Tales of Soera

New fics!

soera — Tue, 21 Feb 2017 06:05:20 GMT

I'm posting again!

In new fandoms and on a new platform, though: find me over at AO3 for any new fics I post. As of right now, there's a Free! fic up, plus a few Nirvana in Fire/Langya Bang fics - this goddamn series has eaten my brain and is entirely responsible for my starting to post again.

Feels really strange to be stepping back out there, but I suppose a new fandom's the best way to do it?

Update

soera — Wed, 02 Oct 2013 09:29:11 GMT

This is a probably long overdue notice about my vanishing from this journal for... quite a while now.

To sum up, RL has been beating me up a bit for a while now. I don't care to go into detail; suffice it to say that fanfiction hasn't been on my to-do list because of that. I've got a few bits and bobs I sometimes think of posting but never get around to because I just don't have the energy to spare - otherwise, I've done next to no writing at all, other than for school.

It wasn't a planned hiatus. Things just sort of... fell by the wayside.

Funnily enough, I have been doing some sketching, maybe because it's cathartic scribbling wild lines all over a drawing and then fixing it with a Ctrl+Z. My artwork is on my new tumblr here. There's not much up. Don't expect great work, or great volumes of it either. It's pretty much just stress relief - I don't worry about the quality of my art because it's more a hobby than my writing (which I take more seriously) is. Feel free to suggest stuff for me to draw, but remember my artistic skills are limited and I may not be able to manage what you want.

As for the status of my fanfiction... let's take it by fandom:

Sherlock:

A short oneshot I'll probably (maybe) post before S3 airs.
A couple more stories in the Affection-verse. Complete, but I'm not quite happy with them, hence their not being posted.
A long fic I was working on before RL sank its teeth into me - I know what I want to do, but I can't spare the energy for it and since it will be wildly non-compliant with S3, I might wind up losing all motivation in any case. We'll see.
A few scenes from an alternate canon fic (because I'm a sucker for Sherlock and John meeting as children), but no semblance of coherence as of yet.

Torchwood:

A crack oneshot involving sentient ink and a long-suffering Ianto (as always); incomplete, no idea how to end it. Woe.
Yet another Ianto-centric alternate canon (no, I can never write too many). This one's more of... an idea. That may not actually have been written down. At all. Probably either longish or a series of shorter one-shots.

Miscellaneous:

Torchwood/Sherlock Crossover: it's an idea that wouldn't bloody let go of me. Have the introductory scenes done, but not much motivation to go on at the moment.
KomaHoshi: Long oneshot; half done, no idea how to end it. This one's been in limbo for so long, oh my god.
Naruto: Kakashi/Naruto, time-travel, alternate canon. Largely because what the hell is going on in canon seriously I give up. Also not sure where to go with this, again, because, what the hell is going on in canon I don't know how much I want to put in or ignore altogether.
Star Trek XI: Tarsus IV fic. This... is actually complete. I don't know if I'm quite happy with it though, which is why it hasn't been posted.
Young Avengers: Billy/Teddy; fanmix with accompanying fic. Fanmix is done; fic is two-ninths done. Noooo motivation whatsoever to complete.

So, I don't know that I want to officially declare a hiatus because that'll probably be when I'll actually get inspiration and start writing (... hm.) but yeah, don't expect much from me for a while longer.

Except. If anyone's okay with prompting with the understanding they may not get a fic... maybe leave me some fic prompts (Sherlock, either BBC or ACD canon) on this post, please? I'm hoping something might kickstart the creative juices. I want to write. I'm just finding it exceedingly hard to do so these days.

Thanks for understanding, all (two) of you reading this. =)

Christmas Comment!fics [2012]

soera — Wed, 26 Dec 2012 03:34:20 GMT

Merry Christmas, everyone!

So this is turning into a yearly thing, apparently. Christmas comment!fics for all you lovely folk in fandom! I’m experimenting with the timeline this year, so this post is going up a bit later than previous years. For those who’ve been here before, do check the updated list of fandoms, and the time that prompt-taking closes. For those who haven’t, let’s go over things:

How it works:

I’m taking prompts for ficlets in any of the fandoms listed below. Please have a look at what I will/won’t write for each fandom before making your requests.

Leave a comment in this post with the fandom, pairing (if applicable; I’ll do gen for all fandoms too) and the prompt you’d like.

Prompts can be anything from random words for inspiration, to a scenario you’d like to see played out. They can be as specific or general as you like, and I’ll do my best to stick to them. Alternate universe/alternate canon prompts are welcome, as are prompts to do with any ‘verse I’ve written about before (i.e. it's fine to ask for something based on one of my previously posted fics).

ONE PROMPT per comment. Multiple prompts are fine, but put each in its own comment. Your first prompt gets ficced first; the others will go to the end of the queue and I’ll get back to them after I’m done with prompts from other people. So put the one you most want to see done first!

Prompts don’t have to be Christmas/holiday-related, if that’s not your thing. Anything goes!

Porn and I have a love-hate relationship. Sometimes it comes easy; other times, it's hard. (Pun not intended.) Be warned that if you request smut, you may not actually get it – I can give you the prelude and possibly some sexiness, but that might be the best I'll manage.

Prompt-taking closes at midnight on 31st December where I am – that’s UTC+8. Do note that I won’t be taking any prompts after the stated deadline. Due to Reasons, I’ll likely be slower in posting up my comment!fics, but look for them in the first couple of weeks of the new year.

~~Due to RL reasons, I'm not advertising this post in any communities this year – which means I'll be relying on word of mouth to get this out.~~Okay, I managed to find the time to post to a few comms. But still, feel free to spread the word to your other fandom friends who might not know about this post. They don’t have to know me to request a ficlet!

I will NOT write:
Character bashing.

Character death (except as in canon).

Anything dark/unpleasant. It’s Christmas; let’s keep it happy in here. (This does not mean I won’t take sad/bittersweet/etc prompts – those are fine, but I won’t write, say, a character’s murderous rampage through London.)

Some fandoms also have a specific listing for things I won’t write (don’t break up my fandom OTPs please), so pay attention!

Note:
A slash denotes a pairing (e.g. Jack/Ianto), whereas a plus sign denotes friendship (e.g. Ianto+Tosh).

The latter doesn’t mean you can’t request friendship fics between people I haven’t listed; it just means that I’m particularly comfortable writing those two.

Simple enough, yes? Here are the fandoms I can write for, in alphabetical order:

Bleach:
CAVEAT: I skipped a lot of the Aizen/Arrancar/Visored stuff because I got bored with the endless fighting. I know the gist of what happened, but if you’re requesting something based on a specific moment, give me chapter numbers at the least.
I’m better at these guys than I used to be, though, so don’t take previous works as proof of (non-)talent.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Ichigo/Byakuya, Urahara, Rukia, Orihime, Shinigami ensemble (not as familiar with the Visored and Arrancar though)

I WON’T WRITE: If you request a scenario I don’t know and am not comfortable with, I might ask you a) if I can write something only tangentially related to the idea you’ve put forth, or b) to give me another prompt.

Harry Potter:

CAVEAT: It’s been ages since I’ve written in this fandom, so any old fics you might have read are vastly out of date with my style now. … You might actually get better fics now than I used to write.
I much prefer writing friendship/gen to anything with pairings.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: The list is actually kind of endless, especially when it comes to pairing Harry up.

I WON’T WRITE: Harry/Draco, Harry/Ginny, Severus/Remus, Sirius/Remus. I would prefer not to write Draco at all.

Komatta Toki ni wa Hoshi ni Kike!:

CAVEAT: While I know the gist of the entire storyline, I’ve only read the scanlations up to Volume 15. I’ve not written extensively in this fandom, and what I do have, I haven’t posted. I think I’ve got a decently good grasp on the characters though, at least up to Vol. 15.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Kiyomine/Takara, ensemble cast

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Kiyomine or Takara up with others. Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.

Kyou Kara Maoh!:

CAVEAT: I didn’t watch S3 and didn’t finish S2, though I do know how it ends. I’m terrible at keeping track of the ensemble cast, so sticking to the major players is best.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Conrad/Yuuri, Gwendal, Gunter, possibly Wolfram and Cecilie. Pick anyone else at your own risk – I’m not quite comfortable writing anyone outside of these I’ve listed.

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Conrad or Yuuri up with others (I’m fine with acknowledging the Wolfram/Yuuri engagement, but not as a serious pairing). Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.
Anything with Shinou, because I can’t quite wrap my writerly brain around him yet.

Naruto:

CAVEAT: I know the gist of what’s been happening, but I’ve only been reading sporadically since Kakashi’s resurrection. If you want something to do with a specific incident, give me details (at least chapter numbers so I can look it up).
I prefer to write post-time-skip for anything with pairings (outside of canon crushes). If it’s gen, go ahead and request any time-frame. I’m most familiar with the Konoha characters and the Sand siblings, so request anyone else at your own risk. Also, it’s been ages since I’ve written in this fandom, but I think I’ve got an okay grasp on them.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Naruto/Kakashi, Naruto/Sakura (post-time-skip), Naruto+Kakashi+Sakura, Naruto+Tsunade

I WON’T WRITE: Naruto/Sasuke. Anything with post-betrayal Sasuke (I’d prefer to avoid writing Sasuke altogether).

Prince of Tennis:

CAVEAT: Only Seigaku members, please. I’m not really familiar with the other schools. Also, I have a tendency to ignore both the manga and anime endings because they both get ridiculous, so feel free to request something set in an AUish ending. I don’t know anything about the second manga series either, so I can’t write anything about that.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Tezuka/Ryoma, ensemble cast.

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Tezuka or Ryoma up with others. Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.

The Sentinel:

CAVEAT: I’ve not written extensively in this fandom, though I think my grasp on the characters has improved a little from the few I’ve posted. Still, request at your own risk.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Jim/Blair, ensemble cast

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Jim or Blair up with others. Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.

Sherlock (BBC):

CAVEAT: … Yeah, I got nothing.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: John/Sherlock, ensemble cast

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing John or Sherlock up with others. Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.
Moriarty. Or Irene. Sorry, not interested.

Star Trek (TOS/2009):

CAVEAT: I’ve not written extensively in either fandom, and none of what I’ve written is posted online. Request at your own risk.
Specify if you want TOS or 2009!

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Kirk/Spock, Bones+Kirk+Spock, ensemble cast

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Kirk or Spock up with others. Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.

Torchwood:

CAVEAT: I didn’t like S3, and didn’t watch S4. Stick to the first two seasons; I won’t be able to do anything from S3/4.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Jack/Ianto, Ianto/Lisa (pre-Canary Wharf only), Ianto+Tosh, team, Rhys

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Jack or Ianto up with others (other than pre-Jack Ianto/Lisa). You can mix and match anyone else, and I’ll give it a shot, though.

Young Avengers:

CAVEAT: I haven’t posted anything I’ve written in this fandom, so you’re requesting at your own risk. Also, I’m not doing anything based on speculation/teasers about the upcoming series.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Billy/Teddy, Kate, Eli, Tommy, Cassie, Nate

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Billy or Teddy up with others. You can mix and match anyone else, and I’ll give it a shot, though.

And have a happy new year, everyone!

ETA: Prompt-taking is now closed.

ETA 2: Done! Thanks for playing, everyone!

soera — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 07:08:50 GMT

A non-fic related post! Astounding, I know.

This is actually an opportunity for me to fangirl over my best friend for a bit. If you'll look over to the right (wait, come on over to my page and look to the right. Looking to the right of your flist isn't gonna work) - you'll see three links in my List o'Links. The first should be self-explanatory. The other two are both blogs that my best friend Areale writes.

The Chronological Institute is a science-fiction series she posts sporadically, as and when the mood takes her (if you bug her a little, perhaps she'll write more). It is, in my absolutely unbiased opinion, a fun romp through time and physics - by turns sad, thought-provoking and utterly hilarious. I personally adore Fonty (and I take full credit for inspiring the nickname, which has since become canon), and I'm certain that you'll find stories/characters you like in the series too. As of yet, there's not a huge number of stories - five short stories of varying lengths - but I'm hopeful that we'll soon see more from this series.

The Seventh Colour is a science blog. It's a space for Areale to discuss anything that takes her fancy in the field of science. It's not all dry and boring stuff, for those of you who've tuned out at the word "science" - it's a personal take on some fascinating scientific ideas and innovations. She recently wrote a post on how to build a spaceship, just to give you a sense of her posts. Her writing is always accessible, often tongue-in-cheek, and always has a kernel of child-like enthusiasm and wonder at its heart.

If any of this sounds at all interesting to you, do go check out her blogs! And if you've got your own spaceship design at hand, why not share it?

Fanfic - The First Test [Sherlock BBC: John, Sherlock]

soera — Fri, 20 Apr 2012 06:52:13 GMT

Title: The First Test
Rating: PG
Pairing(s)/Character(s): John, Sherlock
Warning(s): None.
Summary: Sherlock thinks either he or the entire world has to change (and it’s not going to be him). John decides he’s going to try and change both.
Part of the Affection-verse, though this can be read as a stand-alone. Not S2-compliant.

The First Test

The first test of a truly great man is his humility. By humility I don’t mean doubt of his powers or hesitation in speaking his opinion, but merely an understanding of the relationship of what he can say and what he can do. – John Ruskin

“I have a question,” Sherlock announces.

John stares at his laptop screen. The sentence he’d been attempting to construct has just vanished into the ether. Sherlock having questions is nothing new. Sherlock is insatiably curious about everything. But Sherlock asking John anything – that’s new. That’s new, and very odd.

Well, unless he’s just setting John up to be insulted for his lack of intelligence again. Entirely likely.

“John,” Sherlock says impatiently. “Are you paying attention? I have a question.”

“All right,” John says, giving up. “What is it, then? How long before a severed finger can be re-attached?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock says. “That’s obviously dependent on the conditions under which it was severed and preserved. Why do people say I’m arrogant?”

John pushes his laptop away very slowly. Surely he’s not old enough for his hearing to be going. “What?”

“Why do people say I’m arrogant,” Sherlock repeats. “I don’t think I am. Why do they say I am?”

“I –” John’s quite lost for words. How on earth is he meant to respond to that?

Sherlock studies him for a moment, then sighs. “Yes, I know why they don’t like me,” he clarifies. “I’m perfectly aware of how cruel I am capable of being.”

“Well,” John says. “So long as you know.”

He needs tea.

“In my defence, I do not instigate these situations,” Sherlock says, trailing in John’s wake. “Unless by accident.”

John makes a noncommittal sound.

“If you’re not going to be of any help, John,” Sherlock says huffily.

“That’s probably why,” John says.

A moment of silence. John stares at the water in the kettle.

“What is?” Sherlock asks.

“Just there, you were about to give up on asking me anything at all,” John says. “Probably go sulk for a while that I wouldn’t answer you. But you made it my fault and insinuated I was useless into the bargain.”

There’s another bit of silence. The water’s surface is perfectly still.

“I didn’t mean that you were altogether useless,” Sherlock says quietly. John doesn’t turn around to look at his expression. “Just that you weren’t going to answer, so you weren’t useful in me getting one.”

John nods. “It’s the way you phrase things, though,” he says. “A lot of the time, you put everyone around you down. You do it on purpose sometimes, but even more often, it’s accidental.” He considers his next words carefully. “I don’t know what others might think of that, but for me, the accidental insults are even worse.”

“How so?”

Still not boiling. That would be too simple, give him too easy an out. “When you’re deliberately being nasty, you don’t usually mean what you say,” John says. The words come in fits and spurts, long pauses between them, stilted in a way conversing with Sherlock shouldn’t be. “Or – no, that’s not right. You phrase it in the worst way possible, but actually you don’t think that poorly of – whoever it is you’re insulting. But the incidental stuff, the stuff that just slips out, that’s exactly what you think, and if it happens to be hurtful, it’s all the more so because I can’t tell myself it’s in any way exaggerated.”

Silence. It’s at his back and in front of him. The water takes on that peculiar stillness that is a prelude to its bubbling over. John takes it off the heat and pours it into his cup. Sherlock disparages his use of teabags, but the convenience is worth it, in John’s opinion.

“Like when I say you’re all – idiots?” Sherlock asks.

“More or less,” John says. “It’s just – you know, we’ve worked hard for what we’ve got. We really are trying our best. And we know you’re smarter than us, but it’s just – difficult when you’re putting us down all the time.”

“That’s all I have, though,” Sherlock says.

John finally takes his eyes off the steeping tea. This time, it’s Sherlock who’s looking away, studying the floor with burning intensity.

“What do you mean?” John asks.

“That’s all I have,” Sherlock repeats. “Intelligence. That’s all. I don’t get people. People don’t like me. I can pretend, for a while, that I’m normal, but something always breaks through, I always get something wrong.”

John thinks about that.

“Bollocks,” he says flatly. “You have plenty more than just intelligence to offer.”

“Oh yes, a decent body,” Sherlock says with an inelegant snort. “I’m not under any illusions, John – I’m attractive to some but I have far too eclectic a mix of features and at any rate, appearance is –”

“First time I saw you, I thought, that’s an odd-looking bloke,” John interrupts. “The next thought was, god, but he’s got gorgeous eyes. Then of course you spoke and I couldn’t figure out how on earth you knew all that about me, and I had to go home and look you up because I was so curious. That still hasn’t gone away, but from ‘odd-looking’ you’ve graduated to ‘bloody gorgeous’ and also severely underappreciated. Also,” he adds as an afterthought. “A bloody great idiot at times.”

He turns and takes the teabag out of his cup. Milk, he needs milk. The teaspoon clicks quietly against ceramic.

“You’re a very peculiar man,” Sherlock says.

“Look who’s talking,” John replies.

“I know how to make connections,” Sherlock says. “I know how to look at things and see where they came from, how to really look at them and understand them. But it never works with people. Not consistently.”

“People have a nasty habit of being unpredictable,” John agrees amiably. The tea is warm and soothing as it goes down his throat. “Especially when you think they’re absolutely predictable.”

