sherlock's hand is so tentative. He's peering at John, honestly peering with one eye open and the other shut tight.

"Christ," John swears. He lies down, propping himself up on one arm, and resumes petting Sherlock's hair. "It's all right. It's all right. You're going to be okay." The other John, the one this Sherlock clearly thought he was dealing with....

The less said about him, the better.

"We were having one hell of a fight, weren't we?" John asks softly. Sherlock's features twist and relax in turns, terror and euphoria rising and falling as they will. John ought to stop, tries to stop, but the only compromise between heartbreak and guilt is to rest his hand there, fingers curled in soft black. "God, I'm sorry. I am."

Slowly, almost as if he thinks he's being sneaky about it, Sherlock slips his arm around John's back. Play along? Pull away?

John lets himself lie down, lets himself be pulled down. He'll pay for this later. He knows he'll pay for this later. For now, he tucks his face against Sherlock's neck and tries to forget how it felt to die.

He jerks awake in Chelmsford. He rolls over, arms around his pillow, face buried, and the less said about the following twenty minutes, the better.

Ten minutes after that, dehydrated and shaking a bit, he takes a shower, Army quick. He sits down on the toilet and tries to stop thinking. Deep breaths.

He makes himself breakfast. A far greater challenge, he makes himself eat it. He's sitting at the table when Marta rings the doorbell. He should move, should get that. Go to work. He'll never be a soldier again, but he's still a surgeon here.

He looks at his hands. They're steady.

Marta rings the bell again.

Deep breath.

John gets up and goes to work.

By the end of the day, John is exhausted beyond belief. He already misses the calm of the operating room, the focus. By himself, no distractions can hold.

He goes to bed as soon as he can.

This time when he wakes, Sherlock is curled up against his back. Sherlock, in his bedroom, at Baker Street.

"Oh thank God."

He rolls over immediately, waking Sherlock and not caring. Sherlock holds him reflexively. His grip is tight and concerned, and John can't blame him. Too long holding back, his grief breaks out. Self-mourning feels strange.

"Sorry," he mumbles against Sherlock's chest. He thinks he cried on Sherlock. No, he did, right against his skin, and even a normal person would notice that.

Sherlock tugs him close, holds him secure. He's a creature of tension, a cage of sharp bone around John, as if John might vanish.

Given time to breathe, time to calm, John pulls his damp cheek from Sherlock's chest. Sherlock doesn't let him ease back very far.

"Afghanistan?" Sherlock asks.

"Yeah." He coughs, clears his throat. "Yeah."

They settle next to each other, Sherlock's eyes on his face, Sherlock's hand on his side. John closes his eyes.

Sherlock's hand begins to glide up and down his ribcage, smooth strokes of warmth that keep John from dropping off to sleep. It's nice. Mortifying, of course, but nice.

"I was shot," John tells him eventually.

The warm touch moves to his shoulder, settles there.

"In the leg," he adds.

"Psychosomatic."

John doesn't mean to, but he laughs. A little giggle that turns into a silent chuckle, his forehead pressed against Sherlock's shoulder. He shakes his head a bit, knowing how the scrape of his hair there annoys Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't respond, but John starts giggling again anyway.

This is probably a bit not good.

Sherlock grows tense against him. It's impossible to miss.

"Sorry," John mumbles. "I'm just a bit...."

There is a very large pause.

"Off," Sherlock supplies.

"Mm."

This pause is better. More relaxed. Almost. Sherlock is still thinking too much.

"I died," John explains. "From the leg wound. It was... upsetting."

Sherlock resumes the stroking, now over John's back. The rhythm is very deliberate, as if Sherlock has worked out the correct rate for the optimum comfort-effort ratio.

"It was quick, though," he adds. "The confusing part was after. I woke up on a boat. An old one. It stank in there. And—this is the odd bit, this is going to be a problem—there was another you there who spoke... I don't know, actually. I have no idea what language that was, but he was catching on to English fairly quickly." John leaves out the part about waking up in bed with him. Sherlock's already jealous enough of his counterpart in Digital London without throwing in the man on the ship.

"He was sick," he continues. "And young. Really open. It was a bit weird. I mean, it was all a bit weird. More than a bit. I think the language barrier scared him."

"I'd dislike that," Sherlock allows, the motions of his hand steady. The touch is pleasantly absentminded, his mind too much occupied to be full of pity. Too many thoughts in his head. Not enough evidence yet, needs more facts to make theories.

"He was quick enough on the uptake for being sick." John thinks a bit more. "It was humid in there. Stunk to high heaven, too. Suppose that wasn't much of a help. I didn't get much of a look around. It was the middle of the night. Or dark in there, I suppose. No lights, only a candle. I went back to sleep as soon as I could. After that, it was Chelmsford, then here.

"But it's strange. That was the most different it's ever been. No electricity, you at least a decade younger—those can't be my fault. The differences have always been my fault before."

Once John finishes, Sherlock kisses his forehead. There is a brief shuffling of their bodies, the sort that happens when John doesn't want to be comforted and Sherlock doesn't want to be comforted either, but they're both bent on comforting each other. Oddly grudging, this, for naked cuddling. Well, almost naked. Sherlock has his pants on. Must have wandered off in the night.

Sherlock sets his cheek against John's brow. It's nice.

"I'll make you tea," Sherlock tells him.

"Will you really?"

"No," Sherlock deadpans. "I was lying for no discernible reason."

"Oh. Pity."

"Mm." One last kiss to John's forehead and Sherlock pulls away, gets up. He plucks his dressing gown from the bedpost and shakes it into place on his way out the door.

A few moments later, John hears the kitchen tap running, filling up their electric kettle. He grins into the pillow, then climbs out of bed himself.

Tea in the morning means he needs the toilet first. Gives everything time to cool, lets the taste of toothpaste fade; efficient all around. He takes his piss, cock in hand, same as any other morning.

Except, not quite.

Something is off.

He looks around the loo, wondering what in the world Sherlock has done to the loo that is subtle enough to avoid immediate detection. Things have been moved around a bit. Not much, but moved. An experiment in itself, or a result of Sherlock cleaning up after himself? It's an infrequent but plausible option.

Frowning a bit, he gives himself two shakes and draws his bathrobe closed. Down go the seat and the lid—bit ridiculous, how well Derek has housetrained him—and John washes his hands. For once, he doesn't take any care over the leather band about his wrist.

Because his watch isn't there.

John blinks a bit at his arm.

He could have sworn he.... Did he take it off? Put it down. He can't imagine he did, but he must have. The sink counter is clear of all timepieces.

He backtracks to Sherlock's bedroom. His watch is on the floor, next to his socks and trousers. John puts all of them on.

"John?"

Controlling his voice, he calls back, "Coming!"

When he reaches the kitchen, Sherlock's latest experiment is gone. Which doesn't have to mean anything. Sherlock's experiments tend to come and go without warning.

"Tea," Sherlock says. He points at the cup on the table.

John looks. "So it is."

"Drink."

"You know," John muses, heart pounding in his ears, "caffeine isn't good for bad dreams."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "This far before noon, I'd say you're safe."

John should laugh now. No, not laugh. Grin a little? Maybe just smile? Be appreciative. Do something. Anything.

"Actually," John says.

Sherlock's full focus hits him like the high beams of a Humvee.

"I think I'll take a nap."

Sherlock says nothing.

"Sorry," John adds. "You did say you weren't making tea."

"What's wrong?"

"I'm tired, that's all."

Sherlock leans back against the washing machine, arms folded. He nearly looks like he's hugging himself. "It's more than that. And you're a terrible liar, John. You need to stop doing that."

"I need some sleep," John corrects. "I just need some sleep."

"And you'll tell me after?" It's less concern in Sherlock's eyes than the unending need to know, but they do look similar when Sherlock focuses on him like this.

John nods. Maybe he just won't wake up here again. God, he can hope.

"Are you eating breakfast today?" he's sure to ask before he goes. Normalcy, try for that.

"I'm having tea, apparently."

John's smile is purely reflexive. It lasts until Sherlock moves forward, clearly intending to kiss him. John ducks his head, trying to keep up the grin, and it works well enough that Sherlock sets his chin atop John's bowed skull. John leans forward a bit, headbutting Sherlock lightly in the throat, and Sherlock gives him a bit of a shove to the right shoulder.

"Unless you'd rather me with you?" Sherlock asks.

"I'd rather you eat breakfast," John counters, and when Sherlock glares at him, John manages to escape into the hallway unkissed.

Almost immediately: "John?"

John keeps going, climbing the stairs more quickly than perhaps necessary.

Concerned now, blatantly so: "John?"

At the top of the stairs, John opens the door to his bedroom and finds himself looking into a study. A pair of desks, practically an office, and a sofa between bookshelves. He turns around and finds Sherlock on the stairs behind him, at the base of the stairs, hand outstretched toward the railing without touching.

"John?" Sherlock asks again, a third time.

"I'd thought I'd left something up here." God, the lie sounds terrible. That wouldn't convince his sister stone drunk.

"You're not all right." Sherlock climbs up the stairs after him, corners him against the open doorway to a strange room. He peers into John's eyes as if to drill out hidden truths like buried diamonds. "What is it?"

John closes his eyes. "I just need to sleep."

"What's wrong?" Hands on John's shoulders now, the grip strong.

The instinct to pull back doesn't so much as rear its head. This is Sherlock, his body knows. This body knows this Sherlock even more than his mind does. His shoulders feel the force of Sherlock's palms, his fingers, and they report fear and helplessness.

His legs step forward. His head ducks itself, his face tucks itself against Sherlock's collarbone. His hands know Sherlock's sides, the curve of ribs, and Sherlock holds him immediately, arms close, hands tight.

"I'm tired," John tells the neck of a non-stranger. "I need some sleep, and maybe that will sort my head out right."

"You're afraid it won't," Sherlock informs him. "Not merely concerned—you are legitimately frightened. Why?"

"Are you trying to make me explain an irrational fear?"

A pause, Sherlock's cheek warm against his temple. "An irrational request, I know."

John reaches behind himself, takes Sherlock's hands from his back, and opens the cage of those long arms. He holds onto one hand, the right, and guides Sherlock into the study. John lies down on the sofa that isn't even where his bed ought to be. It's too small for him, just barely, and he curls on it only slightly. Sherlock sits with him, his weight pressing the cushions before John's stomach. John rolls forward, just a little leaning roll, and this helps him hide his face in his arms. Sherlock keeps a hand on his side.

"Thank you," John mumbles. Because if Sherlock knows he's giving John a gift, he's much less likely to take it back.

"Of course."

It's a close thing, being able to fall asleep. Too frightened, too eager. Analogue will be tomorrow, time for talking, theorizing, mourning his last life as a soldier. Thinking of it with another man rubbing soothing circles into his skin is guilt-inducing, but he manages, so slowly, to sleep.

Derek's singing in the shower again. On key, very nice, well done, but the sound of it fires off immediate resentment. Sod this, he needs his other London.

He goes back to sleep.

The coughing wakes him. It's the pained sound as much as the motion of it, Sherlock's body just shy of convulsing next to him. There's something resigned about it, so incredibly tired. Concern immediately pushes back the irritation. How long has the man been down here in the reeking darkness?

Sitting up, John sees the candle, sees how little it's burned. Not very long asleep, then. He can feel it.

"John," Sherlock rasps when John moves.

"Why are our names the same?" John wonders. "Come here, budge up." He moves so he's leaning against the wall a bit, pulls Sherlock toward him. "This will help, maybe. Better than doing nothing, c'mon."

Sherlock complies, sluggish but surprisingly obedient. The blind trust of the exhausted. How much of his earlier energy had been out of adrenaline from John's change of language?

A good deal of it, John concludes as Sherlock lies back against him. The movement is hesitant, uncertain. John frames him with his legs and lets that ridiculously long torso recline against his own. Once Sherlock's head is against his shoulder, John sets his hand on Sherlock's stomach. "Breathe," he says.

Sherlock does. It sounds a bit better. Not much.

"Fluids. Now would be an excellent time for tea."

Sherlock turns his face, the top of his head against John's jaw.

"This isn't where I should be, you know,” John tells him. “I was going home today."

Gradually, John's back begins to ache. Gradually, Sherlock turns limp in his arms.

"Hope we're near land, for your sake. Get you some fresh air." He listens to Sherlock breathe. He holds still as Sherlock sneaks his hands around John's. "This is very strange."

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asks. The words are low and accented, reminding John somewhat of Marta doing an impression of her father.

"I'm all right," John says. With his free hand, he brushes Sherlock's hair away from his mouth. "Not where I thought I'd be, but I'm all right. Are you all right?"

Sherlock practically melts into him.

"Sherlock?"

"Stay."

"I'll stay." John pets his hair a bit more. Whatever makes the man relax. "We have the same names here, but not the same languages. That's a bit weird. Maybe your name is common here and I'm the unusual one."

Sherlock mumbles some sort of response. John has no idea what it means. After, they're both silent for a long while. He thinks Sherlock might doze.

"I'm meant to be home today," John whispers to him. Soothing sounds, pet his head. No pity, everything is normal, just give the man lots of sentence structure to decode and vocabulary to absorb. "I was going to wake up in my bed at Baker Street. Well, his bed. We don’t do it so often, you know. Sharing a bed doesn't work out too well between us. He's too disruptive. I'll talk to him tomorrow about you. Bet he'll be confused too." He grins a little. "Nice surprise for him, in a way. Not that I'm not, y'know, having a great time wondering if you're about to die and all—you're not, by the way. But he likes surprises. My him, not yesterday's him. God, that's going to end terribly if I wake up there again. I've never had a one-off reality before, but that might be the one I'd pick. That one's too close. How's that for insanity: I'd rather this stinking boat over Baker Street."

Eventually, the sounds of the ship include those of human movement. Footsteps, some speech.

John nearly gets up before he realises Sherlock is asleep. He stays. He tries to sleep himself, but his back aches far too much. His stomach begins to growl. It's unlikely that Sherlock can feel the vibration through all their layers of clothing, but he wakes all the same.

"Breakfast?" John asks.

Sherlock shifts a bit, cranes his neck to look up at John.

"Breakfast," John repeats, miming taking a bite of something. "Food? We should eat food. Eat food. Eat breakfast."

Sherlock blinks at him slowly, then closes his eyes.

John pokes him.

"John eat food, eat breakfast," Sherlock mumbles, not budging.

"Sherlock and John," John corrects.

Sherlock doesn't respond.

"Sherlock and John eat food, eat breakfast."

Again, no response.

"Are you asleep again?"

"John? Shush."

John laughs. Doesn't mean to, does anyway. Gentle about it, he cuffs Sherlock upside the head. Sherlock laughs too, but his eyes are large and wondering, as if John has somehow become a magical creature.

Given time, John manages to get out of the bunk and attempt to stand in their closet of a cabin. It takes a bit more prodding and a good amount of being glared at, but he manages to get Sherlock to come with him as well. John has no idea where the galley is and needs Sherlock to do the talking.

Talking, not eating. Not only does Sherlock make no attempt to eat, no one seems to expect it of him either. It's worrying. Very worrying. Almost as worrying as being given a strip of salted pork, more salt than pork, and a shoddy mug of beer. For breakfast. John tries to choke the pork down without the beer, but it nearly shrivels his tongue off. On second thought, it's a good idea Sherlock's had, not eating.

After, they go up onto the deck and Sherlock brings them to a place beneath the stairs to the upper deck. It's a good place for sitting, for staring at what ought to be a historical re-enactment, and John lets himself doze off in the sunlight, shoulder to shoulder with a foreign version of his best friend.

He wakes up in Chelmsford, swears, and sets his alarm to go off again in five minutes.

He wakes up on a sofa in a study that should be his bedroom. Keeping his eyes closed, steadfastly ignoring the gaze burning into the side of his face, John forces himself unconscious yet again.

Derek is still singing.

His back hurts, everything smells like salt and body odour, and there's a hand in his none-too-clean hair. He jerks away, the motion involuntary, and wastes precious time trying to apologize before he can get to another nap.

Sod this. Sod this. He'll just be late for work. He rolls over with determination, wide awake, and wastes even more time trying to relax enough to sleep. In the end, he goes to work, scaring Marta once again, and uses his lunch break as nap time.

He's back on the sofa.

"John?"

"Could I have that tea now?" he asks, no, begs. A moment alone, that's all he needs, just a moment alone to try again.

Hesitation, Sherlock's hand on his side.

"All right," Sherlock allows.

John manages to drop off again while he's gone.

"John, I'm done with the shower!" Derek calls through the door.

"Fuck you!" And: "Oh, God, sorry! Sorry, I didn't mean that! Sleeping in, just- Try and keep it down, will you?"

He wakes up on the boat. Ship. Whatever it is. He's Army, not Navy.

Sherlock's head has wound up in his lap, somehow. John's leaning against a crate and Sherlock has his back set against a barrel where he lies on the deck, curled foetal. He has his collar turned up. They're out of the way, but it still feels extremely conspicuous. And it is. Sailors stare at them.

John stares back until they look away.

...Hang on.

Female sailors. More than one, there are at least three.

They're not back in time, then. It's a re-enactment of some sort, has to be.

But then, why isn't there any medical intervention for Sherlock?

Nothing makes sense.

He sits there, thinking about that.

He looks down at the youthful face pressed against his thigh. He thinks about that too.

How many cycles was that?

He thinks he might be starting the fourth go-around, the fourth since Afghanistan. Here first, then two naps on the deck. It's his fourth time here, three everywhere else.

Ten times switching reality, ten times waking somewhere that isn't Analogue London. Ten times in a row.

Breathing is difficult once he realizes that.

This has never happened before.

This can't happen.

He goes back to looking at the sailors. He looks at the sails and the build of the ship and he realises he's been fisting his hand in Sherlock's jacket only once the man stirs. The jarringly young man. God, look at him.

"John, are you all right?"

"Yes," John lies, but he lies very poorly.

Sherlock is watching for body language as it is. There's no chance of Sherlock accepting the lie, not for an instant, and Sherlock sits up to look at him with those devastatingly open eyes. They turn his familiar features into a stranger's face, a stranger who adores John, who fears for him, who loves him more than he wants to show.

John looks away.

Sherlock nearly reaches for him. Ultimately, he refrains.

"Sherlock and John stay?" Sherlock asks. "John stay?" Options, his body language says.

"John stay," he replies.

Sherlock looks at him intently for a moment, then nods. Carefully, he stands, hands on barrels securing him upright. He says something that obviously means, "I'll be back soon."

John nods. "I'll stay," he says again, patting the floor beside him.

Sherlock nods. "You'll stay."

John's not sure if these are huge strides in communication or the echoes of a head hitting itself against a metaphorical wall. He sits there by himself for a while. It's no good. He needs something to think about, something that won't drive him around the bend.

After a few of the male sailors do it, John pisses off the side of the ship as well. The fastenings of his trousers are strange. It's all buttons. Wooden buttons. When he looks at his clothing in more detail, it's all handmade. Old, too. If this is some sort of re-enactment, it's an extremely long-term, particularly mental one.

When John gets thirsty, the only thing around is yet more beer. This is insane. He manages to nod along to the few people who engage him in conversation, but the trial of it quickly has him back up on deck.

He goes back to where Sherlock left him and sits down. Too much beer for so little food. At this point, the beer is becoming food.

Before he can take advantage of the alcohol and drop off to sleep yet again, Sherlock reappears. His colour looks better, much better. Some of the hunger in him is gone. John knows what it looks like from back in London, at his flat. It's important to know. He can recognize the little moments where Sherlock will steal his food if John leaves it near him. He'd begin piling his plate just a little higher, taking another biscuit or two.

As this Sherlock sits down next to him, John wrinkles his nose. "What's that smell?"

"What?" Sherlock asks.

John touches his own nose, touches Sherlock's coat. "Smell."

"Smell," Sherlock confirms, touching his own nose. He gives another word, one that might mean the same thing or might be what he now smells like. John repeats it all the same, and Sherlock smiles at him for it. John forgets what it was immediately after.

Sherlock adds some sort of a gesture, one that reminds John of Monty Python and rabbits with nasty little pointy teeth. Two fingers making a hooking motion in front of his mouth.

Some sort of animal, then? Animals in the hold?

"Okay," John says with a shrug.

Sherlock continues to look at him intently.

John raises his eyebrows.

Sherlock asks him something that John entirely fails to understand. Then he coughs a bit more. It doesn't sound quite as bad as before.

They sit together, Sherlock prodding ever more vocabulary out of John. It's strange and oddly fascinating. They attract a few strange looks, but that's the least of John's worries. This eats up enough time that John might not go out of his mind before going to sleep tonight.

He manages to choke down lunch, spends the afternoon trying to get their basic situation out of Sherlock, and fails to get Sherlock to eat dinner. He's fairly certain Sherlock calls him an idiot at that point. Sherlock definitely becomes more concerned from then on, which is saying something. Or, possibly, it's the beer. This body has a surprising alcohol tolerance, but it's still left him wobbling a bit.

As the sun sets and the air turns cold, Sherlock takes his hand and leads him back to their closet of a cabin. It's a surprisingly sweet form of condescension, but that's Sherlock all over.

Unfortunately, it doesn't make climbing into bed with him any less awkward. John's precedent of turning around has apparently established the expectation that they'll sleep in the same direction now. When John tenses, feelings are obviously hurt, and not like Sherlock's usual tantrums.

Sherlock shies away from him. He becomes smaller. It shouldn't be possible, Sherlock Holmes being so young and guilty.

Rather than climb in the bunk after John, Sherlock regulates himself to the small chair at the tiny table.

What ensues is the same argument John has had with another man countless times. It's a stupid argument, a pointless argument. Having Sherlock in bed with him is only going to wake John up more. If John keeps being conscious in these new realities for short periods of time, he'll never be awake long enough to give these realities a lower priority in his dimensional shuffling. He won't get back to Analogue London. Keeping this Sherlock out of his bed is the right thing to do.

Excepting the fact that this Sherlock is ill and there is only one bed.

John sighs. Gets up.

He hauls Sherlock from the chair and is pleasantly surprised by his own strength. Sherlock makes a squawking sound.

John shucks his coat, bundles it up, and sets it behind Sherlock on the bunk. He pulls at Sherlock's coat as well. Really, it's much too warm and humid down here to be wearing any of that.

Hesitant about it, Sherlock complies. They get a decent pile behind Sherlock for him to lean back against.

"Stay," John instructs. "Breathe."

Sherlock takes a deep breath, demonstrating his understanding, and nearly sets himself off into another coughing fit.

"Port?" John asks, mostly to remind him. They discussed it on deck. Well, mostly.

"Two days," Sherlock confirms.

John holds up two fingers.

"Two."

"You're an amazingly fast learner. Can't say it surprises me."

They go through numbers again, mostly for John's sake. While Sherlock has English numbers up to, well, probably just before the thousands—John hasn't taught him the word for "thousand", but Sherlock has taken and run with the structure for everything else—John can't remember all the new words.

After long enough of this, John reciting numbers over and over, Sherlock begins to drop off. Christ, he must be sick, sleeping twice in a row. He looks exhausted.

Once John's sure Sherlock is asleep, he blows out the candle, puts his head down on the table, and lets the ship rock him to sleep.

He wakes up in the staff room, the one with the bunks for the night-shift surgeons. He blinks at the bunk above him for a bit, then turns on the lights. Electric lights. Not something he's missed until recently.

He doesn't want to, but he gets up. Quick lunch, then it's time to prep for surgery. Nothing too out of the ordinary. God, he's glad he's not facing the emergency room today. That's going to be terrible on Friday.

Clarity comes in the operating room. It always does. Step by step by step by step. Here is the incision, here is the procedure, and everything he asks for is set into his hands.

He completes the operation with zero complications.

Driving home with Marta riding shotgun, he's not unhappy. Worried as all hell, yes, but for the moment, not unhappy. Small victories are worth holding onto with both hands.

But that night, he wonders. No more Afghanistan because he died. That's obvious enough. Why the trouble with Analogue London? His only analogue now, he supposes.

It's not like they were actually linked, his analogue lives. The watch choice was entirely arbitrary. The loss of one shouldn't mean the loss of the other. It makes as little sense as foreign languages on a 17th century boat.

Lying awake that night, staring at the ceiling until the small hours of the morning, he wonders if he died in his sleep. Maybe Sherlock blew up the flat. Might have been Moriarty. Could have been a heart attack—unlikely, but possible.

If Moriarty blew up the flat again, John hopes Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson got out all right. And the neighbours.

But no, John dozed off in Sherlock's bed again. Any sort of explosion that killed John would have taken Sherlock too. That's not okay.

Something else, then.

John wonders.

"I'll get back," he whispers to his ceiling. He's written as much in his daylist, but saying it aloud doesn't hurt. It feels more like a promise.

He lies there, thinking of what he'll do when he gets back. Wondering if Sherlock will have noticed. Or if Sherlock will simply be pleasantly surprised when John pounces on him, snogging him breathless. He has a nice bit of a wank, planning out what he'll do to the man. Too many options, but they're all so good to consider.

It's possibly the tensest, least satisfying wank of his life, but it's the sleepy boost he needs to drop off once again.

"John."

There's a knock. Knuckle rap. But not Mrs. Hudson.

John rubs at his eyes and sits up on the sofa.

Sherlock—this Sherlock—doesn't sit with him. Instead, Sherlock stands in front of him and hands him the tea.

"Thank you," John says. He looks down at the tea.

Sherlock studies him.

Though Sherlock can only see the top of his head, John closes his eyes anyway.

"Your body language is different."

"Sorry?" John looks up.

Sherlock's eyebrows pull together, his eyes burning into John's face.

John waits.

"You are," Sherlock realises.

"I'm what?"

"Sorry," Sherlock supplies. "You're guilty. It isn't your fault, but you accept the blame for it."

"Could you not do that please?"

"You want to apologise, but you're not sure how."

"No, really, could you not do that for five minutes?"

"No." Sherlock glares down at him. It's ridiculous how tall the man is. "I've waited all morning."

John laughs.

He shouldn't. God, he really shouldn't.

But he laughs anyway. Cannot help himself. He laughs and laughs and Sherlock takes the mug out of John's hands before John spills it.

Sherlock sets the mug on the floor.

Sherlock catches John's shoulders between his hands.

Sherlock looks absolutely terrified.

John's not entirely sure how, but somehow this leads to Sherlock on the sofa as well, John bundled up in long arms, his face against a crisp purple shirt. Once secured, he shakes a bit.

"I want to do a thought exercise," John says after a moment.

Sherlock lets out a breath. "All right." His hand secures the back of John's head, as if convinced John's brain will fall out any second now.

"You know that theory of multiple realities? Everything happening somewhere and all that? Parallel dimensions, comic book stuff."

Sherlock scoffs. It's nice to hear. "I was present for 'the Geek Interpreter', John."

"Right, yeah." So that had happened here too. "Suppose you knew someone who travelled through different realities. Realities that were the same before one distinct point in time, that is. And you knew that this someone might end up depending on another version of yourself. What would you tell them that could make other you trust them?"

For once in the life of Sherlock Holmes, the man has absolutely no response.

John waits for it anyway.

Eventually, John pushes himself up and looks at another man's flatmate. "I'm being serious."

"That's what worries me."

A flicker of a smile there, a flicker of an answering one from Sherlock.

"Really, though," John prompts. "What sort of code word would you give him?"

Sherlock stares down at him, through him.

"A memory," John continues. "Something that only you were present for, something significant that you've never told anyone."

Sherlock's gaze refocuses on John's eyes.

"Something like that time when you were eleven, staying at your grandmother's in France during August. You went out into the garden, laid down in the shade with a book, and when you stretched out, you were on page one hundred fifteen. You stretched out, felt something prick your elbow, and when you looked, you'd forced a bee to sting you by accident. It was trying to crawl out of your arm, but it was stuck. You stared at it until it died because you knew it was going to die anyway. It was your first bee sting."

Sherlock's mouth does not fall open. His eyes, however, are very wide.

"Once it died," John continues, "you pulled it out with your fingers. You tried to be careful, but it still ended up a bit crushed. That afternoon, you went home and checked the windows for dead bees until you found a few you could really look at. Then you picked the lock to your grandfather's study and took the magnifying glass out. It was the second time you'd ever been in there. Then you sat upstairs by the half-window near the attic. You dissected one with a pair of tweezers. It was near sunset, so the colours were a bit tinted. You took the magnifying glass back to your room but left the bees. When you went back in the morning, someone had cleaned them off the windowsill."

By now, Sherlock has let go of him entirely.

Finished, John sits quietly. He gives a flick of a smile, sorry and sad and as encouraging as he can be.

"...What are you talking about?" Sherlock asks, voice soft. "What are you—How do you...."

John folds his hands and sets them over his knees. "I did say."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Sorry," John says. "Bit of a default state."

"No," Sherlock says, as if that will do anything. "That's not an explanation for anything. Comic book stuff, John. Oh, sorry. Graphic novels." Complete with the sarcastic hand wave. "Don't be so stupid. What's actually-"

"Was I right?" John challenges. "I was, wasn't I?"

"That's not-"

"I am." No question to it. Whatever made the boat world so different hasn't touched this reality. This one is still close, still familiar. "Three bees, wasn't it? On the windowsill?"

"Stop it."

"How can I know that?"

"I'm thinking," Sherlock snaps.

"I can wait," John assures him. It's clearly been a bit much. There's no good way of breaking the news, but that doesn't stop the guilt from rising.

Sherlock stands up. He crosses to the other side of the study, to the desk which is clearly his. It's smaller of the pair, but taller, angled more prominently toward the sofa. Clients must sit on the sofa.

Sherlock sets his hands on the desk. He taps and fidgets.

John waits.

"Tell me what else you're claiming." Sherlock doesn't look over his shoulder, merely looks at the wall to his right, over John's desk. His profile is stern, focused. John must only be a figure in his periphery. "Tell me the entirety of it, and if you cannot prove it, I'm taking you to hospital. No fever, no sign of stroke, no head wound—I don't have the equipment here to find what's wrong with you."

John chooses to ignore that last part. "It's a bit of a long story, but there's a chance it's not settled yet."

Sherlock practically growls at him. "Just tell me the story."

"I'm saying there's a chance things might still go back to normal."

"Then you're saying there are many more chances things will not 'go back' to normal," Sherlock spits, wheeling around, hostile as any wounded creature.

John holds up his hands, unmoved.

"Go on." Impatient gestures combine poorly with disdainful words but suit the urgent strain of his voice. "The rest of this little prank of yours, tell me."

"Prank? A minute ago, you were ruling out stroke."

"I theorize as the facts arrive—you know this. Now tell me!" Sherlock yells.

John doesn't flinch. He flexes his hands instead. Sherlock and insecurity lead to shouting. John knows this.

"The bee memory makes sense as a code word because it's a central room in your mind palace," John says. "You even call it a palace after your grandmum's house. You always thought of it that way when you were a kid, but you never told anyone after the time you mentioned it to Mycroft and he laughed at you. You were three."

Sherlock turns himself into a statue. His chest rises and falls, his face is a mask of intensity, but the man himself no longer moves.

"You've never told any of this to anyone. It's not something you felt comfortable saying aloud either. Too personal. Which is why it's effective.

"The point is," John says, "the only way I could have learned any of this is from you. That is literally the only way. You are the only person who knows any of that, and if I didn't learn this from you, then I learned this from someone else who is also you. Well. Ish. Pretty close.

"Because multiple realities mean multiple versions of the same people, again and again and again. There's a point where the realities start to drift apart, the splitting point, and before this, they're basically the same reality. So any information from before that point is valid in all realities coming from that split. That's what this is. That's how I know about the bees."

There is a very long pause wherein Sherlock leans back against the desk. He sets his hands together, fingertips pointing at John.

"John," he says.

"Yes."

"I'm taking you to hospital."

"That's, yeah, that's what I'd thought."

John is taken to hospital.

John is released from hospital.

They have a very late second lunch. Rather, John has a second lunch to join that sandwich from the hospital canteen. Sherlock stares at him in a fit of exacerbated terror.

"Can we talk about this rationally now?" John asks. "I need you to stay calm."

"I am calm," says the man with a white knuckle grip on his mobile.

John reaches out and sets his hand over Sherlock's.

Sherlock looks down at their hands. "That's different. Why is that different?"

"Hospital bracelet?" John suggests. It gets him a scowl.

"It makes no sense."

"Sherlock," John says as gently as he can, "it's not going to make sense for a while."

"Because you're a John Watson from another reality and not actually the man I know."

"Pretty much, yeah."

"I don't believe you."

John eats his pasty.

Sherlock watches him.

"Am I lying?" John asks.

"You believe you're telling the truth."

"So that would be no, not lying, then."

"Perhaps, but it can't be true."

"Why not?"

"Because you're clearly delusional." For such a condescending statement, it's an oddly affectionate, Sherlock through and through.

John chews his pasty.

"When you pretended to be normal at the hospital, that's when it sounded like lying," Sherlock continues. "Ergo, delusional."

"Or," John prompts.

"There isn't an 'or'."

"Of course there's an 'or'. It's just so shit an 'or' you don't want to look at it." John crosses his arms on the table and leans forward. "Because if what I say is true, it's not just that I've gone a bit mad. Mad is fine, we do mad just fine, the two of us. If I'm right, then I'm someone else, and you can't fix that." He holds Sherlock's gaze for as long as he can without his eyes watering, then returns to his meal.

"The switch is only mental," Sherlock prompts eventually.

John nods, nearly finished. He swallows. "Only mental. What's in one reality stays in one reality, except for my consciousness. That switches when I sleep."

"So this morning."

"I've had about a week today alone—you're going to have to be more specific."

Sherlock treats him to a nice long stare, a particular staple of his facial expressions today.

"When you first woke up this morning," Sherlock clarifies. "You said you'd been shot in Afghanistan. In the leg."

John nods.

"You said you'd died."