Sherlock sighs. “This would be a wonderful example of that,” he says. “I was expecting a simple answer. ‘Sherlock, it is because you are an arrogant sod, and that is all there is to it.’”

John laughs outright at that. He’s feeling a lot more comfortable now than he had been at the beginning of the conversation. “Sherlock, you can be an arrogant sod at times,” John says, “but I don’t believe that half the time, you intend to be.”

“Would you like it if I changed?” Sherlock asks.

John narrowly misses spilling his tea down his front. “Oh. Uh. Well. I.”

“Is that another difficult question?” Sherlock asks.

“A little,” John says. He sits down on his usual armchair. Sherlock drops gracefully to the floor, crossing his legs beneath him and looking perfectly at ease. From this angle, Sherlock’s head is little more than a mass of unruly black curls. It suits him.

“I don’t want you to change because you feel obliged to,” John says. “I’d – I’d like it, of course, if you were a little more careful about what you say. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to tiptoe on eggshells either. I don’t know, I really don’t.”

Sherlock sighs again, more dramatically this time, and leans back on his hands. “That was helpful,” he mutters. Then he tilts his head to the side. “Was that –”

“That was fine,” John says. “You see what I mean? I don’t want you to start second-guessing everything you say. I guess maybe keep comments on our relative lack of intelligence to a minimum. But only if you want to. Insincerity is never nice.”

“Can you tell if a person is being insincere?” Sherlock asks.

“Usually,” John says. “I couldn’t explain it if you asked, but I have a decent sense of when a person’s… not all that nice.” He shakes his head. “Sebastian Wilkes, for one.”

“You didn’t seem to mind him,” Sherlock says.

“I was in the military, Sherlock,” John says. “I’m in the habit of not letting people I dislike know that I dislike them. And Wilkes was going to be paying you, so I didn’t see the point in letting him know.”

“You said we weren’t friends,” Sherlock says petulantly.

John blinks. “What? No, I said we were colleagues.”

“I said we were friends and you corrected me,” Sherlock says.

“Yes, because of where his brain was going,” John says. “Forgive me if I don’t feel like being labelled your fuck-buddy.”

Silence. John reviews what has just come out of his mouth, and winces.

“He thought that?” Sherlock asks tentatively.

“That was the impression I got,” John says. “I could have been wrong, of course. But that was why I said we were colleagues. It was a little annoying having him just dismiss me out of hand.”

“Why on earth would he think you were sleeping with me?” Sherlock asks. John sips at his tea. Sherlock actually looks bewildered. It’s an uncommon look for him, and oddly endearing. “Clearly you’ve got good taste – well, I’m not so sure about Sarah, but –”

“Sarah is a lovely lady,” John says firmly. “Who hit someone over the head for you on your first meeting, and furthermore was not terrified off me after a somewhat disastrous first date.”

Sherlock chortles. “She’s almost you,” he says. “Unassuming to look at, but perfectly willing to inflict bodily damage if necessary.”

“There you go,” John says. “She’s quite wonderful, isn’t she?”

“She’s not all that great,” Sherlock says, but now his voice is teasing. John kicks him in the leg in retaliation. “Ow!”

“Oh, don’t even start. That can’t have hurt,” John says. “Speaking of Sarah, I might be having lunch with her tomorrow, did I tell you?”

“Yes, you mentioned that yesterday,” Sherlock says. “You really do have an ability to stay friends with the people you break up with, don’t you? Even when you break up on unpleasant terms. I must apologise for doubting you when you told me.”

“You’re forgiven,” John says magnanimously. “And don’t think I didn’t notice you changing the subject. Didn’t mean to say that about me having better taste than to go for you?”

Sherlock hums a complicated little tune.

“I’m living with you,” John says. “Which is infinitely more difficult than going out on the occasional date. Or even the occasional tumble in bed. Doesn’t that tell you anything?”

The tune gets a little more cheerful.

“You’re hopeless,” John informs Sherlock.

“So I’ve been told,” Sherlock says. He sounds quite happy about it. John attempts to take another sip of tea, then stares sadly at the empty cup. He needs to buy a bigger cup.

“Arrogance,” Sherlock says. “It’s a matter of my not holding my tongue, then?”

It’s a matter of Sherlock thinking that his intelligence is all he has to offer anyone, John thinks. It’s a matter of Sherlock thinking that’s the sum of his worth, and his need to reassure himself that he’s still smarter than the rest of them, because without that, he’s not worth anything. It’s a matter, probably, of Sherlock having been told he’s nothing without that magnificent brain of his, of people never wanting to help him.

“Close enough,” John says. “We all know you’re intelligent, trust me. We all know you’re capable of accomplishing what you say you can. You just don’t have to put us down in proving that.”

“Am I at least allowed to defend myself?” he asks archly.

“You know, I sort of feel like I’m giving advice to a bullied kid,” John says slowly. “But would you consider not retaliating, just for a while? And perhaps allowing me to speak to any… instigators myself?”

“Are you the adult I’m supposed to tell if I’m being bullied?” Sherlock really does a remarkable impression of a child’s voice. How in hell does he do that, with his voice as deep as it is?

“Someone’s got to be the responsible one,” John replies gravely. “Consider it an experiment, if you like. Just ignore any insults at the next crime scene or two, and let’s see what the response will be.”

“Escalation,” Sherlock says promptly. “It always is.”

John gives him a wolfish grin. He doesn’t say anything. The silence stretches between them comfortably.

Very slowly, Sherlock starts to smile.

~fin

soera — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 08:27:46 GMT

This post has nothing to do with fic (surprise!).

Someone just sent me a V-Gift of a Snowman cookie. Whoever it was - THANK YOU. It's the first time I've received a v-gift, and you just made my day. *beams*

I was going to post a fic for you in thanks, but then I realised that I don't know which fandom you follow. So, uh, I posted a Sherlock fic anyway, but then I thought I'd just post this here as well on the off-chance you see it.

Okay, maybe this post was tangentially to do with fic. ANYWAY. Thanks again to my anonymous cookie benefactor! ♥

Affection-verse Master List

soera — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 08:11:59 GMT

Master post for this 'verse, largely because I keep writing these ficlets out of order. Thus far they're being posted in order, but I'd like to keep my options open for the future. =D

Fandom: Sherlock BBC
Character(s)/Pairing(s): Primarily John and Sherlock, with cameos from other characters. Starts out gen and eventually moves into John/Sherlock.
Ratings/Warnings: Mostly PG-13 with no warnings - so quite safe - but please check the individual fics as there may be the occasional one that doesn't follow the pattern.
Author's Notes: This series is NOT S2-compliant, as it was begun pre-S2 and the nature of the first story precludes any retrospective attempts at canon-compliance. I might see if I can later work in some elements of S2, but I certainly won't be following the plots of the episodes.

1. With Affection Thereafter
The bomb explodes. John reacts.
John, Sherlock | PG-13 | 11/08/2011

2. A Portion of Thyself
John pays a visit to his lawyer, and Sherlock finds once again that some things John decides are beyond his abilities to deduce.
John, Sherlock | PG-13 | 27/08/2011

3. Breaking Through
Sherlock deals with his social ineptitude by verbally eviscerating anything within sight. John deals with Sherlock by making tea.
John, Sherlock | PG-13 | 01/03/2012

4. The First Test
Sherlock thinks either he or the entire world has to change (and it’s not going to be him). John decides he’s going to try and change both.
John, Sherlock | PG | 21/04/2012

Fanfic - Breaking Through [Sherlock BBC: John, Sherlock]

soera — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 08:01:19 GMT

Title: Breaking Through
Rating: PG-13
Pairing(s)/Character(s): John, Sherlock
Word Count: ~1140
Warning(s): None.
Summary: Sherlock deals with his social ineptitude by verbally eviscerating anything within sight. John deals with Sherlock by making tea.
Part of the Affection-verse, though this can be read as a stand-alone. Not S2-compliant.

Breaking Through

Sometimes you put walls up not to keep people out, but to see who cares enough to break them down. – Anonymous

When John gets to the living room, the first thing he looks for is the cow skull hanging on the wall. Miraculously, it’s still in place even after Sherlock had slammed his door shut so hard the walls had quivered. The headphones perched on it look a little lopsided though – or that might just be his imagination.

“I’ll put the tea on, shall I?” he calls through the door. No words greet him, but the ominous thumping and clattering from Sherlock’s bedroom gets a little louder.

“Right,” John mutters. “Tea.”

He’s just pouring the tea into two cups (milk in both, no sugar for him and a ludicrous amount for Sherlock) when Sherlock finally re-emerges from his bedroom. From the quick, staccato rhythm tapping across the floor, John’s fairly confident in guessing that Sherlock isn’t quite done with throwing his temper tantrum yet. For that matter, the running commentary on the idiocy of Scotland Yard and all its employees is a bit of a giveaway too.

Frankly, Sherlock seems like he’s over-reacting a little. The murder certainly had turned out to be a suicide (and rather ingeniously carried out, too) intended to frame the husband, but the kind of aspersions Sherlock was casting on the forensics team was beyond even his usual condescension.

John hadn’t heard what Anderson had said to Sherlock while they were outside the house, but Sherlock had gone off on his tear shortly thereafter. He’d verbally flayed half the team there, aired a good deal of dirty laundry, solved the case, then stomped off with John trailing bemusedly in his wake.

John’s not Sherlock but he recognises cause and effect when he sees it. He rolls the tension out of his shoulders, picks up both cups, and heads out.

“You were rather harsh with Anderson today,” John comments. He puts Sherlock’s tea down on the table and glances between the sofa and the armchair. On the one hand, he usually takes the armchair. On the other –

“Was I?” Sherlock asks distractedly. He strides to the window, glances out, turns, strides back to the mantelpiece, reaches for the skull, drops his hand and goes back to the window. “Merely honest, I would say.”

“Well, you do tend to be a little –” John considers his words carefully as he sits down at one end of the sofa. He hasn’t seen Sherlock this aggravated in a while. “Blunt.”

“Should I have couched it in prettier words?” Sherlock asks, a hint of a sneer beneath the cultured tone. “What good could that possibly have done?”

“Not humiliated him in front of his co-workers?” John says.

“He’s used to it,” Sherlock says. “They all are. Sociopath, remember? You don’t expect social niceties from a sociopath.”

“Bollocks,” John says amiably. “You’re no more a sociopath than I am.”

Sherlock actually stops in his frenetic pacing to stare at John. Then he shakes his head and resumes his movements, although at a slower pace than before. “No one’s ever questioned that diagnosis,” he murmurs.

“Sociopathy isn’t even an official diagnosis anymore,” John says.

“Psychopath, then,” Sherlock says dryly. “As dear Sally so often accuses me of being.”

“Not that, either,” John says mildly. “High-functioning autism, if anything.”

“I am not autistic,” Sherlock hisses at John. John blinks in surprise at the odd fervour to his voice.

“Asperger’s, maybe,” John says after a moment, his voice steady. “Who knows? Something along those lines.”

“I don’t –” Sherlock begins.

“I’m not a psychiatrist,” John says. “I’m not diagnosing you.”

Sherlock has stilled again, his eyes bright and fervent as he pinions John to the sofa with his glare.

“But it’s a possibility,” John adds.

“I’m not autistic,” Sherlock repeats.

“It’s been suggested before,” John says. If he hadn’t been looking for it, he might have missed the minute flinch. “When you were a kid? No, not for the time, I don’t think. You’d just have been labelled a difficult child. When you were older, then, and it was made out to be a terrible thing. Who was the prat?”

Sherlock watches John silently. The look in his eyes has softened somewhat, but John’s not entirely certain what emotion it is that lives in them now.

“Someone, yeah?” John presses. “There’s enough about your behaviour to bear out the possibility of Asperger’s or autism, even without a formal diagnosis. Although, honestly, I don’t know that you meet all the criteria. But someone thought it would be grand to tease you about it. No, not tease exactly –” he corrects, watching the tiny flickers of movement across Sherlock’s face. He doesn’t deduce things the way Sherlock does, but he has learned by now how to read Sherlock. He knows when he’s on track purely by the way Sherlock looks at him.

“Not tease, but – think you’re less than capable,” John says, and watches as Sherlock’s expression confirms the statement for him. “That’s it, then. Someone thought that because you didn’t relate to the world the same way most people do, that made you stupid. Anderson said something today to remind you of that.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “High IQ, low EQ,” he offers. “I’ve heard that said before.”

The defensiveness has melted out of Sherlock’s voice and posture. John shifts over slightly on the sofa and raises a questioning eyebrow.

“Mm, I can see why,” he says. “Well, clearly you’re anything but stupid. Having Asperger’s – or autism – or, for that matter, not having either, just – not being very good with emotions – I mean, it takes a lifetime even for the rest of us to figure out emotions and we’re still not nearly as good at it as we pretend to be – anyway, whatever the case, it doesn’t make you any less amazing than you are.”

Sherlock’s eyes are definitely smiling now, even if his lips aren’t. He takes a few cautious steps forward, then sinks down on the other end of the sofa, never once looking away from John. John, for his part, picks up his tea and hides behind it.

“Besides,” Sherlock says suddenly, leaving John floundering to figure out what they’re talking about now, “dealing with emotions is what I’ve got you for.”

“I suppose so,” John says uncertainly.

Sherlock watches him for a while more, then adds, “Teach me.”

John stares into his tea for a bit, wondering if Sherlock’s ever asked that of anyone before. If anyone had agreed. It’s rather a lot to ask, but there’s no other response he could possibly give. “All right.”

“I’ll work at it,” Sherlock promises, stretching out languidly. He swings his feet up onto the sofa and proprietorially tucks his toes under John’s thigh. “And in the meantime, you’ll be there to help.”

~fin

Fanfic - Save the Hazelnut [Sherlock BBC: John]

soera — Sat, 25 Feb 2012 06:16:27 GMT

Title: Save the Hazelnut
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): John
Warning(s): Spoilers for S2, especially 2x03 and 2x01.
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. In which miracles take time, and there is a particularly delicious explanation for the Vatican cameos.

Save the Hazelnut

Miracles take time. Will you wait?

John stares at the text message for a long time. Then he puts his phone away, goes to the kitchen, and makes a cup of tea. There’s nothing on the telly, but he watches it anyway. He finishes the tea, checks his emails, and eventually goes to make dinner. It doesn’t taste very good. It hasn’t for about a month now, but John suspects that the taste will come back sooner or later. His body likes playing tricks on him, he knows this.

Miracles take time.

The text had appeared on his phone as he rode home from the cemetery. From Sherlock’s grave, where John had shed his first tears since That Day, and asked Sherlock for one last miracle. Don’t be dead, he’d told the black marble. Stop being dead.

Someone is messing with John’s head, and John doesn’t know who he’d prefer it to be.

He goes to sleep. The next morning, there’s a new message on his phone. Miracle, Latin ‘miraculum’ from ‘mirari’ – ‘to wonder.’

John wonders. Then he stops. What good can it possibly do? He saw Sherlock fall, saw him hit the ground, touched his dead body and pulseless wrist. He saw – John stops and thinks that over again. He saw Sherlock fall. He saw… Sherlock on the ground. He didn’t see him hit.

Doesn’t mean anything. He needs to trust the evidence of his senses. There had been no pulse. Sherlock had been dead.

John goes about his daily routine. It’s all very mundane. He feels like he’s just back from Afghanistan; it’s exactly the same pit of numbness he’d been trying to claw his way out of then. Trying, and failing. It had taken Sherlock to throw a rope down to him. Now, though, there’s no one left topside to help him out.

The third message arrives a week later. A miracle is wondrous because its cause is hidden, and the expected effect is not what actually occurs.

John presses ‘delete.’ His phone asks him if he’s sure. He presses ‘no.’

This is not good for his nerves. Or possibly, it’s very good for them. It’s the first time since That Day that a meal tastes like it’s supposed to. John relishes every bit of his utterly ordinary, slightly-too-greasy fish and chips.

Mycroft assures John that he’s working on clearing Sherlock’s name. John thinks that perhaps he should have a hand in this as well, but he doesn’t know what he could possibly do on his own to break the intricate web of lies Moriarty has spun. And that’s an image, there. Moriarty the spider, sitting in the centre of his web and waiting while Sherlock struggled in the sticky threads. John shakes the picture out of his head. He’s been having increasingly fanciful thoughts lately.

Eventually, Mycroft does manage to do what he promises. It’s an empty gesture, and John thinks that it probably does nothing to alleviate the guilt he no doubt feels. Well. Probably feels. He honestly can’t tell, with Mycroft.

It is a month after Sherlock’s good name is restored that the next message arrives. Our friend Lazarus sleepeth; but I go, that I may awake him out of sleep.

John hasn’t been to church in a long time, but it doesn’t take a Bible scholar to recognise the quote. Before he can think things through, he pecks out a reply and sends it. Are you seriously comparing yourself to Jesus?

No, comes the instant reply. That’s your role.

There’s something vaguely blasphemous about that. John tries very hard to forget the message. It works for all of two hours. Then he replies, Does that mean I have to do something?

The reply takes its own sweet time coming. When he gets it, John sits in his room and cries in a frankly embarrassing manner, all stuffy nose and blotchy cheeks and wailing noises.

Vatican cameos. Save the hazelnut.

It’s a stupid thing. It’s an utterly stupid thing, but the only people who know about it are Sherlock and John. And possibly Irene Adler, but she wouldn’t have known the significance, and she wouldn’t have added the second line, and anyway she’s dead. Maybe dead. Possibly dead. John isn’t sure he trusts Mycroft anymore. More to the point, he’s not sure he trusts Sherlock’s response to Irene’s supposed relocation. And Mycroft had said it himself, hadn’t he? It would have taken Sherlock to save her, and hide the fact from Mycroft.

So if – if it’s true, Sherlock had had practice in faking a death already. If John is to presume that, and presume that Mycroft is unaware of Irene Adler’s continued good health, then that would mean that a) Sherlock has skill sets that John had been previously unaware of, and they would have proven very useful indeed, b) Sherlock has a wider range of contacts than John had suspected, and some of those have probably been lying to John’s face as they offered their condolences, and c) Sherlock is a bloody bastard.