"Yeah. Usually I wake up in Essex from that. No, sorry, I mean. That's what happened the first time. I was shot, I woke up in Essex. Shot in the shoulder. I was back at the hospital I used to work at in Chelmsford. That was the strange one. The other three continued from the split point, but Chelmsford had split off from my life a while back. I'd never joined the army there."

As John speaks, Sherlock begins, for the first time today, to listen. "And the other three?"

"Two being shot, one staying normal. Where I was shot, I moved back to London. In one of those, I moved in with you. The life where I wasn't shot, I stayed in Afghanistan. Almost finished my tour before that leg wound." It feels like such a failure. He can't call it a real failure—getting shot like that wasn't his fault, there was nothing he could have done—but, Christ, it feels like one.

"You said you'd woken up on a boat. One with a different language where I'm in my twenties."

"Yeah, that one, I have no idea," John admits. "Half of it's a period re-enactment, the rest of it makes no sense."

"I thought nothing was going to make sense."

John rolls his eyes. "Not like that. Look, if something is strange enough to break my standards of 'normal'? That is damn strange, Sherlock."

"Are you finished?"

"Not close."

"Not explaining," Sherlock corrects. "Your meal."

"Oh, right. Yeah."

"Good. Let's go."

"Mind walking?" John asks. "I know I won't be able to see if anything is blatantly different, but I want to give it a try. Baker Street still get blown up by Moriarty here?"

"Mm."

"And he's still alive here."

"Mm, yes." A sharp look. "And elsewhere?"

John laughs a little, not a happy sound. " Let's just say... it's amazing what you can do when you know what's going to happen. After having the bomb strapped on, I was a bit peeved. Second time was the charm, though. Probably confused the shit out of him—I wasn't on his radar, that go around."

Holding the restaurant door open, Sherlock stops, truly stops and looks at him.

As they walk home, the distance between them is greater than when they arrived, the unconscious gap of strangers.

| next

Fic: Feat of Daring - 1/1 (ACD Holmes)

bendingsignpost — Fri, 05 Jul 2013 23:57:24 GMT

Title: Feat of Daring
Rating: PG
Wordcount: 1.7k
Betas: vyctori, seijichan
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: “Watson!” my friend called. “Come to the window.”

I placed my thumb in my book but did not stand. Years together had taught me his ways, as various and numerable as they were, and I knew the friendly command for what it was: the beginning of some scheme.

Warnings: internalized homophobia

“Watson!” my friend called. “Come to the window.”

I placed my thumb in my book but did not stand. Years together had taught me his ways, as various and numerable as they were, and I knew the friendly command for what it was: the beginning of some scheme. “What could possibly be out there?”

“Fog,” answered Sherlock Holmes. “And much of it.”

“Of which I am perfectly aware.” It was the reason I had remained home that day. Though my club would have been perfectly habitable, the journey there was not to be envied in such weather. Besides, if I had gone, who would have seen Holmes through his inevitable boredom?

Holmes tutted impatiently. “I am not asking you to look at fog.”

My curiosity piqued, I marked my page and set aside my book. I rose and joined him. He directed his gaze out through the window and I did the same. London sat inside a cloud today. A nearby streetlamp played at the role of the sun but accomplished nothing more than a vague yellow smudge against the grey of water heavy with chemicals and coal.

“Holmes, what am I looking for?”

“A feat of daring,” said he.

My eyebrows rose. “What are you about to do to Mrs Hudson’s window? And it is Mrs Hudson’s window, as she has reminded us on the past three occasions of replacement.”

“Four,” Holmes corrected, “but the cricket ball was yours.”

“And yet not in use by me at the time.”

“Watson, you mustn’t cling so to trifles.”

I sighed at him. I was very good at it: I had much practice.

Holmes folded his arms and looked loftily away. He was watching my reflection in the glass, I knew, and so must have seen how I looked outside and studied the absolute barrier of the fog. I couldn’t make out the streetlamp, let alone the pavement, and the fog muffled any sound from the street until it was a watery, distant ghost of itself.

Unable to see what Holmes was driving at, I simply shook my head, leaned up and pressed my lips to his. Perhaps love does not bring with it all the patience love requires, but it certainly provides incentives for that patience.

Holmes stiffened against me, and not in the way I preferred. I pulled back an inch to better see his startled blue eyes. My hand settled in its habitual place at his elbow.

“Holmes?” I asked softly.

His eyes darted to the window before returning to my eyes, my mouth, my eyes again.

“The fog is thick enough to hide us.” The need to state such an obvious fact was in itself alarming. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. His voice was hoarse. He tried again. “Yes.” His voice was stronger, reinforced rather than mended. “I know that.”

“Then what on earth is the matter?”

Holmes looked away from me. It was not very often I saw him ashamed, but it was as if I had whispered “Norbury” to him. I stroked his arm and said nothing more in the face of his already fragile mood.

After much too long a moment, he confessed, “That was the feat of daring.”

“I don’t follow. What was?”

His mouth set in an unhappy line. Tentatively, as if I were an unknown commodity, Holmes lowered his head to kiss me. I wouldn’t call it a good kiss, if only because I know what Holmes is truly capable of. This was dry and uneven, an almost apologetic press of the lips. When I opened my mouth to him, his arm began to tremble beneath my hand.

Appalled, I drew back and immediately reached to pull the curtain shut. He caught my hand. “Leave it,” he said. He did not look at me. If anything, he sought to hide his expression from me, and for good reason. His was the face of a brave man who thought himself a coward.

“It’s very daring,” I belatedly assured him.

“It isn’t and you know it,” said he. “There is no risk of being seen. You see that even plainer than I do. The curtains may be open, but that is of absolutely no consequence.” He continued on in this vein for some time, the earlier drama of his bluster now transferred into self-flagellation. When at last he stopped, he looked at me for confirmation, daring me to deny his cowardice.

I chose my words carefully. I chose my topic even more so. “Is this the first time?” I asked. It seemed a remarkable thing for me to have never noticed, but I imagined it was true. The force of habit had blinded me.

“What?”

“In all these years, is this the first time we’ve kissed with the curtains open?”

“Yes,” said Holmes. His nostrils flared. “You may have done it without a second thought, but do you think I would have made a fuss of it if it weren’t?”

“No,” I said, not giving in to his temper. “But I wouldn’t call it a fuss. I know your fusses.”

Holmes walked away from me with long, unsteady strides. “Watson, get your coat.”

I held firm at the window. “I’m not going outside in this.”

He turned on his heel. “Watson,” he said. Though that was the extent of his argument, it was nevertheless a very compelling one. He was much too agitated for it to be otherwise.

“You propose we go outside?” I asked.

He nodded.

“You propose we go up the street, perhaps? Go for a walk in the park.”

“Yes.”

“I suppose we might hold hands, then, provided it’s abandoned.”

“Which it will be.”

“Then we would hold hands,” I surmised.

“If you wish.”

“I imagine we might find a small secluded spot with trees dripping on us and the fog choking us where we might huddle, miserable and cold, before we kissed and terrified ourselves into running home.”

“Before I terrify myself, you mean!” Holmes snaps.

“No,” I said, for love did inspire patience, if a limited patience. “Both of us terrified, and cold, and wet, and all of it needless. Put down your coat, Holmes.”

Holmes threw down his coat. He crossed his arms and stood in profile, his face turned away from me. “I am not afraid to love you,” he said.

“I know.” I left the window. I went to him. I reached for his hand and kept reaching until he gave it to me. His fingers trembled in mine.

“Then why am I shaking?” he asked. Holmes, brilliant Holmes, Holmes the logician, asked me this. His words shook with his hands.

“Come back to the window,” I said.

Though his mouth remained in a firm, proud line, he nodded.

I led him, his palm sweating against mine, until we stood once again before glass and the impenetrable fog beyond. “Oh, there. I see it now.”

“What?” he asked. He looked out and found nothing.

I caught his gaze in the glass. “A feat of daring.”

Holmes stared at my reflection before rolling his eyes. He sighed wearily. “Watson, really. You spout the most sentimental nonsense sometimes.”

“I’m about to spout a bit more.”

“Must you?”

“Yes. Hold me.” I turned my back to him and drew his arm about me. His sternum slotted against my spine. His arms fastened over my stomach, and my hands secured them in place. He very nearly set his jaw against my cheek but avoided the smear of pomade on his temple he would have earned for his troubles.

Thus bundled in a far better coat than Holmes had ordered me to fetch, I stood at the window and looked out upon a London which could not look back. Though I kept my eyes on the fog, his remained upon my reflection.

At last, he confessed, “I want to love you outside of these walls.”

I laughed. I shouldn’t have, but I did. “Really, Holmes,” I said. “Do you stop loving me the moment you walk out the door?”

He dug his chin into my cheek. I laughed even harder.

“It isn’t funny,” he said.

I turned in his much loosened embrace. I took his face in my hands in a show of sentiment he abhorred. “Then why is it so laughable?”

Holmes swatted at my forearms until I released him. As if to demonstrate what proper affection was, he caught my hand and gave it a perfunctory kiss. “It’s laughable because it’s absurd.”

“But you are afraid.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” I said. “So am I. I don’t see any point in going out into this mess to try to prove otherwise.”

He scowled, and I let him scowl. Given time, the scowl wandered away on its own.

“As for the window,” I said when I thought it wise, “that’s a very simple matter.”

“Then by all means, explain it.”

“I cannot be afraid in our own home,” I told him. “Not with the doors bolted and the windows fogged over. Perhaps this is foolhardy of me, but I do have your good sense to balance my own. Your judgement is the better, and I’ll trust it.”

“Really, Watson,” Holmes murmured, his voice and eyes lowered in anything but submission.

I nodded. “Should I fetch my coat?”

Holmes meandered away from the window with a great yawn. “Whatever for? It’s loathsome outside.” He sat heavily in his armchair and filched my book. “Go if you like. I won’t be budged.”

I followed him to steal back the book, but I took a kiss much more readily. Regardless of the open curtains, Holmes pulled me onto his lap for a long, sweet moment. I hummed, amused at our position. He pushed me in the side and said, “You’re very heavy.”

“Only compared to a man who never eats,” said I, and he practically pushed me and my book right off his lap. Chuckling, I returned to my armchair, put up my feet, and returned to my reading. Content in our silence, we spoke no more until we retired to bed.

“Leave it,” he said, that and only that. I came to bed without locking the bedroom door. He blew out the light, and we settled down to sleep with nothing more than the natural restlessness after a day spent idle. If he held me harder than he had on previous occasions, it was, after all, a cold and foggy night.

Fic: Soothsayer - 1/1 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 29 Jun 2013 02:00:22 GMT

Title: Soothsayer
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 4.5k
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: “They said you were a soothsayer, before the city was taken, except no one ever believed you,” the soldier says. “How does that work?” (Cassandra!lock AU)
Warnings: discussion of past and future violence, some sexual; character death

“They said you were a soothsayer, before the city was taken, except no one ever believed you,” the soldier says. “How does that work?”

Their cargo—his charge, his king’s prize—throws back his dark head and laughs. The sound lifts the hairs on the back of the soldier’s neck and he shivers in the stifling humidity of the ship.

“Are you mad?” the soldier asks as reasonably as he can.

“Not yet,” the soothsayer replies. “I will be soon.”

The soldier smiles reflexively at the joke. “From what? The captivity isn’t so bad, you’ll see. You’ll be well-treated among us.”

“You’re simply uncertain why. Most of the human booty is obviously slave material or was already raped half to death during the sack. I’m untouched and it confuses you.”

“Er… yes,” he admits. “A bit.”

The soothsayer smiles. “No one may touch me. No one may believe me. These are the conditions of my curse.”

“All right…” the soldier says slowly. He wants to sit across from their captive but he is on guard duty. He continues to stand. “Why not?”

“I’m a very attractive man. You’ve noticed. I’ve seen you looking. Imagine what I look like properly fed and bathed.”

As the soldier imagines, his mouth turns dry. “Modest, aren’t you?”

“My intellect is superior to my face, of course,” the soothsayer continues. “He didn’t care, obviously.”

“He?”

“A god. I won’t name him. He comes to me if I name him.”

The soldier laughs. “If you could summon one of the gods at will, why remain our prisoner?”

The soothsayer rolls his eyes. “Because he’s annoying. He returns to ask me to reconsider, and when I don’t sleep with him, he storms off in a huff. If I anger him again, the curse will worsen. The last time, he took away touch. Another time, and no one will so much as listen to me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” the soldier says, playing along. “You’ve a lovely voice.”

“Too lovely,” the soothsayer replies.

“You could keep talking,” the soldier invites. “If you liked.”

The soothsayer sits up straighter upon his bench. Such a long body on this one, long and lean with fingers to match. His hands look as soft as his lips. “I’ll speak my fill with you,” he says. “I won’t be speaking again, after, not enough to matter.”

Unsettled yet intrigued, the soldier smiles politely.

“Tell me if I speak true,” says the soothsayer. “You are tired and weary, leaving no wife or parents behind, only a sister. You are a soldier, raised to it, and yet a healer, born to it. Your gifts could have made you a poet, had you an ear to match your memory of words. Instead, you only remember what greatness and horror you have seen and recite dull mumblings into greater offerings. You have been pierced through by a fierce arrow and the sickness nearly took your arm. You struggled back to life after coins were laid upon your eyes and here you stand, a miracle without the aid of the gods.”

The soldier blinks at him. “Are people gossiping about me? Who would gossip about me?”

“Did I speak true?”

“Who told you?”

With a sudden groan, the soothsayer tugs viciously at his own hair.

“Oi, no, none of that,” the soldier urges. He steps forward but he does not touch. “Don’t hurt yourself.”

The soothsayer flings down his hands and lifts his eyes. “It’s not myself I intend to hurt.” He studies the soldier in the dim light below deck. His eyes widen. “Oh. Nor you.”

Such a strange statement deserves a cautious answer. “I’m glad to hear it.” When the soothsayer doesn’t look away or even blink, the soldier adjusts his stance. A moment longer and he clears his throat. “Something the matter?”

“I’m deciding.”

The soldier looks at him oddly. “Yes…?”

Though the unreadable intent behind it flows and changes, the soothsayer’s grey graze remains constant. His is the pressure of a stream upon the twig damming it. “I’m deciding,” he repeats.

“What to tell me?”

He rolls his eyes. “No, what will happen.”

The soldier laughs at the sarcasm. Strange and unnerving this may be, it’s still the best guard duty the soldier could have asked for.

The soothsayer regards him a moment longer before leaning back upon his bench and gesturing for the soldier to join him. “I’ve decided. Sit with me.”

“I’m on duty,” the soldier declines.

“Presently. If I tell you a story, will you remember all of it?”

The soldier nods. “My memory is good.”

“Then I will tell you all. You will sit with me before I have finished.”

The soldier doubts that. Even so, he humours the man. “A long story, is it?”

“Most are.”

“All right, then. It’ll pass the time.”

The soothsayer’s mouth feigns friendliness. “Oh, if it will pass the time...!” He groans and again tugs at his hair. “All the insight of an age and every lackwit willing to listen for the sake of entertainment!”

“Look, stop that.” The soldier doesn’t reach for the soothsayer’s wrists, doesn’t prevent the damage he does to himself. He knows in his bones that it isn’t his place to do such work. Instead, he sits. “There. I’ve sat with you before you’ve begun. Happy? Your prophecy came true.”

Sharp grey eyes pierce him. The laugh, sharper by far, skewers him. “Your kindness was to come later, soldier. I dislike it so soon. Unfair of you, to whet an appetite that shall go unsated to the last.”

“How do you mean?”

The soothsayer shifts on the bench. Beneath him, the slither of chain over wood rises over the constant groaning of the sea. “We could have met again, you and I,” the soothsayer states. “On a dusty road, years hence, you and your firstborn son find me in a ditch, broken, drugged and near to death. You remember my face, distorted though it has become through time and mistreatment, as all faces distort beneath the pain of living. Moreover, you recall my voice and you recognise my groaning. This time, you remember to ask my name before it’s too late.

“From there, you send your son on to market alone—he’s old enough, a strong boy, and his cousins will meet him without incident—and you take me upon your shoulders, broken though they have been, broken though you are.

“Yes, you touch me then. Years hence, when I can again be touched. I’ll give in, you understand. The god sought my body and my love and when he could not have them, he stole contact and credibility from me. I’ll give in before I lose my looks. There are worse decisions. I’ve already made one today, for us, much worse, though better for you, I think.

“I’ll give into him and he will make me touchable once more. My hardened heart, he will have nothing of. My punishment will continue, sore of arse and unbelieved. But I will be able to touch bodies again, if not minds.

“More will come before I surrender to him, of course. Boredom. The killer of the soul, the destroyer of the mind. I will be kept as a spectacle by your ruler, his talking dog, a diamond wrested from the crown of a defeated king. I will be carted through the city streets in a cage as if my body were dangerous and not my words. Though your ears are blunt, my tongue remains sharp. Of that, have no doubt.

“But the boredom will rot me and no man will kill me, and thus I will summon a lustful god and pray his interest in my arsehole has yet to wane. It won’t have, but it might. A mortal may not always prophecy the behaviour of the gods, and certainly not their whims.

“With my protection removed and my meanings still silenced, I will be cast out. I will face harm. I will avoid most, but many decisions rest between what is bad and what is worse. You know this.

“You will know this when you find me. You will know this when you carry me home, a limp and dirty creature. You intend to bury me soon, for you expect me to die. When I live instead under the care of your wife, you decide to keep me. Your younger children take to me as a tutor, fear me for my madness, and respect me for my knowledge of arithmetic and the sciences. You will call me a philosopher, then, not a soothsayer, although I am both and so have always been.

“Your wife will die before your youngest daughter is grown, but the girl will grow strong nonetheless. She’s my favourite, you know. Biting sense of humour, worse even than yours. She walks like you and has your eyes, framed by your wife’s hair. She’s a lovely girl and when her first husband attempts to beat her, she’ll kill him and walk free. We raise her well, the three of us.

“You do not marry again. For two years and eighty-three days, you touch no one, seek no one, and then upon the night of that day, you turn to me and you set your lips just below where my shoulder becomes my neck. When I tremble, you release me. I shout at you. You retire for the night enraged and I slip into your bed behind you. I find my pleasure in you.

“We continue on this way, your children grown, our joints aching. You often joke I ought to take up weaving, but I prefer my bees and their natural tapestry. You come to watch me the day I realise I love you, and Aphrodite herself intervenes before that jealous god blasts you from the glade. You look upon her splendour with awe, as most mortals do, and this assuages her pride when I am unimpressed. She forces permission from my curser. He offers me the choice. I may love you without seeing you harmed or I may be believed. I choose, curiously, to love you. The offer is a test, of course, and had I chosen otherwise, I might have received nothing at all. I cannot prophecy the whims of the gods.

“For the rest of our days, we live together in this way, raising our voices with anger and laughter, sharing one bed and coveting the blanket. You do not believe me—you never believe me—but you will humour me. The examples are beyond count.

“I will tell you to stoop for no coins when you journey to the market, and you will refuse the counsel with complaints of your back and your knees. You’ll ask why such a warning is necessary. You will dismiss me. That day, you will see a flash of gold upon the street. You will, in time, recall your joints and aches soldier. Immediately after, you will watch as a boy of eleven is trampled to death in his attempt to reach the coin.

“You indulge me but never believe me. We argue. Never enough to cause separation, never enough to tarnish my sight of you, because, you forget, I know this is to happen. I recognise your limitations while I hate them. Our bodies give way beneath the years and yet we aren’t unhappy.”

The soothsayer falls silent as abruptly as he had begun. His ancient eyes, sunken, brighten fractionally into sullen youth.

With great effort, the soldier manages to breathe. “You’re... an incredible speaker.”

“But clearly quite mad,” the soothsayer says.

“Well, yes.”

The soothsayer grins, his expression indulgent, fond. “Not yet. In due time, yes.”

The soldier shifts uneasily beneath the unearned intimacy. “You’re not actually saying any of that will happen.”

“No,” the soothsayer replies. His eyes wander from the soldier’s face. He tilts his head and studies his hands. “No, I have decided against that path.”

“Path?”

The soothsayer nods. “There are many roads, and all are straight to me. None curve behind the hills, none vanish behind the woods. I see each to its end and, when I can, I choose where to walk.”

“If you could do that, why did your city fall?” the soldier asks. “I—sorry, I don’t mean to be cruel.”

“You don’t. How curious.” The soothsayer shrugs to the ceiling. “There are places no path runs to. It’s that simple.”

The soldier hums at the piece of sophistry. “What have you chosen, then? If we’re not going to grow old together.”

A smirk pulls his lips into a grotesque shape. He holds the expression for a long moment before laughing. “You don’t believe, and you still ask?”

“You want to talk. I like to listen.”

“And you will remember every word I say,” the soothsayer says. He sighs. “I’ll have that from you at least. That much is certain.”

The soldier smiles more nervously than he’d like. “What else would you have of me?”

The soothsayer looks at him, looks him up and down. His eyes no longer contain the chill of the sea but the danger of heated lead. The soldier’s mouth dries and the soothsayer smiles. “Yes, I could have that of you.”

“I--” The soldier swallows. He looks away and fails to clear his head. “I thought you said no one could touch you. You’re not making sense, soothsayer.”

He rolls his eyes. “No, I said no one could touch me. I didn’t say I couldn’t touch another.”

The soldier nods at the loophole. He should have predicted so much. Not even so imposing a lunatic would have been able to achieve fame and repute without being consistent with himself, as much as a lunatic can be. The soldier tries to smile and he tries to laugh. “And your jealous god wouldn’t smite me?”

“He would,” the soothsayer disagrees, flirtation in the threat. “But I could kiss you first. I might even have enough time to take you.”

“Or enough time for me to take you?” the soldier counters.

“Ugh, you’re still not paying attention.”

“I’m paying attention, I just don’t--”

“You don’t believe me, yes, I know.” He groans again, dropping his head into his hands to grind his brow against his palms. “This is so tedious. I’d rather die than suffer this.”

“We’ll treat you well,” the soldier promises. “You’ll be fed better once we’re off rationing, and everyone and their uncle is ready for a bath. You’ll have one of those as well. Should help you feel human again.”

The soothsayer straightens abruptly upon the bench. “Try to touch me. Go on. Try.” He leans forward, dirty and mad and still absurdly tempting, but the soldier has his orders.

“I’m not permitted,” the soldier says.

“Yes you are. I’m permitting you.”

He shakes his head. “I’m under orders.”

“You’re not meant to sit with me either, and here you are.”

“I’ll stand before another man comes to relieve me.”

“You won’t,” the soothsayer replies.

“If no one can touch you, how did we take you prisoner?” the soldier asks. “Explain that.”

“I was led at arrow point. No direct contact. Loophole. I’m still mortal. I can still be killed.”

“I didn’t take you for a god,” he agrees.

“You might if I were better dressed.”

The soldier laughs. The soothsayer grins back. “You’re a strange one,” the soldier praises.

“Mm, yes.”

“Go on, then. Tell me about this future. The real one.”

“The one I’ve chosen?”

“That would be the one, wouldn’t it?” the soldier says.

The soothsayer’s grin pulls at the corner of his mouth. “It would.”

“How do we meet again in that one?”

The grin pulls in on itself until it vanishes. “You’ve hit upon the crux of the matter.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.” The soothsayer nods. He looks at the soldier with what might be sadness, and his eyes are again old. “We won’t meet again after this.”

Reflexively, the soldier grins a bit. “It’s not a large ship, you know. Small ship, me one of the men assigned to you... I don’t see how we could avoid meeting again.”

“No, you don’t, do you? You will, tonight. You’ll remember my words but think primarily of my voice. You’ll be confused, even worse than you are now.”

“Somehow, I find that unlikely.”

“You would,” the soothsayer agrees. “It’s hardly important. My only concern is that you remember and that you discuss me. As much as it pains me to say it, you’re my last chance to be believed.”

“If anything you say makes sense, I can try to believe it,” the soldier offers. It’s not the most sincere of offers, but the urge to give the man something cannot be resisted. “Or if I see something come true, I suppose.”

“Even then, you won’t.” The soothsayer waves a dismissive hand. “You won’t believe me for years, whatever I say. Not until long after we would have met again. Your second wife.”

“I don’t even have a first wife.”

“But you will. You will find each other, she will give birth to four children and then she will die. You will mourn. Then a day will come when you love again and she will marry you the second time you ask. Not the first, the second. The successful attempt will be in the shade of an olive tree. She will speak of your persistence and you will be tempted toward bluster, as you were upon the first attempt. This time, however, you will be sincere. She will agree.

“She enjoys stories and will expect one at night, like a child. Your memory for conversation will amaze her and she will praise you as a man of great intellect. Your younger son will dislike her. Your daughters will take to her slowly. Your older son will take to her as to a new sister, and so lead his sisters into her friendship.

“After your youngest daughter marries and kills the husband who would have killed her, had he his way, you will mention my saying so. You will have thought your son-in-law a true and virtuous man. You will have been deceived. You will believe, without question, that my prophecy regarding your child’s fate is nothing more than the rambling of a lunatic kept as a prize of war. Articulate rants, you find them, but merely rants. You are wrong but will never see it.

“At first, your wife will think it a coincidence. She will ask for more of what I have said to you. You will tell her about the shadow of the olive tree as it fell across her hair and made her eyes shine all the brighter in comparison. You will tell her that I first told you of it, and you ignored me.

“She will ask you, and she will ask you, and she will ask you. She will ask of the events of this day, this night. You will tell her how I said you would sit and you sat. You will tell her how you said you wouldn’t be caught sitting and how you were, despite your best intentions and being forewarned.

“She will want to know how I could not be touched. She will fixate on how I could touch, should I be willing to doom another to divine vengeance. You won’t understand why, not until she explains it to you. She’s too clever for you, you know. Then again, so am I.

“She will ask if I spoke of her, and you will certainly tell her this. When she asks, she will be lying upon your bed, her head upon your chest, her fingers upon your scar. The one on your shoulder, the one from the arrow. She traces the circle until it tingles, even though you tell her not to. Not maliciously: she forgets and does this idly. In time, you accept it. You don’t think you will, but you learn to ignore the sensation.

“The night will be in summer, the moon gibbous and low. She will ask with a drop of sweat dripping down her brow and along her nose. It will fall like a tear onto your bare chest.

“When this happens, when you tell her I told you this would happen, you won’t be certain whether you imagined the moment to match the words or imagined the words to match the moment. But your wife, she will know. She will learn to be aware before she asks, because she suspects that I know when she will ask. She knows I know her face, the traces of amber within the brown around her pupils. The birthmark on the side of her left knee, yes, I know it.

“This way, small proof by small proof, trusting in your words more than my prophecy, she will know that all I say is true, and I will be believed.” He sits tall as he says his, straightening his back and squaring his shoulders. “Nothing will change from it, of course. I will be quite dead and you old. But I will be believed, thanks to you, even if you yourself never trust my words. This is why I spare you.”

“Spare me?” the soldier echoes. “I’m the one who’s armed.”

The soothsayer rolls his eyes. “And I am the one who could bring down the wrath of a god upon you, yes. As much as I would enjoy the process, I refuse to die without ensuring that someone believes me.”

“Look, we’re not going to kill you.” The soldier shifts on the bench but doesn’t let their knees touch. “I know it looks bad, but you are going to be treated well. The king might want to, you know, with you. A bit. But the rest will be all right.”

“The king wants to,” the soothsayer agrees, “and he will.” He grins at the soldier as if inviting him to see some private joke. The expression refuses to fade regardless of how blankly the soldier returns his gaze.

“I don’t understand,” the soldier says.

“It’s quite simple,” the soothsayer assures him, perfectly serious. “I’m going to commit regicide with my penis.”

The soldier manages to hold the soothsayer’s gaze for approximately three seconds before bursting into laughter. He shakes with it until he can barely breathe.

The soothsayer watches him with amusement shining up from the depths of the stone wells of his eyes. When the soldier nearly recovers from his merriment, the soothsayer adds, “It’s hardly my instrument of choice, of course.”

The soldier laughs and laughs, his face aching, his stomach hurting. What good pains. “You’re absolutely mad.”

“I keep telling you, not yet. I won’t be living that long, anyway.” He lifts one hand before the soldier can try to explain the soothsayer’s position to him yet again. “Shh. No. You can’t believe me, but you can listen. Don’t contradict me.”

Slowly, the soldier nods. “All right.”

The soothsayer regards him with a smile both faint and vicious. “It’s truly remarkable, poet. The forks in the road that occur regardless of which road. I must always choose.”

“At least you can see where you’re going,” the soldier teases, still ill at ease. “Most of us don’t get that much.”

“You don’t understand. You never do.”

“That’s not fair. We’ve only just met.”

“I know,” the soothsayer says, the words mournful. “That isn’t fair at all.” With that, he shifts on the bench, planting one knee upon the wood. “I would have enjoyed knowing you as a younger man.” He sways forward, the motion beginning at the centre of his chest. His lips very nearly touch the soldier’s ear. “You will dream of me. Not frequently, but consistently. You will remember me until your dying day. When the nightmares of the battlefield rise into your mind, you will see me walking among the corpses, forever untouched. On some nights, you will see me shouting and you will never hear me. On others, I will stand silent before you. On your favourite nights, I kneel, my mouth full. Though you will dream of me for guidance and comfort, you will never have either of me. If you believed me, you would resent me for this. What small mercies we find in ironies.”

The soldier tries to reply, tries to speak, tries to breathe. The air freezes in his chest, solidified warmth beneath flustered skin and stoic bone.

“Goodbye,” the soothsayer murmurs just above his cheek. His eyes, bright and alert, whisper of some terrible joke at someone else’s expense. They flick down, a heavy gaze upon the soldier’s mouth.

Permission implicit, the soldier lifts his face. He’s been at war too long. He’ll call that his excuse. He’s been at war too long, and this man is mad and beautiful and wants him. Soft breath touches his lips, but nothing more.

“Oi, get off him!”

At the cry from the relief guard, the soldier jumps back on the bench, but the soothsayer barely moves.

“The fuck are you doing?” the guard demands.

“Sorry,” the soldier says and stands, confused and angry and aroused. “Sorry, I--”

“He belongs to the king, you traitorous--”

“Stop,” the soothsayer instructs.

As one man, they stop, both soldiers to the core.

“If you mean for me to be fucked, let your king have me,” the soothsayer instructs the relief guard. “If you mean for me not to seduce my keepers, station different men. Ugly ones, for a start. You’ll do.”

Before the soldier can protest, his post is changed. As he leaves the cabin, he could swear the soothsayer winks at him. He fumes over the gesture all through the afternoon, more sullen than a grown man ought to be. It’s not uncommon for men to be transferred from one ship to another in the fleet, but the soldier recognises a demotion when he sees one. It sits poorly with him. He’d worked hard to serve on the king’s ship. To leave the flagship for not so much as a kiss... this is a fate worth cursing.

He curses it until nightfall, certainly. He curses it until the roar and the blast. Then he runs from his new bunk to stand upon the deck with his fellow soldiers. A cry goes up. Some stand silent. Some wail. All mourn.

After a decade of war, the flagship has fallen, not by mortal hands but by some unholy blow from the heavens. The timber burns upon the water, extinguished only as it sinks. Corpses bob in the waves, some burnt beyond recognition, some merely dismembered by a great, impossible explosion.

His mind quiet, the soldier watches the bodies sink under the water. He understands that his king is dead without knowing why. He looks instead for a madman, for a prisoner with dark curls and a voice as deep as the waters which have swallowed him whole. He does not find the man amidst the wreckage and he does not expect to.

It will haunt him all his life.

Fic: Bel Canto - 16/16 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Fri, 21 Jun 2013 22:37:44 GMT

Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 3.6k out of 127k
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement. (AU through a Phantom of the Opera lens.)
Warnings: Violence, internalized homophobia, character death

Op. 20, No. 1
Op. 20, No. 2
Op. 20, No. 3
Op. 20, No. 4
Op. 20, No. 5
Op. 20, No. 6
Op. 20, No. 7
Op. 20, No. 8
Op. 20, No. 9
Op. 20, No. 10
Op. 20, No. 11
Op. 20, No. 12
Op. 20, No. 13
Op. 20, No. 14
Op. 20, No. 15
Op. 20, No. 16

For the sake of moving the summer heat, John opens the window to the London smog. He goes so far as to stick his head out, desperate for a bit of breeze. Beneath his waistcoat, his shirt sticks to his skin and pulls with each movement. Down on the pavement, Jamison waves up at him with a small, cheerful salute. John returns it before ducking back inside.

Walking away from the window, he shucks his cravat and collar and unbuttons his cuffs. Better. Off with the waistcoat. Better still.

“Yoo-hoo!” Mrs Hudson knocks on the door frame. “He was the last of the day, then?” she asks with a look to the discarded waistcoat on the armchair.

John resists the resulting urge to tidy. Instead, he simply says, “I’ve the afternoon off.” It’s by coincidence, not by design, but it is good to know he’ll have the evening free to celebrate or commiserate with Holmes, whichever is required. Private practice involves far fewer hours than the opera house demanded. He very nearly enjoys that now, but it might have something to do with his improved social life. John glances at the sofa and Mrs Hudson smiles.

“Oh, go on,” she says, taking a seat. “What’s the news?”

“You first. Any word?”

She shakes her head. “Nothing since the first telegram. As far as I know, the ‘child in progress’ is still in progress.”

“Perhaps Holmes simply isn’t allowed to send any further telegrams after writing that.”

Mrs Hudson laughs. “I wouldn’t put it past Mycroft.” She claps her hands on her lap. “Now you. How is everyone? Did you ask after Mr Johnson?”

“Sorry,” John says. “I knew I was forgetting someone. Next time, you ought to sit in and ask directly. There’s too many to keep track of.”

“I was going to, dear, but with Jamison...” She makes a pitying face.