John tries to remember when the topic of Vatican cameos had come up. It would have been… nearly a year ago. It had been a case of some sort, something too important for John to know the details of. Sherlock had been quite despondent about that. He’d evidently been extremely clever on it, and not being able to boast about it had sent him into a two-week sulk.

By the end of the first week, John had been driven downstairs to hide in Mrs Hudson’s apartment. In exchange for the temporary refuge, she’d pressed him into service as a baker’s assistant. He’d wound up helping her with the day’s baking for Speedy’s, and they’d even had enough time to whip up some extra gingerbread biscuits. On a lark, they’d cut them into ovals and decorated them with Sherlock-appropriate images – a gun, a magnifying glass and, in a fit of inspiration, an anatomically-correct heart. A lot of red and blue icing had been involved.

He and Mrs Hudson had polished off the lot between them, and John had been in a much better mood when he returned upstairs. The next day, they’d made hazelnut biscuits and decorated them the same way. The day after it had been… what had it been? Almond? Some nut or other. By the end of the week, they’d mastered the art of icing guns and brains onto cookies. Sherlock’s sulk had been showing signs of coming to an end, so they’d baked a fresh batch for him and John had brought it up as a peace offering.

The singed walls of the kitchen (just what had Sherlock been up to?) had undoubtedly been grateful for the Great Biscuit Intervention.

Sherlock had gobbled down all the hazelnut biscuits. He might possibly have snapped at John’s hands when John had very tentatively reached for one. John had wisely retreated and watched in horrified fascination as Sherlock had methodically demolished a heart, one ventricle at a time.

“These are really much more attractive cameos than the ones I was tasked to find,” Sherlock had said.

“Also, tastier,” John had said.

Sherlock had grinned at him. “Also, less likely to get someone killed in the retrieving of them.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure,” John had said, glancing ruefully at his hand. It had possibly had bite-marks in it. Then his attention had snapped back to Sherlock. “Hang on – killed?”

“Not me,” Sherlock had said. “Obviously. But the old hiding place had been rigged to kill the last person to find them, and so I had to lie low for a while and work out not only the new place, but also the new trap.”

John had pondered that while Sherlock had happily worked his way through the magazine on an icing rifle. “You realise,” he’d finally said, “that every time I think of cameos now, I’m going to think of unexpected traps exploding in your face.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock had said. “Shall we use that as a code word, then? Cameos. No, not quite. Vatican cameos, that will do. We do seem to always run into trouble, and really, John, you get captured far too often.”

“I do it just to liven up your day,” John had said. “And how on earth would a code word be useful?”

“Well,” Sherlock had said. “Instead of tipping off your captors by saying ‘Duck, John, for I am about to put a bullet through the head of the man holding you hostage,’ I shall simply say ‘Vatican cameos’ and you will know to drop to the ground.”

“I would very much like to hear you actually say that to a guy with a gun,” John had said.

“Alternatively, instead of saying ‘Weeks of undercover work and extreme patience on my part will be compromised if you acknowledge me now, so don’t you dare call my name out in front of my target,’ I shall say, ‘Have you seen those Vatican cameos? They’re beautiful, aren’t they?’ and you will know to walk away.”

“Is this something that actually happened?” John had asked in interest.

Sherlock’s face had spoken volumes. John had offered him a biscuit inscribed with a smiley face, and the word ‘Anderson’ helpfully spelling out the owner of the face. Sherlock had bitten its forehead off with vicious relish.

No one else had known about their conversation. John certainly hadn’t expected anything to have come of it, until that day in Irene Adler’s house. And no one who’d been there would have known the significance. Or about the perils of getting between Sherlock and a particularly delicious batch of hazelnut biscuits.

Vatican cameos.

John blows his nose and washes his face. Then he goes down to Mrs Hudson’s apartment. It’s been a while since he’s had the chance to really speak to her. Perhaps they can catch up over some baking.

~fin

Fanfic - Waiting To Be Known [Sherlock BBC: John/Sherlock]

soera — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 08:22:46 GMT

Title: Waiting To Be Known
Rating: R
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock
Warning(s): Implied bullying; implied suicide/suicidal ideation; minor character death; drug use; sexual violence inflicted on a child. Spoilers for S2, especially 2x03.
Summary: Written for this prompt. John Watson has been saving Sherlock's life for a very long time, even if he doesn't know it.

Waiting To Be Known

Somewhere, something incredible is waiting to be known. – Carl Sagan

Sherlock locks his door (that’s breaking the rules; Mummy says they’re not allowed to lock their doors in case of emergencies), pulls the covers back on his bed (they’d been neat and crisp and perfect and he’s not supposed to be there again till bed-time; Daddy thinks he spends too much time in his room as it is), crawls under them (tight and too-warm and stifling and maybe he can just stop breathing) and sobs.

He knows he’s different, but he doesn’t know why. Mummy tells him to be quiet and not to ask people about things he shouldn’t know about, but how is he meant to know what he should or shouldn’t know about? It’s all there, on them, so how can anyone not see it? Sherlock hadn’t been born like this. He’d learned. And surely others learn the same way? Why don’t they see things the way he does? Mycroft does, Sherlock knows he does, but Mycroft tells him the same things Mummy does, don’t tell people about things you shouldn’t know, and no one will tell him how he’s meant to know the difference.

The bed dips to the side abruptly. “Oh,” someone says. It doesn’t sound like anyone Sherlock knows. Whoever it was hadn’t come through the door. His room was on the second floor, so entrance through the window is unlikely but possible. Sherlock makes himself very small and tries not to hiccup through his tears.

“Dreaming, I suppose,” the man says softly. The bed un-dips itself. “I’m sorry,” the man says, sounding awkward. “I don’t suppose you know where I am?”

Sherlock sniffles quietly.

“I think I might be de – dreaming,” the man says. “I’m not where I was a moment ago. But I don’t remember falling asleep either. That’s peculiar, isn’t it?”

Sherlock waits, but the man doesn’t say anything else. The bed doesn’t move again, but he can hear the man’s breathing. He’s not leaving the room, but he’s not doing anything either.

Sherlock pushes the covers aside a little and peeks out.

The man is sitting on the floor, leaning against Sherlock’s bed. His hair is brown and gold and has little bits of grey all through it and it’s cut short and neat. He’s got his back to Sherlock, so Sherlock can’t see his face.

“Who are you?” Sherlock asks tentatively.

The man turns around. He’s old and he’s got a funny nose, Sherlock thinks, but his eyes are a pretty blue-grey colour and they’re very kind. They’re also quite surprised, as the man looks Sherlock up and down.

“My name’s John,” the man says after a few moments. “Who’re you?”

“Sherlock,” Sherlock says. The man looks even more surprised. Then he shakes his head quickly and gives Sherlock a smile. It’s also very kind, just like his eyes.

“It’s nice to meet you, Sherlock,” John says. “I don’t suppose you know how I got here?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I was here by myself,” he tells John. “And then you were here.”

John frowns a little. He’s got bags under his eyes and lines on his face from smiling and laughing. He’s not doing either now, though. He looks dreadfully sad, for some reason. The sadness had come on suddenly, but it’s hiding in the corners of his eyes and lips. Sherlock watches him carefully. John doesn’t seem like a bad man, but Mycroft had told him that you couldn’t always tell a bad man by looking at him, and that he should always be careful around people he didn’t know.

And John had come from nowhere and Sherlock doesn’t know how that’s possible.

John reaches out suddenly, then just as suddenly hesitates. His hand hovers over Sherlock’s cheek. “Sorry,” he says. “Were – were you crying?”

Sherlock nods, remembering why he’d come to hide in his room. “They were being mean,” he says, and bites his lip.

“Well, that’s not right,” John says. “No one should ever be mean to anyone else. It’s not a nice thing to do.”

John’s hand is warm and confident as he rubs away the tear-marks on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock sits there quietly and lets him. He doesn’t know John, and Mycroft and Mummy and Daddy would probably all be upset if they knew John was here, but Sherlock doesn’t care. None of them had cared that the others said nasty things to Sherlock. Does John?

John runs his hand through Sherlock’s hair, once, twice, thrice. “Chin up, Sherlock,” he says. “It’ll get better.”

Then he smiles and vanishes.

Daddy’s dead. Daddy’s dead and Sherlock doesn’t know what to do.

Mummy is crying quietly again. She doesn’t make much noise when she cries. Just little hitching gasps of breath. Mycroft is sitting with her.

Sherlock clutches Daddy’s violin closer to himself. Daddy’s dead. Daddy had given Sherlock his violin and then died.

“I don’t understand,” Mummy says. “Why would he do that?”

Sherlock doesn’t understand either. Very slowly and quietly, so that neither Mycroft nor Mummy sees him, he sneaks out of the room and goes up to Daddy’s study.

They’ve cleaned it up a bit, but they haven’t changed out the carpet yet. It’s still dark and sticky and tacky.

“Sherlock?” John says uncertainly.

Sherlock reaches up, carefully puts Daddy’s violin down on the table (he’d been sitting there, listening as Sherlock had tentatively played the too-big instrument), then turns and throws himself against John.

“Daddy’s dead,” he whispers into John’s waist.

He can feel John shifting as he looks around. Then strong arms come around his shoulders and wrap him in a tight hug. “You shouldn’t have to see this,” John says. “Let’s go out.”

“I saw it,” Sherlock tells John. He still hasn’t told Mummy or Mycroft, but it slips easily from his mouth when he talks to John. “I saw Daddy. He gave me his violin and then he died.”

John makes a funny, hissing sort of noise, and desperately clutches Sherlock closer. “I’m so sorry,” he says into Sherlock’s hair. “This should never have happened.”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock says, hiding his face against John’s chest. “I don’t understand. I don’t.”

“Neither do I,” John says. “But god, Sherlock. I’m so, so sorry.”

“Daddy’s dead,” Sherlock says again, and John rocks him gently until the tears finally come bursting out in great, gasping, heaving sobs and Sherlock can’t see for how hard he’s crying but through it all John’s there, warm, kind John and his gentle voice, until the sobs lose their vigour and then John vanishes and Sherlock is alone and the doorknob is turning and Mycroft is stepping into the room.

“Sherlock?” John asks.

Sherlock nearly falls off his bed. “I was almost positive I’d hallucinated you,” he says.

“I’m not convinced I’m not hallucinating,” John tells him, running his eyes over Sherlock’s gangly teenage body. “It’s been a while for you, hasn’t it?”

“Five years,” Sherlock confirms, sitting up in bed.

“It doesn’t feel like any time has passed for me at all,” John confesses. “Like it was just a moment ago that I last saw you, and you’ve suddenly… sprouted.” He waves a hand vaguely.

“Lovely,” Sherlock says. “Now I’m a plant, am I?”

John steps forward, catching Sherlock by the chin and tilting his face into the light. “No, but it looks like someone’s been trying to plant you in the dirt,” he observes.

“That,” Sherlock says, “was a terrible extension of a metaphor.”

“I’m no poet,” John says agreeably, and thumbs the small cut. “It’s healing well, at least. Nicely cleaned out.”

“I’ve had practice,” Sherlock says. More than he wants to think about.

John frowns. Military man, Sherlock thinks, looking over John with a more practiced eye than his younger self had managed. Judging by the haircut and bearing, at any rate.

“Are you still on active duty?” Sherlock asks.

It takes a moment for John to switch tracks. “What? Oh. No, no, I was invalided home,” he says. “Been a while now. Two years, almost.”

Invalided from where? But Sherlock holds his tongue and watches John instead, as the older man checks Sherlock’s face and neck and makes disapproving noises with every fresh scrape and bruise he discovers. Sherlock wonders what John would do if he knew. Suddenly, he badly wants to know. Before he can think about it, his hands fly up to the buttons on his shirt, undoing them rapidly.

“Sherlock!” John says in surprise. Then he sucks in a breath when he sees the bruising on Sherlock’s chest. “Oh, bloody hell. You need to see a doctor about those.” He drops to his knees in front of Sherlock, pushing aside the shirt and checking the injuries. His fingers are careful and gentle as he assesses their extent.

“I think I am,” Sherlock says slowly.

“One other than me,” John amends, slanting an amused look at Sherlock. Sherlock looks at him, and tries to remember how to breathe.

“I’m sick of it,” he confesses quietly.

“I can’t help you,” John says in a voice full of despair. “I don’t know how to stay with you. I want to protect you but I’m useless, I’m always so bloody useless.”

“You’re not,” Sherlock says vehemently. “You’re not, you always show up when I need you. I don’t care who you are or how you get here, but you always do just when I need –”

Oh. Oh. It couldn’t possibly be that simple, could it? Three times now. Three times is by no means conclusive. He’ll have to conduct further experiments.

“Do you go to anyone else?” he asks. Jealousy flares sharply within him at the possibility.

“No,” John says. “It’s just you. What have you figured out?”

“I’m not sure yet,” Sherlock says. “Don’t go.”

“I’ll try,” John says. “It’s just, I don’t know how to stop myself from going.”

“Don’t go,” Sherlock says, and presses a clumsy kiss to John’s cheek. “Please. Don’t go.”

“Oh,” John says. His eyes are a little moist and his voice is thick when he speaks. “Sherlock. I want to stay, you know that, don’t you? I want very much to show whoever did this to you exactly why they shouldn’t touch you.”

“Then stay,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t care that he’s begging. He’s so sick of being alone.

“As long as I can,” John says. Sherlock takes John’s hand, pulls him up and onto the bed, then pushes him back and makes him lie down. With John on his side and Sherlock curled into the crease between arm and body and bed, it’s almost like he’s ten again and John is sheltering him from the world.

John lies there with him silently, carding his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, pressing light kisses into the curls. He probably thinks that Sherlock can’t feel them. Sherlock doesn’t say a word to enlighten him.

John vanishes half an hour later. It’s not nearly enough, but at least Sherlock doesn’t feel like going ahead with his plan to kill his tormentors anymore.

Sherlock lets himself get caught the next day. John doesn’t show up. Again, and again, until one day, even the possibility of seeing John isn’t enough and he starts thinking a little too much about Daddy. Then John shows up.

Half an hour again.

Afterwards, Sherlock revises his hypothesis. It’s not that he needs to be in danger, he thinks. It’s that it all needs to be too much for him. He needs to be in a state where he can’t help himself, whether physically or (his lip wrinkles distastefully) emotionally. Those are the only times John will appear.

He still thinks, sometimes, that he might be imagining John. It does make sense. But it doesn’t matter, really, because John (whether real or a figment of Sherlock’s imagination) is always there precisely at the moments when Sherlock needs something solid to hang on to, at the moments where Sherlock is in no state to be analytical and suspicious of everything and everyone.

John never stays longer than an hour. Sherlock wonders if there is a maximum time John can stay, or if he simply vanishes the moment Sherlock starts to recover himself. Some dark part of Sherlock starts planning how best to postpone his own recovery. What must he think, what must he convince himself to believe, in order to keep John by his side?

Hurting himself comes easily. First, the physical – then, when that doesn’t get results reliably enough, the mental. So simple, to talk himself into a state of either homicidal rage or suicidal despair. And every time, just as long as he really believes it, John comes to him.

But what begins as simplicity itself becomes harder and harder to maintain over the years. Sherlock’s mind sharpens and his intellect rages against his self-destructiveness. He can’t do it consciously any more, and combined with the fact that he’s learned to hold people at bay with the keen edge of his words – well. Suddenly years have gone by and despite everything he’s gotten himself into, he’s also managed to get himself out of any trouble.

And John is nowhere to be found.

He never existed, Sherlock tells himself, at age twenty-four, hanging around crime scenes to tell the police how wrong they are, and searching desperately for some sort of reason for this pathetically mundane existence. He never existed and it is useless to have wanted him to. Sherlock’s mind claws for stimulation, rages for something interesting, and finally turns on itself when nothing is forthcoming. He tears himself to shreds and his mind keeps going and going and going and nothing can stop it until it has bloodied itself and blooded itself and just for a while it needs to stop until it recovers its strength.

He is going insane. Then he discovers cocaine.

The next time Sherlock sees John, he almost dismisses it as a hallucination.

The slap is less easy to dismiss.

“You – absolute – idiot,” John bites out. Sherlock laughs and presses his face against John’s shoulder. How had he gotten there? Oh. John’s pulling him up by the arms. Had he been on the floor?

“Sherlock!” John barks. There’s his military man. He’s wanted and wanted and wanted this and he’s finally got his army man right here and his arms are nice and warm and even stronger than Sherlock had thought they would be. “Sherlock!”

“John,” Sherlock purrs, and reaches up, interlacing his fingers behind John’s neck. A small tug, and John comes so easily, their lips fitting together so nice and snug and sweet. Sherlock hums contentedly. Oh, he’s been waiting so long. Waiting and waiting until he’d almost forgotten what he’d been waiting for.

“God,” John groans, and pulls away. Sherlock frowns in disappointment and attempts to go back for more. John pushes him back, holds him off with one hand. John doesn’t want him. Well, of course he doesn’t.

“I hate you,” Sherlock informs John. “You’re mean and you’re – mean. I hate you.”

“How much did you take?” John asks. His fingers are at Sherlock’s neck and Sherlock thinks, for one wild, beautiful moment, that John will strangle him. He kicks out but his legs don’t make any contact and all he accomplishes is making John roll him into a tight hold he doesn’t have a hope of escaping. “Sherlock. How much did you take?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. God, not this again. He gets it enough from Mycroft. He’d expected better of John. “You’re mean,” he tells John petulantly.

“I suppose it’s not a nice thing to do,” John says softly.

Sherlock suddenly feels rather dizzy. “I think I’d like to lie down,” he says. He dimly sees John reaching for Sherlock’s phone, watches as John dials a number and speaks through fog and water.