“It wasn’t the unmentionables this time,” John says. Doctor-patient confidentiality only goes so far when everyone already knows.

“Oh, good,” Mrs Hudson says. “It’s about time something else was wrong with him. What about everyone else?”

Counting them off on his fingers, John talks about the theatre where Green is already chafing in his position as an assistant stage manager. Green will either supplant the stage manager soon or find yet another theatre. John mentions the bits he’s heard about the carpenters and the tiny snatches he knows of the seamstresses. Mrs Hudson keeps in touch with her favourite dancers on her own, and so John doesn’t attempt to tell her anything new on that front. Instead, he adds the bits he’s gleaned about the pit members from Miss Norton, as relayed by Clara. He doesn’t mention Clara’s most recent remarks as to how Miss Norton has been coping with her grief, but he knows Mrs Hudson can recognise fellow widows when she hears about them.

Rather than dwell on the renovation of the former opera house since its sale, he saves the best piece of news for last. “We’ll have another wedding to go to next year,” he reports. “It looks like Hopkins has followed Westy’s example.”

Though John had been pleasantly surprised, Mrs Hudson doesn’t bat an eye. Delighted, absolutely delighted, but not taken aback in the slightest. “It’s about time,” she says instead. “I was starting to think Hopkins would never ask Molly.”

John blinks a bit. “I thought it was only recent.”

Mrs Hudson’s face does something very kind, and very pitying. “John, dear,” she says, “you do miss these things sometimes.”

Adjusting his braces over his shoulders, John doesn’t try to deny it. “They’re planning on next June,” he says instead. “We might be invited, but I don’t know yet. I do still owe her that pair of scissors: she might hold it against me.”

They chat for a while longer, Mrs Hudson reminiscing about her wedding until John mentions a few details about his own. Only a knock at the door downstairs saves John from recollecting the entirety of it to her.

Despite her hip, she manages to rush to the window far more quickly than John could ever manage it.

“Telegram?” he asks, already halfway to the stairs. With Mrs Hudson home these days, she’s had little need for a maid, but it does mean John has to answer the door.

“A bit more than that.” She turns to look back at him. “He doesn’t waste any time, does he?”

“Christ, what’s he done now?” John joins her at the window. Together, they look down at the hot pavement and the impatient man upon it. More significantly, they look at the Saratoga trunk on the pavement and the violin case and folio in the man’s arms. Behind him, the empty growler pulls away into the street.

“Holmes!” John shouts down.

Holmes nods up at them. “Come help!”

John’s feet pound down the stairs much in the manner of his heart. He reaches the bottom, very nearly stumbles in taking hold of the door, and John’s mouth manages to say “Good afternoon” without any conscious prompting from his otherwise occupied mind.

The occupant of his mind—soon to be occupant of this building—stands framed in the doorway, a light flush across his otherwise pale cheeks. Sweat helps his hair escape from the confinement of pomade, each escaping curl hinting at the wealth of energy about to be unleashed. Though they have certainly tried these past months, no number of letters or telegrams could ever replicate the full effect of the man’s presence. The occasional dinner helped, but their time has been limited, restrained, and agonisingly public.

“You’re early,” John says.

Holmes arches one eyebrow. “Problem?”

John shakes his head and forces some moisture back into his mouth. “No.”

“Oh, oh, what’s that?” Mrs Hudson asks from above John’s shoulder, still on the stairs. Belatedly, John makes way for her.

“Rubbish,” Holmes replies. “Little more than nonsense I needed out of my head. It’s not finished, but you can read it.” He hands the folio to Mrs Hudson with great care despite his words. The violin case, he sets down inside the foyer rather than hand it to John. His voice leaps up to a polite tone as he says, “Watson, if you could assist me.”

John follows him outside and together they manage to lift the trunk. “I’ll walk backward. Better for the stairs.”

In they go and up they go, John holding low and Holmes holding high. Despite the tight fit, they manage to round the turn on the stairs without mishap. Their coordination only fumbles at the top of the stairs as John attempts to turn for the next flight. Holmes angles them elsewhere, and John laughs as he’s backed into his bedroom.

“No,” John tells him, though his grin undermines his words. “This is my room. You are upstairs.”

Holmes feigns utter confusion. “But I’ve always stayed down here in the past.” The slightest pout extends his bottom lip. “And this is very heavy.”

They set the trunk down in the gap between John’s bed and desk. John wipes his sweaty hands on his trousers. Holmes straightens, re-establishing his full height after being so stooped by the great weight.

“When we agreed on ‘after the baby is born,’ I didn’t think you meant ‘within three hours’,” John says.

“I am much too noisy,” Holmes says. Relaxed and private, his voice rumbles up from his chest. “My work entirely disturbs the mother’s much needed rest.”

“What a shame.”

“It truly is.”

“Mm,” John hums, his tongue attempting to moisten his dry lips.

Holmes hums back at him. The trunk between their feet is as good as a chasm. It had better be, or John will leap across it, open door or not. They stand in this way for a moment far more wordless than silent. Lips quirked, Holmes slips free of his summer jacket and tosses it on John’s bed. John takes in that sight before eyeing the open door with speculation.

A grin in his gaze and a flirt in his lips, Holmes unbuttons his collar. “Is it always so hot in here?”

“It’s even worse at night,” John replies in a tone of absolute seriousness. “Stay in here and I’ve no doubt you’ll be sleeping naked.”

A flush crawls up Holmes’ neck, but he doesn’t look away for an instant. His voice, however, leaps up attentively before settling. “Perhaps I ought to move upstairs and leave you the privilege.”

“I’m sure we’ll sort something out,” John says.

“I’m sure we will,” Holmes agrees.

“How, um.” John swallows. He taps his fingers against the back of his hand, his body having assumed parade rest for the occasion. “How long of an arrangement, do you think?”

Holmes pretends to calculate the answer. He pretends very obviously, and John nearly snatches up Holmes’ jacket to chuck it at his head.

“Boy or girl?” John asks.

Holmes grins. With his whole face, with his entire body, Holmes grins.

John’s mouth nearly breaks his cheeks returning the sentiment.

“They’ve decided to christen him after Father,” Holmes says. “Havelock, because we don’t have nearly enough absurd names in the family.”

“That’s...” John says.

“Yes,” says Holmes.

John clasps his hands behind his back, fingers nervously entwined. “Then you’ll be staying? For... ah.”

“For however long,” Holmes agrees. “Provided that’s--”

“Yes.”

“Yes?”

“Yes.” Emphatic, he nods.

“Well,” Holmes says. “Good.”

“How, um...?” John gestures about the room.

“One of us upstairs, officially. Considering our relative positions, it does make more sense for you to take the upstairs room. Still, as we’ll initially present my living here as temporary, a case could be made for my being installed upstairs.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John says. “Mrs Hudson has a lovely basement.”

Holmes glares at him. “The setting is secondary to the company, I’ve come to realise.”

“Then what was the folio you handed to Mrs Hudson?”

“Drivel.” Holmes waves a dismissive hand. “I told you, I needed it out of my head.”

“But what--”

“Would you bring up my violin?” Holmes asks. His eyes flick down John, eyeing a body startled into stillness, and, as if to confirm he truly means his permission, he nods.

“I... All right,” John says. They circle about the trunk as John exits the room, each twitching his hands away from the other. Descending the stairs, John tries to decide whether he expects Holmes to be placing his clothing in John’s closet or rummaging through John’s desk in search of their saved, shared correspondence. Holmes will want to see how creased each page is, how worn about the edges. Though hardly love letters in composition, they have been rendered such through their treatment.

Downstairs, John sees no sign of Mrs Hudson but hears a fair amount of giggling from the direction of her sitting room. He follows the noise and pokes his head in. “Mrs Hudson?”

Sitting with the score across her lap, Mrs Hudson looks up with a poorly suppressed smile. “Does he want it back now?” she asks. “It’s so delightfully silly.”

Eyebrows rising up to his forehead, John says, “No. Just wondered where you were off to.”

“I’m in here,” Mrs Hudson says, “and I plan to have a nice sit and a read while you boys get everything sorted.”

“Thank you,” John says and ducks out before the mortification can set in. With great care, he retrieves the violin case from the foyer. It’s far heavier than he’d assumed, a fitting incongruity. He carries it upstairs as he might a sleeping child.

As he draws near the top, he hears the distinct sounds of Holmes in motion. Almost tentative, he enters to find the trunk and his closet open. Gently, John sets the violin case down upon the foot of his bed, where he’d last seen Holmes’ jacket. He spots the garment, now hanging alongside one of his own.

Without turning to face him, Holmes straightens the hangers. His squared shoulders remain centred on the closet. Revealed to nearly the elbow by his rolled shirtsleeves, his forearms strike a pale contrast against the black hanging jackets.

John navigates around the trunk to reach his desk. He opens two of the drawers and begins shifting the contents of one into the other. When he looks up from his work, Holmes is already looking back at him. “Supposing you want a drawer,” John says. “Thought I might move this desk upstairs. I ought to move most of my things up.”

“Move them tomorrow,” Holmes says.

“I don’t mind. I don’t have that much.”

“I know,” Holmes says. He hangs another suit next to the first, slowly occupying the empty space John never did find the time to fill. “Move them tomorrow.”

In silent agreement, John watches him work, watches the fluid bending and folding and sorting. He looks for the rhythm, finds the patterns, and slips in as if to a stately dance. They find their balance, Holmes griping when John touches his socks but laughing outright when John promptly tosses his pants back into the trunk. It’s his small laugh, of course, the nearly silent chuckle behind the boyish grin.

It reminds John enough to ask, “What did Mrs Hudson find so funny in your libretto?”

“Oh, is she reading it?”

“Mm.”

Holmes shrugs, but there’s a touch of red to his ears. “It’s a farce. It’s meant to amuse. It’s far less likely to be declared a haunted work if the audience laughs.”

“A farce,” John repeats. “What language is it in? I didn’t think Mrs Hudson was fluent in Italian.”

Very pointedly, Holmes sets his socks in their correct order. “French.”

As realisation dawns, so does John’s grin. “You mean, it’s a French farce?”

“No, it’s a farce in French.”

“Is it a French farce?” John asks. “With mistaken identities and absurd disguises and everyone falling in love with everyone else?”

Holmes glowers at him. “It wouldn’t leave my head.”

“You wrote a bedroom farce,” John says, convinced and unrepentant. “Does it end with them happily living in sin?”

“Married, actually,” Holmes answers flatly. “It’s two acts of busywork, nothing more. Husband and wife attempt to cheat on each other at a masquerade ball and sleep with each other without realising it. They confess their guilt by the end of act two, the mistake comes unravelled, everyone laughs, and there it ends. It bears no resemblance to anything other than every farce to ever come before it.”

“I’m sure,” John says.

“You’re lying.”

“Not even very well,” John agrees.

Holmes rolls his eyes. “The husband is an Englishman named Clarence and his wife is Henriette.”

John’s grin freezes. His eyes struggle toward something strange and stinging, but John blinks it back as Holmes goes about unpacking. John searches for the appropriate words. There are none. He searches for them anyway.

“I need more space for my shirts,” Holmes complains.

Clearing his throat, John moves his own shirts to his desk chair. They’ll be fine there for the interim. He returns to the Saratoga trunk and checks for what little remains in the drawers inside. His hand touches something cool in the heat of the room, and his fingers twitch into a curl. He touches it again, a light brush of the knuckles. He lifts it.

“Sherlock,” he says.

Holmes turns. Their blue shifting into a wary grey, his eyes fall to the white porcelain in John’s hand. “Yes?” Holmes asks, his volume low, his pitch somewhere between low familiarity and high bluster.

“You do realise I was joking about the basement, don’t you?”

“It’s not for composing,” Holmes says.

“No?”

Holmes shakes his head.

John sets the mask delicately upon the violin case. Just as carefully, he says, “I’m sure your scarf is somewhere around here too.”

More visibly than before, Holmes’ chest rises and falls. “Window,” he whispers.

“...Right. Yes.” John pulls the curtains shut. Faint sunlight makes the journey through them, but only just. Behind him, Holmes closes the door. John turns around. Holmes’ legs devour the distance between them in three long strides.

John looks up at Holmes, at Holmes’ mouth and eyes and the smile between them both, and he opens his arms to better welcome a narrow chest against his own. Arms tight about each other’s shoulders, they simply hold on. Cheek against neck, they breathe. The solidity of Holmes is a remarkable thing. As is his cologne.

Slowly, they ease back. A heartbeat passes. Their breath mingles. Their noses touch.

John cups his hands about a neck unblemished by bruise or burn of rope. He leans up, and Holmes leans down. They lean into each other. Holmes’ mouth is warm and soft and all things longed for.

Low and deep, Holmes rumbles. The sensation tickles John’s lips and leaves them tingling, or perhaps that’s the sensation of an afternoon’s stubble. He searches to discover which but soon forgets what he was thinking about. Holmes’ mouth upon his neck is far more interesting. Then again, Holmes’ clavicle is even more interesting than that. The oppressive heat of the room makes full, sustained contact uncomfortable, but John has never been one to mind flushed skin beneath his lips.

John flatters himself that Holmes’ legs give way. Certainly, Holmes’ abrupt seat on the bed takes John delightfully by surprise.

“Careful,” Holmes cautions, one hand steadying the mask atop the violin case. The other hand draws John in by his braces. John leans in to kiss him, but though Holmes doesn’t stop pulling, Holmes similarly refuses to lie down.

“What the hell are you doing?” John giggles against his mouth.

“Sit on my lap.”

John laughs. “No.”

Holmes pouts.

“No lap sitting,” John tells him firmly.

“What if it were less sitting and more straddling?” Holmes proposes.

“Then you’re an idiot,” John says. “Or you haven’t done this since you were twenty, or both. Because,” he continues over Holmes’ forming protest, “my knees won’t allow that kind of nonsense.”

“Ah. Fine.” Holmes tugs John down to sit next to him instead. “Curse my love of older men,” he mutters against John’s mouth.

A braver man might have corrected Holmes to the singular form. Braver, or perhaps more insecure. John is perfectly content as he is, and happy enough to hear music besides. It takes him much too long a moment to realise that this is not simple association inside his mind, but an actual sound.

“What is that?” John asks.

“The music box I gave her for Christmas,” Holmes explains. “Mrs Hudson wants to know if she can interrupt.”

John can’t match his optimism. “Or we’re being too loud.”

Holmes hums in the negative. He slides his gaze down John’s chest as he ought to with his hand. “You’ve been very quiet.”

“So you’re saying you did nothing to be noisy about?”

Holmes simply looks at him.

John lifts his chin in a dare.

Holmes narrows his eyes.

Outside in the sitting room, the music stops. A short moment later, a waltz replaces it.

Between their mouths, the words later and yes and tonight whisper themselves without need for a voice. Two nearly imperceptible nods, and they do what they can to put each other back into the semblance of order. By the time John can count himself as confident, the waltz has nearly run its course.

John opens the door. Behind him, Holmes stows the mask away in their dresser. When they enter the sitting room, Mrs Hudson feigns playful surprise. She sits on the sofa, the music box on the coffee table before her.

“Everything sorted?” she asks.

“I’ll be moving my things upstairs,” John answers.

“Sherlock, do help him,” Mrs Hudson says. To John, she adds, “The floor is much better up there, you know. No creaking at all. No draughts either, very good walls.”

Very much catching her drift, John nods along.

“Excellent to know,” Holmes adds, appearing at John’s side. His presence doesn’t startle. The touch of his hand on the small of John’s back does. John looks up at him sharply, but Holmes’ gaze is on Mrs Hudson, and hers on Holmes.

“Oh,” says Mrs Hudson, her hands clasped in her lap like a girl’s. The sound is one of joy rather the realisation. “Oh...!” She stands and hugs them both together, her thin arms mustering all the strength of a disciplined ballerina. “You’ll be fighting before the week is out, but I don’t care!”

“Vigorously debating,” Holmes corrects.

John laughs despite himself and hugs her back as hard as he dares. His heart pounds on harder and faster than it ought, but a rush of affection soon fills the void left by nervousness. Holmes’ hand remains precisely where it is throughout the exchange, a light passenger along John’s spine.

Holmes drops his hand only when they move to the sofa, the gesture too much in sight of the windows. By unspoken agreement, they sit with knee against knee. Listening to Holmes speak of his new nephew to Mrs Hudson, John thinks it might take them as long as two weeks for an argument. Discussing logistics via letter has helped. Perhaps they’ll continue that practice. Perhaps John will only ever know what the hell has just happened by watching Holmes’ latest opera. Perhaps any number of things may happen.

For now, John sits comfortably in his home and listens to the rise and fall of a well-loved voice.

previous | EL FIN

This fic has been nine months in the making. I began writing in October, 2012 and here I post the final chapter June 21st, 2013. Some of the weirdest writing coincidences I've ever had have happened with this fic. I told you before about my laptop's fan breaking when I wrote the first draft of the chandelier falling, but I didn't mention that there were nearly two small fires in my house between writing part 15 and part 16. Don't worry, no one was hurt.

As always, great thanks to Vyctori for listening to the initial babble that became this fic, as well as for holding my hand through much of the plot developments, finding a good title for my "phantomlock.doc" file, and teaching me enough about opera that people actually think I know anything about opera.

A big thank-you to Seiji, who reads without advance warning of the plot. Her reactions to much of the story shaped my expectations as to how you might also react. She was also the first Hopkins/Molly shipper, which is now Bel Canto canon. Her enthusiasm keeps me going.

Another round of thank-yous to Mars, the only one of my three betas who knows Phantom of the Opera. Don't worry, she knows enough for all four of us. I'm also sure she'd like me take a moment to tell you to go listen to the Phantom soundtrack with the original London cast, Michael Crawford as the Phantom. Have fun.

For those of you wondering, the reason why "Op. 20, No. #" has been the format for the chapters is this: Bel Canto is my 20th posted work in the BBC Sherlock fandom.

As always, thank you for reading. See you next Friday.

Fic: Bel Canto - 15/16 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 21:34:16 GMT

Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 4.7k out of 127k
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement. (AU through a Phantom of the Opera lens.)
Warnings: Violence, internalized homophobia, character death

His feet know the way regardless of the dark. Revolver in one hand, the other tracing the wall, he follows the turns until the guidance of memory is exhausted. Standing in the tunnel, he fishes out his matches, hissing as his knuckles brush against the inside of his jacket. He lights a match and assures himself of his bearings. Vernet’s chambers are on his right.

He listens at the door to the chambers but hears nothing. Before he shakes out his match, he glances at his knuckles, the skin red and scraped. It takes him a moment of venturing forward to remember punching Beaumont. He has other things on his mind.

Going forward into the dark, his footsteps echo. They’ll hear him coming regardless of what he does. He can only hope it won’t force Zucco’s hand. Any man who commits murder in cold blood can only be more dangerous with his back against the wall.

The tunnel turns. The butt of his revolver in his mouth, John lights a few more matches to check his course. There are forks as well as turns, and John has only been this way once before. He starts down one fork, uncertain, and rats scatter out of his way. A few steps farther and he turns back. He sets down the other fork and no rats flee from his path, already frightened away before him. At the next fork, there are no animals present in either direction.

Following the sounds of water and the stench of filth, John presses on with his heart in his mouth alongside his gun. When his jaw aches, he gives in and pockets it for the sake of his light. Without a hand cupped around the flame, it goes right out. He berates himself with every step for not taking a lantern. If he has to fire, he’ll have to drop his matchbox or his match. Either way, he’ll soon be left in the dark. Any shot will have to count.

More echoes from ahead now, though those might be only his own, distorted by the tunnels. He sees it in this moment of doubt: a skid mark in the slime. Someone slipped here. And there, on the wall: the slide of a hand against the grime and mould. And there, ahead, even better: someone brushed his arm here. It’s metal, a metal bar in the wall, a strange and rusted feature in this tunnel of stone and brick and concrete.

A moment of peering at it explains the mystery. This was to be a gate. John passes through it and the tunnel widens immediately. No, not widens. It opens into a great chamber. He lifts his tiny light as high as he dares. To his right, a wide doorway set into the long wall. Before him, unknown space. To his left, the darkness looms even further. The stink fights its way into nostrils he’d thought desensitized.

He steps into the new chamber with an unexpected splash. Freezing water instantly floods into his shoes. He swears once, reflexively, and the curse echoes off wall and water until he might as well have shouted. The profanity drowns out the trickling and dripping of water. He tries to take a step forward but the water merely sloshes, well over his ankles.

The echo changes, distorts, a curse deformed into a laugh. Inexcusable seconds pass before John realises this is no trick of the tunnels but a true laugh at his expense.

“Look, my dear: we have a guest!”

Zucco’s voice echoes through the great chamber, bouncing off the walls until it might come from any direction at all. Knowing it can’t be from his right or behind him, John performs a quarter turn to his left, revolver aimed chest high into the darkness beyond the reach of his tiny, flickering light. He adjusts his fingers, the tips of them close to singed.

“I had hoped you would come,” Zucco continues, his voice dripping from a thousand sodden bricks. “I must say, you’ve made my night so much easier.”

“Let him go,” John speaks quietly into the dark. Their words mingle in the damp air, but John’s die first.

Zucco laughs. “The pet defends the master. How sweet!”

“John, run!”

The shout anchors John instantly. He pinpoints the source. Holmes is far, far to the left of the entrance John had used, and John would wager much that Zucco is close beside him.

“Let me see him,” John orders.

“Be my guest, Doctor. By all means, come closer.”

John’s match burns out. He drops it and the last red glow vanishes with a tiny hiss. “You didn’t come this far in the dark,” John says. “Light your lantern.”

“Hmmm... No. I don’t think I will.”

“Good,” John says. “The longer you keep standing there, the longer the police have to find the exits.”

Zucco giggles, a high-pitch noise doubtlessly calculated to disorient. It bounds off the ceiling and John looks up automatically before Zucco says, “No, I don’t think that will happen either.”

“If Holmes knows them, his brother does, and he’ll have told the police by now.”

“I’m sure he has. I’m also sure the police are just a bit busy with the great big fire upstairs.”

“You left a bomb in the opera house,” John half-assumes, half-realises.

“What, did you think I wouldn’t?” Zucco’s voice comes abruptly from John’s right. John fights down the urge to aim his gun on the far wall. “I’ll admit, it is a disappointment you keep surviving. You’re very annoying.”

“So’s arson.”

Zucco laughs as if delighted. Holmes remains silent.

“Holmes?” John calls. “Are you all right?” Is there a noose about his neck or a gun trained upon his back?

“Fine,” Holmes says, one word and one alone, regardless of how it echoes. John waits for more, aches for more, and then Holmes adds, “Don’t shoot. The curvature of the tunnel will cause a ricochet, and it’s not unheard of for bullets to bounce off of water.”

John doesn’t lower his revolver for a moment. “Zucco, let him go.”

“You can’t possibly believe that’s my real name.”

“I don’t care what your name is. Let him go.”

“Watson, go back,” Holmes instructs in a thin voice. “I have the situation under control. Go back.”

“Which does he have on you?” John asks. “Gun or knife?”

He hears a sharp inhalation and sloshes forward without thinking. The freezing damp splashes up to his knees.

“John, no! Go back. Exit the platform the same way you came in.”

Platform? John mouths. His eyes widen as he realises where he is, as he realises what the large archway on his right had been when he entered. That was the Underground tunnel itself, not another path for foot traffic. This is the loading platform. What John had mistaken for a great, rectangular room with a submerged floor is actually a great, rectangular room with a sudden, gaping drop hidden beneath black, glassy water.

Zucco needs Holmes to guide him out. Holmes will need light to guide him out. If Zucco has light, John can shoot him. As long as they remain in the dark, they remain stalemated—unless Zucco decides to hurt Holmes. Perhaps John can stall Zucco here until the police manage to track them down, but if there is a knife to Holmes’ back and ricochet is a danger, John’s not sure he wants to risk the police.

Considering all of these things, John makes his choice.

He shifts back toward the wall. He keeps his left hand out toward the wall. His fingertips find damp stone. If he glides his foot forward, still underwater, it still makes noise, but much less noise.

To cover the sound, he calls out, “What is your real name, then? You’ve burnt down my house and my workplace now—I’d like something in return.”

“Oh, I’m just Jim,” Zucco answers, his voice lilting rapidly into an Irish accent. “After all, I might let you live after this, for a bit. Be a shame to let you know.”

“O’Brien, Moriarty, or MacDonald,” Holmes rattles off. “The former owner, Mr O’Connell, had no legitimate children, but he did have an eye for Irish chorus girls. The moment they would begin to show, he would sack them.”

Zucco laughs. “Oh, good! And how long have you been working on that?”

“When I realised how strange it was for someone to seek revenge on a patron who swooped in and saved this opera house. The more I dug into the records, the more mismanagement I found. Mycroft paid your father off handsomely. More handsomely than he deserved, is that it?”

The longer Holmes keeps talking, the longer John has before his silence arouses suspicion or his voice gives his position away. The closer John creeps, the better an idea he gathers of where Zucco is. Not too much farther ahead. He hopes. He thinks.

“He drank himself to death with it before I could kill him,” Zucco explains, his tone bordering on conversational. Without warning, his honeyed voice breaks into a roar: “I had to go all the way to Australia!”

The shout echoes. Hand on the wall guiding him, John eases forward in the din. His hand finds metal, the bars of another gate, another barrier set into the wall.

“I imagine you were transported there easily enough,” Holmes quips. “Returning must have been the issue.”

“Oh, I hate boats, Mr Holmes.” Zucco’s voice laughs down at them from every angle. “For some reason, being on them is always absolute murder.”

Holmes grows very, very quiet. John’s sloshing turns abruptly audible. Faint, but audible. John keeps his breathing steady, free of gasps or cursing.

“You didn’t need to kill her,” Holmes says, voice low.

“Technically, I don’t need to kill anyone, but where’s the fun in that? Oh, no, no, no. Don’t be boring. I’ve only kept you alive because you’re not boring. You wouldn’t want to spoil that now, would you?”

A loud splash and Zucco laughs. Holmes hisses in the dark, presumably from having fetid water splashed at him, but the water and laughter echo wildly over him.

Under the cover of this noise, John sloshes forward to where he thinks Holmes is, revolver still aimed torso-high.

“A childish murderer, how quaint.”

Zucco splashes again, unexpectedly close, and the water smacks against John’s knees. “There he is!” Zucco shouts.

John turns toward his voice, turns and turns again, unable to see, unable to shoot, and then, with a rough scrape down the entirety of his face, a rope seizes about his neck. Zucco grunts and the rope drags John backward, banging him against a metal gate and pulling inexorably upward.

John grabs at the noose. The frantic splashing of his legs swallows the sound of his revolver dropping into the water. His back hits again against the gate, a metal bar above his head serving as a pulley.

“John!” Holmes shouts.

Red spots flare in the darkness, blooming inside John’s eyes. Forced high, straining on tiptoe, John chokes on his little remaining air. The rough rope digs into his neck as if set on burrowing through his skin to reach his very spine. Grabbing at the rope over his head only tightens the knot, but he realises this all too belatedly.

“We are going to discuss this very quickly, Mr Holmes,” Zucco states, cold and calm and another man entirely. “Same deal, new incentive.”

“John, stop thrashing!” Against Zucco’s chill, Holmes is heated panic, and John is all too willing to join him.

John grabs at the gate, tries to climb it, but Zucco takes out the slack as quickly as John can claim it. Each inch he climbs only creates a longer fall when his arms give out. His feet no longer brushing the floor, his arm on the gate giving out, John struggles to free the scissors from his inner coat pocket.

“Go on,” Zucco urges. “You can save him. It isn’t difficult.”

“Yes!” Holmes spits. “Yes, fine!”

Zucco adds a few inches of slack and John drops back into the water. He manages one rattling gasp before Zucco hauls the line tight once more. Just barely, John doesn’t drop the scissors.

“You do realise there’s a flaw in the plan now?” Zucco asks.

“Only one?” Holmes counters dryly. His returned poise gives John something to hold onto. His voice, even echoing as it does in the darkness, is a well-known comfort. Vernet in the dark. Always Vernet in the dark.

One miniscule sip of air at a time, John continues to breathe. Then, his hand shaking, he eases the scissors open and reaches above his head.

“The way out was worth the letter,” Zucco says, and John’s heart begins to pound even more wildly in his throat against the rope. He’d thought there was nothing incriminating in the letter. He’d made certain of it, or he’d thought he had. God, what if he hadn’t?

“Buy his freedom with my own,” Zucco continues. “A simple exchange. Now, what is the rest of his life worth to you?”

“If you want to stick me in a basement and force me to write for you, I can promise it won’t work. Believe me, I have tried that before.”

In the darkness there is the pause and impatient sigh of a man rolling his eyes. For that pause, John stops his slow, ineffectual sawing. “Your opera would say otherwise,” Zucco says.

“Dr Watson happens to be integral to my process. Therefore, strangling him to death would be counterproductive in the extreme.”

“Mm, I don’t think so. I will say, I did like the idea of hiding you away and letting your brother think you dead. Such a shame we have a witness now.” The rope tightens once more, and John digs the edge of the blade into the rope. “I don’t like that. I don’t like it at all, my dear.”

The blade catches, begins to pull down with John’s weight beneath it. He’ll shave the rope at this rate, not cut through it. He keeps trying anyway, straining for breath and knowing it will still come to nothing. Holding the scissors open means holding a blade and handle both in one hand, and the edge cuts into his skin.

Holmes steps forward.

“Ah, ah,” Zucco chides. “No. You stay where you are. I only need one hand for him. Unlike your precious soldier, I still have my gun.”

“You won’t shoot me,” Holmes says. He does not step forward again.

“I won’t want to shoot you,” Zucco allows. “I didn’t want to kill Miss Adler either, but I’m sure you understand there are simply some things an artist must do for his art. To destroy anything, you must take out its heart, do you understand? To destroy your opera house, remove Miss Adler. To destroy your brother? Here you are.”

“You don’t know my brother very well.”

Zucco tugs on the rope, jerking John higher and into an involuntary thrash. “I’m willing to take that risk.”

Zucco says something more, but John’s attention wanders as colours bloom into the dark, a rosy and violet swirl. Twitching, trembling, John’s arm tries to fall. His hand hurts. He might be bleeding, the blade in his palm. He thinks he’s bleeding. This is a terrible place for an open wound. Can’t get it wet. Infection.

Vernet’s voice in the dark. Holmes’. Theirs, his.

John’s arm fights to fall. His fingers twitch about the scissors.

Another tug on the rope and he feels it, he feels the tear, the pulling away. Relief hovers out of sight in the endless subterranean night.

“What’s this?” Zucco shouts into John’s haze. “What have you done now?”

John crashes to his knees. A wave of cold floods his trousers, startling him as close to consciousness as he can climb. Did the rope snap? A renewed tug on his neck answers this question in the negative. Zucco let him fall. Why...? To force him to stand anew or die in the attempt?

A hand finds his in the dark, his bleeding hand wrapped tight about the scissors. A hand smaller than his own, weaker than his own, and yet it pulls the scissors away from him with absolute ease. John’s arm falls and, once dropped, refuses to again be raised. The fingers of his other hand attempt without success to work their way beneath the noose. Tingling and uncoordinated, they’re far too large.

“A pair of scissors?” Zucco asks. “Really, Doctor? Ugh, you’ve bled all over them!” He tsks and pulls, and John staggers back to his feet, swinging and swaying. He hears the scissors snap shut. He hears the rapid splashes of movement. He hears these things without registering them, and then he falls back to the submerged floor, his knees blazing in pain against the tile.

Dazed, confused, lights pulsing before his eyes, John hugs his hand against his chest. Can’t get it wet. Infection. He remembers air almost as an afterthought. He pulls and fumbles, the pounding in his head almost overpowering the sounds of splashing, of thrashing.

Holmes, Zucco. Grappling. John tries to stand, tries to help, and can only continue to kneel. Even that, he only just manages. Water hits his face as the pair struggles, unseen.

Blackness looms behind darkness, a rounder, deceptively warm blackness against the cold dark. John keeps fumbling at the noose. He pulls the knot to the front, holds it beneath his chin, and manages to work it looser. Not loose, but looser.

Air. A sip of it. A mouthful in this vacuum.

Light blazes, a sudden burst of light between eye and eyelid, between John and utter blaskness. His head swims. His left hand, his non-bleeding hand, searches the water at his side. His fingers touch tile rather than his revolver.

A joint shout heralds a loud splash before him. Again, water strikes his face. He tightens his injured hand on his waistcoat. Gunpowder, he thinks sluggishly. His gunpowder will be wet. Can’t shoot. Can’t help.

Wobbling on his knees, sitting on his legs, he listens for the fight only to realise he can’t. He can’t hear it. Splashes echo, but only splashes, small ones now.

He is damnably slow to piece the sounds together: they’ve fallen. Off the platform, into the void. An occasional slap hits the water. John hears someone break the surface, hears a single, desperate gasp, and hears no more.

The gasp echoes, echoes, and dies.

Off the walls, off the arched ceiling, off the water, John’s harsh breathing returns to him, filling up his straining ears. His pounding heart hides any subtler sounds. He breathes and waits, body shaking, mind numb.

Inch by reluctant inch, he pulls the noose off his head. He looks to the water, to the gap between the platforms, although he can see nothing.

He hears it instead. The abrupt, flailing splash. The heaving gasp.

John sits and he shakes with shivers and strain, and he waits, noose in hand, to know which one it is.

“John...!”

John tosses him the noose. It falls short, pathetically so, but when John reaches for the other end of the rope, he feels it grow taut. The pulley effect of the metal gate is the only reason he has enough strength to act as ballast to Holmes.

“Are you all right?” Holmes demands. “Tell me, are you all right?”

Holmes crashes into him in the dark, his knee hitting John’s shoulder, and a wet slap of cloth hits John’s cheek. John frowns, utterly confused, only to realise what this is.

He begins to giggle.

He cannot stop. He cannot breathe, but he cannot stop.

Ice cold and dripping, Holmes’ hands go to his neck, to the sides of his face, and back to his neck. The spreading damp seeps into John’s collar. “Can you breathe? What’s wrong?”

In reply, John reaches up with a shaking hand and tugs at Holmes’ costume. The giggles continue.

At first stunned into silence, Holmes too begins to laugh. It’s a quiet sound, a nearly silent snicker. It is, without question, the most charming, most comforting, warmest sound Holmes has ever made, be it through voice or bow. John loves it utterly. There is nothing to do but to love it utterly.

“Suitably dramatic attire for being blackmailed by an arsonist,” Holmes says by means of explanation. “By which I mean, he didn’t let us stop and change. Greatcoats only, but I’m afraid mine is waterlogged at the moment.”

John rasps in his attempt to respond. He nods instead, but it comes out as more of a lolling than a deliberate nodding. It must, because Holmes holds his head still for him. John shudders involuntarily in the cold, clammy grip.

“Do you still have matches?” Holmes asks.

John nods again, his head shifting between Holmes’ palms. Holmes’ fingers curl against his scalp. John’s hand fumbles into his pocket. His matchbox is wet on one side, but, a minor miracle under the circumstances, the match heads all lie upon the other side.

His hands shake together, the right stinging terribly across the palm, and Holmes takes the matches from him when John fails to light them. Holmes strikes a match. The sudden light blazes between them, absolutely blinding. Even once John blinks his eyes clear, Holmes’ face remains half-shadow, rendered all the stranger by the remains of greasepaint and water.

John forces out his question in a rough mumble.

“I’m looking for it,” Holmes says, as if this is an answer. He hands John the matchbox and, the tiny light in one hand, gropes about beneath the water with the other. “Ah! Your revolver.”

John accepts it with a nod and somehow manages to pocket it. He repeats his question.

“He’s dead,” Holmes says, as if John couldn’t ascertain that for himself by the distinct lack of anyone else surfacing from the water.

John shakes his head. He tugs on the front of Holmes’ Roman uniform. The match goes out with a hiss as Holmes brings his ear to John’s mouth.

“Are you all right?” John manages.

Holmes pulls back and lights another match. He holds the flame higher this time, and John jerks his head back, squinting reflexively. Holmes peers at him oddly before stating, “I’m fine.”

“Didn’t hurt you?”

“Only threatened,” Holmes replies.

John nods, relieved and so abruptly drained. He could collapse on Holmes. He wants to. He wants to lie down. If this involved something other than putting his entire body in a freezing, dirty puddle, he would.

Holmes’ free hand returns to John’s shoulder. This is how John knows he was swaying. He only feels dizzy in hindsight.

“You’re bleeding,” Holmes says, as if this is a terrible and dire circumstance.

Letting go of his waistcoat, John shows Holmes his hand. Holmes brings the match near. It’s not that bad. Some stitching required. He wiggles his fingers, just in case, and they all respond. Not as well as they should, but none of him responds as well as it should.

Holmes touches John’s chest rather than his palm. “Is all the blood from your hand?”

Nearly falling forward, John nods. Holmes shifts accordingly. John sinks against Holmes’ side. He forces himself to keep his head up, to keep his airway open. Breathing is as sublime as it is exhausting.

The match burns out. Holmes doesn’t light another. All turns to quiet, two men breathing in the dark.

“We need to dry off,” Holmes whispers eventually. John may have fallen asleep on him, or perhaps he only drifted. “I’m freezing. Can you stand?”

“Letter,” John mumbles. “Blackmail?”

“What?”

“He said, a letter.”

“Still on his body, I’m afraid,” Holmes replies. “It should be quite illegible by now, or will be by the time anyone fishes him out. Come here, stand.” Somehow, they stagger onto their feet. John wraps an arm about Holmes’ shoulder. Holmes lights another match and finds his bearings. “I’ve no idea what you were thinking,” Holmes adds as they stagger off.

“What I was thinking?”

“Writing anything down, let alone leaving it out in the open.”

In a newspaper, John doesn’t have time to correct.

“He was going to show it to the police if they caught him, you realise,” Holmes continues. “I could hardly take it back from him while at gunpoint, so I agreed to show him the way out in exchange for it.”

“Show them what?” John rasps.

Holmes groans. “Your letter!”

“Did he even let you read it?”

“I saw it! You used the envelope, you used my scarf pin--”

“And I wrote ‘sorry I shouted’.”

Holmes very nearly drops him. As it is, they stumble at the step into drier tunnels and Holmes has to light another match. “You wrote what?”

Blinking at both the flame and the question, John asks, “Did I need to write anything?” The materials had no significance to anyone but him and Holmes.

Holmes stares at him in the flickering, infinitesimal light. “You... He bluffed.” Holmes takes so long to process this that he singes his fingers. Another match lit, Holmes says in a tone of dull despair and possible apology, “I’m an idiot.”

John nods. The motion is at last enough to exhaust his neck. Spent, he drops his head on Holmes’ shoulder. Holmes gathers him tighter against his side.

“I’ll never write you anything incriminating,” John whispers with effort.

“But you will write to me.”

Pressed so close, a nod could be mistaken for a nuzzle. John risks the motion all the same.

Holmes breathes as if he has only now surfaced from beneath the water. “And...if I were to visit Mrs Hudson on occasion?”

“I’d like to talk about that without bombs above us,” John says. His cold arms must be frozen around Holmes’ torso. It will be difficult to drag Holmes to safety at this rate.

“Was he lying about that, too, I wonder...? I suppose the ambient temperature will tell us.” With that, Holmes resumes his slow, careful shuffling. He shivers against John, so terribly underdressed for anywhere outside of the hot stage lights.

Staggering, supporting one another, they force themselves through an endless journey. Hope reshapes echoes into more promising sounds. They are nearly at Holmes’ old rooms before any of those promises are fulfilled.

“Holmes! Dr Watson!”

“Here!” Holmes shouts. “Here, Inspector!”

Inspector Lestrade rounds the corner with a pair of lamps and three policemen. Flanked by Hopkins and his fire axe, Miss Hooper follows on their heels. Lestrade swears at the sight of them. Miss Hooper immediately says “I’ll fetch a blanket!” and vanishes with one of the lanterns. With a worried wave to John, Hopkins vanishes after her.

“What happened?” Inspector Lestrade asks.

“Self-defence,” Holmes responds. He presents John in his bloody waistcoat as if as evidence. John comes close to falling down.

Lestrade eyes the tunnel behind them for a moment. “Dead?” he asks John.

John nods.

Lestrade nods back. “Let’s get you both upstairs.”

“No bomb?” Holmes asks.

“A few fires, but we did have the brigade standing by,” Lestrade answers.

John very nearly collapses, perhaps with relief, perhaps with simple exhaustion, and Holmes clutches him upright.

One of the officers steps forward. “I can take him, sir.”

“Let Dr Watson have his pride, Sergeant,” Holmes snaps, renewing his grip on John all the tighter. His hold nevertheless remains weak.

“It’s all right,” John says. Frankly, he could be carried out at this point and not mind.

Holmes doesn’t move as John leaves his side. Inspector Lestrade moves instead and takes hold of Holmes.

“Mrs Hudson will want to see you when you recover,” John adds as the sergeant takes him by the arm. John droops against the officer despite his best efforts.

“I’ll stop by,” Holmes agrees, sagging against Lestrade. Relief rivals the exhaustion in his voice.

Dripping less and bleeding lighter, they continue on into the world above.

previous | next

Fic: Bel Canto - 14/16 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 08 Jun 2013 00:45:13 GMT

Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 7.9k out of 127k
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement. (AU through a Phantom of the Opera lens.)
Warnings: Violence, internalized homophobia, character death

The performance rushes closer. Practiced chaos abounds. All the workers of the opera house whirl about each other to keep from colliding in narrow halls or between tables laden with props and tools and bits of costume. John’s steps in this dance are something of a waltz: two tiny steps forward and then a large step out of the way, holding his medical bag in the place of a partner.

A small emergency nearly erupts when one of the dancers vomits, but his symptoms don’t match those of major poisoning, merely food poisoning. Waves of terror escape before John can contain them, but a fair amount of shouting does the dancers good. Perhaps berating the man as an idiot for eating suspect egg salad is a touch harsh, but the resulting laughter puts a damper on the fear.

As the afternoon gives way into evening, the police take up their posts about the opera house. Clearly exhausted beyond all patience, Inspector Lestrade seizes upon John in passing.

“He’s not actually planning to perform, is he?”

“He’s more or less our only option at this point, sir,” John replies.

Inspector Lestrade’s arms remain crossed as his eyebrows rise. “You’re not serious.”

“I wish I weren’t. Still, it’d be a shame not to have bait in the trap you’ve been so kind as to set up.”

Inspector Lestrade doesn’t quite glare at him, but it’s close. “The Earl will try to call it off the moment he hears.”

“Does an earl have any actual power over a police officer?” John asks in his most innocent of voices.

“Legal or actual, Doctor?” Inspector Lestrade counters. “For that matter, have you met him?”

“Touché.”

They stand for a bit, then Inspector Lestrade sighs. “Where is he?”

“The Earl?”

“No, the boffin-turned-actor. Where’s he off to in this mess?”

“I think he’s having his costume sewn onto him,” John says, not entirely sure how jokingly he means it. He gives directions up toward the main sewing room. “If not, well, normally I’d tell you to try his dressing room, but I don’t think he has one of those yet.” Signor Valeri is still holed up in the one that would have been Holmes’.

“See if he does, would you? He’s gone and scrapped the entire protection plan without telling anyone. Putting himself out on the stage, he could get himself killed.”

“You’ll think of something,” John says with more hope than certainty.

“I’d damn well better, pardon my French.”

John lifts his medical bag pointedly. “I’ve still my gun.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised to hear it, but I am glad. I’ll send someone to tell you if we need you.”

“Yes, sir,” John says.

Inspector Lestrade glances down at John’s feet, snapped together as they are in old habit. He nods to John with more respect than before, and he was respectful, if exasperated, to begin with.

They part ways. John weaves his way through the back halls to the dressing rooms. He knocks and he calls and he asks more than a few people whether Holmes has a dressing room or not. No one seems quite certain.

“I think he’s in the third one,” Beaumont says. His face scrunches from the effort of thinking through the chaos.

“I thought Zucco was in that one,” Jamison disagrees.

“Thanks, you’re a wonderful help,” John says. The two curse at him in passably good cheer as John sets off. He knocks on the third one.

“Hello?” Zucco answers the door. Though they’ve an hour before the house opens, their Antony is already partially dressed for his role. His trousers clash oddly with the Roman uniform, but it wouldn’t do for the man’s legs to freeze off before he takes to the stage. His face has yet to be painted.

“Sorry to bother you,” John says.

“Oh, not at all,” says Zucco. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I don’t suppose you’d know if Mr Holmes has a dressing room?” John asks.

“I do! We’re sharing this one.” At John’s surprised blink, Zucco explains, “It doesn’t seem right, putting any of the lead roles into one of the common dressing rooms, and I was already in here before Signor Valeri barricaded himself into the other private one. There is the remaining lady’s dressing room, now that we’re without a star soprano, but that seems indecorous somehow.”

Easily recognising the chatter of another soul at loose ends, John nods along.

“Was there a message you wanted to give him?” Zucco asks.

“Merely trying to find him,” John lies. “If you see him, please tell him Inspector Lestrade is looking for him.”

Zucco smiles, but not in the way John would expect Antony to smile. Prettily done, this is a smile aimed to endear, to please, to flatter. “He’s very much in demand, isn’t he?” Zucco’s voice lifts slightly, just slightly, and suddenly, the nagging feeling in the back of John’s head resolves into clarity: Zucco is an invert.

John doesn’t twitch or recoil, but it is possible he betrays his realisation all the same. Zucco simply laughs with the fine humour of a man who knows his position is, for now, secure.

“I think the inspector simply wants to know where to store Holmes in case of emergency,” John replies.

“A fair concern.” Much more seriously, Zucco asks, “Might I be stored away in case of emergency as well?”

“I think you might,” John says, “but separate locations might be better.”

Zucco lifts his eyebrows as if granting John opportunity to explain this separation. Silently asking what he has done wrong, Zucco turns his expression piteous. “You’re very protective of your friend, aren’t you, Dr Watson?” He lilts over the word friend in a way John dislikes immensely.

“If the army taught me anything, Mr Zucco, it was to look out for my superiors,” John answers.

In what might be apology, Zucco nods. “I hope it serves us well tonight.” He smiles again, this time far more honestly. “He truly is a remarkable composer. I didn’t see that coming in the slightest. Not that I auditioned entirely without hope, but oh. This is something special.”

“It is. Though I’m not sure how well the audience will appreciate its uniqueness.”

Zucco waves a dismissive hand. “Stupid, ordinary people. I wouldn’t bother with them. They lack vision.”

“They do buy tickets,” John points out.

Zucco wrinkles his nose in the craftsman’s distaste of the layman. As if at a sudden thought, he brightens. “The word in the wings is that you were privy to the creative process.”

“I don’t know about that,” John says. He tries to excuse himself, but Zucco jumps in too quickly and so thwarts John’s fundamentally British core.

“I heard one of the stagehands say you were closeted with him in Mr Havill’s office when he was finishing the score.”

“He prefers to have someone else in the room,” John explains.

“Is that someone very often you?” Zucco asks. “That would explain much.”

“Beg pardon?”

“Mr Holmes assumes your posture for the role.” Zucco looks at him curiously. “Or didn’t you realise?”

John stares, then blinks a few times, then desperately holds in what could have become a very strange noise indeed. He clears his throat, smoothes his expression down before it can take on a giddy appearance, and calmly states, “He doesn’t do that.” He knows what Holmes looked like in the role of the captain, and he looked nothing at all like John. He was much too magnificent for that.

“He did earlier.” Zucco’s smile was that of a man who knows he knows better and, furthermore, intends for everyone else to know this as well. “I saw you when you tried to draw out Signor Valeri. Exceptional military posture. Mr Holmes was clearly emulating you.”

“Well,” John says. A stupidly fond expression keeps trying to climb onto his face. “You know. Inspiration from anywhere, that’s what makes an artist.”

“It’s certainly made him,” Zucco agrees. Though it might make another man appear sarcastic, Zucco’s emphasis only underscores the sincerity of his praise.

“It certainly has.”

“Do you know how long he’s been composing? He seems remarkably practiced for this to be his first public work.”

“I’m not sure. I imagine it’s a long-term passion.”

Zucco grins a bit. “Long-term traditionally describes the writing of an opera.”

“I wouldn’t know about that,” John says. “After all, Holmes slapped this one together in half a year.”

Zucco’s eyebrows rise, his grin wiped away.

John grins in return. “He’s very quick.”

“Then is this his first opera? Are there others? I hope you don’t mind my asking. It’s very exciting.”

“Oh, no, not at all,” John says, well-warmed to the topic. Besides, he has little else to do before the première, beyond staying out of the way. If Inspector Lestrade hasn’t come around to find Holmes here, he must have already found Holmes elsewhere.

John gladly answers what Zucco asks, and he finds himself very nearly relaxed for the first time that day. He’s hardly about to go inside the dressing room with Zucco, but little harm can come from conversing in the doorway. Invert or not, Zucco’s interest in Holmes does appear to be primarily professional, even at times bordering on hero worship.

Rather than disgust John, this reminds him of Hopkins’ awe toward Holmes. It must be so easy for a younger man to be caught up in Holmes’ personality and dignity. The fellow has fallen into a trap of gentility and doesn’t even know it, poor sod.

Upon hearing that Holmes has completed only the one opera, Zucco looks absolutely pained. When John explains how Holmes has often thwarted himself through his own perfectionism, Zucco nods understandingly. At no point does Zucco listen to John’s tales of Holmes’ process with anything less than fascination.

In an abruptly anxious turn, Zucco asks, “You don’t think he would stop composing, do you?”

John tilts his head slightly, frowning. “I think he could be caught under a rockslide and carry on humming. What do you mean?”

“This opera house and Miss Adler,” Zucco says. “They’re clearly significant to his work. If the opera house was to close or Miss Adler to leave for better prospects...” He trails off, his dread plain on his face. Here is a man who wants to sing something magnificent, and go on singing something magnificent.

“Holmes would go on writing.”

“You’re certain?”

“Absolutely,” John says without hesitation. “I’ve never known anyone more passionate about his art.”

“Not even Miss Adler?”

“Not even her.”

Zucco whistles, low and appreciative.

“He’ll keep writing, whatever happens tonight,” John promises. “Disaster or triumph.”

“That’s a relief,” Zucco says, nodding repeatedly. “I can’t tell you how much, Dr Watson.”

“I’m glad. Still, let’s aim for triumph, shall we?”

Zucco grins. “Of course. I never aim for anything else.”

“Just be certain you don’t run off after Cleopatra or something.”

Zucco finds this joke far more amusing than John would credit it being. “I’ll be very careful about that.”

“That’s all we ask. I’ll leave you to rest your voice.”

Rather than reply aloud, Zucco salutes smartly, if incorrectly. They part ways there, Zucco retreating into his shared dressing room. John picks up his medical bag only to realise he doesn’t actually have anywhere he needs to be. He adjusts his grip and adjusts it again. He starts walking, if only to prevent himself from going back and becoming a conversational leech.

Holmes is, apparently, the new rugby. Given half a chance and a willing bystander, John would prattle on about him endlessly. His face aches a bit from what he’s done already. Has he been smiling so much? Christ. In front of an invert is one thing, but there are police in the building.

It ought to be a sobering thought, but it does nothing to dampen John’s remarkably high spirits. Because that was happiness. Actual, solid happiness, simply from talking about the idiot.

God, there’s a thought. A strange, foreign thought, but there it is: John could be happy. Odd, the sort of things that tumble into one’s brain in the middle of a bunch of agitated stagehands. Hell of a risk to stake on a man that infuriating.

Still, there’s nothing he can do about it until after the show. With that in mind, he goes off to track down Inspector Lestrade and see if he can make himself useful. Failing that, he finds a newspaper.

The house opens with a surge of heat and noise. Bodies rumble up the stairs and stroll down into the stalls. Seats fill. Curtains sway in the boxes until the gloved hands of ushers secure them neatly in place. The john lights the footlights as the opening moment draws ever nearer. In the sudden increase of warmth from flame and human form, the orchestra tunes and tunes again, waves of discord growing sweet. The murmur of voices rises and falls, accompanied by the rustling of cloth and the fluttering of fans.

Rather than continuing to watch from the house door and block everyone’s way, John retreats to the lobby to breathe. Immediately, the air temperature drops. The doors are open, patrons still filing in with various levels of excitement and dread. While far from the gala première Holmes’ opera deserves, it remains a far better turnout than they could have expected under these conditions.

Said conditions include the policemen framing the doors as if, at any moment, all the doormen will be under arrest. The patrons’ reactions range from frightened to reassured, but very few turn back.

“Dr Watson, there you are!”

John turns and smiles reflexively at Hopkins and the shining buttons of his uniform. “Here I am. We’re not sold out, are we?”

Hopkins grins. “Closer to it than expected. I’m sure we will be tomorrow night.” He simply stands there for a moment, still grinning, but now very deliberately.

“Christ, what’s wrong now?”

“Nothing,” Hopkins says, his voice rising sharply in pitch. “I mean, the Earl is... Well, he’s here. In the box. Box Five.”

“I know where the Earl sits.”

“Yes... Well.” Hopkins doesn’t quite wring his hands, but he does fiddle with his gloves. “He’s been asking Inspector Lestrade, you see. So the inspector told me to find you.”

John’s stomach drops through the floor. “The Earl’s asking after me?”

“Well... no.” Hopkins visibly forces himself to stop adjusting his gloves. “Inspector Lestrade wants you nearby in case the ghost goes after you again.”

“Then what was that about the Earl?”

“He’s asking after his brother.”

Oh, God. “He thinks it’s my fault his brother’s turned into an actor?”

Hopkins hesitates.

The penny drops. “No one’s told him anything, have they?”

“Inspector Lestrade told him Mr Holmes has been working on the opera and... And that the Earl will see his brother when the opera starts.”

John swears quietly, Hopkins shushes him, and a passing patron glares at them all the same.

“Sorry, madam,” John and Hopkins apologise in unison. They quickly relocate, Hopkins trying to bring John to Box Five, John trying to go anywhere else.

“Would he stop the opera?” Hopkins asks.

“I hope not.”

They exchange a nervous glance at John’s vast understatement.

“Once the police lock the doors, it ought to be too late to call it off,” John reasons.

“About the door-locking,” Hopkins says.

“Yes?”

“If the ghost likes to set buildings on fire and we’re locking all the doors and windows, aren’t we playing into his hands? I know the policemen are at all the exits, but they won’t want to let anyone out in case the ghost escapes.”

“Hopkins,” John says.

“Yes?” says Hopkins.

“Find a fire axe.”

“You don’t actually have the authority to tell me to do that, sir.”

“I know,” John says. “You can blame it on me anyway.”

“Thank you, sir.” Hopkins nervous smile makes him appear younger than ever, although John’s certain the fellow is in his thirties.

“Anything else I need to watch out for?” John asks.

Hopkins hesitates.

“All right, out with it,” John orders.

“Not meaning to be impertinent, sir, and I know you said you and Miss Hooper weren’t an item, but I’m worried with Mr Zucco about, and I would never want to see you hurt, sir, I would never, and Mr Zucco and she seem a bit closer than expected—”

“He’s not interested in her,” John says bluntly, “and you can worry about asking her to lunch tomorrow, not tonight, understand? We need you focused.”

“I--” Hopkins gapes before nodding quickly. “Yes, sir.”

With that, they arrive outside of Box Five. Hopkins knocks. They enter. Inside, the Earl sits next to Inspector Lestrade. The Countess is absent, presumably due to her delicate condition.

“Doctor,” Lord Holmes greets.

“My lord,” John replies. “Good evening.”

The Earl looks at Hopkins.

Hopkins leaves.

When the door clicks shut, the Earl asks, “I don’t suppose you’ll deny my brother has taken to the stage?”

“I will not, my lord.”

“It was my understanding you not only had a baritone for the role, but an understudy after him.”

John folds his hands behind his back. He spreads his weight evenly, though his leg gives a bit of a twinge at it. “One quit. The other was an embarrassment.”

Lord Holmes does not stand and does not need to stand in order to look down at John. “I would rather some fool be an embarrassment than my brother a disgrace.”

“Begging your pardon, my lord,” John says, doing no such thing, “but we need a show worth ruining.”

“And is my brother ‘worth ruining’?” Lord Holmes demands in a measured voice.

“His performance will be,” John promises.

“I don’t care about his performance.”

“Your brother does,” John says. “I apologise for the embarrassment your brother’s involvement with theatre may cause your family, but Mr Havill is in charge of casting decisions. I have no say in this matter whatsoever.”

“Speak to him,” Lord Holmes orders.

“I can bring Mr Havill--”

“Speak to my brother,” Lord Holmes corrects.

“If I could see any point in doing so, my lord, I would. Unfortunately, I have never set my will against your brother’s with any sort of success. He is a very determined man.”

Lord Holmes narrows his eyes. Beside him, Inspector Lestrade does his absolute best to sink into the woodwork. Beyond them, through the open curtains, the stalls are nearly full. The orchestra sits at attention in the pit, ready to rise to their maestro’s command.

John squares his shoulders and continues, “If your lordship wishes to put a stop to the opera, that option remains. Again, I’ve never successfully set my will against your brother’s, but I’m certain your lordship is more capable in that regard.”

“You are prepared for my brother to become a laughingstock.”

“I am prepared for anything but that.”

“Then see to your preparations,” Lord Holmes bids him.

Before John can devise a suitable response, the overture begins. Lord Holmes turns in his seat to look out into the house, down to the orchestra, and John understands a crucial detail so crucial, so obvious, and so very sad.

“Is this your lordship’s first time hearing it?” John asks needlessly, his voice lowered in deference to the music.

The first hush of the audience reaches even Box Five. A moment passes before Lord Holmes answers in a whisper. “I’ve heard snatches.”

“I think your lordship will be pleasantly surprised.”

Lord Holmes says nothing. He simply sits and listens and gestures for John to sit. John obeys, taking his position on Lord Holmes’ right. Lord Holmes is, as always, centred within his box. His focus shifts utterly from John to the orchestra. When the overture reaches the battle theme, the Earl nearly stops breathing.

The overture finishes to applause. The grand drape parts. The opera takes its first breath and comes alive. Rehearsal was but a shadow fallen in advance: the true form is here.

Roman soldiers loiter in their barracks. The prologue rings out from their throats, setting a foreign story that would escape John entirely if he didn’t know it by heart. He ignores the Italian and listens instead to the orchestra. Their general is gone to Rome, their general has married the emperor’s sister, and now, their general has returned. They sing of Antony and Rome and the bonds between. They sing of Alexandria and Egypt and the unending charms of Cleopatra. They sing of their general’s resolve, of his good name, of their great pride in him.

There in the barracks, a young soldier steps forward, tall and slight in build. The orchestra soars under him to lift him up in praise of his general. His voice glows with the innocent pride that only naivety can bring. He is convincing in the extreme and it takes John a moment to realise, yes, that is Miss Adler.

A bit of dancing follows, not as silly as it could have been, and the soldiers fall into line in anticipation of their general’s entrance. The orchestra heralds his approach and yet the man who enters is not Antony at all, a fact immediately recognisable in the soldiers’ disappointment. Their captain has come in their general’s place.

John has a strange moment of panic before he can detect any trace of Holmes beneath this new persona. He knows the voice but cannot see the man. This is someone else, someone dedicated to cause and country. He stands in absolute control of his body, his motions commanding in their quiet nature. He emanates unquestionable strength and would do so even without the sword upon his hip. The weapon is secondary to the man, or perhaps an inevitable extension of him. His report, though sung, maintains the tight rhythm of pertinent briefing. His simple presence turns the crowd of dancers into an assembly of soldiers standing at attention, if only because they would dare be nothing else for him.

The weight of the Earl’s gaze presses against the side of John’s face.

“He’s not terribly recognisable,” John whispers.

“Not as himself,” the Earl replies in a murmur.

John looks at him with a question in his eyes, but Lord Holmes gives no further explanation.

The opera continues inexorably on. Minor mishap leads to disorder, punctuated by the first of Miss Adler’s solos. The other soldiers sing of their loves left at home, but she focuses instead on some grand ideal that John feels rather than understands. Where John’s comprehension of Italian dwindles down to nothing, the music supports the meaning.

Changes in the choreography are obvious, but only because John knows where to look for them. At no point is the captain called upon to dance. Though Miss Adler’s young soldier may join in the ranks for tense drills, Holmes’ captain remains detached. He stands often in parade rest. There and only there does John recognise Holmes’ performance as mimicry.

After the nearly a full act of questioning whether their perfect general will stay true to his new wife, the inevitable announcement comes. Though surely the entire audience sees it coming, though they must have known the story’s end before they ever set foot in the house, gasps escape open mouths at the news. Antony has betrayed his new wife, and her brother Octavius Caesar by extension.

The curtain draws shut to tremendous applause. His face impassive, his hands far from still, the Earl keeps his gaze on the stage.

“How many acts to this?” Inspector Lestrade asks.

“Four,” John says. “But all of act three is a naval battle and act four is everyone dying.”

“What’s act two?”

“All the soldiers realise they can either be traitors to Rome or deserters from Antony’s army.”

“That doesn’t sound half bad,” says Inspector Lestrade.

“No, it’s quite good,” says John.

“It is quite good,” Lord Holmes says quietly, as if he still hasn’t made up his mind. “Unconventional, perhaps.”

“Unconventional in good ways, I’ve found,” John says.

“Do people still die singing?” Inspector Lestrade asks.

“Some, but Mr Holmes made certain to kill those soldiers in ways that permit singing. Respiratory systems remain intact and unblocked. Some parts cut off at the singer’s death. It’s really quite clever.”

“He consulted you...?” Lord Holmes nearly asks.

“We have very odd conversations,” John replies.

Lestrade laughs. “I’d say!”

A knock comes at the door. Lestrade rises, his hand bidding Lord Holmes and John to remain still. Lestrade opens the door, nods, and says, “Begging your pardon, your lordship.” He steps out to speak to one of his officers and closes the door behind him.

John fixes his gaze straight ahead and does not look at the Earl. The Earl does not give John such courtesy. By the power of Lord Holmes’ eyes alone, John’s cheek is slowly flayed open, picked apart down to the bone.

Eventually, John risks saying, “I don’t think it will be a problem for your family, my lord. I can barely recognise your lordship’s brother, and no one knows he has a voice like that on him.”

“Very few do,” the Lord Holmes allows.

“...He emulates you,” John says in an attempt to placate. “Vocally. When he’s on his best behaviour.”

“Better behaviour, I’m sure you mean.”

“If your lordship says so.” John ducks his head, but the deferential movement turns defensive.

“I once told him his voice resembled that of his Italian instructor,” Lord Holmes states. “My dear brother has publically imitated me ever since.”

John frowns. “I’m not sure I understand, my lord.”

Lord Holmes looks at him sceptically but says no more, leaving John with the sense that he’s been handed a key but cannot see the lock. Italian instructor... Ah.

“...His Italian instructor was a baritone and an invert, was he not?” When the Earl responds in neither the positive nor the negative, John boldly continues, “Your brother tries not to sound like him, lest he be found an invert himself.”

The Earl’s reply takes a moment to come and is directed toward the stage, soft in volume and hard in tone. “He was never one for singing in public. Even in private, we’ve heard nothing out of him since our mother passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” John says.

Lord Holmes very nearly rolls his eyes. He’s never looked more like his brother. “Hardly the part for which you owe and apology.”

John moves his lips in the attempt to make gritted teeth look like a smile. He never for a moment imagines he succeeds.

“You disagree over the matter?” Lord Holmes asks in a voice civil as a civil war.

Seeing the break almost at its end, John glances back to the door, but Lestrade does not return. John has a small, irrational hope that Hopkins might come and break down the door with his fire axe.

“Two matters, I think your lordship means,” John says pointedly.

Lord Holmes looks at him fully, a frown pinching his mouth. There’s a question in Lord Holmes’ eyes, but John can’t for the life of him make out what it is.

John holds Lord Holmes’ gaze for as long as he dares before venturing the question, “Does your lordship recollect what I’m referring to?”

Lord Holmes’ face remains blank.

Temper held tight in his hand, John says, “The blackmail attempt.”

Very slowly, Lord Holmes blinks.

“That... wasn’t your lordship’s idea?”

“Dr Watson, are you accusing my brother of attempted blackmail?” Lord Holmes glances back at the door in a very real reminder that Inspector Lestrade may return to them at any moment.

“He admitted to it,” John whispers.

“After prompting?”

“Well, yes.”

“If I or my brother were inclined toward blackmail, Dr Watson, you would be in very dire trouble. As you are merely in great trouble, you may rest assured that neither I nor my brother will sink to such depths.”

“...I don’t understand.”

“Two matters, you said?”

“Your lordship’s brother said two,” John says. “His... goals between us, and his chamber downstairs.” When the Earl simply looks at him, John continues with extreme discomfort, “He refused to tell me the second unless I approved of his goals for the first.”

Lord Holmes closes his eyes with the air of a man who would greatly like to strangle an absent party. “Meaning,” Lord Holmes says, “he refused to reveal his eccentricities until you promised his eccentricities wouldn’t matter.”

“...Ah,” John says. “Possibly.”

Lord Holmes shakes his head, eyes raised to the ceiling. John has never seen a man so clearly despair of another’s ineptitude.

Before John can ask anything further, another knock raps against the door, and Lestrade enters.

“Welcome back, Inspector,” Lord Holmes drawls, nonchalant once more. “You’re just in time.”

Lestrade nods respectfully, and the second act begins soon after he takes his seat. The audience’s chatter fades away at the first note.

The act focuses more on the young soldier being swayed from Antony’s side to that of the mutineers. John’s interest wanes accordingly and he grows increasingly aware that the time for the ghost to strike draws ever closer. The audience is clearly invested, and outrage is sure to follow should anything go awry.

Miss Adler thrives as the focal point. Knowing it was one thing, but seeing it is another: the entirety of the opera hinges on her performance. The very number of seats sold tonight was dependent upon her presence. She is their one attraction left, and for good reason. Her young soldier is perfect in his confliction, honest in his doubt, heartbreaking in his loyalty. So very delayed in this realisation, he at last thinks of himself. Whichever choice, he fears his fate to come.

Her solo is exquisite. The audience leans forward, the rustling of cloth filling in for the absence of breath. Thunderous applause follows, absolutely thunderous as the young soldier decides to side with the mutineers.

Too late, John realises what follows. Holmes’ voice seared the scene into his heart months ago. John watches in growing dread as the young soldier creeps away to join the mutineers only to be caught by the waiting captain.

Amid the many layers of the orchestra, the line of the violins reveals itself to John’s ears. He knows it. He could never forget it. John braces himself for the seduction, for the sight of Holmes making love to another man in Italian.

It never comes.

Adler’s resistance transforms seduction into begging, weakens command into negotiation. Holmes’ arguments, though handsomely sung, fall by the wayside. He releases Adler because Adler cannot be held, because the force to contain could never successfully be used to control. The power of Adler’s silent will elevates the soldier to the level of his superior officer, the pair equal in determination despite their separate stations.

Holmes sings of glory and honour, of home and loyalty, of life and breath. Where his arguments fail, his passion sways. When Adler acquiesces, it is no submission, but an alignment of purposes. The young soldier sings his sombre words of loyalty. His pledge resounds from Alexandria into London. The orchestra crescendos beneath his honesty and brings it, and the act, to its conclusion.