“Might not be nice,” John says, leaning in close and whispering straight into Sherlock’s ear, into his brain, into that wounded animal that turns at the soft words and quivers in uncertainty. “But if it’ll save you from your own damned ego, I’m doing it anyway.”

John vanishes just before the first paramedic comes into view.

“You’ve hardly got the right to tell me what to do with myself,” Sherlock says.

“No, I don’t,” John says quietly. He’s looking out the window. He hasn’t once looked at Sherlock since he showed up here. Sherlock hates it, hates every second of it. Something dark and ugly inside him wants to hit John, wants to force him to pay attention. Wants to tie him up and keep him tucked away and never let him leave.

Sherlock knows his little flat’s not exactly fine accommodation. He can’t afford any better, though. Mycroft has cut him off until he “cleans up.” And he needs money for more important things than a pretty flat. All the same, John could at least do Sherlock the decency of looking at him when he speaks.

“I don’t know why you’re here,” Sherlock says, as bitingly as he knows how. “I don’t need or want you here.”

“Can I just ask,” John says. “Why cocaine?”

“Because I want to,” Sherlock says. Because the rush is beautiful and his mind is so sharp and clear and he sees everything and he can keep up with himself. Because even the crash is beautiful in the way it makes him forget. His mind doesn’t remember to break apart when it’s being dragged under by the drugs. Sherlock doesn’t say any of that, but he gets the unsettling feeling that John has heard every word he hasn’t said.

“It’s destroying your brain,” John says. “But then you know that, don’t you?” His voice is cynical but not forceful. “It’s a triple reuptake inhibitor, messes with your levels of dopamine and serotonin and norepinephrine. It’s the kind of drug you might give someone who’s suffering from depression. Know what it does to someone who isn’t? It teaches your body to stay out of balance so that you have to keep taking it to feel at all normal. Makes you give control over to it – no, makes you want to give control over to it. Do you like the fact that it’s an appetite suppressant? Do you like how clear your mind is during the high? Does it all cancel out the fact that it causes hallucinations, paranoia, psychosis? Is it worth the fact that while on it, you can’t trust the evidence of your own senses?”

Sherlock stares at John’s back resentfully. Damn him. Damn him. How had he known about Sherlock’s greatest fear, how had he so unerringly honed in on the one thing that might scare Sherlock into listening? “What would you know?” he mutters.

John finally turns to look at him. “I’ve seen people destroy themselves through addiction,” he says. “Drugs, drink. I’ve not got it in me to see one more person I love do that to themselves. Call it selfish, but I want you to live.”

“For you?” Sherlock asks softly.

“For you,” John replies. “And yeah. For me. Just for me, Sherlock, can you do that?”

Sherlock rolls over in bed and presses his face into the threadbare pillow. When he finally looks back up, John’s gone.

Detox is torture.

He grimly goes through the abrupt mood swings, the insomnia, the constant exhaustion, the sensation of something living crawling under his skin. There is no nausea. He thinks nausea may have been easier to deal with than the tricks his mind plays on him. He clings to the thought that once this has passed and his body has rediscovered homeostasis, it will be over.

(It won’t be, but just for now, he pretends.)

Mycroft thinks that the stick of being cut off from his money has worked. Lestrade thinks that the carrot of being allowed to work with the police if he’s clean has worked. Sherlock will never enlighten either of them. He works through the withdrawal symptoms and stays clean. Five months later, he relapses. Three weeks on cocaine and then he drags himself from its grip again and goes through the whole horrible process again.

He relapses twice more (seven months, four months). He’s on his fourth go at kicking the habit (ninth month now and going strong) when he next sees John.

“Don’t try to move,” John instructs him calmly. “Just lie back.”

Sherlock looks down dimly at the knife handle sticking out of his thigh. He can’t feel any pain. That’s probably not a good sign. John pushes down close to the edges of the blade and oh – there’s the pain, and Sherlock’s vision whites out for a while.

When he opens his eyes again, John’s on the phone. It’s peculiar, Sherlock thinks hazily, that John never stays long enough for anyone to see him, but he can communicate perfectly fine to other people over the phone.

“He’s just come back around,” John says. The phone’s tucked between his ear and shoulder, and he’s got both hands on Sherlock’s thigh. “No. No, not yet. Yes, I suspect so. Serrated edges. I’m fairly certain it didn’t. No, not sterile, definitely not. Yes. ETA?”

Sherlock blinks up at John. His chest really hurts quite a lot.

“Sherlock,” John says. “Try and stay awake.”

No chance of his falling asleep now. The pain’s rather a distraction. John’s eyes crinkle at the edges, even as he continues putting pressure on the wound around the knife.

“No, it’s not,” John says. Not what? Oh, he’s talking into the phone again. “Sherlock, any trouble breathing?”

Sherlock considers that, then shakes his head a very little.

“No,” John reports. Then he starts slightly. “Yes, I hear the sirens now. Yes – yes, thanks.”

John leans back slightly and lets the phone fall onto the ground. “Hold on just a little longer,” he tells Sherlock. “They’re almost here.”

“Please stay,” Sherlock manages to say.

And for once, John stays. The paramedics arrive and have Sherlock transported to the waiting ambulance in short order. John is useful in concisely summarising Sherlock’s injuries to the paramedics, and so they have no qualms about letting him ride along with them. Sherlock tries to figure out what it means that John can apparently be seen by the paramedics. It’s a departure from the norm, but he can’t quite focus on why that might be the case.

Once at the hospital, though, Sherlock’s whisked away to surgery while John’s left behind to wait. John has to be there when he gets out, Sherlock thinks desperately, as the anaesthetic begins to work. He has to be.

When he finally wakes up, he thinks for a heart-stopping moment that John’s left after all. Then he hears a soft thump to his right, and turns to see John sitting by his bed.

“I didn’t actually stay,” John says by way of greeting. “The moment you were out of sight, that was it for me.” He snaps his fingers. “But then, five minutes ago…”

“John,” Sherlock says plaintively.

“I’m glad I got to be here when you woke up,” John admits. He pours out a little water into a plastic cup and gently slides his hand under Sherlock’s neck. “Careful.”

His leg aches dreadfully as he drinks the water. He lies back down gratefully, before a thought occurs to him. “The painkillers,” he says in alarm. “I don’t want –”

“They’re not giving you anything strong,” John says. “I had a look at your chart, I hope you don’t mind. It’s nothing addictive.”

Sherlock relaxes. “I went back to it,” he confesses. “Three times. This is my longest yet.”

“Thank you,” John says, and gives him that warm smile that’s all in his eyes.

“It’s hard,” Sherlock says in a very small voice. “I keep trying but it never sticks. I don’t even want to anymore. I hate it. But I need it.”

“I’ve heard cocaine addiction is one of the hardest to kick,” John says with a sigh. “But I can’t imagine that you won’t eventually manage to do exactly what you want with your life. As long as you’re committed to whatever you want…”

“Mycroft doesn’t think I can,” Sherlock says, and that’s it, that’s his deepest, darkest secret, the fact that his own brother doubts his ability to ever truly give up the drugs.

“Mycroft,” John says with disturbing finality, “has an overinflated sense of importance and is not nearly as all-knowing as he would like to make himself out to be. His God complex will get good men killed if he doesn’t watch what he’s doing.”

Sherlock stares at John.

John clears his throat. “You’ll do it,” he says. “I know it doesn’t happen straightaway. But you’ll manage it.”

Something unclenches in Sherlock’s throat. He closes his eyes quickly, before they can do anything ridiculous like tear up. Consequently, he doesn’t see the look on John’s face as he bends over and presses his lips gently to Sherlock’s, and by the time he does open them in surprise, John’s gone again.

It is not Sherlock’s physical distress that next summons John from wherever he comes from, but a child’s.

Robert Nicholson has raped and killed four young children. Sherlock had been called in on the fifth case, once it had become clear that May Kendrick had become Nicholson’s fifth victim. He had been racing against the clock from the beginning and he’d known, he’d known there was only a very slim possibility that he’d get to her before Nicholson decided he was done. And yet.

And yet.

Sherlock’s hand trembles as he tries to find a pulse. He doesn’t know what to do. May Kendrick is alive, but she won’t be for much longer. Lestrade is on his way and an ambulance has been dispatched but Sherlock knows that May Kendrick will not live to see them arrive.

“What do I do?” he chokes out, and just like that there are hurried footsteps behind him and two strong hands firmly moving him out of the way.

Sherlock watches, numb, as John quickly checks May’s vitals. “Give me your jacket and belt,” he orders. “And go see if there’s anything in the way of medical supplies here.”

Sherlock strips off wordlessly, then runs to the bathroom. There’s a first-aid kit, but it’s not well-stocked. At least there are bandages and sterile gauze in it. He brings it back to John, and then goes flying through the rest of the house in search of anything else that might help.

There’s nothing. He returns to find that John has constructed a makeshift tourniquet to stop the blood that had been spurting from May’s arm. Severed artery, Sherlock thinks. He knows what the injuries would have been; he simply doesn’t know how to best treat them without causing further harm. John is now cleaning May’s groin, his face set in a grim expression.

Sherlock looks away. Robert Nicholson’s dead eyes stare up at the ceiling. Sherlock had wrested the knife away from him (not quick enough to spare May) and driven it upwards through his chest, between his ribs, into his lungs. It had looked to be a painful death. Sherlock is glad for it.

“Sherlock,” John says. “Help me out here.”

He applies pressure where John tells him to. He tries not to think of what would have been possible had he been just a little faster. A little better.

“Stop it,” John says quietly. “What’s important now is helping this little one and getting her home.”

Sherlock watches John’s face rather than his hands. How does John do this? How can he be so composed when faced with this? Had he been this in control on the battlefield?

“The tearing’s bad,” John says. “I can’t do anything for that here.” He mops up the freshly spilled blood. “ETA on the ambulance?”

Sherlock checks his watch, does a quick calculation, and says, “Ten minutes.”

“She’ll make it,” John says. He scrubs blood off his hands with a bit of scrap gauze, then tentatively touches her forehead. “It won’t be pleasant, but she’ll make it.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. His eyes are hot. “Thank you.”

John leans across May Kendrick’s unconscious body and presses his forehead against Sherlock’s. “Thank you,” he says. “For finding her.”

“Can’t you stay at all?” Sherlock asks quietly. “I wish you would.”

John’s eyes rake over Sherlock’s body speculatively. “How old are you?” he asks.

“Twenty-nine,” Sherlock says.

“Soon, then,” John says. “Very soon.” It sounds like a promise, and Sherlock clings to the memory of the sound as he is left alone with a dead body and a broken girl.

Sherlock’s next encounter with John is in a laboratory at Barts.

This John does not know Sherlock. A careful cataloguing of this John’s appearance leads Sherlock to suspect that whatever it is that enables John to travel to Sherlock’s side in the past, it has not yet taken effect. This John’s face is as tired and worn as the one Sherlock is familiar with – but there’s less grey in his hair, less anguish in his eyes. And how odd, that Sherlock’s John would be more anguished than this one, despite having more time between himself and the war.

There’s only one logical explanation for that, and that is that something worse than the war has happened to him.

Sherlock finds he quite strongly desires to stave off whatever that something is. It’s ridiculous. He remembers the feel of John’s lips on his. He remembers curling up in bed with him – though never as an adult. He’d been a teenager the last time. John had felt solid and safe. Part of Sherlock can’t stop obsessing over how John might feel now. If the touch of his hands would be in any way different. If he might be more protective, or less. But this John is not interested in a romantic relationship with Sherlock, and at any rate, Sherlock’s not entirely sure he wants to be in a relationship with this John either.

He doesn’t really know John, that’s the problem. He knows how he feels around his John. He knows that his John has always been there for him exactly when he’d most needed someone and been most alone. He knows that his John is the reason he’s still alive today. But actually living with John – that’s new, and different, and difficult. Living with John means being careful with his experiments or risking being yelled at. It means needing to curb his more outlandish tendencies. It means hearing the sounds of night terrors drifting down to him and being unable to do anything about them. It means late nights over takeaway and companionable silences. It means a person who, despite how aggravating Sherlock is, gives exactly as good as he gets and refuses to let Sherlock be anything less than he can be.

It’s wonderful. It’s terrifying.

Sherlock had already been halfway infatuated with the John he’d known. Now, he thinks he might be halfway in love.

So he takes stupid risks. He toys with taking a possibly poisoned pill. He plays Moriarty’s game. He lets Irene Adler seduce him and pretends, just for a moment, that she might actually understand him. And again, he plays Moriarty’s game. Almost all the way through and he knows what he needs to do now, what plans he’ll have to put into play.

He just doesn’t know if he can go through with them.

Sherlock stands on the edge of the roof. His John had worn more anguish in his eyes than the John Sherlock had met eighteen months ago at Barts. That anguish, the anguish he’d wanted to protect John from, is his fault.

He hates himself.

He throws his phone aside and stares out at the street. Everything’s in place. He just needs to finish the process of destroying himself (and John) now.

“Sherlock!”

The scream comes from across the street and behind him. Sherlock doesn’t look back. He spreads his arms and lets himself fall.

John greets him with a fist to the face.

“Ow,” Sherlock says. He’s on the ground, without quite having registered the process of toppling over. John really has quite the excellent left hook.

“You bastard,” John says, and straddles Sherlock’s lap. His fists are clenched in Sherlock’s coat collar, flexing bloodlessly as if he’s trying to decide whether to punch Sherlock again. “You complete and utter bastard.”

Sherlock lurches forward and clings to John desperately. “I hoped,” he says, pressing his face against John’s neck. John’s pulse throbs steadily beneath his weathered skin, just a little faster than its norm. “I hoped that you’d come. That you’d see.”

“It was a magic trick,” John laughs. “It really was.”

In the distance behind them, a broken-hearted John strides away from Sherlock’s grave.

“All I wanted was a miracle,” John says. “Just this one.”

“I heard,” Sherlock says, and pulls back from John. “How long?”

John’s fingers are tracing the lines of Sherlock’s face. “How long what?”

“How long did I leave you like that?” Sherlock asks. “How long before this, before you knew?”

John kisses the tip of Sherlock’s nose, then the very top of his cheekbones, left and right, then his forehead. “Six months,” he says, breathing the words over Sherlock’s lips. “It’s been six months. I hate you.”

“I love you,” Sherlock replies.

“I don’t understand why I was there,” John confesses.

Sherlock blinks up at him hazily. This is an all too familiar situation.

“On the roof,” John says. “I thought, for a while, I thought I basically showed up when you needed me to. But on the roof, before you jumped…”

“Couldn’t do it,” Sherlock explains. Blood, he discovers, actually tastes rather nauseating. Or perhaps it’s a culmination of various factors. “Had to do it, but couldn’t. To you. Needed you to know.”

“Oh,” John says, and presses a little harder on the bullet wound in Sherlock’s chest. “Right.”

“Had snipers,” Sherlock says. “You. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. Had to jump. Or.”

“We’d be shot,” John finishes. “Makes sense now. Okay. Last resort then, the way you planned it if you had to die.”

“Chose roof,” Sherlock says. He shuts his eyes against the glare of the lamp and smiles tiredly. “Planned it. Molly.”

“She helped,” John says. “Bloody – Molly knew. That’s what she was on about when she –”

“Asked her,” Sherlock says. It’s hard to breathe. John’s pressing awfully hard on his chest. “Look after –”

He passes out before he can finish the sentence. He wakes up in a private hospital. Even in France, he can feel Mycroft’s influence reaching out to shield him from Moriarty’s men while he heals.

John’s not there, but that’s all right. Sherlock knows that John’s got his back.

A few months after, there’s another bullet. This one grazes an infinitely more precious brain than Sherlock’s. Sherlock isn’t quite fast enough, and gets there only in time to witness the aftermath.

Moran has escaped. He’s the last Sherlock needs to eliminate before he can return home. He’s the reason Sherlock still hasn’t had the chance to confess to John, to finally throw himself at John and let those strong arms shelter him just as they had when he’d been a child.

And Moran has almost managed to do what Moriarty couldn’t. Sherlock can’t help but marvel at the irony, as he sneaks into John’s hospital room and kisses his lax lips.

“Soon,” he promises. John lies there quietly, as people in comas tend to do. Sherlock’s name has already been cleared, thanks to Mycroft. All he needed to do was ensure that Moriarty’s most loyal men didn’t decide to finish what Moriarty had wanted to do. “I’ll get him and then I’ll come home and I don’t mind if you hit me again. Just.”

He brushes his fingers through John’s hair. It’s longer and shaggier than he’s ever seen it before. It suits him, though Sherlock also rather likes the short military cut that’s he’s used to. There’s a faint scruff on John’s cheeks and chin, and Sherlock scrapes his nails across it lightly.

“Just wake up,” he breathes. “One miracle, John. Just for me. Wake up.”

He does get Moran. He gets him in front of almost half a rather incredulous Scotland Yard, but at least he gets him. Or at least, he corners him. The ‘getting’ bit of the equation… well, Sherlock’s working on it.

“You actually believe him?” Moran spits at the police officers, as he backs up to a more defensible position. He’d decided to try for Lestrade second, just as Sherlock had suspected. The plan had been audacious and perfectly executed; if not for Sherlock, it probably would have worked. Now, though, Moran’s trapped and he knows it. “He’s a fraud, remember?”

“You really haven’t kept up with the news, have you?” Sherlock asks in faux disinterest. “Funny thing about lies. They twist and twist and twist on themselves until they just – snap apart. And there’s the truth, for all to see.”

Moran stills. He’s still searching for an escape route. There is none. Moran will not escape this. The trick will be in taking him down without anyone else winding up in the cross-fire.

Thus far, Sherlock has seven plans which end in Moran’s capture or death. Unfortunately, all of them involve – at minimum – five bystander deaths as well, which Sherlock thinks would probably not be good. At the very least, John would not be happy, and he can’t let John down yet again.

Oh. John.

Moran has the most spectacularly shocked look on his face as he collapses. Sherlock barely tamps down the totally inappropriate urge to giggle.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” John says from behind Moran, and lowers his gun. “So, what are the chances of me getting out of this without being arrested?”