If the applause had been wild before, that is nothing compared to what happens as the curtain draws shut for intermission. The crash of so many clapping hands, the roar of so many praising voices; it shakes the house itself. The vibration takes hold of John down to the bones, to the marrow. Beside him sits the Earl in stunned silence, his expression strange and too tender to look upon.

John excuses himself quietly. Lestrade looks at him askance and John states aloud his need for the toilet. “Don’t worry,” he adds, glancing down pointedly to the medical bag forever in his hand. “I’m armed.”

Mind whirling, blood thrumming, he sets out in a daze. While intermission lasts, he slips through the back halls until he finds an open bit of table space. He opens his medical bag, draws out the much battered envelope, and carefully unfolds it, breaking the dried glue without tearing the paper. He retrieves a pencil from his bag as well, angles his body to better be out of the stagehands’ way, and tries to think.

Although it may surprise you to read this, I do not intend to shout at you, John writes slowly. He winces at the formal tone but cannot risk setting anything informal to paper. In fact, I have intended several times to make amends but seem incapable of it. I apologise for my temper, which rivals your own. If possible, I would like to speak with you without any shouting whatsoever. Failing that, I would like to speak with you. Should you wish it, I am prepared to converse solely through letters. If you no longer wish to work collaboratively or discuss logistics to that effect, I will be neither surprised nor offended.

All too aware that intermission is running out, he hurriedly signs I remain, faithfully, your doctor, JHW.

He reads it over twice to be sure of what he’s done before folding it up carefully. It refuses to stick shut. With no other way of sealing it, he dives back into his medical bag and pulls out the silver scarf pin. The process involves very carefully piercing, but he manages it. The end result is a letter folded back into a crumpled, pinned shut envelope. Holmes will either find it immensely endearing or laugh John out of the building.

Before he can stop himself, he sets off to Holmes’ joint dressing room. Along the way, he withdraws this afternoon’s newspaper from his medical bag as well. He folds the newspaper in half and sticks the envelope inside. The rationale has less to do with sentiment than it does to do with the sheer number of policemen John passes.

At the dressing room, John learns Holmes is already waiting in the wings, but Zucco doesn’t ask why John has rushed in for the sole purpose of dropping off a newspaper. Zucco clearly wants one last moment of peace, so John exits without any chatting. A very quick walk puts John back in Box Five just before intermission ends, but only just.

“I was starting to worry,” Inspector Lestrade chides him.

“Sorry.”

“He wouldn’t have appreciated the interruption,” Lord Holmes says without warning.

Either unshakeable or exhausted past use, John’s nerves don’t jump in the slightest. “Precisely the reason I didn’t bother him,” John lies, taking his seat.

The music resumes, the curtain parts, and they fall silent in the box.

The battle begins. Not the beginning as stories and songs would say battles begin, but as battles truly begin: with the wait. The oppressive silence reigns over forced merriment. Commanding officers bludgeon their troops with sobriety, with discipline, with words made into lashes. Here rises the straining tension that makes men eager to kill, if only to escape the unending pressure of waiting. Here is a condensed form of madness, controlled and crafted, a tool to shape the wills of many into the weapon of one man. Here are John’s nightmares made music, and he watches them with a strange detachment, with the mixed revulsion and pride a mother might feel toward her murderer son.

The conflict flares at last into tangible, visible form. The audience gasps with relief before horror takes them anew. The ships amaze, immense shapes of slim wood painted with false depth. They break and sink, dancers floating away with the wreckage.

Amid the confusion, the captain stands tall. He is a lighthouse upon the sea, the one piece of stability, and his presence forces the eye to anxiously roam for the young soldier, so surely the young soldier must already be dead. Even knowing Irene’s male role will survive until the end of the opera, John discovers himself anxious. The young soldier is away in the wings, transformed into the much anticipated Cleopatra. Before her must come Antony, but before Antony appears, the captain must begin their song alone.

John waits for it and waits for it, a rising shiver in his soul. If any moment were to be interrupted, it would be this one. Beside John, Lord Holmes grows noticeably nervous, his hands clenched tight atop the box’s front wall. A glance past him to Inspector Lestrade reveals an active search across the audience, the music ignored for the sake of safety.

With Inspector Lestrade on the lookout, John commits his focus to the stage with little guilt. He knows the turn the music is taking. He knows what is about to begin.

Holmes sings. He does not sing upon the stage, for the stage is a deck from which he sings upon the sea. Hearts beat hot blood until drums beat behind them, and Holmes’ words drive the battle even deeper into flesh. Holmes flings a hand high, heralding the coming of the long absent general, here at last. Trumpets blare as Antony’s ship enters past one flowing curtain.

Antony stands tall at the bow, tall but not yet triumphant. He stands and he sings, and the captain echoes the commands of his general against their joint foe. The tide turns upon the Romans as the orchestra sets itself to its very limits for the sake of summoning Cleopatra.

Her ship enters behind Antony’s. Taller than Antony’s, Egyptian rather than Roman, the ship carries upon it a curious figurehead where there ought to be none. John squints at it, confused as to the last minute set change. A moment of wondering and his ears register the absence in the music.

“Oh, God,” whispers Lord Holmes.

Devoid of Cleopatra’s part, the song remains a duet. Holmes and Zucco look up. Though the orchestra plays on, their voices halt, Zucco’s with a scream, Holmes’ with utter silence. Dancers collide with Holmes. His back turns fully to the audience and, beyond to catch the next dancer who stumbles against him, he does not move.

The alarm spreads through the audience before it reaches the pit. The battle falls from orchestrated fury and into cacophonous disorder. A woman screams, just one woman in the pit because there is only one.

“Irene!” screams Kate Norton from her harp. “Someone cut her down! Someone do something!”

The audience riots. Screaming, shouting, the patrons scramble to flee. The dancers scatter into the wings, tripping over groundrows as they go. Zucco leaps from his ship to seize the motionless Holmes by the wrist and drag him behind the closing curtain.

Medical bag forever in hand, John darts out of the box before he has a moment to think or before the others have a chance to stop him. He runs. The press of bodies grows too great. He shoves instead. He shoves and he slips around and beside and through, and when he reaches the stage, they’ve cut down the figurehead from Cleopatra’s prow. The police part at the sight of John’s raised medical bag.

“It can’t be her,” Miss Norton cries. Green struggles without success to hold her back. “Is it really her?”

For one ghastly moment, John cannot tell. Beneath the bloating and discoloration, her sharp features remain, like swords hanging upon a wall, but John has never known her to be so removed from battle, to have been set aside. Cloaked in a shroud of skirts and devoid of her posture, this body is only a corpse. Some bodies retain traces of the soul, but not so for Miss Adler. Without her breath, she is gone.

Someone has already removed the noose, but, irreversible, the results of strangulation persist. There is absolutely nothing John can do.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“We’re finished,” Green says, gutted. “Bastard’s stabbed us in the heart.”

Miss Norton twists free from him to collapse at the corpse’s side. She clutches at a limp, pale hand. “She’s still warm! Dr Watson, do something!”

“Her throat is crushed,” John tells her softly, firmly.

“But she’s still warm!”

John looks for a pulse to appease her. He finds nothing. “I’m sorry.”

Miss Norton hits him then, two uncoordinated fists against his shoulder. She strikes his good shoulder and does him little harm, but it isn’t for a lack of trying. John catches her hands. He pulls her up to stand. Miss Norton begins to weep. Mrs Hudson rushes forward and bundles the shaking woman up in a tearful embrace.

“Hysterics at a time like this,” Beaumont disparages, and John hauls him one across the face without thinking. Beamounts head snaps to the side and he staggers. “Jesus fuck!”

An officer drags John back in an instant. He looks familiar. “Keep your sodding head, Doctor! Where are Holmes and Zucco?”

Breathing heavily, shaking, John takes a strange, echoing moment to respond. “Dimmock? Dimmock, I don’t know. Oh God, he’ll be going after them next, won’t he?”

“Exactly why we need to find them,” Inspector Dimmock snaps.

“They went back to their dressing room,” Beaumont says, clutching at his bleeding nose. He glares at John through his fingers.

“Holmes looked in bad shape,” pipes in one of the dancers. “Zucco had to drag him.”

“Show me the way,” Dimmock orders the dancer. The pair is off in an instant.

Beaumont comes back at John just as quickly. “The fuck was that for!”

“Insult a mourner and I turn your mum into one. Are we clear?”

“Fucking Christ.” Beaumount wipes blood off his chin with the back of his hand. “You’re a sodding doctor!”

“You’re not really helping, dears,” Mrs Hudson says over them, still rubbing Miss Norton’s shaking back.

Perhaps a longer moment passes or perhaps it’s only a second. Time turns strange during a crisis. It feels instantaneous. Mrs Hudson chastises them and then the cry goes up:

“They’re missing!”

“The ghost has them!”

“Someone find them!”

“What in the blazes...?” Green asks as John’s stomach drops away entirely.

“Holmes and Zucco aren’t in their dressing room,” John says. Who else are worth raising this panic over?

Everyone upon the stage looks down at the remains of Irene Adler.

“Fuck,” curses Green. “They weren’t half bad, either.”

“They’re not dead yet!” John’s volume rises as his hands turn to trembling fists. “We have a ghost and two men to find! Everyone move!”

A manhunt ensues within an instant, but John can’t seem to join it. He simply stands between Miss Adler’s lover and Miss Adler’s corpse. He thinks of Valeri’s terror, of the man still barricaded into his dressing room. He makes the mistake of looking at Miss Norton. His mind turns blank. The night Mary died comes alive. The night Harry died. He wonders, distantly, if Clara can help Miss Norton through this. He wonders who will help him through this.

“Dr Watson!”

John blinks dumbly at Miss Hooper. Despite the very obvious answer, he very nearly asks her what’s wrong.

She stops a moment to catch her breath. Looking at Mrs Hudson and the distraught Miss Norton, Miss Hooper gestures him toward the wing. Once there, she searches about frantically.

“What are you looking for?” John asks.

“I can prove it,” Miss Hooper swears. She too is on the verge of tears. “If you just let me, I can show you.”

“Hold on, stop.” He catches her by the shoulders. “Prove what?”

“It was Jim. I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault he was here, I’m so, so sorry. And I’m not hysterical, I promise, I’m not, I’m just really, really sorry and no one will listen! I tried to find Stanley—he has a fire axe—”

John squeezes her shoulders. “Breathe.”

She breathes.

“What’s going on?” John asks. “Who’s Jim?”

“Jim Zucco! It was him.”

John stares at her blankly. Then he turns his head, looks at the corpse, and looks back to Miss Hooper.

“He volunteered to help Irene with her costume change,” Molly says. “I didn’t see the harm in it on account of him being so, you know, and we had to have her change in the wings and the police were meant to keep everyone else out, so she should have been safe!”

“Breathe,” John says again.

Miss Hooper breathes. “It had to have been Jim. He was the one who was supposed to help her up onto her ship. There wouldn’t be time, would there? Between their entrances. Because either he killed her or she was killed in front of him or she was killed really quickly after he came out on stage.”

“We think he has Holmes,” John says.

“I know!” she shouts. “That’s why the police need to listen to me! They’re going to find him and treat him like a victim! He could be holding Mr Holmes hostage.”

“If he’s holding Mr Holmes hostage, I think the police will know to shoot him,” John says. “Failing that, I will know to shoot him.”

Though considerably paler than she was but a moment ago, Miss Hooper nods. “The police are at all the doors and they’ve locked all the windows, too. They’re going to find him eventually. I’m just scared they’ll try to take him somewhere else for safety and he’ll get away.”

“We’ll tell the Earl,” John says. “Or we’ll tell Mrs Hudson and she’ll tell the Earl. He’ll listen to her.”

Miss Hooper exhales heavily. “All right. All right. Good. I really am sorry.”

“Not your fault. None of us saw it coming. I spoke with him earlier and—oh. God. He was very interested in Holmes.”

John and Miss Hooper stare at each other for a moment before darting back to Mrs Hudson. They hurriedly draw her away from Miss Norton, as not to upset her further, and Miss Hooper explains in a semi-coherent rush.

Mrs Hudson’s eyes grow very wide indeed, but she keeps her head as only Mrs Hudson can. “I’ll find Mycroft,” she promises. “John, you check the tunnels.”

“The what?” Miss Hooper asks.

John frowns. “Why would he go down there?”

“Because that’s where he hides,” Mrs Hudson says, “and if he’s being forced to show Zucco a way out, he’ll take the tunnels.”

“Right,” John says. He pulls his revolver from his medical bag and leaves the bag upon the stage.

“I’ll go with you,” Miss Hooper says. “I brought the pointy scissors.”

“Could you use them on him?” John asks. “If you had to.”

Miss Hooper visibly hesitates before she pulls the scissors from a skirt pocket and hands them to John. “They’ll be better against a noose than a gun would be.”

“Thank you,” John says. “Now against my better judgement, I’m going to run with these. Find the Earl and Inspector Lestrade, and if I don’t come back, you’ll know where Zucco is.”

“Be careful!” Miss Hooper calls after him.

John spares no time for a reply. With all possible speed, he races to the basements beneath the opera house. There, the entrance below the stairs, formerly boarded up, has been forced open anew. Heart in his throat and gun in his hand, John ducks through the door and ventures into the darkness.

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Note: A number of enterprising musicians have begun to compose an opera based on Sherlock's at belcantoopera.tumblr.com. As I understand it, anyone who wants to help is welcome. What they've already done is amazing. I'm in awe.

Fic: Bel Canto - 13/16 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 01 Jun 2013 02:54:33 GMT

Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 9.9k out of 126k
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement. (AU through a Phantom of the Opera lens.)
Warnings: Violence, internalized homophobia, eventual character death

Op. 20, No. 1
Op. 20, No. 2
Op. 20, No. 3
Op. 20, No. 4
Op. 20, No. 5
Op. 20, No. 6
Op. 20, No. 7
Op. 20, No. 8
Op. 20, No. 9
Op. 20, No. 10
Op. 20, No. 11
Op. 20, No. 12
Op. 20, No. 13
Op. 20, No. 14
Op. 20, No. 15
Op. 20, No. 16

Rehearsals rattle forward at a breakneck speed. Opening night looms closer day by day, impossibly near. The choir stumbles through their words, the dancers through their steps, and every day, Holmes looks one step closer to murdering someone.

John stands back, well out of firing range. He’s far too occupied with a new sort of busywork, assuring their principle singers that no one has poisoned them anew. Hypochondria has run rampant enough since the induced epidemic, but with every threatening letter that slips through to their cast, the paranoia increases.

Placating becomes the order of the day, assurances and reassurances that they will remain safe. As long as everyone holds together, the phantom will be caught at the première. As long as the line holds, the plan may continue. While the cast and orchestra rehearse, so do the police.

Three days before opening, the line breaks. A struggling chorus girl leaves her tiny role, only that, but it opens the gate. Once fear turns to action, there is no stopping it. Mr Havil bribes the leads into staying, but they lose Cleopatra even so. More in character than they’d bargained for, their Antony flees after her. An uproar sweeps through the remaining members of the opera house, the crew taking the actors’ flights particularly bitterly.

As per usual, the only person who is unrelentingly optimistic is Miss Hooper. “I’ve brought in a friend for the emergency auditions today,” she tells John over a very quick lunch at the neighbouring café. There’s only so long anyone can remain trapped inside the opera house and retain their sanity. “Well, I say a friend. I mean, he’s, um. Well, he’s more of an acquaintance, really. But he can sing, at least.”

“Anything else?” She looks far too furtive for him not to ask.

Her smile turns guilty. “He’s the perfect size for the costume, and I don’t want to do it again.”

For the first time that day, John laughs a little. “What’s his name?”

“Mr James Zucco.”

“From Italy?”

“I’m not sure,” she admits. “No accent, but I know he speaks it.”

That’s more than a good deal of their remaining cast can claim. “Good luck to Mr Zucco, then.”

Molly nods. They sit for a moment longer before she sighs. “I just don’t want to have to change the costume again.” Another sigh nearly escapes before she visibly perks herself up. “Sorry, I shouldn’t complain. Ready to go?”

They pay and leave. Other members of the theatre staff rise to follow, reminding John of nervous herd animals. Everyone keeps close, even on the street. John and Hopkins frame Molly automatically.

After a long day of assuring everyone that no one is dying, John sits down in the growler with a groan. Though Mrs Hudson tuts at him, she hardly looks any better.

“What’s the verdict?” John asks.

“We have our Antony. He’s quite the job in front of him, two days to learn all those lines. Thank goodness it’s a fairly minor role. And everyone else but Cleopatra has an understudy now.”

That’s certainly good news, to a point. Whether it’s the strain of rushed rehearsals or actual illness setting in, Signor Valeri has been looking poorly, and they do need their captain for the show. “What about Cleopatra?”

“Well... She only has that one duet, doesn’t she? Very minor role.”

A minor role, but one that must be nothing short of magnificent. “We don’t have one, do we.”

“...Perhaps Cleopatra could flee the naval battle early? Without singing?”

“Oh, God.”

Mrs Hudson sighs. “It doesn’t look good, does it?”

“Have you ever pulled through worse?”

“Oh, I’m sure we have,” Mrs Hudson says. “I can’t remember anything off the top of my head. Still, there must have been something.”

They say nothing more for the rest of the ride. Only once John’s paid the cabbie and they’ve warmed themselves up inside the house does John ask, “Have you heard anything about the police search?”

“A number of dead ends, from what I’ve heard,” she replies. “They’ve looked into the old owner and anyone else who was interested in buying at the time. So far, no luck.”

“What about... Sorry, what was the old owner’s name? His family.”

“Mr O’Connell. He didn’t have much in the way of family. No children, so that’s everyone there dead. No, I think they’re right about it being another potential buyer.”

“Long time to wait,” John says.

“It is a bit, isn’t it?” Mrs Hudson agrees. “But that’s assuming his goal is to get the opera house back and not just extort money.”

John frowns. “I thought we were a bit past that point.”

“Oh, no,” Mrs Hudson says. “The opera ghost is still writing, you know. Everything goes away for twenty thousand pounds.” She wrinkles her nose at that. “That buys only month, of course, and it’s hardly as if the opera house could afford that now even if we wanted to.”

It doesn’t make much sense from where John’s standing. “Why break a piggy bank you still want to use?”

“I don’t know. Maybe he likes breaking things. He certainly seems to.”

“I’ll give you that.”

They discuss matters a bit more before yawns take them both. They smile tightly at each other and pointedly ignore that John must ask her this information because Holmes will no longer tell him. Or perhaps Holmes would, if John were to ask.

In any case, they say goodnight and go to bed.

Holmes is dangerous to look at.

Holmes is particularly dangerous to look at in public settings.

Naturally, Holmes is also impossible to look away from. John cannot tell if it is better or worse that this problem does not belong to him alone. All of the opera house not otherwise engaged has turned out to see whether opening night must be delayed. Auditions for Cleopatra drag on, a second day and an exhausted supply of singers ahead of them. John and Green have good seats down toward the front, close enough to watch Holmes and Mr Johnson as well as the hapless singers. Once selected, the woman in question will have little more than a full day before taking the stage tomorrow night.

While Mr Johnson makes notes at his temporary desk before the pit, Holmes stands and paces. On rare occasions, he stands still. The cry of “Next!” comes from him twice as often as it does from Mr Johnson, but Mr Johnson never disagrees.

Once and only once, Mr Johnson tells a woman not to leave. Her voice is lovely enough to John’s ears, and it might be possible for her to look the part. He gives her the sheet music for Cleopatra and bids her to show the extent of her memory.

“As a last resort,” Holmes agrees, if this can be called agreement.

“If possible, sir,” Mr Johnson says to Holmes, “I would devise a way around having a Cleopatra. Her role may need to be silent.”

Arms folded, Holmes chews on his lip. His tense body is once again Vernet’s. There are lines in his hair from where he’s raked his fingers through. “I’ve considered that.”

Beside John, Green whispers, “The two of you still on the outs?”

John startles and stares. “What?”

“Can’t say I blame you,” Green continues. “If a man ever befriended me to get at a girl, I’d be right annoyed too.”

“I don’t mind having introduced him to Miss Adler,” John lies.

“Then you’re a bigger man than I am.” Green looks over to where Mr Johnson and Holmes are in quiet discussion over some piece of sheet music. “Man owes you his life as well as his girl and goes around cutting you for a week. Poor manners on that one.”

John nearly defends Holmes—it’s hardly as if either of them wants to acknowledge the other when they pass in the halls—but he cannot trust he won’t say too much. Instead, he settles for, “Everyone’s rude when they’re on edge. Everything will settle down soon.”

“You keep telling yourself that, Doc,” Green answers. “I’ll be right here, not believing you.”

“You’re only annoyed because he keeps interfering backstage.”

Green grunts. “It’s not right, him barging in and sticking his nose everywhere. It’s my bloody stage. He comes out, sees everything halfway finished, and throws a strop. Gentlemen are patrons for a reason, you know.”

“I know,” says John. This agreement is permission enough for Green to list, quietly, his long score of grievances against Holmes. It’s not meant to be amusing, not at all, but John bites his cheek to nod and grumble along. Because, yes, of course Holmes has exacting, absurd standards for his vision. Of course he’s constantly bothering everyone. He doesn’t simply think he knows best, he knows he knows best and expects everyone else to fall in line. His frustration and agitation are only to be expected. The music is perfect inside his head, after all, and the musicians in the pit and upon the stage are fallible.

Eventually, even Green’s complaints run dry. They watch a few more auditions before Green sighs and nearly stands. “Oh,” he says instead. “Before I forget.”

“Hm?”

“Best keep an eye on your girl,” Green tells him. “That new Antony’s taken an interest. The Zucco fellow.”

John stares at him blankly. It takes him a moment. “Miss Hooper isn’t my girl.”

“If you don’t make your move soon, she’s going to stay that way. You’re painful to watch, you know.”

“Only to annoy you,” John promises.

“Oh, piss off. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Green stands. “Best get back to work while the terror’s distracted.”

John lifts a hand in parting. He stays in his seat, but there’s not much more to watch. Miss Adler pops in to catch the last of the auditions and her silent, casual entrance is better than their would-be Cleopatra’s entire song. John’s far from the only one to turn to watch her. Holmes and Mr Johnson do as well, and Holmes’ eyes grow wide.

“Could you do both parts?” Holmes calls to her.

“What?” Mr Johnson shakes his head at the idea immediately. “Of course she couldn’t.”

“Her role and Cleopatra’s don’t overlap,” Holmes argues. “A fast enough costume change is all we need.”

“Mr Holmes, while I appreciate your respect for Miss Adler’s talent—”

“Have you appreciated anyone else’s talent today, Maestro?” Holmes asks. “If you have, kindly say so. Otherwise, I believe our options are clear.”

Mr Johnson hesitates, then sighs. “Miss Adler, if you’d be willing to sing the part? Though I believe it may be pushing the limits of your range.”

Drawing near, Miss Adler smiles as she accepts the sheet music. Though John can only see the expression from the side, it’s still enough. Frankly, that Mr Johnson doesn’t back down immediately is a credit to his character and his nerve.

Miss Adler takes to the stage. A rustling fills the air as every last person scattered through the house sits up straighter in their seat. She stands tall. The rustling stops, everyone holding still and silent. She glances over the sheet music as she might a newspaper she has already read. Then, with a soft motion of her hand, she gestures to the pianist as if he were her dearest friend.

“Would you prefer to warm up first?” he asks. She smiles no, and the pianist begins.

The introduction plays, the merest outline of the naval battle upon their incomplete stage. Miss Adler sings, and then there are ships. There are ships riding the sea, ships ridden in turn by their proud queen. She sings of her strength and the sound of it is her beauty. Where the soprano would soar, the contralto must drop, and yet this mars nothing. The flight of her voice doesn’t fall, but swoops, darting down between the waves before rising again above the foam.

And then: the falter, the fear by design. Though she sings alone, the space for Antony is clear. Absent Antony’s silence resounds against her cry. Her terror is plain, her strength tested, and as she retreats, she merely steps backward, and backward, and back again, and yet she takes her ships with her. Cleopatra flees with one final clap of terror, and only Miss Adler remains.

The pianist finishes. The house stands in silence. Holmes glows, euphoric, enraptured, as if Miss Adler were his music made incarnate. John can’t seem to breathe.

Mr Johnson clears his throat. “Well, then.” He looks at Holmes. After a somewhat conspicuous pause, Holmes returns his gaze. “How quickly can you make revisions?”

“Very,” Holmes replies. His voice is rough and deep.

“Right,” Mr Johnson says. “Someone had best inform the costume mistress.”

At the thought of yet more adjustments, Miss Hooper looks like she’s about to cry. At least, that’s what John assumes she’s talking about with Mr Zucco. He doesn’t seem to be a very forceful man, which Miss Hooper likely finds comforting.

Attempting not to intrude as he passes by in the slim hallway, John is still struck by a pang of annoyance. Green’s not right, of course he’s not right, but that is still John’s position, as it were. He is the comforter. He is the one who catches at frantic hands, holds them tight, and says, Explain it to me again. He is the one who keeps a level tone while asking What do you need to do next? Though not technically his job, it’s still his task, a duty between friends, and to be kicked to the side while some singer takes his place is somewhat insulting.

It’s a new kind of helplessness and it cannot be borne. What, exactly, is he to do now? There is so much to be done, and all John is capable of is reassuring another singer that they are not about to be killed. Having been subject to arson twice, John finds his patience exhausted when consoling those afraid of mere letters. After all the fuss, it’s almost a relief that something might be physically wrong with Signor Valeri. John’s mind flitters away to a more pressing itch regardless of how he tries to stop it.

“I’m sure I could help with that,” Mr Zucco volunteers loudly behind him. John turns around before realising Mr Zucco is speaking to Miss Hooper.

“Are you sure it won’t be a problem?”

“No, not at all!”

John fists his hand tighter about the handles of his medical bag. He thinks inappropriately violent thoughts until the urge to act upon them fades.

This is ridiculous. This is utterly and completely ridiculous, and he needs to stop thinking about it because he’s getting worked up. He’s getting so worked up, there’s a physical pain in his chest, a horrible, breathless squeezing.

And that song, that stupid song keeps going around in his head, around and around in his head and he doesn’t even know the lyrics properly because they’re in Italian. It’s not even meant to be a significant role, Cleopatra or not. It’s a guest spot for a diva with a cold. Impressive in name and suspense, for the majesty rather than magnitude of the part. It’s nothing so amazing, and the substitution was a logical choice besides. Hardly a gift. Hardly another gift, it would be more appropriate to say.

Besides, it’s hardly as if what everyone is saying is true. Holmes didn’t write her an opera. Holmes doesn’t write for anyone besides himself. John’s seen him at it, has seen the way Holmes is driven forward, run absolutely ragged by the forces inside his own mind. The idea of Holmes composing for any other reason than to appease those demons is absurd. If no one else sees this, that’s only because they’ve never seen him in the grip of his work. They don’t know any better.

There’s a difference between finding inspiration and dedicating a work to that muse. A large, obvious difference. How many paintings are there dedicated to bowls of fruit? None, that’s how many. Miss Adler is a singer and a lovely one, and should Holmes’ eyes caress her as his fingers do his violin, so be it. Should he marvel at her rendition of his score, then his appreciation is for himself as well as her. Any act of admiration is one of ego by default, and Holmes has ego to spare. Of course his admiration should be so blatant.

If John had been present at the first instance Holmes had heard his score performed, John would have seen the same expression of worship. If diluted over an entire orchestra rather than condensed upon one woman, that expression would be only appropriate. Expected, even. It’s much the same thing, orchestra and singer, and therefore nothing to make a fuss over. Holmes is simply pleased with the culmination, the approaching conclusion.

At any rate, if Holmes were pleased with a muse, that would hardly be Miss Adler. Not that John was ever much of a muse. No, John was a primary resource, but he was a good one. He’d never been able to see Vernet’s full expression while he’d spoken of the army and India and all the death infection can bring after the battle. John hadn’t been much for eye contact during those talks. Even so, he had never doubted the absolute focus trained upon him in those moments. Every pain revisited, every fear relived, every pointless moment he’d ever endured had finally proven itself useful. So many useless, paralyzing memories abruptly given purpose.

Had Holmes looked at him like that, then? Had it all been the unending analysis, or had there been awe?

There’s a foolish question. Of course not. However much Holmes may have appreciated a firsthand account, John’s merit came later. The pushing and the prodding, the cajoling and the calming: that must have been where it began for Holmes. The work came first, for John as well as Holmes, and perhaps that is what Holmes saw in him.

Still. Useless to wonder about now. Especially when he has a job to do. He knocks on the dressing room door and calls for Signor Valeri by name. Valeri responds in an exhausted baritone. Though his colouring is poor, his temperature is fine. John urges him to rest and hydrate, but Valeri takes offense when John suggests he take something for his nerves. Valeri snaps and does not apologise, but after years in a high-strung environment, John takes little note of it.

“Tomorrow night,” Mrs Hudson keeps saying. “I can’t believe it. Tomorrow night.”

“He’s confirmed he’s coming, hasn’t he?” John checks.

“The ghost is coming and the police are ready.”

“You’re sure?”

She nods and finally offers a new tidbit. “They put an ad in the paper offering him a box and he accepted.”

“Oh, good. That’s not an obvious trap at all.”

Mrs Hudson laughs nervously, which is more than John can do. They sit for a bit longer at the table, fighting back yawns. John rolls his shoulder, clicking it. Their tea has gone cold with time, or perhaps Mrs Hudson has truly put that much whiskey in. It does take the edge off quite nicely. He highly doubts he’ll fall asleep tonight any other way.

“Tomorrow night,” Mrs Hudson says again. “I can’t believe it.”

“God, I hope this works.”

“The opera or the trap?” she asks.

“Both?” He nods. “Both.”

“We might only have one or the other,” she warns.

“I know.” He turns his teacup around as if studying the repeating blue pattern. He isn’t. “I’d take the trap. Apologise to the patrons and then assure them everything will return to normal.”

Mrs Hudson hums a sound like a smile, if a faint one. “That would be nice. Still, if the opera isn’t well-received... I do worry. It would break his heart, poor thing.”

John takes a fresh interest in his teacup.

Belatedly, Mrs Hudson realises what she’s said. “Oh! Oh, I didn’t, of course I didn’t--”

“It’s fine,” John says firmly. “I think I’ll head up. Big day tomorrow.”

“Yes,” she says. “Quite right. I should get to bed myself.”

“Good night, Mrs Hudson.”

“Good night, John,” she answers, and there’s an apology in it.

John does his best not to dwell as he changes for bed, but it’s a difficult matter to put from his mind. He imagines Holmes sitting up in Box Five with his brother, the pair of them protected by any number of policemen. Should this opera fail, will Holmes be permitted more time to hide away from society for his work? There’s enough desperation to him already without adding any more.

Shaking his head at himself, John extinguishes the lights. He climbs into bed. Once on his back, he hisses at the slow release of tension in his spine. The pain prevents sleep, but it does not prevent thought.

Perhaps, and only perhaps, John should have gone to dinner. Except he shouldn’t have. Of course he shouldn’t have.

And yet, what if that was the last chance? It’s bizarre thought in light of the sheer number of times Holmes has thrown an invitation into his lap, but there’s merit to it. Holmes had been exhausted and visibly disoriented. Drained by his work, he’d reached to John out of habit. While alert, he’d been a creature of hostility and avoidance, as if he was the one who had been wronged. Rejected, certainly, but not wronged. Not lied to.

“You said you loved me for my character,” echoes accusing memory. Except that’s not fair. John hadn’t known it. He’d never had the chance, not a real chance. He’d spoken without possessing the facts, and if Holmes insists upon holding this against him, so be it.

If that last invitation to dinner is truly the last, that’s fine. That’s for the best, honestly. What sort of life could he possibly have with Holmes? Holmes, who is two-faced in the most literal of ways, a veritable Janus. Even if he could make Holmes swear all he said was true, what then? It would still be a life doomed to the shadows. To be held, he must be hidden, and to resign himself to such silence is beyond bearing. All too keenly, he finally understands his late sister.

He’s hardly giving anything up in relinquishing Holmes. Though he might ache for the violin to turn fresh nightmares into melody, there’s little else. He’ll never miss opera, though it was an unexpected joy to work on it together. Someone else will have to push Holmes through his moments of frantic insecurity. Good luck to them, whoever they are. It’s certainly not going to be Miss Adler.

John sighs and rolls over. He shuts his eyes tighter against an inexplicable urge to pace.

He’s giving up a friend. There is that. A selfish, arrogant, commanding friend with no sense of boundaries and a quick and clever tongue. As in, as in speaking. As in wit. Though the other sense certainly applies, John refuses to dwell on it. He’s just going to lie here, in his bed, and not think about that.

He rolls over to face the other way, and he does not stop thinking. If anything, the thinking grows worse. He thinks of Holmes pressing against him through his trousers, waits for the instinctual revulsion, and finds nothing. Rather, he finds the opposite of revulsion. His body no longer seems to care that those kisses came from Holmes in disguise. Christ, this is hopeless.

In an act of betrayal, his mind continues forward. What if Holmes hadn’t stalled him with music? In the small room behind the main chamber, had the bed still stood? Little more than a cot with curtains, yes, but a bed all the same.

An unwitting smile pulls at his face as he relives the memory of absurd bedhead in the early afternoon. The afternoon he’d gone down and found the candles cold, the mask up the table, this moment is emblazoned upon his mind beyond any hope of purging. The fear of Vernet being gone, of something having befallen him, had been strong even then. Almost laughably so, considering how everything has turned out. No, there’d been no reason for concern that afternoon. Vernet had simply overworked himself in the timeless, endless night of the tunnels.

Except... no. That’s wrong. That was after yet another of their countless arguments, though John can’t recall what that particular one was about. He does remember the separation. He’d been hoping to see him too much to forget that gap entirely, or the way Holmes had filled it. He’d been annoyed at Holmes, even, for keeping him away from the tunnels. Holmes had stayed late to be certain John left the opera house before him.