“Seeing as you’re currently in a coma in a hospital bed, quite good,” Sherlock says giddily. “John. John, that was Moran. He was the last one. God, I can come back home now.”

John’s eyes light up. “Brilliant!” he says, and vanishes. Sherlock looks back at Moran’s body, then glances up at the shell-shocked officers around him.

“Bloody hell,” Lestrade says, with feeling.

Explanations take an annoyingly long time. Sherlock explains why he’d had to fake his death and what he’s been doing since. (Thankfully, Lestrade doesn’t punch him. Donovan rather awkwardly sidles out of the room when Sherlock explains exactly why Lestrade had been targeted; her reaction and Lestrade’s almost make the complications of Moran’s death worth dealing with.) He also adroitly dodges all attempts by Lestrade to figure out how earth John had managed to be in a coma and shoot Moran at the same time. When he finally escapes Lestrade’s clutches, Mycroft sends a car to bring him back to 221B Baker Street – where, he’s assured, he’s still got a home with John.

Mrs Hudson slaps him, and then hugs him, and then cries all over him, and then shoves him out the door and tells him to go to John. It’s about what he’d expected of her.

He heads to Barts first, to thank Molly for all she’d done. The words aren’t even awkward rolling off his tongue anymore. She’s got a new boyfriend, he sees, but he doesn’t mention it. He gives her a hug and takes his leave without asking any favours of her.

Then he goes to John.

John’s still terribly quiet. Mycroft pulls some strings so that Sherlock can stay with him as long as he likes. It’s very odd to be sitting by John and not hear any responses to even the most inane comments.

“Is that what I look like,” John says critically.

“Surely you’ve seen yourself in the mirror before,” Sherlock comments.

“Oh, yeah, sure,” John says, walking around the bed. “Looks different like this, though. Can’t put my finger on it.”

“When are you going to wake up?” Sherlock asks plaintively.

“Don’t know,” John says.

“Hasn’t this happened to you yet?” Sherlock asks.

“Nope,” John says. “Or, well, I’ve been shot. I remember being shot. Sniper, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, his expression darkening. John walks back over to him and ruffles his curls. “It was Moran. I suppose you got your revenge.”

“Suppose so,” John says.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been doing your – travelling – while in a coma,” Sherlock says with a frown. “That’s just ridiculous.”

“I won’t tell you, then,” John says, then laughs at the face Sherlock pulls. “It’s not like I really know either, Sherlock. Seems a viable guess. I remember being shot, but not waking up. Stands to reason this is the time I’m from, right?”

“You look different,” Sherlock says, glancing between the still body on the bed, and the warm one standing next to him. “Your hair’s back in a military cut, you’re clean-shaven – and you shot Moran. Do you appear as you picture yourself to be? Your clothes. You’ve always appeared wearing the same combination of those jeans with the jumper I bought you. Certainly not a hospital gown. You didn’t have your gun on you before. You’ve never had your gun with you.”

“I did once,” John says. He puts his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and leans in, staring at his own body lying on the bed. “That time when you were stabbed. I shot the guy who stabbed you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says. He thinks back to that time, years back. “And you were visible to the paramedics then,” he realises. “And to everyone back there, when you took out Moran.”

“I had to tell the paramedics what had happened,” John says. “I sounded just authoritative enough that they took me at my word and began with what I told them to right away. Still close, though.”

“Might have died if you’d left before giving them the information,” Sherlock muses. John’s fingers clench convulsively in Sherlock’s shoulder.

“I’m all right, darling,” Sherlock says, reaching up to tangle his fingers with John.

“Did you just –” John begins in a tone of utmost incredulity.

Sherlock gives him his most defiant look.

“Never mind,” John says. “It’s fine.”

“Of course it is,” Sherlock huffs. “And it will be perfect once you wake up.”

John lifts their joined hands and presses a quick kiss to the tops of Sherlock’s knuckles. Then he lets go and steps closer to his body. “Well,” he says. “Let’s see.”

He reaches out and puts his hand on his own face, and vanishes. On the bed, John takes a stuttering breath and painfully opens his eyes.

The actual recovery process takes much longer. John comes out of the coma slowly, incrementally, though still quickly and smoothly enough that his doctors call it a bloody miracle when they think Sherlock can’t hear them. They hadn’t expected it to happen, that much is clear. Part of Sherlock wonders if John would have survived, if he hadn’t wound up flung through time to save Sherlock’s life. Another part of him wonders how on earth this had happened, and starts cataloguing areas of research which might point him towards the answer. The largest part of all, though, is telling him not to look a gift horse in the mouth.

John has problems with his memory now, both long- and short-term, which he seems to find terribly embarrassing. That’s the only significant symptom of brain damage he’s exhibiting at the moment, though, so Sherlock really couldn’t care less.

“There are ways around it,” he tells John, as they lie spooned together on John’s hospital bed in a manner that’s sure to make John’s doctors unhappy, if they were there to notice. “You’ll learn. And I promise I’ll help.”

“Okay,” John says with a sigh. Sherlock puts his arm around John’s chest, catches his hand and twines his fingers through John’s. John promptly kisses Sherlock’s hand and pulls it to his chest.

“I can’t wait till I’m better,” John says. “Also until my every bodily function isn’t being monitored.”

Sherlock huffs a laugh into John’s hair. “There are so very many things I have planned for us, John,” he murmurs. “But I’ll wait. I can be very patient when I need to be.”

“You’ve been waiting a long time,” John says.

“I have, yes.”

“Just a little longer, then,” John says.

Sherlock presses a little closer and closes his eyes, luxuriating in the sensation of homecoming.

~fin

Christmas Comment!fics [2011]

soera — Sat, 24 Dec 2011 09:38:17 GMT

Merry Christmas, everyone!

Last year, I offered comment!fic in a number of fandoms as a Christmas present to all you lovely folk out there. I got some wonderful prompts and really enjoyed myself writing ficlets for them, so I’ve decided to do the same this year. For those of you who don’t know how this works, let’s go over things:

How it works:

I’m taking prompts for ficlets in any of the fandoms listed below. Please have a look at what I will/won’t write for each fandom before making your requests.

Leave a comment in this post with the fandom, pairing (if applicable; I’ll do gen for all fandoms too) and prompt you’d like.

Prompts can be anything from random words for inspiration, to a scenario you’d like to see played out. They can be as specific or general as you like, and I’ll do my best to stick to them. Alternate universe/alternate canon prompts are welcome, as are prompts to do with any ‘verse I’ve written about before (i.e. it's fine to ask for something based on one of my posted fics).

ONE PROMPT per post. If you have multiple prompts (perfectly fine), I’ll do the first one first, then go back to the others after I’m done with prompts from other people. So put the one you most want to see done first!

Prompts don’t have to be Christmas/holiday-related, if that’s not your thing. Anything goes!

Porn and I have a love-hate relationship. Sometimes it comes easy; other times, it's hard. (Pun not intended.) Be warned that if you request smut, you may not actually get it – I can give you the prelude and possibly some sexiness, but that might be the best I'll manage.

Prompt-taking closes at midnight on Christmas where I am – that’s UTC+8. Or 24 hours (and 15ish minutes?) from the time of this post, if you want to count it off like that. I'll add a note at the end of this post once prompt-taking is closed.

I will NOT write:
Character bashing.

Character death (except as in canon).

Anything dark/unpleasant. It’s Christmas; let’s keep it happy in here. (This does not mean I won’t take sad/bittersweet/etc prompts – those are fine, but I won’t write, say, a character’s murderous rampage through London.)

Some fandoms also have a specific listing for things I won’t write (don’t break up my fandom OTPs please), so pay attention!

Note:
A slash denotes a pairing (e.g. Jack/Ianto), whereas a plus sign denotes friendship (e.g. Ianto+Tosh).

The latter doesn’t mean you can’t request friendship fics between people I haven’t listed; it just means that I’m particularly comfortable writing those two.

Simple enough, yes? Here are the fandoms I can write for, in alphabetical order:

Harry Potter:

CAVEAT: It’s been ages since I’ve written in this fandom, so any old fics you might have read are vastly out of date with my style now. … You might actually get better fics now than I used to write.
I much prefer writing friendship/gen to anything with pairings.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: The list is actually kind of endless, especially when it comes to pairing Harry up.

I WON’T WRITE: Harry/Draco, Harry/Ginny, Severus/Remus, Sirius/Remus. I would prefer not to write Draco at all.

Hawaii Five-0:

CAVEAT: I didn’t watch S2, and I didn’t particularly like the end of S1 (Danny!). Sticking with S1 is probably best.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Danny/Steve, Danny/Rachel (pre-divorce), ensemble cast

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Danny or Steve up with others (unless it’s pre-H50). Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.

Komatta Toki ni wa Hoshi ni Kike!:

CAVEAT: While I know the gist of the entire storyline, I’ve only read the scanlations up to Volume 15. I’ve not written extensively in this fandom, and what I do have, I haven’t posted. I think I’ve got a decently good grasp on the characters though, at least up to Vol. 15.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Kiyomine/Takara, ensemble cast

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Kiyomine or Takara up with others. Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.

Merlin:

CAVEAT: I’m really hesitant about putting this up because I’ve only just started watching it. It feels like the sort of thing I’d enjoy writing, though, so I’ve decided to just throw this out there anyway. Please just stick to S1, though – I know what happens in later seasons, but I haven’t seen them for myself. Also, I’ll probably be best at writing Arthur or Merlin, so request other characters at your own risk. =P
(I’m gonna repeat myself here because it seems particularly apt: remember that AU settings are perfectly fine to request *cough reincarnation fic cough*.)

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Arthur/Merlin

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Arthur or Merlin with others. Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.

Naruto:

CAVEAT: I haven’t been keeping up with the latest updates (it’s been getting a bit ridiculous for me) so if you want something to do with a specific incident, give me details (at least chapter numbers so I can look it up).
I would prefer to write post-time-skip for anything with pairings (outside of canon crushes). If it’s gen, go ahead and request any time-frame. I’m most familiar with the Konoha characters and the Sand siblings, so request anyone else at your own risk. Also, it’s been ages since I’ve written in this fandom, but I think I’ve got an okay grasp on them.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Naruto/Kakashi, Naruto/Sakura (post-time-skip), Naruto+Kakashi+Sakura, Naruto+Tsunade

I WON’T WRITE: Anything with post-betrayal Sasuke (especially Naruto/Sasuke). I would in fact prefer to avoid writing Sasuke altogether.

Prince of Tennis:

CAVEAT: Only Seigaku members, please. I’m not really familiar with the other schools. Also, I have a tendency to ignore both the manga and anime endings because they both get ridiculous, so feel free to request something set in an AUish ending. I don’t know anything about the second manga series either, so I can’t write anything about that.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Tezuka/Ryoma, ensemble cast.

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Tezuka or Ryoma up with others. Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.

The Sentinel:

CAVEAT: I’ve not written extensively in this fandom, though I think my grasp on the characters has improved a little from the few I’ve posted. Still, request at your own risk.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Jim/Blair, ensemble cast

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Jim or Blair up with others. Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.

Sherlock (BBC):

CAVEAT: … Yeah, I got nothing.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: John/Sherlock, ensemble cast

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing John or Sherlock up with others. Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.

Star Trek (TOS/2009):

CAVEAT: I’ve not written extensively in this fandom, and none of what I’ve written is posted online. Request at your own risk.
Specify if you want TOS or 2009!

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Kirk/Spock, Bones+Kirk+Spock, ensemble cast

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Kirk or Spock up with others. Go ahead and mix and match anyone else if you’d like.

Torchwood:

CAVEAT: I didn’t like S3, and didn’t watch S4. Stick to the first two seasons; I won’t be able to do anything from S3/4.

CHARACTERS/PAIRINGS: Jack/Ianto, Owen/Tosh, Gwen/Rhys, Ianto/Lisa (pre-Canary Wharf only), team-fic, Ianto+Tosh, Jack+Gwen, Ianto+Owen

I WON’T WRITE: Anything pairing Jack or Ianto up with others (other than pre-Jack Ianto/Lisa). You can mix and match anyone else, and I’ll give it a shot, though.

Enjoy!
(And yes, feel free to share this with any of your friends you think might appreciate this. It's open to absolutely anyone, even people I don't know. =D)

ETA: Prompt-taking is now CLOSED.

ETA 2: Done! Thanks for playing, everyone. Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year! =D

Fanfic - In Which John Is A Disney Princess [Sherlock BBC: John, Sherlock]

soera — Sun, 11 Dec 2011 02:11:53 GMT

Title: In Which John Is A Disney Princess
Rating: PG-13
Character(s): John, Sherlock
Warning(s): None.
Summary: Animals like John. They like him a lot. Lestrade is confused, John is pragmatic, and Sherlock feels like he's in a Disney movie.
Author's Notes: Remember when that cat was all over John in TGG? And then I saw this prompt - I always imagine that John is the sort of person animals just [i]like[/i]. To levels disney princesses can only dream of. The sort of person whom, if he stands still long enough, an animal WILL come up to him, even birds of prey. And then. Yeah.
I regret nothing.

In Which John Is A Disney Princess

The first time, it’s a dog.

“You can’t possibly be out here because you want to make my job easier,” Sherlock says by way of greeting. “Why aren’t you inside already?”

Lestrade nods half-heartedly to him. Donovan scowls. Anderson takes an unconscious step away from her, as if trying not to draw attention to their proximity. John nods to them politely.

“Angry dog,” Lestrade says. As if in punctuation, a volley of furious barking is emitted from within the house. Low and resonant. Large, territorial dog. “We’re waiting on the RSPCA. Should be here in half an hour.”

“And in the meantime, the dog will no doubt destroy valuable evidence,” Sherlock says.

“Nothing we can do about it,” Lestrade says pragmatically. “Can’t risk anyone getting hurt.”

Sherlock growls quietly, sounding remarkably like the dog for a moment. “John,” he commands. “Go get the dog out of there.”

John blinks in bemusement.

“Hold on,” Donovan says. “Are you serious? You can’t just send him in to get chewed up!”

“I’ve never been around animals with you,” John says in consternation. “How did you know?”

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

“Never mind,” John says with a sigh. “You don’t mind if I lean up against the door?”

“A moment,” Sherlock says, and strides over. He inspects the door thoroughly while the dog howls and scrabbles on the other side. Finally, satisfied, he steps well back and folds himself in his coat, watching John expectantly.

John ambles up to the door and stands there for a minute.

The dog keeps barking.

John steps up closer and leans against the door, right where there’s a small gap between door and frame.

The dog barks. And barks. And stops.

John waits.

There’s a low whine from the other side of the door. John turns his back to the door. “I don’t suppose anyone’s got a key,” he asks curiously.

Lestrade holds the key up mutely.

“Toss it over,” John says.

Lestrade hesitates. Sherlock snatches the key from him and throws it to John, who catches it easily.

John waits another minute, humming quietly under his breath. On the other side of the door, everything is quiet. Then John turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open.

The mastiff is lying down on the ground, tongue lolling out as it looks up at John.

“Come on, mate,” John says amiably, patting his thigh. The mastiff lumbers to its feet and pads over. John pushes away from the door, tucking his hands in his pockets and trundling over to Sherlock. The mastiff obediently follows.

“How,” Lestrade says, but doesn’t manage anything else.

“I’ll wait out here with him,” John tells Sherlock. “You know what he’ll get like if I’m not with him.”

“Right back to what he was before,” Sherlock says, inclining his head slightly. “Keep your phone on you.”

John smiles at him as Sherlock heads into the house.

“What,” Lestrade says.

“He’s going to get there before any of you do,” John points out.

Lestrade recovers his words in a beautiful stream of curses, and hurries off after Sherlock.

John scratches the mastiff behind the ears as he pulls out his phone. Sherlock will no doubt be texting him pictures and commentary about the crime scene within. He will also probably text John uncomplimentary statements about Anderson. John flips the phone around in his hands, waiting for the first text to buzz through.

The mastiff looks up at John with adoring, soulful eyes.

The second time, it’s a cat.

“Here, now,” John says, reaching up. “Jump.”

Molly stares at him. “I don’t think that will work,” she begins to say. She gets out the first three words.

Then Toby leaps off the pipes and lands neatly in John’s arms.

“Oh,” Molly says.

“Bit of an adventurous spirit,” John says with a smile. Toby purrs. Then John hands him over to Molly, and Toby stops purring.

“Be nice,” John says. “Don’t worry Molly like that.”

Toby mews abashedly and lets Molly cuddle him close.

“Come on, John,” Sherlock calls impatiently from the door. “There’s work to be done!”

“Yeah, coming,” John grouses. He gives Toby a quick scratch and Molly a quicker smile, then vanishes out the door after Sherlock.

Toby potters about sadly the rest of the afternoon.

The third time, it’s a bird.

“So it’s not just domestic animals, then,” Sherlock says. “I did wonder.”

John holds the injured hawk close to his body. Despite the obvious pain it must be in – the barbed wire has gone straight through its wing, and Sherlock thinks that the bone is probably broken – it makes no move to hurt John. It doesn’t even dig its claws in, trusting John to keep it steady and upright.

“I’ve never tried it with the larger wild animals,” John admits. “But, well.” He smooths down the feathers on the unfortunate animal’s head. “We do need to get this lovely lady to a vet.”

“There’s one not far from here,” Sherlock says, his face taking on that abstract look which means he’s doing his impersonation of a GPS. “Large enough, might know what to do with a wild bird, though you might still need to stay to keep it calm. I’ll call Gregson.”

John pats his pocket to make sure that the stolen jewellery the bird had been trained to make off with is still there. “I have to say,” he comments. “This was pretty innovative.”

The hawk chirrups.

Then it starts to get ridiculous.

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock says, watching as the red fox abandons its meal (might be the leg of the dismembered victim, hard to tell from this distance) and happily trots over to John. “I feel like I’m in a Disney movie.”

John gives him an unimpressed look. “Try living it.”

“How did you ever manage?” Sherlock asks, trudging over to the possible leg.

“I was blond-haired and blue-eyed as a kid,” John says. “I had sparrows and hares, kittens and puppies following me around everywhere I went. I didn’t manage, I got beaten up every day for being a Disney princess.”

Sherlock frowns slightly. It’s a human leg, all right. Probably their victim’s, based on the relative skin and colouration. If it isn’t – well, they’ve got another body on their hands. He snaps a series of photographs to document the scene.

“I wouldn’t have,” he says. John looks up from where he’s playing with the fox. “Beaten you up,” Sherlock clarifies.

“I know,” John says, and goes back to playing with the fox.

Eventually, Sherlock gets used to it.

Mrs Hudson doesn’t quite like the adder, but John pacifies her by telling her he’d release it just as soon as it’s healthy. Anderson likes the adder even less, especially when he comes across it during a “drugs bust” while innocently inspecting a box of sand.

Sherlock’s sympathies are with the snake.

The miscellaneous amphibians are easy enough to deal with. The stray cats and dogs are even easier. John slips them food and treats occasionally, enough to tide them through difficult times. He patches up those of them that get injured, and brings those who are beyond his help to the vet’s. In return, they take to shadowing John whenever he’s out and about. Sherlock had complained until the first time a cat launched itself at the face of the criminal they’d been pursuing at the time.

After that, Sherlock adopts John’s habit of carrying a packet each of dog and cat treats in his pocket at all times.

It is a little traumatising when they get a case that takes them to the zoo, and each and every animal follows John around as far as their enclosures allow them. All the same, John’s gift does come in handy when the murderer they’re pursuing gets the drop on them – and drops John straight into the lion enclosure.

Sherlock is going to have Words with the management about their safety features.

He can’t look. Instead, he grapples with the desperate criminal, visitors shrieking around them but not a one attempting to help. Finally, he gets the upper hand, knocks the man out, and whirls to face the lion enclosure.

John looks rather dazed. It might be from the fall he’s taken, or it might be from the rather large lion currently snuggling up to him. Really, it’s hard to tell.

“Disney movie,” he calls down to John, and if his knees are weak with relief, no one needs to know.

“Shut up,” John calls back, and then despondently adds, “Oh, god, this is going on Youtube, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the woman next to Sherlock tells him, and continues filming on her phone.

But other than the sporadic attack cat or tracking dog, John’s gift is not what you would call useful, exactly (except in the case of calming large predators that might otherwise eat him). Animals like him. In fact, animals adore him. Animals follow him around and attempt to get as close to him as possible, unless he puts his foot down about it (and even then, sometimes they’re stubborn). Outside of a Disney movie (or getting an aggressive dog/hawk/fox away from a crime scene), John’s gift cannot be put to practical purposes. If it is not useful, Sherlock has told John repeatedly, it is of no importance to him, and the cat fur all over his coat is reason enough to loathe John’s furry compatriots.

Sherlock takes back every uncharitable thing he has ever thought about John’s self-appointed animal protectors, one evening at a darkened swimming pool, in the company of an indecisive madman and his army of snipers.

“Disney movie,” John chokes out through giggles. “The animal sidekicks always have their moment to shine.”

The lasers have disappeared from their chests again. Moriarty looks genuinely outraged. There’s a round of authoritative barking coming from a distance.

Sherlock merrily shoots Moriarty in the shoulder (the look of surprise on his face really is quite gratifying). Then he helps a still-giggling John up, and between the two of them, they manage to get Moriarty out of the pool.

They’re greeted by Mycroft and what looks like an army of detectives.

“How did they –” John begins.

“I posted the location to my website,” Sherlock says. “I have to admit, I thought they’d be a bit quicker about things.”

“It’s all right,” John says. “My back-up was on time.”

That sets them both off laughing again.

Moriarty mumbles something uncomplimentary. He’s fast losing consciousness. He might not hold on long enough for the paramedics to save him. Sherlock isn’t quite bothered by the thought.

They gladly hand Moriarty off to Mycroft’s people. Then Sherlock wraps his hand around John’s wrist as Mycroft and Lestrade both head over at a determined clip.

“Of all the reckless stunts you’ve engaged in, Sherlock,” Mycroft says. “This is one of the worst yet.”

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Lestrade yells over Mycroft. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?”

“I had every faith back-up would arrive punctually,” Sherlock says smoothly.

John can’t quite hold back another giggle.

“Clearly, we’ve arrived just in time,” Mycroft says.

“Not you,” Sherlock says. “If it were up to you lot, John and I would already have gone up with the bomb. Or been shot by those snipers. Either way.”

“You organised another team?” Mycroft asks sharply.

John pats his leg, and a stray dog comes loping out of the darkness, straight up to him. Its tail is wagging furiously.

“Yeah, you did good,” John says, and pats his leg again. The dog leans in and closes its eyes in bliss as John rubs deep into its scalp.

“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock says.

“Ah,” Mycroft says, staring at John. “Your gift with animals. I wasn’t aware you could… control them.”

“I can’t,” John says. “Even if I could, I wouldn’t.”

“I suspect,” Sherlock adds, “that that’s why they’ve taken it on themselves to help him.”

Mycroft opens his mouth to say something, but is interrupted by his phone. He takes the call; Lestrade takes over remonstrations. Finally, Mycroft hangs up and looks speculatively at John.

“Apparently, my men have found a number of snipers on the second floor,” he says. “All have sustained serious dog bites, and were being held by the throat by various dogs when found. Those dogs fled once my people appeared on the scene. Two of the snipers have died, apparently because they would not cease fighting.”

John sobers up in a hurry at that. “They won’t be put down, will they?” he asks anxiously. “They’d never try and deliberately kill someone.”

Mycroft smiles. “I’m sure we can work something out,” he says.

“Do not force me to involve Mummy,” Sherlock hisses. “You do remember her opinion on animals and the manner in which people treat them.”

Mycroft’s smile slips somewhat.

“Lestrade, we’ll give you a report tomorrow,” Sherlock says. “Tomorrow,” he repeats firmly when it looks like Lestrade will protest. “In the meantime, someone should ensure that bomb vest is safely disarmed.”

John rubs his chest absently.

“I see,” Mycroft says slowly. “I thought at first that Sherlock had brought you with him. But that’s not the case, is it?”

“Fifth pip,” Sherlock says shortly. “We’re going home. Don’t bother us.”

He tugs John after him. John goes willingly enough, tucking up next to Sherlock. It makes walking a little difficult, the way they’re pressed together, but Sherlock doesn’t mind. The dog follows a few steps behind them. If he listens, Sherlock thinks he can hear the clacking of nails in the darkness around them. It’s oddly comforting.

“Remind me to buy some dog food tomorrow,” he tells John.

John nods and burrows a little closer. They’ve left the lights and noise of the pool far behind them when, all of a sudden, John giggles.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“At least,” John laughs, “it wasn’t the lion.”

~fin

Fanfic - The Great Puzzle 3/3 [Sherlock BBC: John/Sherlock]

soera — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 04:18:58 GMT

WARNING: There is a minor mention of suicidal thoughts here. It's mostly glossed over and not addressed in any depth, but you know - just in case.

Chapter One - Part One
Chapter One - Part Two
Chapter Two - Part One
Chapter Two - Part Two
Chapter Three - Part One

“That was interesting, wasn’t it?” John says.

“Was it, for you?” Sherlock asks. “It must have been the same old thing.”

John chuckles. “Not entirely,” he says. “Same conclusion, but you went about it a little differently.”

Sherlock wonders if he really should ask the next question – but who does he think he’s fooling? He’s never been able to resist a mystery. “What did I do?”

“You didn’t talk about your women friends that Burnwell had used, for one,” John says. “Was that story true?”

“Of course,” Sherlock says.

“Liar,” John replies with a chuckle.

Sherlock smiles. “Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know, to keep in practice?” John says. “Did you seriously make that all up to force a reaction out of Mary?”

Sherlock huffs. “It wasn’t all made up,” he says. “But it certainly wasn’t first-hand information.”

“You made them think a few rumours were fact,” John says, then shakes his head with another laugh. “I don’t know if that’s exactly ethical, but you got the same reaction as last time, anyway.”

“And what did I do to garner that?” Sherlock prompts. He considers hailing a taxi, then decides against it. It’s a lovely day and it’s very peaceful to be walking with John.

“You decided you wanted to speak with Arthur, and Lestrade offered you a phone conference,” John says. “You told Arthur exactly what had happened, and he was so shocked he started sputtering over the phone. Not to mention Alexander’s and Charlotte’s reactions. And then Mary fainted. It was a bit of a surprise.”

Sherlock smiles. “That’s what you were preparing for.”

“Well, for some sort of reaction,” John allows. “Oh, and then you took off to parts unknown and left me stranded back at the house.” He glances up at Sherlock. “Are you going to do that again?”

Sherlock shakes his head. No, he’s not letting John out of his sight. “I’m almost certain that Burnwell will have disposed of the scrap of jewellery he got,” he says. “I thought I’d put the word out amongst my contacts to keep an eye out for it. How did you react when you found out I knew Sir Richard?”

“Possibly my eyes tried to fall out of my head,” John says. “I imagine I didn’t make a great first impression.”

“You must have,” Sherlock says. “Why wouldn’t anyone like you?”

John gives Sherlock a side-long look. “I’m sure there are those who don’t,” he says.

Sherlock thinks about that, then lifts a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “There are a lot of idiots in the world,” he says. John barks out a surprised laugh.

“Thanks,” he says, bumping Sherlock’s arm companionably. “You explained it to me afterwards, about your actual station and all that. You’re a rich sod, aren’t you?”

“I get by,” Sherlock says.

“Yes, and then I started wondering why on earth you were looking for a flat-share when you had all that money,” John says. “You never did answer me, back then.”

“I don’t usually use my trust fund,” Sherlock says. “Not unless I have to. Normally I live on my own earnings. But certain things I splurge on – this coat, for instance, and I was prepared to spend on the rent if I couldn’t find a flatmate – for those, I tap the trust fund.”

“Just preference, then,” John says reflectively. “That’s nice.” He glances away. Expression #21. Is he embarrassed? “To be honest, I was having a rough time making ends meet. You all but told me to just use your card if I needed to. I couldn’t really bring myself to, though.”

“At all?” Sherlock asks.

John glances up thoughtfully. “Once,” he says. “Because I bought some groceries and the next day when I came down to make some curry, my groceries had all wound up in various experiments.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock offers.

“Forgiven,” John says, then laughs. “That’s the day I wound up having a row with the chip-and-pin machine in the shop,” he says. “Didn’t have enough money to get more food. Wasn’t going to feel bad about using your card after that.”

“You have a strong sense of pride,” Sherlock tells him. “If you were married, would you keep your accounts separate?”

John looks a little startled. “I suppose I’d keep mine separate, but open up a joint account,” he says reflectively. Then he falls silent as Sherlock hops over a railing and heads for Pixie. He waits by the side of the street while Sherlock has a quick word with her about the scrap of jewellery – reward in it for anyone who finds it, he implies. She’s more than enough to get the word out; he won’t need to bother with anyone else, not unless Lestrade shows up for help and he still doesn’t have anything.

“Joint account for household expenses,” John picks up without missing a beat when Sherlock returns. “You know, things we both need or want. And my own account for if there’s something I want to buy to spoil myself or him. I mean, it’d ruin the surprise if I bought a present and the statement showed the purchase for him to see, eh?”

Him. Sherlock’s mind is stuck on that word.

“Rather,” he says, a little faintly.

“All right there?” John asks, touching Sherlock’s arm.

“Perfectly fine,” Sherlock says. He is. John’s touch is warm through the coat and suit jacket and shirt. John’s touch cannot possibly be felt through the coat and suit jacket and shirt. This is absolutely ridiculous. Next he’ll be spouting poetry. “I don’t know if I’d keep my accounts separate, if I was married. I suppose I should hope for a partner who’s good with money. I can never seem to keep on top of that. Taxes are the bane of my life.”

John grins. “I’ve never had much trouble with those, myself,” he says. “Harry could never figure them out. Taxes always involved a lot of cursing on her part.”

“Mm, not so much cursing as various experiments on the flammable properties of paper,” Sherlock says, and John laughs delightedly.

“Think you’re the marrying sort, then?” John asks. “Get yourself someone who can do your taxes for you?”

“I’m not George Burnwell,” Sherlock says.

John raises his eyebrows. “Yes, that’s quite clear.”

Sherlock shakes his head impatiently. “I won’t change. I won’t promise to change. I’m terrible to live with, I know that. I don’t get social niceties. I don’t want to. The only people who are interested in me are interested because they think they’ll be the ones to change me. But I’m not George Burnwell.”

“You won’t lead them on,” John says in understanding. Sherlock’s shoulders relax in relief. John gets it. Then he flinches as John thumps him hard in the arm.

“What?” he asks, stopping in the middle of the street to give John a wounded look. Then he realises what sort of expression he’s wearing, and attempts to smooth out his face. He suspects, from the lurking amusement in John’s eyes, that he hasn’t been successful.

“Taking me just as an example,” John says. “I don’t particularly want you to change. Are changes going to be made? Sure. But it’s both ways. It’s called compromise, genius. Do I want body parts in the fridge with my food? No. But I’ll put up with that if you’ll put up with wrapping up your experiments so they don’t contaminate my food.”

Compromise, is it? Sherlock knows about it, in a theoretical sort of way, but it’s always seemed such a trite, unimportant thing. A word people parrot about relationships, but never actually engage in. He’s seen so many relationships die even when all involved parties keep bleating on about compromise.

Although. There’s a selection of human fingers that he’s boxed and labelled before putting away in the freezer. There are still more experiments that haven’t been separated and labelled, but that’s because he hasn’t had the time.

“Ah,” he manages to get out. Dear Lord. Dear Lord, how has he not noticed this before? So much for being a genius.

Human relations have always been his weakest point.

“Oh,” John says softly, looking up at him. “Figured it out, have you?”

And of course John had known all along. Of course he had.

“Back then,” Sherlock says. “Were we –”

John shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Sometimes I thought maybe we were heading that way. But I just didn’t know. And I never dared to ask.”

“What changed?” Sherlock breathes. “Why now?”

John scrubs his hand through his hair. “I died. I woke up in my past. I don’t know. All the things holding me back didn’t seem important anymore.” He pauses. “I figure, even if you don’t want me, you’ll just say no and you won’t let it bother you. And I’ll work around it, I won’t let it bother me, and I’ll keep helping you for as long as you’ll let me.”

Sherlock takes that in. It’s rather overwhelming information to absorb. What is he meant to say in response? The expression on John’s face is unnerving – some combination (Sherlock thinks) of fear (of the answer) and hope (for the answer) and surprise (for the location of this conversation, and what the hell are they doing talking about this in the street?) and something else Sherlock doesn’t dare look at too closely.

“Are you sure you’re good with the taxes?” Sherlock asks.

John stares at him for a few long moments, then dissolves into helpless laughter.

“I still don’t understand what happened,” Sherlock says. John’s fingers are sliding through his hair, knuckling into his scalp occasionally, twisting around and playing with the curls. Sherlock can’t remember the last time someone touched him like this. It’s not a prelude to sex. It is intimate. He’s never allowed anyone into his bed before, either. But here they are, he and John, and it’s so very comfortable. Sherlock presses closer against John’s chest, listening to the murmurings of his body.

“About?” John asks after a moment.

“Your little bout of temporal displacement,” Sherlock clarifies.

John huffs a laugh. It shakes his chest a little, makes a small vibration Sherlock feels in his ear and through his cheek. “I don’t know,” John says. “The bomb exploded. You died, I know you did. I saw –” He stops talking, slides his hand down to the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock presses back slightly.

“I’m alive,” he murmurs.

John lets out a shaky breath. “Right,” he says. “Right. So. I don’t know what happened to Moriarty, or his snipers. All I remember was seeing you die, and then I must have been knocked out myself, killed for all I know, and then I woke up.”

“Doesn’t make any sense,” Sherlock says. “People don’t wake up after dying. Especially not in the past.”

“I know I’m not on your calibre of genius,” John says dryly, “but that was what I figured, too.” A pause. “Except it happened. Or, hell, maybe the whole thing was a particularly vivid premonition of the future. I don’t know. All I know is, those three months happened for me, and everything that happened afterwards proved they were real.”

Sherlock listens to John breathe.

“I thought I’d gone insane, for a while,” John confesses.

“There’s one other thing I’d like to ask,” Sherlock says.

“Only one?” John asks wryly.

Sherlock raises his head, props his chin on his hands so that he can see John’s face. “Where did you get the gun?”

John’s eyebrows move up, digging furrows into his forehead. From this angle, the slight downward pull of his lips is even more pronounced. “Oh,” John says. “Old mate of mine. Well, not so much now, not really. But he owed me.”

Sherlock considers that. Yes, John’s slightly wilder days. It’s plausible. “One more question,” he says. John did say he could ask. John also said he might not answer. “Why did you need it?”

John’s eyes narrow and he looks away. The furrows are even deeper. “Doesn’t matter now,” he says.

“Was it in preparation for Moriarty?” Sherlock asks. He knows it wasn’t. All signs point to John having had the gun even before his time-travel/prophetic dream/marker of insanity.

John presses his lips together in a thin line. “Let’s say it was.”

“What was it really?” Sherlock pushes.

“What do you want me to say?” John asks, sighing. “You know the answer already, don’t you?”

He does. It doesn’t mean he wants to believe it. It’s only the third time in his life that Sherlock’s found himself refusing to believe the obvious. The first had been when he’d realised Mummy was undergoing chemotherapy. The second had been when he’d realised Mycroft had no time for his brother when there was work to be done. The answer sits in front of Sherlock, taunting him, but Sherlock can’t look at it, can’t acknowledge it even though it’s already sunk bone-deep into him.

“John,” Sherlock says. “John.”

“I never meant to have it long enough for it to be a problem,” John muses. “I mean, I didn’t think I’d have it very long at all.”