Which means, in the cot... Of course it was Holmes in the cot. Vernet without his mask is Holmes, and the mask was in John’s hand. But Holmes must have rushed about all night for the investigation only to hurry back to a subterranean cot. What other absurd manoeuvres had he pulled off in order to obey his brother’s command?

It is staggering, certainly. A man a heartbeat away from being an earl, sleeping in those conditions and eating out of tins. What sort of idiot does that? Bad enough that a mere gentleman would make the attempt. And running back and forth, the utter strain of keeping his lives separate, what kind of absurd dedication does that require? And all for a bloody opera.

With a terrible sinking sensation, John realises he knows Holmes’ character. It is as magnificent as it is imbecilic.

John rolls onto his back to better stare at the ceiling. Slowly, as if buttoning a coat, he fits one side of his recollections against the other, sliding the prominent details through the gaps in his knowledge. There is an envelope in the drawer of John’s borrowed desk, and John had pressed his money into Vernet’s palm long before Holmes began paying for John’s meals out. He recalls Vernet’s unprovoked rage after his rejection of Holmes, and Holmes’ uncharacteristic forgiveness after John’s acceptance of Vernet. One man, just the one, struggling and stupid under the weight of two lives.

If Holmes had seen the way out, matters might have ended differently. The path is so infuriatingly simple. Would it have killed him to ask John to wait? Was there some reason why he couldn’t have been there when John returned and explained he needed time to unravel the complexities of his situation? He could have warned John that he would be terribly furious. He could have told John to wait until early autumn, until after his niece or nephew is born. It could have been framed as a terribly sentimental gesture, waiting until the anniversary of their first meeting.

It would have been a long wait, to be certain. They’d have written to each other in the interim, or would they have? Letters filled with a cramped scrawl rather than a flowing script, yes, this is possible. Would the strain have driven Mrs Hudson to tears, or would she have been relieved at the greater plan? John hopes the second.

Then, after half a year of never seeing Vernet and remaining politely distant with Holmes, John would receive a letter instructing him to choose a restaurant and reminding him to hold onto his temper. John would select a destination with alacrity and laugh at the thought of being angry for anything beyond the delay.

The moment of truth would arrive unexpectedly. Unable to resist the drama of a delayed arrival, Holmes would enter once John was already seated. With unflappable charm, Holmes would sit down across from him while John fumbled for an excuse to make Holmes leave, lest Vernet see John at an occupied table and believe him disloyal.

Holmes would reveal himself quietly but dramatically. Perhaps he’d pass John a slip of paper with a note, something along the lines of Don’t be furious, I did warn you. Perhaps he’d offer John his healed palm and insist until John saw the faded scar. Perhaps he’d simply let his voice drop low and say, “I’m glad you waited.”

John would be startled and furious, but the public setting would be enough to keep him quiet. Holmes could continue, saying something like, “I thought it best to address your concerns from the Masquerade” before updating John on the developments in his life, his family, his music. After months of warnings, John would be better prepared. His anger might last all the way into the salad course and fade entirely before dessert.

After that, John isn’t sure. But something would have happened, something different than their current stalemate. They’d climb into a hansom cab after, shoulder to shoulder, hands hidden below the doors closed over their legs. They’d return to 221 Baker Street first and let Mrs Hudson know everything was sorted. She’d be relieved, absolutely overjoyed. Then, Holmes would ask John whatever had become of his scarf and follow John up to his bedroom when he went to fetch it. What followed would be complicated, certainly, but John would do his utmost to guard them from society while guiding Holmes through his music. There are worse lives.

They could have had this. If Holmes hadn’t run off that night after a few sweet kisses, they could have had this.

Gone, now. Supposing that offer of dinner was Holmes’ final attempt, gone for good.

John rolls over one final time and falls asleep wishing he’d said yes.

In the morning, he puts the envelope in his medical bag atop his gun. He has no idea what to do with it, but perhaps he’ll think of something before the première. The scarf couldn’t possibly fit inside the envelope, but what about the scarf pin? No, too ambiguous. The scarf itself is too much of a declaration, besides. He can hardly wear it. After its previous usage, that would be far too crass.

There must be something else, something small. John’s hardly about to ask Holmes to leap into his arms. Not to mention, Holmes must have learned to stop leaping by now. John simply needs a first step, a notification of impending forgiveness. And it must be before the opera opens. After, and it might be mistaken as a form of fleeting praise. Or worse, as a reward, as if John were a prize to be given out based on merit or consolation. No, it must be before.

After a long moment of hesitation, he tucks the scarf away into his medical bag as well. Something will come to him before tonight. Best to be prepared for whatever it is.

Naturally, John’s formative plans are torn to shreds within an instant of walking through the opera house doors. Hopkins pauses only a moment to say hello to Mrs Hudson before giving John a look that portends absolute doom.

“Where’s the problem?” John asks.

Hopkins twitches his mouth in the shape of an apology. “Signor Valeri’s dressing room. He’s locked himself in.”

That’s much more histrionic than John would expect from Valeri, but an actor is an actor. Still, the timing of it is terrible and far from what John would have deemed normal for the man. “I’m not sure what you expect me to do, Hopkins.”

“Well,” Hopkins says, abruptly very tactful indeed, “you’re better at calming people than, well. Than some others might be.”

“Ah,” John says and follows him.

The first thing John hears in the back hallway is the yelling. This would be typical enough backstage if the voice didn’t belong to Mr Johnson. As John and Hopkins round the corner, they spot the crowd gathered about Valeri’s door. It would be difficult to miss in the slim hall, and impossible to avoid.

“I couldn’t find the key, sirs,” Hopkins calls over the onlookers. People shuffle to the sides as best as they can to let Hopkins and John through. “But I did find Dr Watson.”

“Lovely,” Holmes remarks dryly beside Mr Johnson. “And can Dr Watson pick locks?”

“Not in the slightest,” John says. “But I can clear a hallway. Hopkins, I’m certain Mr Havill can find use for so many idle hands—be sure to remember names, won’t you?” He raises his voice as he says the last, and for one magnificent moment, John feels tall. A side effect of military posture and a gaggle of stagehands backing off while feigning indifference, no doubt. John looks pointedly at the stragglers until they at least pretend to simply be standing in the hallway rather than snooping. One of the men, Mr Zucco, may actually have an excuse. Most singers hovering behind Mr Johnson are not present by choice.

“We’re meant to be rehearsing the naval battle,” Mr Johnson explains. “We have our Antony--” he gestures to Mr Zucco “—and Cleopatra is already dressed and waiting. But unless Signor Valeri will come out...”

“May I try?” John asks. He directs this question to Holmes as well as Mr Johnson, looking between the two.

Holmes gestures to the door in clear challenge. Mr Johnson pleads with his eyes.

John knocks lightly on the door. “Maintenance!” he calls cheerfully.

Holmes scoffs, turning away, but Signor Valeri does answer.

“I won’t come out!”

“Perfectly all right,” John answers, shoulder against the wall, speaking to where the door meets its frame.

There is a loud silence from behind the door.

“Would you mind company?” John asks.

Mr Johnson gestures furiously at him as well as at the pocket watch in his hand.

Get the understudy, John mouths to Hopkins. Hopkins sets off immediately.

Holmes shakes his head. He’s terrible, he mouths with a wrinkled nose.

Rather than asking the point of a terrible understudy, John knocks lightly on the door once more. “Signor Valeri? Would you mind if I came inside? Only me, just to sit.”

“They want me to come out! I will not come out!” His voice is much closer than previously.

“Mr Johnson will rehearse the scene with your understudy. Could I come in?”

Valeri’s silence is an unsteady one. His breathing is much too loud, incredibly audible now that he’s approached the door.

“Signor, if I can describe your condition, will you permit me inside?” John asks. He keeps his head bowed, one ear toward the door, and this points his gaze to Holmes shoes. He closes his eyes, much too aware of Holmes’ ever-watching eyes.

“I am not ill!” Valeri shouts with a desperate, shaking rage. “I have been threatened! Myself, my family, our lives have been threatened, and each time, the police fail to catch this monster. I will not be killed for my art! I will not set this opera above my children!”

“No one is going to kill you, Signor Valeri,” John replies in a steady voice.

“I die in the third act! Where better for him to kill me?”

“No one is going to kill you, Signor,” John repeats slowly.

Hopkins returns with the understudy in tow, a Mr Montaine. With a sigh, Mr Johnson signals to Mr Zucco and they set off toward the stage. Holmes looks as if the world is ending and does not budge from his spot in the hall. When the interested crowd attempts to reassemble itself by piecemeal, Holmes glares at them until they duck away once more.

“I understand that it’s looming,” John continues. “The danger is very real. I know. I’ve been set on fire twice and had to jump out a window. Believe me, I know. But he is not going to kill you tonight. He tried to kill Mr Havill and Mr Johnson at the Masquerade, but they’re still alive. He tried to kill me twice, and I am alive. He tried to kill Mr Holmes, and Mr Holmes here is alive. Whatever he says, he is not very good at killing people.

“I, however, am very good at killing people, Signor Valeri, and our phantom is already down one assassin. His only assassin, as far as we’ve seen, and I can promise you that he is very dead. If there is another, he will also be very dead.”

“Dead does not matter to a ghost. He’s coming tonight.” Valeri’s panicked certainty is unshakeable, though John would wager the man himself is trembling.

“Yes, he is,” John says. “Because we’ve called him to a trap. But he is not a ghost. A ghost wouldn’t be threatened by a gun.”

Holmes checks his pocket watch and attempts to show John the time. John waves him off, steadfastly not looking at him. If John looks, he will falter.

“He is only a man,” John continues, “and men are very good at teaching others to be afraid of them. That’s all this is. He has been teaching us fear. You were observant enough to learn. That’s all. It’s not cowardice. It’s not the end of all things. It’s learned fear.”

“My life has been threatened, Dr Watson. This is not fear. This is sanity!”

That’s a terribly fair point. “And this is a danger that will not end until we catch him, and we need the opera to catch him. As I understand it, your understudy is terrible.” He looks to Holmes as he says this, and Holmes nods with conviction. “If this is going to end, we need your help to end it. Your family doesn’t have to live in fear, Signor.”

“Nor must my children live without a father. I refuse.”

“You do realise your position is at stake?” Holmes demands.

“At a doomed opera house, yes! I will not go out!”

Holmes strikes the door.

Valeri lets out a terrified squeak, but the door remains shut.

Holmes lifts his hand a second time, and John catches him by the wrist. Holmes’ eyes could nail him to the door, but John holds firm.

“Not helping,” John says quietly.

“You’re doing little better.” Holmes twists his hand free, wrenching John’s arm. John flinches, the pain sharp into his shoulder, but Holmes’ face contains nothing of an apology, only viciousness. “Unless you’d care to shoot the lock.”

Inside the dressing room, Valeri audibly staggers back from the door.

John rolls his eyes, tightens his grip on his medical bag and speaks loudly to the doorframe. “If you withdraw from the production, your protection is likewise withdrawn. Have you considered that?”

Silence, but a silence even Holmes is listening to.

“We’re going to leave now,” John continues. “If you want to come out and do your part, by all means. Otherwise, it would be helpful to have the costume back. Your choice.” With that, he steps away and gestures to Holmes to follow him.

Scowling, Holmes does. “A promising start and a pathetic end: you keep to your patterns well.”

“Mm, with insurmountable idiots in the middle,” John retorts and immediately regrets.

“A doctor routinely bested by idiots. Is that why you’re so good at killing people, then?”

“No,” John says tightly. “The gun helps. Understandable you forgot that part. You were rather busy being strangled at the time.”

Holmes storms past him. Though Holmes’ face is frozen, John knows the curve of his shoulders. He knows those shoulders better than any face.

“Holmes.” John doesn’t catch at his arm, but he nearly does. The hall is largely abandoned with rehearsal once again underway. If they keep their voices down, it might be safe. Though far from private, the opera house is a very particular sort of public space.

“What?” Holmes snaps, whirling about.

So much for lowered voices. John searches for something that could be loudly said, anything. “Is the understudy really that terrible?”

“Atrocious,” Holmes answers without hesitation. “We’re dead in the water. Valeri was passable, but Montaine is a drowned cat. Half the time, he sings with his throat. If the role were in French, his diction might be halfway understandable, but his Italian is utter gibberish. There’s a chance the audience might not leave before the first intermission, but it’s the same chance they’ll all be tone deaf.”

“Well,” John says slowly, “at least that will make the phantom easy to spot.”

“Why come now?” Holmes demands, rounding on him. John’s heel hits the wall as he backs against it. John can retreat or be headbutted, and Holmes stands much too closely all the same. “Hm? Why bother when we’ve already ruined ourselves? There’s no point!”

“Of course there’s a point--”

“There isn’t!” Holmes lifts his hands, recalls the pomade in his hair just in time, and clenches a fist on either side of his head. “The stage may have come together, the orchestra is as far along as it is ever going to get, and none of this is going to save my opera when that idiot takes the stage. Put him anywhere near Irene and he is hopelessly outmatched. But opposite her? Good God! He’ll vanish into the scenery!”

“At least no one will see him, then.”

For an instant, the threat of one of those shaking fists falling upon John turns terribly real. “Is everything a joke to you?”

John shakes his head, eyes averted. A vein stands out in Holmes’ neck beside a freckle. John averts his eyes a bit more. “Sorry.”

“Are you?” Rhetorical, almost darkly amused at John’s expense.

John nods all the same.

As if realising their proximity for the first time, Holmes stops leaning forward. He doesn’t step back, but the effect is comparable. When he drops his arms, a cage door effectively opens.

“I thought the line would hold,” John says to the buttons of Holmes’ waistcoat.

“The line.”

John nods.

Holmes scoffs. “Do you think you’re still in India, Doctor?”

John flexes his hand, adjusting his grip on his bag. He lifts his chin before he can lift his eyes. Holmes’ are a cold green. Or blue. A shadow falling across half his face, the colour is split, as if the force of Holmes’ gaze cannot be expressed by one set of eyes alone. It’s so appropriate, John very nearly smiles.

“I thought I was in an opera house where a singer was brave enough to sing,” John answers. “That’s not usually a problem.”

“It is tonight.”

“Today,” he corrects. “It’s not even noon yet.”

“Yes, thank you. Plenty of time for the rest of it to fall apart.”

“No,” John says. “No. Plenty of time for Miss Adler to bludgeon Signor Valeri back onstage.”

“Won’t work. Already tried. Years of exposure dulled the effect.”

“But it’s not as if he’s immune.” No one’s immune. “Wait, is he?”

Holmes visibly suppresses a sigh. “Immune enough.”

“Christ, he really is on the edge of a breakdown.”

An odd sound catches in Holmes’ throat, muffled behind closed lips, but John recognises it instantly. He’s missed it.

“That wasn’t a joke,” John says in a tone of surety designed to provoke giggles. “She could order a corpse to move, and it would.”

“If she could make one sing, we’d have a better chance,” Holmes says.

John laughs. “No, corpses have notoriously poor timing.”

“Always late, I assume.”

John dares a grin, amazed by the sheer warmth of Holmes when he’s forgotten to be ice. “How’d you guess?”

Abruptly, Holmes remembers his chill. He pulls his mouth into a harsh line as if chastising it for finding John amusing. Then he glares at John for staring at his mouth.

John leans somewhat harder against the wall, increasing the distance between their faces from six inches to perhaps seven.

Holmes steps backward, an unspoken accusation across his features. This is patently unfair. The unfailing magnetism between their bodies is hardly John’s fault, and Holmes is the idiot wearing cologne.

Sounds from the stage invade their brittle silence. Holmes turns his head and scowls, but at least he aims the expression away from John. “Lovely. Another moron to shout at.”

Until that moment, John hadn’t realised he’d never heard Montaine as other than part of a chorus. “Oh... dear.”

“Now do you understand?” Holmes demands. “That is what you’ve reduced my opera to.”

Though the words lash, they don’t sting, too absurd to strike home. “How the hell is this my fault? Signor Valeri--”

“It wasn’t ready! It wasn’t even finished, but no, let’s fling it like bait into a trap in the hopes a beast will gnaw on it. These are the worst conditions for a première I’ve ever heard of. It’s going to flop from lack of preparation and a surfeit of idiocy, but the form will be blamed for the failure. It will be denounced as the work of a besotted idiot. Do you understand what this appears to be? Not a break in convention, but an ill-devised attempt to lift a skirt!”

“Then they’re all idiots,” John says, voice low in the attempt to hush Holmes. “And if it saves the opera house, won’t it be worth it?”

“‘If’,” Holmes spits. “Improbable success bought by certain failure?” He shakes his head. “A forced gamble is hardly ‘worth it’.”

“‘Forced’?”

“Between your public announcement and Mycroft, do you think I had any choice in this? Even Mrs Hudson has taken your side. If my work must be a sacrificial lamb, then so be it!”

“Not all of your work. You’ll write more--”

“Oh, then it’s all fine, isn’t it? I can write more. Why didn’t I think of that? I’ll write more. Months in a basement eating out of tins and listening to the nightmares of a broken soldier, no, of course none of that matters. I’ll go and repeat the entire process, shall I? I’m sure none of it was terribly agonising--”

John doesn’t quite touch Holmes’ lapel. His hand hovers, his arm barely fitting in the slot of air between their chests. Even so, he does not touch. The motion, the possibility of touch is enough to click Holmes’ jaw shut.

“You’ll write more,” John repeats as calmly as he’s able. “Honestly, I don’t think there’s anything that could prevent you. There will be another opera. And another one. An absurd number of them, I’m sure. Enough that another one will be staged, and another after that. This isn’t the end of your work. And Montaine can’t ruin the score. Maybe the critics won’t take you well as a librettist, but you’ll still be recognised as a composer. That’s a start. You don’t have to be both right away.”

Holmes turns his face away, the vein in his neck prominently on display. He stands very still, tense beyond shaking.

“I mean,” John says, “I know you’re both, but... One is a good start.”

“All or nothing.” Holmes’ words are quiet, nearly as if he means for John not to hear them. “I’m sick to death of being divided.”

Strange, the obvious thoughts John has never thought of. Belatedly, John lowers his hand without touching Holmes. He curls his fingers into a tight fist before he can reach anew. “That’s fair.”

“Oh, is it?” Holmes drawls. “Your standards do change so very rapidly.”

“Shut up.” It comes out much more fond than he intends.

Holmes’ eyes narrow as if John has just laid down an obvious trap. “I don’t have time for this.”

“Why, do you need to have a shout at Mr Montaine for a bit?”

“Yes, actually.”

“Good. Have fun.”

Holmes stares at him. “What the hell are you playing at now?”

“I don’t really play,” John says. “I just blunder around in different directions.”

“Then I’ll take my leave before you change course yet again.” He pulls away, dragging against the gravity which binds them, and it is this visible resistance that bids John to pursue.

“Vernet-!” John chokes on the word a moment too late. Holmes rounds on him in an instant. This would be a perfect moment for the floor to collapse beneath John. Honestly, there will never be a moment more perfect. Why couldn’t he have stood on a trapdoor? “I, fuck. Um.”

“And there it is,” Holmes declares, invading John’s space once more. “The rationale behind the change: the fantasy has returned!”

“That’s not--”

“Hasn’t it? How is it that nothing I do is sufficient? You needed work, I brought you work. Real work, not hand-holding in the basement, and you were pleased to be of use. I--” His voice drops. “I was as blatant as any man could dare to be.”

“Damn opaque, you mean,” John counters. “Just tell me what the hell you want and we can--”

“How many times are we to re-enact this scene, Doctor? Hm? This would be at least the second cycle. You reject and you plead, and I have had enough of your inconsistencies.”

“My inconsistencies?”

“Your variable views on my character.”

“Yes, because you’re not at all variable yourself.” John lowers his voice, whispering harshly in Holmes’ face. “Or does ‘we’ll discuss the logistics’ always mean ‘I’ll swan off and leave you to an empty room, then watch you run around in circles for weeks’? Normally that sort of thing means ‘I’ll be here when you get back,’ so you’ll forgive me for being confused.”

“As confusion is your default state, I forgive you readily,” Holmes snaps. “Fortunately for you, there are worse idiots then even you currently requiring my attention.” With that, Holmes rips himself away.

Breathless, John seizes him by the arm. “Why the hell did you leave?” he demands of Holmes’ turned shoulder.

“You were in love with a phantom. There was no point in staying.”

John tightens his grip on Holmes’ elbow, but still the man refuses to look at him, glaring elsewhere. “And was there a fucking point in leaving?”

“I panicked,” Holmes snaps. He tears his arm from John’s grip with an abrupt turn. “Happy?”

John opens his mouth in the desperate attempt to find a response. No sound emerges.

Colour riding high on his neck and cheeks, Holmes storms away without another word.

John’s legs shake the moment Holmes vanishes from sight. His legs shake, his heart pounds, and he leans against the wall, attempting to breathe. Breathe first, then think. That’s not the end of it—can’t be the end of it—but John needs to breathe. Breathe and think and wonder.

After John has time to breathe, he takes the other way around to find a seat in the house. If Holmes appears calmer after having his shout at Montaine, John will return to him and try again.

Even with his long detour down into the stalls, John seems to have arrived in the middle of the shout. Already settled into a prime spot, Green gestures to John to come join him. Quite abruptly, John realises why no one had interrupted his conversation with Holmes: they’d been much too absorbed in the train wreck that is Mr Montaine as a Roman captain.

A tall man, Montaine is nearly Holmes’ height and considerably more than his width. Like Miss Adler, this will be his first great role. Unlike Miss Adler, he doesn’t deserve it in the slightest. This becomes all too clear as the rehearsal flops and flounders around him.

“We’re doomed,” Green tells John.

“Blunt,” John chastises.

“Refuse to face the facts, and truth will think you rude. We’re doomed.”

The orchestra plays and promptly drowns Montaine out. Whether this is a blessing or a curse is up for debate, and John and Green discuss this between themselves. As Holmes draws closer and closer to losing his temper, the entire house waits like silent, breathless stone. The odds of having a civil conversation with Holmes today shrink by the minute. Holmes’ voice is still high, still feigning fine manners and a steady temperament, but it will only be a matter of time.

The cracks deepen. Even Miss Adler looks close to snapping. Too unfamiliar, Mr Zucco is more difficult to read, but he requires thankfully little correction for his lines as Antony. He defers to Holmes beautifully. Montaine requires correction nearly every other word.

At last, Holmes berates Montaine too far. A complete idiot, Montaine rises to the ample bait. “If sir would like me to follow his example, perhaps sir should set it,” Montaine challenges. He clearly thinks he’s called Holmes’ bluff of expertise, but even this show of arrogance cannot survive in the face of Holmes’ ego.

Without a word, Holmes gestures Montaine to the side, takes his place and nods to Mr Johnson in the pit. Mr Johnson doesn’t move. Holmes nods a second time. Even from behind, Mr Johnson clearly suppresses a sigh before his hands rouse the orchestra from their temporary rest. Opening chords, now excessively familiar, rise into the air yet again.

Holmes stands at attention. His posture transforms him into someone else, a weary soldier who will never fall. His body sturdy, his feet planted, his form is a reflection of his will. His loyalty cannot be questioned, his moral compass immune to any tempting loadstone. His expression turns stoic and strange, his mouth a stubborn, dedicated line.

Holmes opens his mouth and his voice renders his body insignificant. His posture is magnificent, his bearing that of a captain who ought to be a general, who ought to be a king; and yet compared to his voice, this is nothing.

There are drums in his voice, drums and blood. Driving foreign words deep into flesh, the steady rhythm of a brave heart supports the libretto. His diction cuts, pristine and harsh, as sharp as any officer’s sword. He sings of battle, and he sings against death. Though his voice fills the house, he aims his body directly at Montaine as if to slash him to the bone.

Trumpets blare and Holmes blazes above them. John notes, in a vague and distant way, that Green’s mouth is hanging open. Though wide-eyed, Mr Zucco joins in on cue, Antony urging his men forward in battle. Holmes’ part begins to echo Mr Zucco’s in a relay of commands, immediate sharpness to detached fluidity. In turn, Zucco’s stance mirrors Holmes’.

The orchestra heralds Cleopatra herself, and Miss Adler soars above them both. Though all three share their pride, she alone eludes the battle, confrontational in her withdrawal rather than her advance. Their voices twine and mingle, and the drums echo beneath John’s skin. The words keep their secrets from John’s ears, but the music, their faces, the lines of their bodies; these reveal all.

Miss Adler finishes first, stepping back as her part ends, as her boat would take flight. For a short time, too short a time, the general and the captain sing on without the queen. Then Antony too takes flight, and Holmes’ voice is abruptly insufficient in its solitude. He is a single tree before the axe, one man before the sword, and it matters little how mighty he may be.

The captain’s theme rises, quickens, dragging Holmes to the top of his range. For an instant, his grandeur would rival any king, any emperor. Then, mid-phrase, he cuts off with a pained shout and the orchestra plays the rest of the line without him. John takes to his feet, terrified, before he realises this is deliberate effect. This is the captain’s death, harsh and sudden and terrible. Still bound by the structure of the captain’s commands, the battle swarms on without him.

Come tonight, this scene will unfold with wooden frames dreaming themselves into a fleet. There will be dancers and a chorus, and the chaos will be incredible. There will be costumes, the changes rapid, and when Miss Adler rushes to the captain’s side, she will be a soldier instead of a queen. This morning, she is something in between, and she takes Holmes’ weight with an arm about his back. When she sings, she sings the captain’s theme in a soldier’s voice, so much higher, so much younger. She holds him up against her, tall and brave and trembling, and Holmes’ limp non-response to her voice proves him dead.

The scene, the act, closes upon her voice and hers alone, though tonight the chorus will join her. This morning, there is only her, and she is more than enough alone. The orchestra announces the terror of defeat. With a thunderous clap, all falls silent.

Not a breath, not a whisper, not a brush of cloth upon cloth disturbs the charged air. Then, slowly, as if with a great struggle, Holmes lifts his face from the curve of her neck. He lives once more.

Applause rips through the house in a giddy rush. A piercing whistle jabs into John’s ear, but, standing beside him, Green offers no apology. Unable to do otherwise, they clap until their heated palms ache.

“Did you know he could do that?” Green whispers into John’s ear.

“Somewhat?” John answers. He’d thought Vernet’s voice had filled the chamber because of the acoustics. Perhaps the small space had merely held him back.

Upon the stage, Mr Zucco stares at Holmes as if having never seen him before. A private smile plays about Miss Adler’s mouth. In the pit, the musicians murmur to one another.

Turning to Montaine, Holmes says in the most acidic tone John has ever heard, “Your example. Follow it.”

If there was any colour left in Montaine’s face, the remainder immediately drains. “I,” he says, and nothing more.

“He can’t,” Miss Adler finishes for Montaine.

Holmes checks his pocket watch. “We have nine hours remaining to make him.”

Mr Zucco clears his throat.

Miss Adler seems to have very much the same idea.

In fact, the entire house seems to have very much the same idea.

“Mr Holmes,” Mr Johnson begins. “If you’re fully committed to this production going forward...”

“What are you suggesting,” Holmes says. He does not ask it.

“Looks like your girl’s stuck stitching yet again,” Green mutters to John.

“She’s going to cry,” John agrees without thinking. “Nine hours. Christ.”

“I can’t possibly,” Holmes says upon the stage.

“You can possibly,” Miss Adler disagrees. “In fact, you’re the only one left who can possibly.”

Holmes looks at Mr Johnson as if for help. “Maestro?”

Mr Johnson hesitates before answering, “The lady has a point. And a good one.”

“My lord brother would have everyone sacked,” Holmes says flatly.

“We’re all about to lose our jobs anyway,” Mr Johnson replies. “Mr Montaine, I’m sorry, but the role is simply too much for you.”

“It is,” Montaine agrees, his face now scarlet. “Excuse me.” He practically flees the stage.

“Come back here!” Holmes bellows after him.

Miss Adler catches Holmes by the arm. Though her touch is light and her grip loose, her hold upon him is fast. She says something softly, her eyes locked with his, and something more than words passes between them. Though Holmes’ expression remains stony, hers flowers. John remembers with a jolt that Miss Norton is in the pit at her harp, that Miss Norton can see all of this, and yes, this sudden fury is on Miss Norton’s behalf.

Holmes shakes his arm free. “Fine,” he says. “I’ll do it.”

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Fic: Bel Canto - 12/16 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 25 May 2013 00:54:24 GMT

Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 7.6k out of 126k
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement. (AU through a Phantom of the Opera lens.)
Warnings: Violence, internalized homophobia, eventual character death

Op. 20, No. 1
Op. 20, No. 2
Op. 20, No. 3
Op. 20, No. 4
Op. 20, No. 5
Op. 20, No. 6
Op. 20, No. 7
Op. 20, No. 8
Op. 20, No. 9
Op. 20, No. 10
Op. 20, No. 11
Op. 20, No. 12
Op. 20, No. 13
Op. 20, No. 14
Op. 20, No. 15
Op. 20, No. 16

“The Earl wants to speak with you,” John announces through the door. A prolonged pause follows before Miss Adler responds.

“Is that our maintenance man? Come in, I could use you.”

He has no doubt she means that in a very literal sense. He complies all the same. At the sight of Miss Adler behind her folding screen, he closes the door behind him. “I’m afraid it’s rather urgent.”

Visible above the chin, she lifts her eyes to the ceiling, an unmistakable if silent curse regarding his stupidity. “Then I’ll need you to do up my back, won’t I?” Holding the back of her dress shut behind her, she comes around the folding screen and turns with a great rustling of cloth. Blue and layered and lovely, the dress is complicated enough in design that John lacks the vocabulary to name the specific parts. Buttons, he knows. A long, fiddly row of them that turns his fingers clumsy and awkward.

“Sorry,” he apologises. “Out of practice.” Though Mary had only ever had the two dresses with this sort of back. She’d preferred laces over buttons.

“Urgent, you said?” Her hair shifts as she turns her head, looking over her shoulder.

“When the Earl calls for you, it’s always urgent,” John says slowly, focusing on keeping a professional manner. Buttoning a woman up is much the same as stitching one, except with much more smooth skin and a noticeable absence of blood and pain.

“I can’t imagine what he would want with me now.” She gathers her lower hanging tresses out of the path of the buttons. “You’ve done a thorough job of ending his brother’s little game.”

Whatever her aim, she fails to draw blood with such a comment. He steadily nears the top of the row. “I didn’t realise the ‘little game’ involved you so deeply.”

She peers over her shoulder, a frown enhancing her features rather than marring them. “That was entirely the point.”

John frowns in turn, but he finishes buttoning up the dress. It seems excessively complicated, putting so many buttons out of reach. How in the world had she planned on doing it up by herself?

His eyes widen and his stomach plummets. “Would, erm.”

“It’s urgent, yes. I heard you.” She gestures towards the door.

John stands his ground, abruptly certain. “Miss Norton is behind your folding screen, isn’t she? You’ve been trying to distract me from it.”

The consummate actress, Miss Adler feigns very convincing surprise at the question. Normally John wouldn’t ask, normally John wouldn’t press, but there is only so long he can stand to be played as someone else’s little game.

“Good afternoon, Miss Norton,” John calls.

A small pause. “Good afternoon,” Miss Norton replies from behind the screen. “I promise I’m not eavesdropping.” Her audible nervousness ruins his moment of petty victory.

To Miss Adler, John mouths, How much does she know?

“Kate keeps my secrets,” Miss Alder answers, which is no answer at all. She checks herself in the long mirror upon the back of the dressing room door.

“Is it more terrible news?” Miss Norton asks. Her voice comes from the edge of the folding screen now, as if she were fighting the urge to peek out.

John hesitates, but Lord Holmes had said to explain on the way. “We’re to perform a new opera and Miss Adler is to play the lead.”

Miss Adler begins to laugh, a haughty, dismissive sound. Then she looks into John’s eyes and immediately falls silent. The expression upon her features twists and melts, straining from doubt toward belief. Hesitation blocks this path, the surety of a cruel jest.

“It’s no joke,” John says. “The lead part is a trouser role.”

“Who would write an opera to star a contralto?”

Though the composer ought to be obvious, John answers “Sherlock Holmes” all the same.

A noise escapes from behind the folding screen and Miss Norton appears, her state of dress impeccable but her hair entirely dishevelled. Freshly released from her usual braid, it tumbles into a snarl. “He’s written you an opera?”

“Darling, he’s written me a role.” Miss Adler’s low tone soothes before striking at John. “Tell me, Dr Watson, what are the specifics of this opera?”

“A variation on Antony and Cleopatra, focusing on the formerly Roman soldiers. You’d be the young soldier who survives his captain and takes charge at the end of act three, when the captain dies in his arms.”

A smile plays about Miss Adler’s lips, but even this cannot out-dazzle the sudden light in her eyes. “And is the captain a baritone?”

“I, yes, I believe so.”

Miss Adler looks to Miss Norton as if to indicate that all is well, but this piece of information only compels Miss Norton’s frown to deepen. “He’s not being very subtle, Irene. We both know Mr Holmes fancies you as a man.”

“As a man, yes, but not, I think, as a soldier.” Her gaze settles upon John’s face in a languid inspection. “We’d both look dreadful with moustaches, I’m afraid.”

Precisely why John shaved his off years ago. “Sorry, why is the baritone important?”

“Mr Holmes is a baritone.” Miss Norton makes a futile attempt to smooth back her hair. Ultimately, she settles for containing it behind her shoulders.

With a small shake of her head, Miss Adler returns to her to murmur something. Each fits into the space of the other like a book onto its shelf, like a picture within its frame. Though the women do not touch, the compulsion to look away takes John by the eyes. He averts his gaze to the floor.

“Go on then,” Miss Norton urges quietly. “I’ve always wanted to see you showered with roses.”

“It could be dangerous,” John warns the rug. “The opera ghost enjoys his arson.”