Sherlock swallows past a pesky lump of something stuck in his throat. “Why a gun?”

John smiles faintly. “It seemed appropriate,” he says. “I couldn’t stop dreaming. Your brother told me once – twice, then and now, he said I miss the battlefield. It’s not really true. Partly, but not quite –”

“You miss the rush,” Sherlock says. “You miss making a difference. Saving lives.”

“That’s the one,” John says. “I suppose I’ve always been an active sort, but that’s not really the important bit.”

Sherlock thinks about that for a moment. A chortle slips past his lips. “Mycroft was wrong,” he says in explanation, then laughs again at the positively delighted expression on John’s face. It’s a much better look on him, Sherlock decides, than what he’d been wearing just a few moments ago.

“You don’t anymore, do you?” Sherlock asks, after a moment.

There’s a very brief hesitation before John answers, so brief that barely anyone would have noticed. Sherlock does. “No,” John says, and Sherlock feels the blood draining from his cheeks.

“John,” he says, very quietly.

“Not in a while,” John amends, looking away.

“Not ever again,” Sherlock says. It sounds every bit as imperious as John is constantly accusing him of being. It feels like the weakest plea in the world. Sherlock crawls further up, sprawling all over John, tucking his face in the crook of John’s neck.

John puts his arms around Sherlock and tucks him in close. “All right,” he says. Even the acquiescence doesn’t take away the fear. Sherlock kisses John’s neck, his collarbone, his jaw. If he had been just a few days later meeting John. If John had been a few days, hours, minutes sooner in deciding.

He doesn’t want to think of this anymore. John draws him into a deep, messy kiss, and Sherlock gladly lets himself be distracted.

It is a little inconvenient, Sherlock will admit, to be set upon by an assassin in your own home.

He is grappling with the man for the sword when all of a sudden, the assassin lets out a muffled squeak and collapses to the floor. Sherlock blinks in bemusement, holding on to his suddenly-gained prize of a very sharp sword. A tin of some sort slowly rolls away to hide under the table.

At the door, John’s arm is still extended in throwing position.

“John,” Sherlock says slowly. “Did you just attack an assassin with tinned soup?”

John glances at the man he’s just laid out. “No,” he says, and Sherlock gives him his most disbelieving look. “It wasn’t soup, it was tinned tomatoes,” John mutters, and retreats to the kitchen.

Sherlock whips the assassin’s turban off his head and ties him up briskly, then shoots off a brief message to Lestrade: Have an assassin tied up on my doorstep. Do what you will with him. He drags the man down the stairs, opens the door, and heaves the man outside. As an afterthought, he finds a notebook and pen in his pocket, scribbles a note (This man is a criminal. I would not suggest freeing him.) and attaches it to the still-unconscious assassin’s chest. Apparently, tinned tomatoes pack more of a punch than he’d ever suspected. Then he closes the door on the disturbed looks from passers-by and heads back up the stairs at a steady clip.

John’s inspecting the table when he comes in. “That’s where the scratch came from,” he says triumphantly. “I’d wondered. So this is what you were doing while I was out rowing with the chip-and-pin machine the last time.”

“John, would you turn around, please?” Sherlock says politely.

John obligingly does so. Sherlock takes great pleasure in kissing that damnably amused look off his face.

“I’ll have to keep a stock of tins on hand, if that’s the response I’ll get,” John muses out loud, when Sherlock finally lets him up for air.

“You do that,” Sherlock says. “Might get cumbersome, though.”

“Might,” John agrees. Then his eyes light up in remembrance. “Have you checked your email yet?”

“Just before I was interrupted by that assassin, yes,” Sherlock says. “Sebastian sent me an email. But then, you knew that.”

“I wasn’t sure the Tong’d still manage to get in themselves,” John says. “Moriarty was teasing me, before, when he’d kidnapped me, and I think probably he was the one who helped them get into the country. I guess they managed all right on their own anyway.”

“It would appear so,” Sherlock says. He doesn’t want to think about Moriarty. He presses John back against the table. It’s quite pleasant to have John’s body pressed all along his. “Shall we see if this goes off the same again?”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t,” John says. “We’ll try and get our hands on General Shan this time.”

“The ringleader?” Sherlock asks. “Did I fail to get her last time?”

“Unfortunately,” John says.

“I know I didn’t want you to tell me anything before,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. He tugs at John’s jacket, arranges it neatly on him. “But I’ve changed my mind for this one. Tell me everything.”

“All right,” John says, then pauses and abruptly flushes red. “Most things. Some things I’ll leave out.”

“They could be important,” Sherlock says.

“They’re really, really not,” John says fervently. “They’re not relevant at all.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. He’ll get to the bottom of this sooner or later. For now, he needs to prepare himself to meet Sebastian again. It shouldn’t be too hard. He’ll have John with him. “Bank,” he decides, and finally lets go of John. “You can tell me everything on the way. Shall we be off?”

He sees a ghost of a grin in John’s eyes as he replies. “Oh, god, yes.”

~fin

I wonder if I’ve been changed in the night. Let me think. Was I the same when I got up this morning? I almost think I can remember feeling a little different. But if I’m not the same, the next question is ‘Who in the world am I?’ Ah, that’s the great puzzle! – Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

Admit it. How many of you thought the title was just riffing off the title of the third ep? >D
As always, CC is much appreciated!

Fanfic - The Great Puzzle 3/3 [Sherlock BBC: John/Sherlock]

soera — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 04:17:18 GMT

Home stretch!
[And yes, another chapter divided into two. Bit unevenly split, but that was the best place to cut it so it wasn't too jarring. Curse you, LJ size limit! Curse yooooou!]

Chapter One - Part One
Chapter One - Part Two
Chapter Two - Part One
Chapter Two - Part Two

three:
no use going back

But it's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then. – Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Lewis Carroll

“You believed me?” John asks. There is more than a little disbelief in his voice. Sherlock can understand the reaction. He can understand it, but it still irritates him.

“Everything you offered proved accurate,” he says in lieu of remembering what it had been like to question John’s…

John’s?

Friendship?

“Sherlock?” John asks, touching his hand briefly. Sherlock closes his eyes for a few seconds, then looks at John. “You looked a million miles away,” John says in concern.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock says. “I am, however, rather cross with you.”

John blinks rapidly.

“I told you I would lend you my aid,” Sherlock huffs. “What possessed you to think that embarking on this – this one-man mission was a good idea?”

“The fact that I didn’t have any idea how to convince you of any of this?” John says dryly. “I didn’t –”

“You didn’t what?” Sherlock prompts, perhaps a trifle sharply.

“I didn’t want to see the look on your face, all right?” John says. “Distrust. Disbelief. Whatever it would have been.” He looks away. His hands are perfectly still on the sheets. It is odd, Sherlock thinks absently, that John should be so very motionless at this moment, when he surely is under extreme stress. John fidgets all the time. He moves about constantly even when he’s reading. Sherlock is the one who lies unmoving for days, lamenting the lack of interesting cases. But come a truly trying time and it is Sherlock who can’t stop picking at things, it is John who is preternaturally still.

Sherlock tugs a little at the corner of John’s sheets. They’re not exactly soft.

“How much longer will you be locked up in this infernal place?” he complains. “You can’t be getting any sleep here.”

A moment of silence. “No,” John says, smiling just a little as he looks down. “Not much, no.”

“It was always the smell that annoyed me,” Sherlock says, then presses his lips firmly together. He hadn’t intended to say that.

“The noise, for me,” John says, without displaying any inkling of knowledge that Sherlock has just told him something he has told no one in his life. Sherlock regulates his breathing pattern. Simple enough to fake nonchalance.

“You’re a light sleeper,” Sherlock says. “But that’s not all, is it?”

John shrugs. “I keep hearing machinery and thinking it’s something I should be keeping an eye on. When I’m halfway asleep, I keep thinking it’s surely got to be time for my rounds soon and I’d best have a look at that patient’s monitor, and if I happen to hear any emergency call, I’m wide awake before I even know what’s happened.”

John presses back a little, the pillow wrinkling under the pressure he exerts. Then he relaxes. “I suppose it’s true what they say, that doctors don’t make good patients. Even when I’m trying to be one.”

Sherlock watches John, watches the shape of his mouth as he speaks. John’s not normally quite this chatty. It’s the painkillers, he knows. He thinks that probably it’s not a good thing to take advantage of John’s current state, but he wants so badly to hear John speak. It reminds him that he wasn’t too late.

And besides, he’s seen how John spoke to Mycroft, earlier, when the latter had dropped by for a visit and an update. Moriarty is dead. Moran is in critical condition still, but doctors are cautiously optimistic. Sherlock doesn’t care much, except that Moran could prove useful in taking the rest of the organisation down completely. And Sherlock does want that. He wants to rip apart everything Moriarty had so painstakingly built up. He wants to destroy the shrine Moriarty had built to his own ego. He wants to feel bone grind beneath his shoes, and if he won’t be allowed the pleasure of the literal, he’ll take the figurative.

“Sherlock?” John asks. John had been quite his normal self with Mycroft. He’s being unusually chatty with Sherlock, though. Perhaps he doesn’t mind. (Perhaps he feels safe talking to Sherlock.)

“Mrs Hudson’s absolutely distraught at your being here,” Sherlock says. “You shouldn’t be surprised if she comes for a visit once you’re allowed.”

“I don’t see why I’m not already,” John says, rolling his eyes. “Infection’s clearing up nicely, I’m all wrapped up – it’s not like I’m at death’s door. You wouldn’t – Sherlock. Sherlock!”

Sherlock tastes blood. John makes a soft sound of distress and reaches out, thumbing his lip cautiously.

“Steady, let me see,” he says, pulling very lightly at the edge of Sherlock’s lip. Sherlock parts them obediently. John inspects the bite, fingers skirting the minor wound without touching it. “Good, it’s not too deep. Don’t bite it again.”

“Accident,” Sherlock says.

“I don’t suppose you’ve had any new cases,” John says longingly. “I’d love to hear about them, if you did.”

Sherlock tilts his head and studies John for a moment. “One rather important one,” he says at last. “This.”

“Oh.” John looks confused. It probably says something that the expression on John doesn’t annoy Sherlock nearly as much as when he sees it on anyone else. “Oh.” And now his cheeks are taking on a charming pink tint.

Sherlock stretches a little, arching his back in the chair. It’s not made for prolonged use, which is absolutely ridiculous. Sherlock has been sitting in this one since the previous night, when they found John. He expects other people tend to stay even longer. He’s not one for sentiment, so surely those who are (the majority of the world) will stay days on end if allowed. Why shouldn’t the chairs be comfortable then? These were about as terrible as the chairs in the university library. He’d hated working there, had always brought his work back to his rooms wherever possible. He’d hated the university in general. It had all been so boring. And the people – the less said about most of them, the better.

“I could tell you about an earlier case of mine,” he offers. “There was one particularly intriguing one I encountered when I was, oh, I must have been twenty-two or so. An old university classmate came to me for help in solving a little family puzzle. Would you like to hear the details?”

John’s eyes brighten, though the flush does not fade from his cheeks. “Please,” he says in delight, shifting and settling more comfortably. He leans forward slightly, body bending towards Sherlock in anticipation. His fingers are twisting absently in the sheets and his left leg is twitching under the sheets. Sherlock welcomes the signs of a calmer John.

“His name was Reginald Musgrave,” Sherlock says. It takes hardly any effort at all to recall the particulars of the case. It had been one of the first where his abilities had been regarded as more than simply a parlour trick. It was easy to remember Reginald, too. He had been accused of arrogance in much the same way Sherlock had. It had stuck with Sherlock, because Reginald seemed to him all bluster. He remembered wondering what others saw in him, if he saw something very different in Reginald. If anyone would see anything else in him.

“He was from – shall we say, a well-to-do family, and could trace his lineage back a fair way,” Sherlock continues. “His family owned a bit of property, and it was bequeathed from first-born son to first-born son.”

John’s eyebrows push together, digging furrows in his forehead. He probably can’t imagine such a traditional lifestyle, Sherlock guesses. Else, he’s wondering what would have become of him if he’d been born into such a family. John would not have been a good fit for the life.

“Reginald’s father had passed away two years prior, and the estate had been bequeathed to him. Provisions had been made for Reginald’s uncle to live on the property as well. Reginald had no complaint with this. The elder Musgrave comported himself well, and though he did have a penchant for bringing home young women, he was careful not to let any scandal touch the family.”

“It’s like you’re talking about another world altogether,” John says wryly.

Sherlock ponders that for a moment. “In a way, it’s the kind of world Mycroft and I grew up in,” he confesses. “As did a number of our acquaintances. I suppose it’s a matter of choice, though. I certainly wasn’t interested in the life, and my parents didn’t protest when I moved out.”

“I guess it helps that you’re the second son, right?” John says. “If it’s all that important that it’s the first-born son who…”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock concedes. “I honestly don’t think our parents would have minded if Mycroft had decided to take up a Bohemian lifestyle, though.”

John stares at Sherlock for a moment, then giggles. “I just had the most peculiar mental image,” he says, passing his hand over his eyes. Still grinning, he leans back in the bed, sinking against the pillow with a sigh. “Go on, then.”

“Well, Reginald had most decidedly embraced the lifestyle,” Sherlock tells John. “And as such, he was rather displeased when his uncle became involved with a hired maid who came in to clean every week. This maid… one Rachel Howells, if I remember her name correctly – was quite distraught when Reginald’s uncle broke it off with her. I was told there was much screaming on the streets, and possibly the throwing of some valuable crockery.”

“And possibly some calling of the police?” John asks.

“Very possibly,” Sherlock concedes. “But no charges were laid. Reginald was quite keen on covering up any hint of scandal, you understand. But he told his uncle that if he was to persist in such behaviour, he would have to leave the family home.”

“Don’t tell me the uncle decided to kill everyone in a fit of rage,” John says. His eyes are closed, but his voice is still fairly alert. The edges of each syllable are blunted only slightly by the medication, causing a pleasant roll to John’s voice.

“Nothing so boring,” Sherlock says. He gets up, tugs his chair closer and sits back down. Then he puts his hand on John’s wrist. Heartbeat. John’s eyes are open again. His heartbeat is steady.

“Reginald’s uncle agreed to leave as soon as he’d found a place to stay,” Sherlock says. He can feel John’s pulse leaping sharp and constant against his fingers. “Ms Howells returned occasionally to try and see him, but Reginald managed to put her off both times he saw her. He told me he suspected that she’d returned other times, when he hadn’t been around. But nothing was said, and he thought he’d best leave his uncle to handle things.

“And then, a week before Reginald’s uncle was meant to leave… he vanished,” Sherlock continues. He slides his hand up, fingers grazing John’s palm, moving his thumb over the back of John’s hand. It would be a simple thing indeed to curl his fingers around. He doesn’t dare move. “A search was mounted, but the police could find no trace of him. The last thing Reginald had spoken of to his uncle was a peculiar old family ritual that had been passed down through the ages. The police, being utter incompetents, failed to note the ritual as being of any importance.”

“What sort of ritual?” John asks. He shifts slightly, then folds his hand around Sherlock’s. Sherlock stares at their hands.

“One simple enough,” he says, then frowns. “So simple that I cannot recall it. I have the paper at home – you can have a look when we get back. It was in the line of questions and answers – a script each member of the family had to recite from when they came of age. Something apparently quite incomprehensible, of course.”

“Apparently,” John says. There’s a small smile on his lips. The lines on his face are relaxing and his words are now slurring slightly. Drowsiness. He’s still holding Sherlock’s hand. “I suppose you figured it out right off the bat.”

“As I said, it was a simple enough matter,” Sherlock says. “Perhaps the rest of the story should wait until you can view the wording of the ritual for yourself.”

“All right,” John says equably, and falls asleep.

Sherlock has seen John fall asleep once before. They had been working on a case, and he had set John to reading some admittedly dry papers. John had nodded off between one breath and the next, falling asleep with a ready totality that had surprised Sherlock. John had woken suddenly when Sherlock had gotten up to go to the kitchen; light sleeper, Sherlock had noted then. If he moves, will John wake up? He doesn’t want John to wake up just yet. John needs to rest if he’s to recover properly.

John’s still holding his hand. Sherlock sits very, very still, and watches him sleep.

They escape the hospital eventually. John hasn’t yet mentioned anything about Sherlock’s newfound penchant for keeping John within view at all times. Hopefully, he hasn’t noticed it. People tend to be quite unobservant, and even John (different through he might be) generally falls into that pattern (except when Sherlock most wants him to). Sherlock is certainly not about to bring up the peculiar terror that seizes him whenever he isn’t with John. Otherwise, it seems as if the events of the past week or two had been but a dream.

Moriarty’s reach had only been known through the criminal world. Even then, few had known who he was. It’s only now, with no new plans filtering down to the lower echelons, that his organisation’s beginning to realise something’s wrong. And of course, those with no reason to touch that world would have no idea anything had ever happened.

For a while, Sherlock had wondered if this would mean a drop in the crime rate. Moriarty himself had carried out only sporadic crimes to keep his organisation going – numerically insignificant (but for how interesting those crimes might have been). The bulk of the work had come from setting up crimes for ordinary folk. Perhaps the lack of someone to help might deter some of the less determined. Most of those who wanted a crime carried out, however, would likely do so in some manner or other. A drop in the quality of the crimes, perhaps. But there will still be crimes aplenty to solve, even with Moriarty dead.

Sherlock tells John the rest of the story (secret passage, hidden treasure, homicidal ex-lover, all very exciting, apparently). John is appropriately dazzled by Sherlock’s brilliance, even years removed from the incident. Sherlock basks in the open admiration. It’s very nice indeed to be acknowledged the way John acknowledges him. He’s feeling positively mellow when Lestrade contacts him for help on another case. That’s probably why Sherlock’s response is quite polite, even if it’s still in the negative. Lestrade texts him, Are you sick?

Sherlock stares at the text for a while. Is that in response to the refusal or the politeness? He ignores it and returns to his new hobby of John-watching.