Though Miss Adler doesn’t laugh, light mockery fills her voice. “Every opera house has a ghost. No other contralto has a leading role. Lead on, Dr Watson.”

They bid Miss Norton a quick farewell and exit into the hall.

“You don’t lock the door,” he notes.

“What’s life without a little risk?”

They turn the corner. “I wasn’t kidding about the ghost coming after you.”

“I’ll move my valuables and beware of smoke bombs.”

“Not funny.”

“Most plans aren’t,” she agrees.

It will be too late to ask by the time they reach Mr Havill’s office, too late in the crowded hallway before his door. This ought to act as a restraint upon John’s tongue, but still he says, “I thought Mr Holmes was a tenor.”

“Baritone,” she corrects. “His range is wasted on him.”

His range? She knows his range. But she can’t possibly. Has he sung for her? He would have to have sung for her, for her to know his range. Why on Earth would Holmes sing for her? He’d only sung for John to distract him. Only after months of asking and prodding had he given in for John. Only after shoving his tongue down John’s throat and fondling his arse, only after rubbing his clothed prick across John’s front, only then had Holmes sung for John. Holmes had done it to overwhelm John. He’d kept John off his balance even if he hadn’t quite kicked John’s legs out from under him.

There is nothing in all the world that could put Miss Adler off-balance, let alone keep her there. That being the case, why sing for her? And what the hell is “fancying her as a man” supposed to mean? As a man fancies a woman, surely, but Holmes doesn’t fancy women. Or perhaps he does, women as well as men.

But of course he doesn’t. The issue over creating an heir wouldn’t exist if Holmes fancied women. If Miss Adler were some sort of exception then, that would be different.

It isn’t impossible. Obviously, John doesn’t fancy men. Two men seemed a trend, but one man is an exception at best. One man under dubious conditions, at that. John must have recognised Vernet in Holmes with some forgotten, voiceless corner of his mind. The intimacy of their conversations in the candlelight must have bled through. And then, in turn, John must have recognised Holmes in Vernet. In each case, he’d thought he’d known the man more deeply than was otherwise explainable. Now he knows better. Now he sees the exception for what it was.

Though John ought to have known Holmes wasn’t above playing with his head, John certainly knows Miss Adler enjoys that variety of game. Perhaps that’s what bends Holmes toward her. It would make for a surprisingly neat business. Except for Miss Norton, of course. Terrible for the poor woman’s heart to be caught up in this mess.

Before John can ask Miss Adler anything ill-timed and socially impertinent, they reach the small gathering of senior staff outside Mr Havill’s office. Miss Adler knocks twice upon the door and enters at the sound of the Earl’s voice. Everyone else remains in the hallway.

A light touch at John’s elbow startles him from his thoughts. He blinks down into earnest eyes.

“Has Mr Holmes really written her an opera?” Miss Hooper asks.

John frowns. “Who told you that?”

“I know I’m not supposed to tell,” Mrs Hudson says, “but it seemed so obvious that’s what they want to try.” Though her words are apologetic, her voice and face shine with pride. “Is that what is it, John?”

John doesn’t quite hesitate before he nods, but he feels as if he’s supposed to. “It’s not finished. I mean, it nearly is, but act four is incomplete.”

Mr Johnson’s eyebrows rise. “Who is he collaborating with?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Who is the composer?” Mr Johnson asks.

“Uh,” John says, because Vernet is no answer at all. That would be, as it always was, a lie.

“He does try to keep it private,” Mrs Hudson quickly says. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“What’s the setting?” Molly asks. “I don’t know how many new costumes we can make at this point.”

“Alexandria, the end of Cleopatra’s reign.”

“Egypt, thirty years before the birth of Jesus Christ.” Molly chews on her lip. “We can do that. I think.” Beside her, Hopkins nods encouragingly. “I think we can do that. We have a few dresses we might be able to swap around...”

“Somehow, I don’t think that will be a problem,” John assures her.

“That isn’t the problem at all,” Mr Havill agrees. “If it isn’t complete, I can hardly see how we can attempt it. All the opera ghost will have to do is stand back and not interrupt the performance.”

“I’m sure we could put something together,” Mr Johnson says. “As long as we supply an ending, the opera ghost should try to attack. He might, at least.”

“With Mr Holmes putting his libretto up as bait, he ought to,” says Green.

Mrs Hudson makes a noise of disagreement. “His opera.”

“He wrote the score, then?” Mr Johnson asks, the ever-present furrows in his brow deepening. “Who is the librettist?”

“He wrote all of it,” Mrs Hudson says.

There is a slight pause.

“...Again,” Mr Havill says, “it may be in the opera ghost’s benefit to simply stand back and wait.”

“What are you saying?” Mrs Hudson asks in the tone of a woman who knows exactly what’s being said.

“Mr Holmes has an excellent ear,” Mr Johnson begins. “However, an opera written for a--”

“He didn’t write it for her,” John interrupts. “He simply... wrote it.”

“Even so,” Mr Johnson replies.

“It’s extraordinary,” John continues, undeterred. “If we can manage to stage it, it will work. If the ghost doesn’t interrupt us on the premiere, he’ll have to on the second night.”

“Dr Watson, considering your area of expertise,” Mr Johnson begins.

“Considering that opera typically bores me to tears, I’d say my endorsement ought to count for something.”

Mr Havill clears his throat. “Gentlemen. Nothing has yet been decided.”

A sullen, highly unprofessional silence fills the hall. As the minutes slowly pass, they tilt their heads toward the office door. At last, it opens.

“Everyone inside,” Lord Holmes instructs. “We’re about to be very busy.” He smiles at Mr Johnson and Mrs Hudson, but, as John reaches the door, says, “Dr Watson, surely someone is in need of you elsewhere.”

John nearly swallows his tongue. “Of course, my lord.”

“Very good,” Lord Holmes replies. With that, he vanishes from the doorway. Miss Hooper looks back at John uncertainly until John nods. With an apologetic look that promises news to come, Hopkins closes the door.

In the flurry of planning that follows, it is Miss Hooper, not Hopkins, who keeps John informed. He makes the mistake of telling her that a light load makes him restless and, as a direct result, is handed a threaded needle. The seamstresses were among those hit hardest by the poisoning, a fate Miss Hooper seems to have escaped by forgetting to eat.

“Roman soldiers are easy enough,” Miss Hooper explains. “We just need more of them than we’ve had before. If we’re very, very quick, we might be able to go up within the week.”

“Let’s hope February is an improvement.”

“Hard for this year to get any worse,” she agrees before immediately knocking upon the wooden table. Even the practical workers in a theatre are full of superstition. “Anyway, Mr Holmes is having copies made of the existing material tonight and tomorrow. Rehearsal ought to begin tomorrow afternoon.”

“That’s quick.”

“Needs to be.” She leans in close, dropping her voice. “Honestly, I’m more worried about the opera being finished than the rehearsals starting.”

John arranges his features into an expression of polite interest.

“Mr Holmes looked a bit ill, honestly. Nervous. I think it’s because Mr Johnson doubts him. You could tell how it hurt him.” She wears a soft, sad sort of frown. “It’s not really fair, making him give it up like this.”

John nearly pricks himself. “Sorry? ‘Give it up’?” This is what Holmes has always wanted. “He’s having it staged.”

“To be ruined,” Miss Hooper replies. “We’re going to be advertising it as his so the ghost will have to ruin it.” The slightest hint of amusement, as if trying to cheer John up: “Mr Holmes wants to put an advertisement in the paper telling the ghost that Box Five has been reserved for him.”

His stomach sinks. “That could end terribly.”

“Sort of the point, though,” Miss Hooper says.

John nods and they work on in silence.

That night, he returns home early and attempts to wait up for Mrs Hudson. When the hours turn from large to small, he retires to bed with his mind still full of questions.

His luck proves better in the morning. Despite her late night, Mrs Hudson is up early. John finds her working at the breakfast table, paper before her and pencil in hand.

“Is that how you sort out the choreography?” John asks, taking his seat.

Mrs Hudson hums. “Only the outline of the idea so far. Sherlock was very specific about the naval battle. We’ll have the boats upstage and the soldiers downstage—or are they sailors here? The men, at any rate, they’ll be here, like so on each side. The Egyptian men ought to be the most visible, of course, so the stage looks positively desolate when they leave. You see, Cleopatra’s ship enters here with Antony’s below it. When she leaves, he turns to follow and, oh, I love this bit! It’s not a stage turn. No, he’ll turn his back on his men. And the audience, but I like that somehow, for this. He completely ignores everyone to chase after her.”

“It’s very fitting,” John agrees, looking for an opening in her monologue.

“I can’t do the finer work until I hear the orchestra play it, but I mostly know what each part ought to sound like.”

“It’s still not finished, though,” John says. “I mean. I thought it wasn’t finished. The fourth act.”

“Sherlock’s doing his best,” she assures him. “He’s a bit stuck here and there, but he’ll have something in time.”

“Will it work?” he asks.

“Which part? The performance or the trap?”

“The performance,” John says. “Rushed like this, set up to fail, it’s not... Is it going to become one of those haunted scores that no one will touch?”

“We can only hope not, dear. That’s what the police will be there for.”

That’s what they were there for at the Masquerade, John doesn’t say. Instead, he agrees, “We can hope.”

“Are we late?” John asks, handing Mrs Hudson down from the carriage. He pays the cabbie before following Mrs Hudson up the opera house stairs.

“They should only be just starting,” Mrs Hudson assures him. In through the front doors, across the lobby, and as John opens the door to the house, the sounds of an orchestra tuning reach them. Mrs Hudson smiles. “Oh, good.”

They slip inside and John follows Mrs Hudson down the aisle, carrying her writing case as well as his medical bag. Upon finding a particular row in the stalls, Mrs Hudson edges between the seats before sitting down with a remarkable sense of purpose. John sits beside her and helps her with the writing case.

“Oh, no, I always start with pencil, dear. Here we are.” She sets up the small folding desk across the armrests of her seat. “First thoughts, you know.”

“I thought you’d already heard parts of it,” John half-asks.

“Show anyone before it’s finished?” Mrs Hudson smiles as if John has intentionally told a joke. “I’m still amazed he’s let this much go. He’s hidden himself away somewhere with act four, though. No one’s allowed to see. That’s going to be a problem if he can’t complete it quickly.”

John frowns a bit, but the orchestra finishes tuning and Mr Johnson directs the musicians into silence. Mrs Hudson smoothes her paper down on the writing desk and waits, pencil carefully in hand.

Mr Johnson lifts his hands, wrists arched upward and frozen upon the cusp of true motion. The instruments rise. A pause, as if for breath. For the brass and woodwinds, perhaps it is. One of Mr Johnson’s hands begins to tap in midair, a quick marching rhythm that the soles of John’s feet recognise faster than his eyes do.

Leaning forward in a slight bow, Mr Johnson nods with the downbeat, and so the overture begins. Once lifted by a single violin, the familiar strain bursts into the air with the force of strings, of mallets, of human breath. The idealised general leads on once more, a figure so far removed into John’s past that he had been nearly forgotten.

The general falters with a key change and the young soldier struggles on in his wake all the same. Here the song of home, here the longing for Rome, and there the captain, as steady and measured in his theme as he is in his character. The song of the mutiny blazes up against him only to falter and fall, and the sound of it pulls John underground, down into the tunnels. His mind stands in the abandoned chamber amidst shadows framed by candlelight.

The naval battle arrives too soon and drags John with it. Though the nature of the fugue was well-explained to him in the darkness, such a piece cannot be performed upon a single instrument. For the first time, he sees as well as hears the battle, observes the clamour of the woodwinds against the clamour of the brass. Assaults of sound surge from both sides of the pit, each firing into the other and seeking to wound.

The battle rages in a brief, complicated swirl, a number of the musicians audibly fumbling their parts. Mr Johnson spurs them on, and Cleopatra takes flight with her ships in tow. In the resulting tumult, the mutiny looms anew. For the second time, the steady captain stands tall and firm, his stable rhythm unifying the whole of the orchestra before, without warning, he falters. He falls with the pounding of drums and leaping warning of a piccolo.

With this shortest moment of foreshadowing, the overture flies away from sorrow and into warlike grief. Desperation mounts, the thrum of it shaking through John’s seat and into his bones. With the assaults of the closing act rising to their fever pitch, the overture concludes with fearsome crescendo, pulling John forward in his seat despite his knowledge of the end, despite his knowledge of its entirety.

“Good God,” whispers an unexpected voice from behind them.

John twists about in his seat to find Mr Havill sitting behind Mrs Hudson. How Mr Havill snuck in without John noticing is an utter mystery.

“That is extraordinary,” Mr Havill continues, breathless. “Dr Watson, I understand your confidence now.”

Before the stage, Mr Johnson directs his orchestra to a previous page and the battle begins anew, stumbling over itself in fresh missteps.

“Provided we can practice quickly enough,” Mr Havill amends. “Do you know his progress on act four?”

“He’s over halfway finished with the score, sir,” John answers, the words leaving his mouth before his mind has time to batter Holmes’ name against Vernet’s mask. “I think he already has all of the themes he needs—they were all in the overture, as far as I can tell—but he’ll be fitting them together in different ways for act four. Honestly, it’s not the score we have to worry about. The libretto always gives him the most trouble.”

“A week’s worth of trouble?”

“Less, I’d say, provided he’s, um.” John’s gaze lifts reflexively upward, seeking out the closed curtains of Box Five. “Sorry, provided he’s... Ah, no, I’ve lost that thought, I’m afraid.” A lie, but provided he’s anything like Vernet is hardly an answer.

“When did he tell you this?” Mrs Hudson asks, a concerned sort of frown hovering about the far side of her face where Mr Havill can’t see it.

“Around his birthday.” The day before, John’s sure she’ll realise.

“Before the poisonings, after the fire?”

John nods.

“Has he had much progress since then?” Mr Havill asks.

“I, er. I think he’s stagnated somewhat. What with the night watches and the poisoning.”

Mrs Hudson shifts in her seat to look down at her much-marked paper. Though her posture remains as flawless as ever, her expression is very sad. Behind her, Mr Havill very fortunately doesn’t notice. Nor will he, provided John can keep the guilt from his features.

“Presently, I’m letting Mr Holmes use my office to work in,” Mr Havill says. “Lord Holmes claims his brother will be able to work faster under these conditions, but I would like my office back.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” John replies. “I’m sure he understands the inconvenience.” And is ignoring the consequences anyway.

“If he’s willing to share his work with you,” Mr Havill begins.

“Ah,” John interrupts. “Ah, uh, no. Sorry, sir. If he’s working on the libretto, the worst thing I could do would be to pop in and speak English near him.”

Mr Havill nods as if this is a fair point. Perhaps he thinks John still privy to Holmes’ creative secrets. To be fair, it would be an easy assumption. “Understandable, Dr Watson.” He looks past John and Mrs Hudson toward the orchestra as Mr Johnson begins the first act. “I must say, I’m much more confident, hearing this. Please don’t pass this on, but it’s hardly a time to appear desperate.”

“It isn’t at all, sir,” John agrees. “If anything, I’d say this is a show of confidence.”

Mr Havill hums his agreement. For a long moment, they continue listening.

With Mr Havill behind him, John can’t slip away into memory the way the music coaxes him to. It tempts and beckons, reminding him of when even his nightmares were useful, when the worst memory inside his head had a purpose beyond torment. Horrors he’d never been able to burden Mary with, regardless of how she’d asked; these he gave freely to a stranger in the dark. He’s not sure how, honestly, only that Vernet had told him what his opera needed and John had responded in the only way that made sense at the time.

When Mr Havill rises, John turns to acknowledge him. Busy with her choreography, Mrs Hudson writes on, oblivious.

“Oh, Dr Watson. To be clear, you aren’t technically on-duty.” Mr Havill’s expression does not quite contain an apology. “With the poisoning cleared up and no patrons in sight, there’s exceeding little sense in providing you with a shift today. Not until the dancers’ feet are at risk once more. With rehearsal fully underway, perhaps then.”

“I understand,” John says. His house might be gone, but his bank account is untouched. He doesn’t particularly mind, comfortable enough in his new living situation. “I thought I’d keep Mrs Hudson company.”

“By all means.”

They say their short goodbyes before Mr Havill departs. John folds his hands in his lap. He listens to familiar music turned strange by its many layers, like an old story told with the wrong voice.

“Is he a baritone?” John asks Mrs Hudson.

“Mr Havill?” she asks, without looking up.

“No, Holmes.”

Mrs Hudson’s hand stalls upon her lap desk. “John,” she says kindly, “if you want to let go, you ought to let go.”

“That’s not, no. I’m not... I wasn’t. Really. It’s something Miss Adler mentioned yesterday. And what with him using two different voices, I was wondering.”

Mrs Hudson frowns at him curiously. “Two different voices?”

“He was deeper when he was pretending to be Vernet.”

Mrs Hudson mouths these words, repeating them as if to better divine their meaning. Honest puzzlement dominates her features. “He was more relaxed, if that’s what you mean.”

“I... what? No, I mean his voice was substantially deeper. By a lot.”

“He was more relaxed,” Mrs Hudson repeats. To her, this is clearly the same as what John is saying, which makes absolutely no sense at all. “His voice goes up when he’s uncomfortable, always has. Though ‘uncomfortable’ might be too strong a word. Pressured? When he thinks he has to be polite.”

“It was hardly accidental.” It couldn’t have been, not with such consistent, different voices. One light and polished, the other dark and ragged: there’s no other answer. “He was doing it intentionally. For months.”

Mrs Hudson looks back and forth between her paper and the stage. John knows he’s making her deeply uncomfortable, but he can’t seem to stop.

“It’s bizarre, that’s all. I honestly have no idea what his real speaking voice is. And how did no one else notice? ‘Mr Holmes’ voice just jumped up an octave, I wonder what that’s about.’ Did no one really notice?”

“John Watson, this is neither the time nor place,” Mrs Hudson chides. “And I already told you, that’s his polite voice. He started doing it to mock Mycroft when he was younger, and now he talks like that to everyone.”

But not to Mrs Hudson or Miss Adler, it seems, and not as a masked man in the basement.

“I’m sorry, but I’m busy at the moment. You know we need to work quickly.”

“I know,” John says. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—I’ll stop forcing you between us. I should know better.”

Mrs Hudson pats his hand, but she does it distractedly. “Thank you, dear.”

John nods, forcing himself silent. He lasts as long as he can before the music is too much. Lovely and absolutely wrenching, it reaches too far into him. It’s been too much inside of him from the beginning.

He reminds himself that he is not, after all, on duty today. He reminds himself that there is no sense in barging into Mr Havill’s office and interrupting Holmes’ work. There will be time enough for arguments once the opera is finished and the ghost captured.

Before he can do anything too foolish, he makes his excuses to Mrs Hudson and heads out for an early lunch. He doesn’t return.

The day drags on in a restless, unending haze. He has nothing to do. He no longer owns any books. His backlog of medical journals shall never be caught up on. Not that he was likely to get around to that anyway, but he had been intending to for months.

The weather is too terrible to stay outside for any length of time, regardless of how his restless legs long for a walk. With the cold rain and biting wind, the short distance from hansom to front door is miserable enough. He wastes the day away with this and that, but before Mrs Hudson returns, he retires to bed. He can hear her when she comes in. He thinks of going down and thinks better of it. Holmes may tear her between the two of them, but John will do no such thing.

With that vicious thought, John rolls over and attempts to sleep. He attempts for a very long time.

The following day is worse than the one before, but the day after that, the rehearsals are well-underway in all regards. With the dancers in motion and the singers exercising their voices, John at last has cause to be on call.

For a few hours, John sits in the stalls, watching an imaginary drama take physical form. Mrs Hudson knows what she’s doing with the choreography. The movement of the dancers reminds John of something he’s certain he’s seen before, but knows he never has. He recognises the motions of Vernet’s hands, the tight whirling motions of his enthusiasm. Not for the first time, John wonders how well Mrs Hudson knows the inside of Vernet’s head. Of Holmes’, he means.

John enjoys watching this rehearsal more than he can remember watching any other. He’s unreasonably disappointed when Mrs Hudson calls for a break and Mr Johnson agrees.

At loose ends, John wanders backstage and up into the workshops. He has to keep out of the way, which he does. Miss Hooper is pleased to see him for all of the half-minute she has to spare, but after that, John bids a hasty retreat. There is truly nowhere he won’t be underfoot, save for the house.

He’d forgotten how it used to be like this. Those days before there was an underground chamber to disappear to, how had he lived? An inability to remember idle hours hardly means that time didn’t exist. He’d frittered it away through one method or another, but what were those methods? His feet demand he rise and descend the stairs to a secret door. Had they demanded something else before, or had he been content to sit in a stupor when his services were unneeded?

It annoys him not to know. He checks his new watch, checks it and checks it, but time does not pass. Neither does the urge to do something.

He takes a walk. Not outside, not into that gloom, but a walk about the opera house lobby. He looks at the paintings. He looks at the architecture and attempts to summon the interest men are meant to exhibit when left alone to look at architecture.

When his eyes grow bored, his feet move on. They carry him with a fresh sense of purpose, stopping before a door, and his hand rises to knock out a quick series of taps.

“Yes?” calls a light, detested voice.

John enters Mr Havill’s office and shuts the door behind him.

Holmes sits at the desk, the usual orderliness of its surface replaced by a clutter of paper, pen and ink. Behind him, his jacket adorns the chair, his abandoned cravat across it. In waistcoat and shirtsleeves, Holmes scratches away at his score with his collar unbuttoned and his hair a mess. Agitated fingers have raked deep lines through the pomade-sleeked strands of his hair. The open violin case sits against the base of a cabinet, the instrument prepared, the bow ready. A dusting of rosin coats the strings and body between the bridge and fingerboard.

Holmes doesn’t look up. “I didn’t tell you to come inside.”

John’s mouth works, a futile motion. He fists his hands and pushes through the shock of finding Holmes this way. “There will never be a good time to ask, so I might as well ask now. Why did you do it?”

With deliberate fuss, Holmes dips his pen into the ink. “You’ll have to be more precise, Doctor. I’m afraid I’ve done many things.”

“I understand the composing in the basement. That bit, fine. You’re absurd, I understand that. I don’t understand why you would play both sides.”

“Both sides of what?”

“Why the hell did you approach me as you?” John demands. He storms forward as close as he can without kicking the desk. He might kick it if Holmes won’t look at him. “You were stuck as, as Vernet, so, yes, fine. But anything else, that’s not you being blown about by the winds of fate. You can’t simply pass the blame onto your lord brother for that. You knew what you were doing. You knew you were lying to me from both sides.”

Holmes lifts his eyes from the paper, the better to mock John as an idiot. “You think I approached you?”

“Yes! What else could you call it?”

Holmes groans as if John is the one entirely missing the point. Once dropped, his voice remains in its lower register. “You wanted to help. You were eager for the work.”

“What are you—I’m not talking about the work.”

“No?” As if this is the only conceivable option.

“No.”

“Then you acknowledge the investigation as necessary,” Holmes concludes. He turns his eyes forcefully to the desk’s surface. “I see no sense in discussing anything else.”

Arms crossed over his chest, John stares at him. “Oh,” he says. “That’s what we’re doing. Nothing to talk about, nothing to dwell on, move along, there’s a good chap.”

“You do so love being a good chap,” Holmes agrees, his pitch sweeping upward into false pleasantness. His polite voice, John’s foot. “A truly good chap would close the door on his way out.”

“I’ll leave when you answer the question.”

Holmes groans yet again before gesturing to his papers with twin sharp, chopping motions. “I have work to do. Surely you of all people will understand that.”

John leans forward and blocks his light.

“You are currently delaying the plan you yourself proposed to catch the opera ghost.” Though Holmes’ remark is nearly idle, he avoids John’s gaze. “Well done. You’re a marvel of efficiency.”

John holds firm. “We can argue for an hour, or you can tell me what in the world you were thinking. Your choice.”

“It hardly matters when you won’t listen either way.” As if John is the one being purposefully obtuse and obstinate.

“Spell it out for me. Use small words. As monosyllabic as you like, by all means.”

“You were the obvious choice for the investigation. Your behaviour was markedly different. I interpreted the change incorrectly.”

“Sorry,” John says. “I might be missing something, but what part of my behaviour told you to lie to me for half a year?”

Holmes looks up only to frown at him. “That was always the arrangement. No, don’t interrupt—it was. We discussed it. I couldn’t tell you. You accepted this. Never in a long term sense, but you were willing to accept it.”

“That direction of it, yes,” John agrees. “This direction of it, no.”

“What direction?”

“You,” John says. “As... you. You approached me like a stranger.”

Slowly, Holmes’ head tilts. “We just agreed I couldn’t tell you.”

“Then you shouldn’t have approached me!”

Holmes nearly gapes at him. “The investigation was necessary. We agreed not two minutes ago.”

John stares back. “I don’t mean the investigation. I mean the Masquerade. And Christmas.”

If anything, Holmes’ confusion only worsens. “You mean sending you to keep Mrs Hudson company?” He must be feigning ignorance. It’s so obvious John could almost laugh.

“I mean your proposition on the stage and, and taking off my shoes.”

Holmes’ expression hardens, stone-like. “Ah. You believe my primary motive to be buggery.”

Though John feels his face flushing, he doesn’t disagree. He doesn’t look away.

“You’re wrong, of course. My primary motive is the work, Doctor,” Holmes tells him, and in that moment, his voice is entirely Vernet’s. “It is always the work. I would have thought you’d remember that. Sadly, overestimating you seems to be a habit of mine.” His manner, his ire, his form: all is wholly Vernet’s.

“Then why did you say yes?” John doesn’t specify and hardly needs to. His hands are shaking, fisted at his sides.

“Oh, why did I catch you when you flung yourself at me? Hm, I haven’t the foggiest. Clearly, I should have stomped on your heart and thrown it back at you. Would that have been kinder? Is that what it’s called when one acts contrary to one’s interests?”

“What about a warning?” John demands.

“A warning for what?” Holmes throws himself backward in Mr Havill’s chair in an agitated sprawl. His upturned palms demand answers. “‘Look out, we’re both about to get precisely what we want, except you’re too stupid to see that!’ Is that what you want? And it is want, not wanted. I gave you your warnings. You brushed them aside. I told you that you loved a fantasy, and you insisted you loved my character. You’d no idea what it was then and know even less now, but you insisted.

“What is it you wish to chastise me for, hm? Failing to recognise the abysmal risk that is Dr John Watson? You’re perfectly content to fling yourself at a masked stranger in the basement, but I, oh no, I am too odious. A deranged dreamer is well and good, but only if he comes free of entanglements. Or, God forbid, wealth and breeding. Can’t have that.”

“Maybe, just maybe, it’s because you’re a controlling arse.”

Holmes rolls his eyes. “I corner you once—”

“You had me running about all December!” A month of entertainments and outings in the guise of work.

“Oh dear, how dare I give you something useful to do. You’re right: I’m a complete and utter villain. How terribly cruel of me to predict your behavioural patterns. I’m sure you put up with having nothing to do today for nearly an hour before you came to bother me.”

Nearly half an hour, but John is hardly about to correct him. Even so, it must show on his face. Holmes’ answering smile is too ugly to deserve the name.

“You were at loose ends and came running back to me,” Holmes muses. His smirk grows into a sneer. “How vexing for you.”

John tries to breathe, tries to shout, and accomplishes nothing.

“We’ll revert,” Holmes proposes. “You’d rather jump off a bridge than go without purpose. That’s unchanged. I need to finish this. Also unchanged.”

“What are you asking?”

“I am telling you to sit down and be quiet.” Holmes picks up his pen, its ink long since dried on its nib.

“I refuse.”

“Fine. Leave. Off you go.”

John hesitates, abruptly trapped with the realisation that, whichever way John turns, Holmes can only win.

“You’ll spend the rest of the day wandering about in the hope that someone will need you. Unlikely with the acrobat killed and no replacement evident. Unless the death threats toward the singers come true in the next few hours, there is absolutely nothing for you out there.”

Knowing that Holmes is baiting him does nothing to defend John against his logic. Knowing what Holmes wants from him is no help either. “You’re writing the bit at the end where the young soldier is cornered and scared. The part where he regrets ever trusting the captain at all.”

“Before being horrifically killed, yes.”

It’s no threat, only a crisp confirmation. Even so, it rings false.

“I thought he was going to die hopeful,” John says. That’s what Vernet had said. “He’s supposed to have another change of heart before he dies.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Holmes answers. “I’ve seen enough changes of heart lately, haven’t you?”

John nearly goes to the door. He should. He ought to.

Instead, he sits down.

Holmes neither blinks nor stares at him, but his confused flicker of a gaze is enough for John to feel pleased with himself.

“The old ending was better,” John says. “The variety made it more of a kick in the teeth.”

This time, Holmes stares. He inhales, filling his lungs as another man might load a cannon. Then, without warning, his eyes widen, and he scrambles for one sheet of paper buried beneath the others. He sets to his task without a single word, let alone another attack.

John waits a moment, unsure when the flurry will end. As it continues on, he simply sits and watches. His stomach twists and turns over as if digesting something he oughtn’t to have eaten. If an accident does occur, he thinks Mrs Hudson might know to look for him here. He isn’t certain.

The longer Holmes writes, the more his attention recedes from the room. The windows behind him spill less light than a smattering of candles. The table before him only exists to hold his materials. Holmes only lifts his gaze to John in order to stare through him. Vernet might have done the same, once. The ill-fitting mask had made it impossible to tell.

As the minutes pass and the clock ticks ever onward, a familiar, slightly manic energy creeps over Holmes. It wraps about his head, tilting it, before seizing his hands and bidding them to set down their pen. The first motions of conducting chop the air. As Holmes’ lips silently move, his gesticulating hands smooth their course. The sequence is long and yet distinct: each time Holmes is forced to repeat it, John sees a precise reproduction of what has come before.

Once, only once, Holmes groans and drags his hands through his hair. With a smear of pomade upon his fingers, he surfaces from his composing trance long enough to wipe it off on his trousers. His curls struggle to fall free. One flops over his forehead. Though Holmes ignores this, John can’t help his staring.

While hardly the most inappropriate behaviour John’s exhibited toward him, the staring grows awkward and strange. John has to look down, look away, and still his gaze snaps back to where Holmes is so completely inside his own world. Unheard music bids his dark head to nod a steady beat while his fingers tap an entirely different rhythm. He mouths the words, repeating and repeating as he sets them into ink.

Realising that his back aches, John shifts in his borrowed chair. His shoulder clicks. He stands to stretch.

The tapping ceases as Holmes reaches toward him without looking. “Almost finished.”

“I was just--”

“Almost finished.” The two words spill into each other as if pulled out of him with a great, rushed effort.

John sits.

The writing continues, the composing, the scratching of the pen. What sort of nerve does it take, to compose in pen? What characteristic arrogance.

The almost drags on. Ten minutes. Twenty. John’s stomach clenches and growls. He can’t remember when he last ate. He’s been in here all afternoon.

The pen stops scratching.

John looks up.

Holmes shifts through his papers, his eyes scanning down each page. “Oh,” he says, a soft, surprised sound.

“What is it?” John asks.

The search continues. Carefully handling one sheet, Holmes studies the drying ink. “It’s finished.”

John stands. As if he would be able to tell by looking, he comes to the desk to see. The ink still gleams, but the gleam settles. Even upside-down, the variable quality of the writing is obvious. Here Vernet’s cramped scrawl, there Holmes’ pristine cursive, the transitions between the two gradual where they aren’t abrupt.

They wait for the ink to dry. Then, carefully, Holmes stacks the papers into a neat pile. His hands remain set upon it, securing it to the desk, holding it tight until its existence becomes certain.

With a slow lift of the head, Holmes looks up at him. A single question dominates his eyes, his mouth, the set of his jaw, darkened with a natural shadow. “I...” His deep voice falters, lifts. “What do I do now?”

“You give this to Mr Johnson,” John says. “Copies must be made.”

“Yes,” Holmes says. His gaze falls to the paper beneath his hands. “Yes.”

“And then you must go and eat something,” John continues.

Holmes frowns.

“Mr Johnson, then dinner,” John repeats.

After a small pause, Holmes nods. He stands with a great cracking of his back. His eyes return to the desk, return and return again even as he sets the violin away. His violin, John supposes. The same careful touch, the same hands upon the wood. Yes, his violin.

Once Holmes secures the case, he secures the score. Lost and small despite his great height, he turns to John. “The Gloriana? For dinner.”

“I’m not giving you dietary requirements. I’m only telling you to eat.”

“Hardly what I meant, Doctor,” Holmes replies.

John holds his gaze. “I know what you meant.”

Holmes says nothing, instead looking down at his opus.

John opens the door for him, and Holmes exits without another word.

previous | next

Fic: Bel Canto - 11/16 (BBC Sherlock)

bendingsignpost — Sat, 18 May 2013 00:57:26 GMT

Title: Bel Canto
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 6.8k out of 126k
Betas: vyctori, seijichan, lifeonmars
Disclaimer: Do not own.
Summary: After years of waiting for wealthy patrons to faint, Dr John Watson discovers a far more interesting patient in the opera house basement. (AU through a Phantom of the Opera lens.)
Warnings: Violence, internalized homophobia, eventual character death

Op. 20, No. 1
Op. 20, No. 2
Op. 20, No. 3
Op. 20, No. 4
Op. 20, No. 5
Op. 20, No. 6
Op. 20, No. 7
Op. 20, No. 8
Op. 20, No. 9
Op. 20, No. 10
Op. 20, No. 11
Op. 20, No. 12
Op. 20, No. 13
Op. 20, No. 14
Op. 20, No. 15
Op. 20, No. 16

As Green enters Mr Havill’s office, those already gathered turn to him in unison. “Anything?” Mr Havill asks.

Green shakes his head. “Nothing, sir.”

Mr Havill looks around the room, eyes travelling from Green to John, over Jamison, Beaumont and Westy. He takes in Hopkins and Miss Hooper by the door, and Mrs Hudson beside Holmes. Mr Johnson fidgets with his pocket watch by the window.

“That’s everyone,” Mr Havill says. He closes his eyes for a solid moment before resuming where he’d left off. “We’ll repeat the search once the rest of the staff arrives. For those of you here from last night, I’d advise breakfast and a strong coffee. Take your rest while you can, gentlemen.” He looks pointedly at Holmes.

Holmes doesn’t return his glance, if only because Holmes lies upon Mr Havill’s sofa like so many of John’s previous aristocratic patrons. A noose is a far different method of suffocation than a corset and there is no further loosening of clothing that would improve Holmes’ breathing. Too high to be hidden by his collar, the forming bruise about his neck breaks the pallor of his skin with a mottled purple. Though each breath must pain him, Holmes betrays no sign. The sofa supports him from crown to mid-thigh, his feet flat upon the floor.

Mrs Hudson sits next to his head, her hand upon his shoulder. “We should get you something to drink, dear.”

Holmes clears his throat, but his voice remains low. “Water. Any alcohol will put me right to sleep.”

Sleep isn’t a bad idea. John nearly says so, but Miss Hooper steps forward first.

“I’ll bring you a glass, sir,” she volunteers, leaving John’s side. She nods to Mr Havill on her way out.

Before she can exit, Green instructs, “Jamison, stay with her. No one goes alone until we know what’s been hidden.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Mr Havill confirms. “He’s made liberal use of fire in the past. We must prepare for the worst.”

“Mr Havill, will my girls be expected to join in the search?” Mrs Hudson asks. “And the boys, for that matter. We’re running low on our numbers as it is.”

“Anyone who appears on stage is given priority,” Mr Havill answers. “The musicians as well, Mr Johnson, and you. Mr Hopkins, the ushers will simply have to do their best. Any man who cannot comply with the dress code will be kept out of sight.”

“Very fair, sir,” Hopkins replies.

Further discussion blends in John’s ears, his vision blurring slightly. He squeezes his eyes shut and forces them open, exhaustion creeping in. Green gives him a slight nod.

“Mr Havill, sir, I think we’ll take your advice and get that breakfast,” John interjects when the proper pause arises.

Mr Havill gestures them out. Green and Hopkins follow on John’s heels. As they exit, Miss Hooper reappears with Holmes’ water. Hopkins lingers for the sake of holding the door open for her, and John and Green wait for Hopkins. Having only arrived this morning, Miss Hooper won’t be accompanying them out, but it takes John a distracted moment to remember this as Holmes sits up and thanks Miss Hooper for the glass. Exhaustion providing fierce inertia, John pulls himself away to follow Green and Hopkins. Westy and Beaumont trail after them.

Stagehands and ushers stand gathered in the lobby, the seamstresses and two injured dancers carefully to the side. Green gives the signal to move out and, as one stumbling horde, they exit the building with their hats pulled down and collars pulled up. Hiding yawns behind gloved hands, the troop staggers down the street before invading a small cafe. They install the dancers at the table closest to the door. This concern addressed, the rest of them promptly pack themselves in wherever they may fit, disturbing several men with half-full plates and unseating a small bootblack. The boy complains loudly and receives a swat for his trouble.

Green tugs at John’s elbow and nods toward the corner. John snags Hopkins in turn. They sit pressed knee to knee, John cramped in the corner chair, but they all have seats. Others are less fortunate.

By the time their coffee arrives, John and Green have nearly nodded off. Hopkins prods John, John prods Green, and they accept their coffee with heartfelt thanks.

“Was that the first time, Dr Watson?” Hopkins asks.

John blinks at him blearily.

“That you, well. That you killed someone.”

John shakes his head.

“I don’t, I don’t mean unintentionally as a doctor, I mean...”

“I know what you mean.”

“Beg pardon,” Hopkins replies. “Must be more tired than I thought, asking you something like that.”

“It’s a normal enough question.” He sips his coffee and promptly burns his tongue.

“How much of an accent on him?” Green asks.

“Hm?”

“The Chinese strangler.”

“Oh,” John says. “Not much. I honestly didn’t notice one.” He’d been much too busy fearing for Holmes’ life. He’d had no idea the acrobat wasn’t English until they’d rolled his corpse over.

“So we’re looking at the child of immigrants,” Green concludes.

John considers that. He nearly mentions that Miss Adler is, in fact, from New Jersey and no one would ever know this to hear her. “Maybe.”

“Westy sounds British.” Hopkins gestures toward the table closest to the door, Westy with his back to the cold entrance and Lucy Harrison leaning close to him. “Then again, his father’s from Yorkshire, I think.”

“I’m more interested in who the strangler knew, honestly.” John risks another sip of his coffee. “Still have the puppet master out there. Just a bit more important.”

Green laughs. “True.”

They sit and drink, listening to the others talk. The tale of the strangler attacking Holmes grows and grows until John thinks he might be ill. He blames the state of his stomach on the greasy food and bitter coffee.

“Do you think that’s the only one, sir?” Hopkins asks Green.

“Only what?”

“The only phantom,” Hopkins says. “I know we’ve the puppet master out there, but it’s the puppets who come to bother us.”

“Probably not.” Green grimaces. “We’re not finished keeping watch just yet.”

“He wasn’t the Red Death from New Year’s,” John says. “Red Death was taller than me. The voice was different too.” Not that different voices mean much, as it turns out. “The entire attitude was different. Red Death would have threatened me personally.”

Green pats him on the shoulder. “You’re such a charmer.”

“I suppose he could keep on hiring more ghosts,” Hopkins muses. “We should write to the circuses and such. Warn them to keep track of their acrobats.”

Green gives him an odd look. “Or else what?”

“Or else they’ll be accessory to the attempted murder of an earl’s brother and heir,” Hopkins says. “That’s just a bit of warning.”

“Showing weakness, though,” Green says. “Don’t much want to advertise it.”

Hopkins shrugs, cradling his coffee cup to the table. “That’s up to Mr Havill and the Earl, I suppose.”

John finishes eating first, then simply sits with his cooling cup between his hands. In a moment of paranoia, he checks under his nails for blood and finds none. He leans back in his chair until his head rests against the spot where the walls meet. He closes his eyes.

Much too soon, Green nudges him. “Doc, your girl’s at the door. Looks like she needs you.”

John frowns at him. “My...? Oh. We’re not... never mind.” He tries to stand, but Hopkins won’t budge his chair, staring not at John but toward Miss Hooper at the door. “Excuse me.”

Hopkins startles. “You’re not what, sir?” he asks, his wide eyes red with exhaustion. “You and Miss Hooper, you’re not...?”

“No,” John says, frowning. “Excuse me.” He manages to slip around Hopkins with coat and hat in hand. Navigating around the rest of the crowd is a challenge, but he succeeds and joins Miss Hooper at the door.

They exit without exchanging a word. He keeps up easily with her long strides until his thigh begins to twinge out a warning.

“How urgent?” John asks. “Sorry, it’s just.” He indicates his leg.

“Mr Holmes started vomiting. Is that a normal reaction to being strangled?”

“It might be a stress reaction.” It would be Holmes, wouldn’t it? The stomach acid can’t be doing his throat any favours. “Did he send you for me?”

Molly shakes her head. “Mrs Hudson did. Mr Holmes kept insisting he didn’t need a doctor, but he looked really panicked.”

“Do you know what he’s vomiting?” Holmes hasn’t eaten since yesterday.

“The water first, then some dry heaving. He was sort of curled up in a ball when I left.”

John increases his pace, grateful that it’s not far. “He needs to be taken home. Mr Havill’s office is no place for him in his condition.”

“Mrs Hudson wanted to be sure he was fit for travel first.”

“He ought to be. And once he’s home, he ought to stay home. None of this keeping watch two nights running nonsense. Bad enough Green keeps at it, but at least he’s not been strangled on top of everything else. Holmes needs to go home and stay there.”

“Are you... Sorry, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” John snaps.

Miss Hooper doesn’t so much as blink. “Because you don’t sound fine.”

“I’m fine, so it doesn’t matter what I sound like.”

“All right,” she says. “It’s just, you killed a man to save your friend and now he’s not doing so well. So I worried.”

“I’m fine.”

“Good,” Miss Hooper says. Her voice is no more or less gentle than it ever is.

They walk a bit faster.

He opens the opera house door for her. She thanks him. Having no reason to stay together, they part ways. John can’t help but feel a coward for wishing her a shield.

In Mr Havill’s office, Holmes is obviously worse than he was when John left him, now curled on his side rather than stretched on his back. His colour is poor, his eyes closed. Two consecutive nights of standing guard explains the exhaustion, but this is worse even than that. The strain of the attack has placed him in a pitiful state. Still, it’s hardly a surprise Holmes held himself together until after they left. Holmes does seem the sort to keep from breaking until he has a moment for it, preferably a solitary one.

John looks to Mrs Hudson, standing close by with a worried expression. Mr Havill is off seeing to something else, it seems, leaving only the three of them. Asleep? John mouths.

She shakes her head. With that, Holmes begins to cough. Not a bad sort of cough, nothing wrong with the lungs. Merely a pathetic cough, it shakes his shoulders but little else of his torso.

“When did the vomiting begin?” John asks Mrs Hudson.

“About, oh, twenty minutes or so. At least half an hour after you left.”

“Any food or drink?”

“Only the water,” Mrs Hudson replies. “We didn’t think it would be wise to have him eat anything solid, not so soon after the strangling.”

“I’m awake. Stop talking around me.” Rough and shredded, Holmes’ voice is worse than before.

John comes close to rolling his eyes. “If you don’t want to rest your throat, be my guest.”

Mrs Hudson hugs her arms about her middle. “Boys,” she chides.

“Will you take him home?” John asks.

“Is he all right to be taken home?” Mrs Hudson looks at him as if John is supposed to do something besides stand in the doorway and avoid touching Holmes.

“He’s more all right to be taken than to stay. For all we know, a bomb could be set to go off at any minute.”

Holmes says something that sounds like “smoke bomb” but John’s not listening.

“I’ll take him,” Mrs Hudson agrees.

“Thank you.” John hesitates in the doorway, manners dictating he say something further. He reaches and finds nothing.

Holmes may or may not make a crack at John’s bedside manner. It’s some sort of grumble, but John hesitates to reply to anything Holmes says involving beds.

With an awkward sort of nod, John exits, leaving the door shut tight behind him.

With Holmes removed, John breathes easier. Only slightly easier, but when scouring a very large building filled with a bewildering assortment of props and scenery pieces, any piece of improvement counts.

Regardless of how long they search, they find nothing blatantly sinister, nothing malignant or threatening. A pile of possible suspects develops, but all items are cleared of suspicion under Green’s watchful gaze. It unnerves them all without exception. John begins to think that killing one of their phantoms has only lead to fear of a new, real ghost.

Tensions only ratchet higher when the matinee begins. Then, as if to be utterly perverse, they exhale a collective sigh of relief when the dancers begin to vomit backstage. As the girls stay in cramped arrangements with one another and this is January, it’s not terribly unexpected. Perhaps Holmes caught this morning’s sickness from them.

“I don’t suppose you’ve had much to eat today,” John says to one of the girls as he checks her for fever. Flushed and clammy where she isn’t terribly pale, yes, but her temperature isn’t elevated enough to be worrisome.

The girl in question shakes her head miserably. Her first name is Violet, he thinks, but without a last name, he’s not sure how to address her.

John frowns. “No?”

“I had a bit of a sip from Jamison’s flask,” she admits. “Just to warm me up, that’s all.”

“Just a sip?”

She flushes. “He pours a bit in a mug and we pass it around. Please don’t tell. I know it’s not good on an empty stomach, but we’re all so cold.”

John promises he won’t, as long as it doesn’t prove relevant. After, he immediately goes to Jamison. Either the girls are giving the illness to each other, or Jamison passed it along to them. “How’re you feeling?”

Jamison blinks at him. “Fine, sir. Something the matter?”

John looks about to make sure Green isn’t nearby before leaning in close. “Have you done any drinking from that flask of yours today?”

To his credit, Jamison doesn’t play dumb. “Only a nip for the cold, sir.”

“A nip or two?”

Jamison moves his lips in the shape of a smile.

“But you’re feeling fine?”

“Perfectly sober, I promise. I promise on my job, in fact.” Of course he does. Green won’t allow for anything else.

“I see,” John says. “Thank you.”

“Is this about the sickness?”

“I’ll get back to you on that.” Not spreading from Jamison, then. Vomiting, cramps, and terrible pallor, these are the signs to look for. Some of the girls seem a bit confused as well, but everyone’s nerves are wearing thin by this point.

John seeks out Green only to discover he has a new patient. “Christ, not you too.”

Green swears into his bucket, looking a fright.

“You need to go home,” John tells him.

Green shakes his head with a tiny, delicate motion.

“Headache too?”

A groan serves as confirmation.

“I’ll get you some water,” John says. He returns as quickly as he can and sits with Green through tentative sips. It’s still a touch warm from time spent boiling in the kitchen. Green barely manages half the glass before vomiting it up. The noise Green makes afterward is more exhaustion than frustration, but that isn’t saying much. “However much you can keep down,” John urges. “You’re losing too many fluids.”

“I’ll be fine if I lie down,” Green protests.

“No, I’m taking you home.” It takes some insisting, but John gets Green into a hansom. They bump and jostle through the streets to Green’s house in time for lunch, which John has and Green does not. Mrs Green sends her husband straight up to bed and alternates between feeding John and interrogating him.

By the time John returns to the opera house, there are ten more cases. He starts writing down names, the list growing too long for even his memory.

Less than half an hour after teatime, John receives word that Mr Havill has taken ill as well. John finds him in his office, bent over a small bin, his tea and half-finished cake still on the desk.

“When did the symptoms begin?” John asks him.

“Ten or so minutes,” Mr Havill guesses. He washes his mouth out with more of his tea. “It came on quickly.”

“Can you describe the last twenty minutes for me, sir?”

With a weary, strained voice, Mr Havill complies. He points to the letters on his desk he was reading, to the tea he was having, to the cake he can’t bear to finish now.

“One moment, sir,” John says, an idea pulling together. “I need to find two assistants.”

Jamison and Beaumont come without question at the promise of food. “What’s this?” Mr Havill asks upon the entrance of the two stagehands.

“Our brave volunteers are here to test a theory,” John explains all three of them. “One will have cake, one will have tea. If I am right, one may suffer brief food poisoning, courtesy of the ghost. If I’m wrong, they’ll have enjoyed your tea and cake, sir.”

Jamison and Beaumont exchanges glances, no doubt discouraged by the sight of Mr Havill and his bin.

“Sick leave with pay,” Mr Havill promises. “And something to each of you for your trouble regardless.”

“Yes, sir,” Beaumont says cheerfully. He steps forward and helps himself to the cake.

With his usual swagger, Jamison takes the cup of tea and downs it. Within five minutes, he and Mr Havill are sharing the bin.

“Thank you, Mr Jamison,” John says sincerely. He gives his shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You’ve been a great help.”

The water for the tea was boiled in the kitchen, the same as the water John had brought Green and Miss Hooper had brought Holmes. John brings Beaumont downstairs and instructs him to drink directly from the pot. They monitor him mouthful after mouthful, but half an hour passes without Beaumont’s stomach turning.

“Maybe the chap with the poison is still alive,” Beaumont suggests. “He tampered with the tea after it left the kitchen.”

“I don’t know,” John says, mulling it over.

The matter of Jamison’s flask and the ill dancers is another confounding issue. That certainly wasn’t water. The strangler must have poisoned multiple sources, but how poison the dancers without poisoning Jamison in the same attempt? For that matter, the flask must have been on Jamison’s person the entire time last night. Surely the strangler wasn’t so deft as to manage a poisoning under those conditions. John can’t make head or tail of it.

A blanket order goes across the opera house. No one is permitted to drink anything that they did not carry in upon their own person. No one is to share drinks. It’s already much too late for the dancers and far too late for the singers. Everyone from Miss Adler to the star soprano spends the early evening turning pale and running to a bucket. Though the matinee was able to limp through to the end, tonight’s show is cancelled. They simply have no cast.

“He beat us dead.” Hopkins shakes his head, his eyes disbelieving. “It doesn’t make any sense, but he did.”

“We’ll sort it out tomorrow,” John assures him. “It has to fade.”

“What if another one sneaks in tonight?” Hopkins asks. “I went to ask Mr Havill, but he’s gone home.”

“Green too.”

Hopkins fights down a pained noise for them both. “Well... I’d better get back to refunding tickets.”

“Mm. I’ll rest up. Taking watch again tonight.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea, sir?” Hopkins asks immediately. “You’re the only doctor we have. If you’re exhausted tomorrow, I don’t know what’s going to happen to us.”

John hesitates before nodding. “You’re right, Hopkins. I’ll speak to the rest, then head home.”

They nod and part ways.

With so many to look after, John arrives home separately from Mrs Hudson. She’s already had her late dinner, but some has been set out for him.

“I’m almost afraid to eat,” he admits.

Mrs Hudson smiles faintly. “Eliza’s cooking is nothing to be afraid of.”

John attempts a similar expression. He eats. She sits across from him. They don’t make conversation. John finishes his dinner and waits for Eliza to take his plate away. Only once they’re alone does he ask, “Did he speak to you about it?”

The well-known guilt fills her features.

“I’ve known for a few days,” John continues. “I had a hunch, at least, but I didn’t want to risk it.”

“I’m sorry.”

John shakes his head as if this will hold his anger back. “You promised not to tell.”

“It still seems a stupid promise not to have broken,” she says.

“A stupid promise to the owner of your workplace.”

She laughs a bit nervously at that and John feels an arse for having mentioned it. They shift in their seats, John straightening his jacket.

“What do you want to ask, dear?”

John shakes his head. “I don’t... I just want to be rid of him, really. I’ve had enough.”

“He’s always had terrible impulse control. Never thinks things through until after he has both feet in it.”

“Sorry, are we talking about the same man?” John leans forward with a frown. “This is Mr Sherlock ‘Ten Plans At Once’ Holmes we’re talking about.”

“It’s how he gets out of the trouble he’s put himself in,” Mrs Hudson explains.

“Not very well, apparently.”

“He was trying not to upset you. I know it didn’t work out that way.”

“You mean, if I’d been easier to control, his plan to control me wouldn’t seem so horrible?”

Mrs Hudson clearly hasn’t considered it this way before. Just as clearly, the thought upsets her. “He’s thoughtless and lonely. He didn’t intend for it to...” She bites her lip, avoiding John’s eyes to instead look at his shoulder.

“Well, if he didn’t intend to, that’s all right, isn’t it. Perfectly acceptable. I only wish that extended to my profession. I can’t tell you the trouble I’ve had, killing people I didn’t intend to.”

Instead of taking offence or making excuses, Mrs Hudson does a very curious thing. She says, “Oh, oh you poor dear.” She stands up. She comes around the small table, leans down, and hugs him about his shoulders. Being touched is the last thing he wants, so the way his arms rise to wrap about her back must be some permutation of his good manners. She pulls back before he has a chance to properly adjust.

“Is it really so bad as that?” she asks. “Vernet isn’t dead, John. Sherlock didn’t kill him.”

Something in John shakes that has no business shaking in front of anyone, let alone in front of Mrs Hudson. “I know that.” A man who isn’t real can’t be killed, merely stolen. He’s ruined and gone, nothing more than a cold mask abandoned upon a table.

“You need time, dear. Trust me on that. At my age, I’m an expert.”

John attempts a smile and she hugs him again. Her shoulders are thin under his hands, jarringly fragile.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” he says.

“Oh, what was I thinking? You must be exhausted. Yes, off you go.” She fusses with the shoulder of his jacket, smoothing it as if John were a tablecloth.

He stands, looks her directly and deliberately in the eye, and says, “You do know I’m not angry with you.”

Her mouth falls into a sad shape. “I would be furious with me.”

“You’re a very difficult woman to be furious with, Mrs Hudson.”

Though John has never heard a guilty chortle before, that is precisely the sound she makes. “Then I must be very talented.”

“Immeasurably.” He kisses her on the cheek, the sort of peck that strains the neck forward while pulling the shoulders back. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

With Mr Havill and Green ill, the chain of command flounders about onto the backs of Mr Johnson, Mrs Hudson, Hopkins, and Miss Hooper. Mr Johnson retains control of the music, from orchestra to choir. Mrs Hudson has her dancers and enough clout to boss the stagehands about despite Beaumont’s status as assistant stage manager. Hopkins has performed nearly every odd job in the house over his time here, and he orders his remaining ushers and ticket sellers to emulate this feat. Miss Hooper vacillates between a flustered air and a manner of competence, but she seems to have everything well in hand.

As for John, he’s kept busy as the remaining staff begins to drop as well. Though everyone is under strict orders to consume only what they have personally brought in with them, the poisoning continues. It arises without any discernible pattern. Very rapidly, John reaches the conclusion that once any one person has begun to vomit, there is nothing for it but to send the individual home.

Though the matinee is already cancelled, they quickly realize there’s no other option but to change the entertainment of the night to a basic ballet, nothing more. Hopkins fusses over the refunds until John begins to feel grateful for his own lot.

Through unanimous, spontaneous agreement, they wind up in Mr Havill’s office shortly before the ballet to hold an emergency meeting. “We can’t go on like this,” Mr Johnson announces.

“Dr Watson is working to find the cause,” Miss Hooper says, looking anxiously towards John. “Once everyone stops being sick--”

“It won’t matter,” Mr Johnson interrupts. “Our lead singers have already quit.”

“What, all of them?” Hopkins asks.

Mr Johnson nods. “It’s the final straw. There are rumbles of discontent even in the best of times, but now, oh, now it’s very bad indeed. They’re gone. They’ll be snatched up in an instant, I’m sure. There will be no getting them back.”

“Who do we have left?” Mrs Hudson asks.

Mr Johnson gives the list, but it’s very short. John is distantly pleased to hear Miss Adler hasn’t left them yet. She hasn’t been in today, but it’s still a small piece of good news. “I’m holding auditions for the chorus girls tonight,” Mr Johnson adds. “One or two might be ready to take that leap up, but it’s going to be a risky business.”

“At least the advancement might convince them to stay,” Mrs Hudson says.

“We can hope,” Mr Johnson agrees. “We need more men as well. That’s going to be an issue.”

The clock in the office chimes.

“House to open in fifteen minutes,” Hopkins announces.

Mr Johnson sighs and shares a pointed look with Mrs Hudson. They leave with Hopkins, each to their station. Miss Hooper remains, sitting on the sofa with a sigh. She nods at the cushion beside her and John sits as well. For a moment, they enjoy the dull silence of being exhausted with another, equally exhausted person.

“It’s liquid,” John says. “I’m sure of that much. Not a powder.”

Miss Hooper doesn’t lift her head from its lean against the sofa back. She doesn’t even open her eyes. “Because of Mr Holmes?”

“He was the first. It wasn’t related to trauma after all.”

“But the water was fine?”

“It was. I checked it myself. Beaumont drank it.”

Miss Hooper forces herself awake and aware. “Did you check the water from his glass? Mr Holmes’, I mean.”

John shakes his head. “Already taken away by the time I realized it wasn’t only him. Other glasses, yes, but those were already confirmed contaminated when I--”

“What was that?”

John stops and listens. His hand goes for his medical bag, for the pistol within, and his eyes fix on the door.

“No,” she says, catching him by the elbow. “What was it you said? Contaminated? You think he put the poison on the cups?”

John stares at her as an immense mental weight collides with his brain. “Oh, God. I’m an idiot.”

“Sorry?”

“You’re right. It’s not the drink that has been poisoned. It’s the cups.”

She frowns a bit. “You really think the ghost went about the entire opera house and poisoned all the cups?”

Put that way, it sounds mental—and therefore perfectly in keeping with the ghost’s plans. “It wouldn’t have to be all of them. And I don’t think it matters how ridiculous the method is when the result is this effective.”

Tentatively, she nods.

With a small groan, John forces himself to stand. “Come on. We’re going to test this.”

Her expression wary, Miss Hooper remains seated. “How?”

“You drink directly from the pot before and after I fill a glass. I drink the glass, and we see if either of us is vomiting in half an hour.”

“If you’re right, you’ll be out of commission for a few days,” Miss Hooper points out.

“If I’m right, we won’t need me to be in commission for a few days,” John counters.

A moment of consideration passes before Miss Hooper nods and stands.

Ten minutes later, John begins to feel it. Twenty-three minutes after drinking from the glass, he vomits into a bucket. Miss Hooper does not.

John returns home early that night, but when Mrs Hudson joins him, she assures him that everyone has been notified to bring a new cup from home. John groans out his victory, as satisfied and sick as any drunken soldier.

By the following afternoon, John feels nearly human again. He makes the mistake of attempting something thicker than broth and grudgingly confines himself to bed for the remainder of the day.

When Mrs Hudson returns in the evening—“Only a ballet again, dear, and then a bit of a concert.”—he joins her downstairs to attempt a weak cup of tea.

“Any new cases?” he asks.

“None. Everyone’s recovering to one degree or another.” She pours the tea before it’s had so much as a minute to steep. John wrinkles his nose to see her smile. It doesn’t work.

He warms his hands about his cup. “How badly are we off?”

Mrs Hudson very nearly hesitates before she sighs. “Very badly. There’s been some talk about concerts and ballets or renting the space to a theatre troupe.”

“Jesus bloody Christ. It’s that—sorry—it’s that bad?”

“Prayers in short form, dear. I understand. But it’s very difficult to have an opera without anyone singing it.”

John sips his watery, tea-tinged milk. “He’s going to keep attacking. Regardless of how we cope, there’s going to be something else. I’m amazed he hasn’t blown the place up yet.”

“At this rate, he might not need to. The new chandelier took a chunk out of the coffers, and being closed nearly all of December hardly helped. We need new talent and can’t afford to attract it.” She shakes her head, tired in a way John’s never before known her. Years of ballet and coaching, years of cold nights and long stairs against her hip, and she has never seemed so exhausted. “Unless we can pull something together soon, this could be the end.”

“There must be something,” John says, if only to say it. Though he puts all his hope into the platitude, the sound of it is still empty.

“It’s not the end of the world. I’m, I’m well off here. I’ve a lovely house and I’ve saved. You’ll build up your practice.” She nods as if hoping to turn motion into conviction. “We’ll be all right.”

“We will,” John promises.

“It won’t be the same, of course,” she continues. “Smaller. Quieter. That’s not so bad. And no more of those cold rides home at night. I’ve never liked those. No more girls complaining about their feet, no more hitting the stagehands for lifting skirts, no more nonsense.”

“It doesn’t have to be the end. Maybe another opera house--”

“Don’t you dare say that, John Watson. Don’t you dare.” She blinks back the shine in her eyes, the line of her mouth crumbling. “You know I can’t start again at my age.”

“Maybe the rest will be able to find work,” he says instead. “And maybe, sometimes, we could go out and see them.”

She presses her mouth tightly shut until it stops trembling. She takes long, slow breaths. She nods. “I’d like that,” she says, and that’s when she begins to cry.

He hands her his handkerchief, and she takes cloth and hand both. They hold tight. John looks at the floor and ceiling in turn. When Mrs Hudson recovers, they both clear their throats and Mrs Hudson pours them more tea. She forgets that John’s cup ought to be weak enough to fall in combat against an unarmed toddler. John drinks it anyway, stomach ache be damned.

“Are you sure you should be up?” Miss Hooper asks, falling in beside him on the way to Mr Havill’s office.

John raises his eyebrows. “Hello to you too.”

“No, really,” she says.

“I’ll be better for keeping active.” As long as he paces himself and doesn’t stand up too quickly, he ought to be fine. There’s only so much a man can do on so little food.

Miss Hooper sighs. “I wish everyone wouldn’t keep saying that.”

“Everyone?” If someone else is being an idiot, John is obligated to browbeat them.

“You, Stanley, and Mr Holmes.”

“Oh,” John says. It takes him a moment to remember that Stanley is Hopkin’s Christian name, but John has other priorities. “Mr Holmes is up already?” And presumably in Mr Havill’s office.

“You’re one to talk, with him poisoned only a day before you.”

“On top of a strangling. And I knew what I was doing. He kept drinking even after the vomiting started.” Which John had encouraged, but he can’t feel poorly over that in any way other than professionally.

They quiet down as they turn the corner to see Mr Johnson and Green entering the office. Green’s still living up to his name around the edges of his face, but it would take someone stronger than John to keep him down.

All enter the office. Inside, Mrs Hudson and Hopkins wait in front of Mr Havill’s desk. Mr Havill stands behind his desk, the Earl beside him. Behind them, Holmes leans against the side of a bookcase. Though Holmes’ body proclaims boredom, his eyes are a challenge John avoids.

“Eric, sit down,” Lord Holmes cajoles Mr Havill. “I refuse to be collapsed upon.”

Mr Havill sits.

“Mr Johnson,” Lord Holmes continues, “tell me, do we have a cast?”

“An incomplete one, my lord. Perhaps with some time, I could say otherwise.”

As the reports continue, the outlook turns increasingly grim. Though there have been no further incursions, the damage has been done. Though the strangler has been traced back to the Black Lotus Circus, none of the other members have admitted to knowing the man’s second occupation. They know the man needed money for his sister’s immigration fees but little else. So far, their best lead has come to nothing.

Worst of all, after their poor record of staying open in the past two months, their audience no longer trusts them. Mocking the ghost could only revive their reputation so far, but killing a man before stopping performances can hardly fill the seats. The projections for how long they’ll be able to stay open are two months at the absolute longest.

Never explicitly stated, an implication fills the room: the opera house has become more of a liability than a keepsake for Lord Holmes. It may yet be sold rather than simply closed, but any potential buyer would be harassed in turn. If the buyer went unmolested, he would immediately be investigated by the police. The entire business has become disreputable down to the core.

“If anyone has any suggestions for drawing out the ghost, now is the time,” Lord Holmes instructs.

The force of the resulting silence is matched only by the strength of their collective urge to avoid eye contact.

“Anyone?” Lord Holmes asks.

“We can keep watch for the next attempt on the opera house, my lord,” Green answers, uncharacteristically tentative. “We’ve not seen anything yet, but we might catch the next man alive.” His gaze flickers to John for an instant.

Mr Holmes makes a soft, disparaging sound. “Why attack us again?” he asks, the lightness of his voice failing him. He sounds like a parody of his brother. “We’re already crippled.”

“It’s a use of resources we can no longer afford,” Mr Havill adds. “It pains me to say so, but there we have it.”

“Excuse me,” Miss Hooper says. “Sorry. My lord, I was wondering if you believe the man in the Red Death costume—the one who threatened again on Mr Holmes’ birthday—if you think he’s the puppet master.”

“Whether he is or not, we would do well to catch him. Do you have any further thoughts, Miss Hooper, or only questions?”

Miss Hooper nods. “He comes out on important occasions, my lord. So... we could have another important occasion. And then lock all of the exits.”

Mr Johnson takes a far less optimistic view. “We’ve very little bait left to put into a trap. No cast, no opera... Beyond another ballet dedicated to mocking him, I’m not sure what we could attempt.”

“Mocking him is no good,” Green interjects. “He’ll only send someone new to punish us.”

“Instead of coming to ruin it on his own?” Mrs Hudson asks.

“That’s only if the Red Death is the puppet master,” Mr Havill says.

“As long as we catch him, sir, does it matter who comes to ruin whatever this event is?” Hopkins asks.

“It matters,” Lord Holmes says. “We can cut to the end or we can linger. I would greatly prefer the first.”

The debate continues on, an exchange that tugs at each ear before turning around upon itself. Tracking it, John’s gaze slides across the room. Though Holmes remains silent, John’s eyes catch upon him. There, they attempt to linger.

“We need to appeal to his sense of drama,” Holmes states, startling John into looking away. “Something not simply to be destroyed, but destroyed personally. He would need to regret not being here in person.”

“I agree, sir,” says Mr Johnson, “but we haven’t a cast to stage such a feat.”

John looks at Mr Johnson sharply. “What kind of feat could we stage?”

“Beg pardon?”

“We don’t have an entire cast, but we do have portions of one. What parts do we still have? Please, maestro, remind me.”

As Mr Johnson begins his list, John looks to Holmes. Nonplussed, Mr Johnson addresses his short recitation to Holmes. All the attention in the room turns upon Holmes. Holmes’ gaze, however, rests squarely upon John. For the moment, John can bear it.

When Mr Johnson concludes, John asks Holmes, “Is that enough?”

Holmes merely stares at him.

The Earl looks between them and captures his brother’s gaze with some effort. “Is it?”

Holmes’ eyes snap to the Earl’s. Though Holmes’ face barely contorts in sullen anger, John recognises a sentiment he had often heard in Vernet’s voice.

“Is what enough?” Hopkins whispers to John.

John shakes his head and mouths Not now.

“My brother and I need a moment alone,” the Earl announces, still locked in his staring contest. “Everyone, if you would be so kind.”

Mystified but obedient, the staff complies. Caught between questions waiting for him in the hall and the ire of the Holmes brothers in the office, John stops to hold the door for Mr Havill.

“The lead role is played by...?” Lord Holmes prompts his brother.

“Miss Adler,” Mr Holmes mutters.

“Dr Watson,” the Earl says. He doesn’t look at John. “If you would be so kind as to fetch Miss Adler? She is here, isn’t she?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Bring her. Explain on the way, but make no promises as to her salary.”

“Yes, my lord,” John repeats. As he closes the door to the office, all those crowded in the hall stare at him with curious faces.

Before anyone gets out a question, Mr Havill pushes on John’s back, urging him onward. “She’s in her dressing room, I believe, preparing for tonight’s concert.”

John nods. “Thank you, sir.” He sets off quickly, leaving, just for a moment, their prying eyes behind.

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