“You know, it’s a little odd having you try and dissect me,” John says conversationally.

“I’m not trying to dissect you,” Sherlock says. He simply doesn’t understand why John has chosen to do a vast many of the things he has done. He doesn’t understand why John is with him. He needs more data, and so he watches John. He analyses him. Sherlock would like to cut John’s head open, slide his fingers along John’s brain, frontal lobe, parietal lobe, search out his limbic system, cerebral cortex, where how what makes you you and then put all the pieces of bone carefully back and slide the skin and hair over so there’s not a mark to be seen because he doesn’t want to hurt John, he just wants to understand him.

Perhaps he’s trying to dissect John.

“Liar,” John says, and sits down on the sofa next to Sherlock with a cup of tea. Sherlock slides downwards and lengthwise, propping his feet up on the arm of the sofa, and settling his head on John’s thigh. John huffs a breath of laughter and puts his free hand on Sherlock’s head.

It’s a comfortable sort of silence that wraps around them. Sherlock quite likes it. He closes his eyes and imagines the look of quiet contemplation John often adopts at moments like this. He wonders what John thinks of. Perhaps, the first month he had lived with John, John had been wondering how best to deal with the Moriarty problem. What would he be thinking of now?

“Ask,” John says.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

“If you want to know something, ask,” John says. “I can’t promise I’ll always answer, but the odds are in your favour.”

Sherlock thinks about that. Then he thinks about all the things he’d like to ask John. There are so many questions. He’s barely aware of what he’s mumbling. Why don’t you like lemon in your tea? Why do you complain incessantly every time you see a spider even though you’re not arachnophobic? What do you think about when you go quiet and you frown and your eyes turn down at the corners? Why are you still here?

John’s fingers are moving through Sherlock’s hair, knuckles pressing lightly against his scalp. “When I was young, my mum would always make me tea with lemon and honey when I was sick,” John says. “I suppose I began to associate the drink with illness. I never have it when I’m well, because it reminds me of being sick. Funny thing – I never want anything else when I’m ill.”

Sherlock files that fact away carefully.

“As for the spiders, look up camel spiders one day,” John says. “After encountering a couple on my first posting, I feel obliged to complain when I spot any type of spider at all.”

“What sort of a ridiculous name is that?” Sherlock complains. “Describing one animal using another is hardly the best –”

“It fits,” John says. “Trust me.” There’s a laugh in his voice, Sherlock’s almost positive. He tilts his head back a bit so he can look at John’s face. Creases in the eyes, a smile on the lips. “Apparently, they’re not hugely dangerous, but they’re still not exactly something I want to wake up to find sharing camp with me.”

“I’ll look it up,” Sherlock says.

“You do that,” John says. “If I never see one again, it will be too soon. What was the next one? Oh, yes. I don’t know which moments you’re talking about exactly. I suppose if I look somewhat – distant – I’m probably thinking of my time in service. Possibly Harry.”

“Not the Moriarty thing?” Sherlock asks, still craning his head back so he can see John’s face.

“You didn’t seem to be describing a vaguely murderous look,” John says, then winces. “That was probably not a nice thing to say.”

“Accurate,” Sherlock points out.

“Yes, well.” John takes a sip of tea. “Could have been, I suppose. Trying to figure out what to do. I’m going to try not to think about him any more though.”

That’s perfectly fine by Sherlock.

“And I’m here because you’re here, of course,” John adds. “Probably I’d be living with Harry or Clara if I hadn’t met you.”

That wasn’t what Sherlock had meant at all. He doesn’t correct John.

It’s John who eventually talks Sherlock into going back out on cases again.

I don’t want to, he’d wanted to say. I haven’t solved the most interesting case of all yet, and how am I meant to focus on anything else when I still don’t know anything about John?

But he goes in the end. John’s going to be with him, after all.

Lestrade comes down himself to let Sherlock and John through the tape. He looks somewhat tired, Sherlock thinks, and ignores the suspicious look that sweeps over him.

“Well?” Sherlock asks impatiently.

“Right,” Lestrade says. “We’re dealing with stolen gems worth a few million, and a couple of pretty important families, so try and be polite, will you?” His voice does not convey much hope for that happening. John’s hand brushes the back of Sherlock’s lightly.

“Apparently, this Richard Levington-Wright loaned a particularly expensive necklace to the Holders,” Lestrade explains as they head into the house. Sherlock studies the path as they walk, but it’s of little use; any useful markings have been thoroughly trampled over. “It was his late wife’s, a family heirloom. He agreed to let Charlotte Holder wear it to a function next week, so she brought it home the last time she and her husband visited Levington-Wright. That was two days ago.”

Part of Sherlock is busy despairing over the players in this game. The other part is busy noticing the family photographs on the wall. Alexander and Charlotte Holder appear to have aged quite well, and their children have grown up handsomely. Arthur’s choice of attire is peculiar, though. Gambling habit? But photographs are hardly conclusive; he’ll have to see Arthur in person to know for certain.

“The Holders told their children but no one else about the necklace,” Lestrade continues. “It was kept in a safe in Alexander Holder’s study. Only the four family members have the access codes. Last night, Alexander was having some trouble sleeping, so he decided to get back out of bed and get some work done. He went to his study and found his son holding the necklace and looking very surprised indeed to see his father.”

“And you need me because?” Sherlock enquires.

“The necklace was broken,” Lestrade says, and holds up a small digital camera for Sherlock to see. The necklace in the picture is gold, with rubies studded throughout. A small corner has broken off, taking at least three rubies with it. “And Arthur’s clammed up completely. Levington-Wright thinks that the necklace might be reparable if the missing piece is recovered. He’s already said he won’t be pressing charges if Arthur returns the broken bit, but the boy still won’t talk. My men have been through Arthur’s room, the study, and then the entire house, but we didn’t turn up anything. We’re working through the grounds again; the first time was only a cursory look.”

There is probably no difference between a thorough and a cursory look, for them. Sherlock glances back at John, and holds his tongue.

“Do you want to see the study first, or talk to the Holders?” Lestrade asks.

Sherlock pauses at the third window sill down the corridor. Ground floor, easy enough access. Bolted from the inside, scratches along the sill. Curious. None of the others had had even such mild damage caused to them. He retraces his steps, checking the first two windows. They both have thorny bushes directly outside. Back again. The third window doesn’t. Gravel, no chance of footprints. But there does appear to have been a disturbance. Small pebbles have been kicked up, some scattering as far as the path. How interesting. The sill is polished, the scratches minute. They appear to be incidental damage. All the same, they’re quite telling.

The bolt, the bolt. It slides open easily when Sherlock tests it, and the window swings open soundlessly. He closes the window, opens it, closes it, opens it. He tries leaning against it. Too low to be comfortable. Hullo, what’s that? Prints that the police haven’t yet destroyed? The marks are faint, but leaning out the window, he can see that there are two sets – one made by boots and the other by bare feet, embedded in the dirt trail just past the decorative gravel. He snaps a photograph with his phone and thinks about things for a moment. Boots showed a clear imprint all the way through; Bare Feet only had prints of the balls of the feet, not the heels. Boots was walking, Bare Feet was running. And there are scratches on the sill.

“John,” he says. “Lean up against this, will you?”

John does so, arms hanging over the edge casually.

Heights, heights. Still a bit low for John. Arms folded? He moves John’s arms for him. That’s much more plausible, yes. Lower? John has to bend a little. So, John’s height or shorter still. “Open it,” Sherlock says, and watches John’s hands as he opens and closes the windows a few times. The cuff of his jacket just barely brushes the sill as he moves.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, and turns to Lestrade. “Was anyone outside of the family aware the necklace was here?”

“They’re certain no one else knew,” Lestrade says. He’s frowning at Sherlock, eyes darting quickly between Sherlock and John. Why? Never mind, it’s not important. “The dining room’s close to soundproof, and they’re all sure the doors were shut before they discussed it.”

“Hm. Let’s go have a look at the study,” Sherlock tells John, and ushers him forward with a hand on his back. Up the stairs, second door on the right. Sherlock scans the door and the surroundings (nothing interesting) before entering.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade says from behind them. “How did you know where the study was?”

“Lestrade, we didn’t find anything – oh, did you have to bring him in?”

Anderson. Sometimes, Sherlock thinks that Lestrade likes torturing him. Why is it always Anderson whenever he works with Lestrade? He slips on a pair of gloves and heads for the open safe under the desk. Documents, documents, documents. For a moment, he sees reams of paper covered in neat handwriting – Sullivan appears in charge of three units and recruitment but final say seems to lie with Moran – and he has to blink to clear his vision. What else? He looks up at John, then back at the contents of the safe.

“He stands a better chance of finding out where those gems are than we do,” Lestrade snaps. He’s being oddly brusque today. “And I don’t want Cooper breathing down my neck any longer than I have to, all right?”

That would explain it. There is no love lost between Lestrade and his superior. Nor, for that matter, between Sherlock and Cooper. Cooper has always been openly critical of Sherlock, even though he still allows his people to work with Sherlock. Sherlock gets results and makes the department look good, after all. Yet Cooper will say that Sherlock’s an amateur and he shouldn’t be allowed to interfere, and really can you trust a man with his history. If there’s one thing Sherlock hates, it’s a hypocrite.

Even Sally Donovan is preferable to Cooper. At least she’s refreshingly honest in her dealings with Sherlock. Or Anderson, which is really saying quite a lot about Sherlock’s feelings on Cooper.

“Did we do this the last time?” Sherlock asks John in an undertone, as Anderson and Lestrade argue in the doorway.

John nods, a mischievous look in his eyes.

“Don’t tell me,” Sherlock orders him, then amends that. “Well, nothing beyond what you might have said the first time.”

“All right,” John says with a grin.

Sherlock smiles back, and returns his attention to the study. No signs of damage to the safe. Highly unlikely it was forced. Fingerprint dust all over the place, though. Anderson’s been in it already. No doubt they’ll find no prints other than that of the family members. There’s nothing of further interest in the study, but Sherlock takes careful note of the general layout and placements anyway. He might want to return after speaking to the Holders. Sherlock straightens and looks for John.

“I don’t know why you’re bothering with all this,” Anderson complains. “We already know the jewels aren’t here.”

“I suppose you know who was responsible for the theft as well,” Sherlock says.

Lestrade frowns. “Arthur was caught red-handed. Are you saying it wasn’t him?”

“I’m saying there are points in what you told me that don’t make sense,” Sherlock says. “I’d like to speak to the Holders now.”

Lestrade gestures to the stairs leading back down. “That way. What doesn’t make sense to you?”

“The location of the piece that broke off,” Sherlock says. “It is nowhere in this house, is that correct?”

“Right,” Lestrade says.

“Then do you mean to tell me that Arthur took the necklace, brought it elsewhere, broke off a piece and hid it, then brought the necklace back?” Sherlock asks impatiently. “If he had damaged it while stealing it, surely the piece would be in the room itself. He would hardly have had time to hide it. There are no windows in the study, so he could not have thrown it out. Clearly the damage did not occur in that room. But the question still remains – if he had in fact managed to escape the room with the whole necklace, why bother taking a small portion and returning the rest? It’s not as if it’s a portion of money; a broken necklace would not have gone unnoticed.”

“So what’s your answer then?” Lestrade asks. “If you think Arthur didn’t do it, who did?”

“I haven’t nearly enough information to make a claim on that,” Sherlock says. “I cannot rule anyone out at this point.”

Lestrade knocks on the door perfunctorily, then opens it and gestures for Sherlock and John to walk through. “This is the consultant I told you about,” he says. Sherlock eyes the four people seated there carefully. Mary looks distraught, he notes, even more so than her parents. Sir Richard looks deeply troubled. His wife, Sherlock recalls, has been dead for – it would be twenty-six years now. It appears he has no more forgotten her now than he had when Sherlock first met him. The distress on his face is swiftly giving way to surprise, though, and Sherlock braces himself.

“It can’t be Sherlock?” Sir Richard exclaims, standing up hurriedly. “My god, it’s been an age, child.”

“Sir Richard,” Sherlock says, bowing politely to him. “It’s a pleasure to see you again.”

“I wish it was under better circumstances,” Sir Richard says ruefully. “Do you know the Holders, Sherlock?”

“We met briefly when I was younger,” Sherlock says, nodding to the Holders as they also stand. “I don’t know if you’ll remember me, Mr Holder. It was almost twenty years ago.”

“Just Alexander, please. And I believe I do,” Alexander says. His voice is tired, though he’s certainly making an effort. Sherlock doesn’t dare look back to see the expressions on John’s, Lestrade’s and Anderson’s faces. No, wait – John’s been through this already. He’s been expecting it. Sherlock will have to find out what John’s original reaction had been. “Geoffrey and Victoria’s youngest, am I right? How are they?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “They’re both quite well.” He finally glances back to meet John’s entirely too amused eyes. “Might I introduce you to Dr John Watson? He honours me every so often by assisting on some of my cases. John, Sir Richard Levington-Wright, Alexander and Charlotte Holder, and their daughter Mary.”

There are murmurs of greetings. Sherlock takes advantage of his new position to look at Lestrade’s and Anderson’s expressions. Lestrade looks like he’s recovering from the shock. Anderson still looks like someone’s bludgeoned him in the face. Nothing new there. Sherlock looks back at the others, gauging their physical builds. Sir Richard is almost Sherlock’s height. Alexander is about John’s height, and his wife and daughter are both nearly a head shorter than him.

“And you’re a detective now?” Sir Richard asks, once the pleasantries are dispensed with.

“A consulting detective, yes,” Sherlock says.

“He’s the best we’ve ever worked with,” Lestrade puts in. “He’ll find the missing piece, you don’t need to worry about that.”

“Very well,” Sir Richard says, and nods towards the vacant seats. “Thank you, Sherlock. I don’t know that I’ll be of any help personally, but anything I can do –”

Sherlock inclines his head slightly as he takes a seat on the two-person settee opposite the Holders. His choice puts him in the best position to study everyone involved simultaneously. John sits down next to him. Lestrade sends Anderson off, closes the door, and leans up against the wall, watching them.

“I’d like to hear the story again from the beginning, if you don’t mind,” Sherlock says. “I find it helps me sort my thoughts when I hear it directly from those involved. Would one of you care to begin? Start from when you arrived here with the necklace.”

“Well, now,” Alexander says, dabbing at his brow with a handkerchief. Wearing a suit, even now? Clearly puts stock in appearances. Unsurprising, given that he runs a bank. His socks are both navy, but the subtle pattern on one indicates that they’re mismatched. Clear indicator of the man’s state of mind. “That was two days ago. We’d been to lunch with Richard, and Charlotte mentioned she was looking for a nice necklace to go with her new dress, for a business function we’re attending next week. It’s quite important to us, so Richard very generously offered the loan of one of dear Alice’s necklaces.”

“I was sure,” Sir Richard puts in quietly, “from Charlotte’s description of the dress, that the necklace would go quite well with it.”

“He begged us to be careful with it,” Charlotte says. She’s really quite pale. Cream-coloured dress, no jewellery, subtle makeup, flawless manicure. Her makeup still can’t conceal the redness of her eyes, nor her manicure the effects of her nervously picking at her fingers. “I’m so very sorry, Richard. I don’t know how we’ll ever make this up to you.”

“If the missing piece can be recovered, and the necklace mended, we hardly need to mention it,” Sir Richard says. Sherlock wonders what will need to be mentioned if the necklace cannot be mended. Irrelevant – their problem to solve.

“You procured the necklace right away?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes, we were lunching at Richard’s,” Alexander explains. “He brought the necklace down and Charlotte agreed it would suit wonderfully, and so we brought it back with us that very evening when we returned home.”

“What time was this?” Sherlock asks.

“I’m not sure of the exact time,” Alexander confesses. He fidgets in his chair. “An hour or so before dinner, I suppose. Dinner was at eight, I remember that.”

“We try and have a meal together at least once a week,” Charlotte says. “That night, both Mary and Arthur were able to join us.”

“We told them about the necklace, of course,” Alexander says. “Charlotte was so excited about getting to wear it. It was already in the safe by then. That was the first thing I did when I got home – I went to the study and put it in the safe.”

“What was Arthur’s reaction when he heard of the necklace?” Sherlock prompts, when the Holders both seem lost for words.

“Mildly interested,” Alexander says. “To be honest, I’ve been turning that dinner over and over in my head, and I still can’t see anything in his behaviour that makes me think he was planning this – this audacity – back then.”

“And what did you think of the necklace, Mary?” Sherlock asks.

The girl starts. She’s dressed much more casually than her parents, in a fitted blouse and jeans. No accessories save a thick metal bracelet wrapped snugly around her wrist. She’s been playing with it the whole time, and a tan line is visible on her wrist when she moves the bracelet around. Clearly not something she often removes. Something important to her? “Oh! Nothing in particular, I suppose,” she says. “I asked Mummy if she was planning on wearing her gold earrings as well.” She glances away. “We didn’t talk about it all that long, really.”

“And after that?” Sherlock asks, returning his attention to Alexander and Charlotte. Out of the corner of his eye, he continues to watch Mary.

“Arthur stopped me after dinner,” Alexander confesses. “He asked for a loan of a thousand dollars.” His face flushes slightly. “I knew it was a gambling debt, and I’d had more than enough of bailing him out. I’ve told him time and again he needs to get help, but he just won’t listen!”

“So you turned him down,” Sherlock says.

“Of course I did!” Alexander exclaims heatedly. Then his face falls. “I suppose that’s why he decided to go after the necklace. I wish I’d just given him the bloody money, now!”

“Alex,” Charlotte hisses reprovingly. Her husband subsides somewhat, though he still looks thoroughly unrepentant.

“Continue, if you would,” Sherlock says, pressing his fingertips together. Alexander is swinging between utter despair and fury, Charlotte looks like she’s about to cry, and Mary looks like her world has just ended.

John shifts slightly, his knee bumping against Sherlock’s briefly before moving away again.

There is something niggling at Sherlock’s brain. He looks out over the possible paths. Which one, which one?

“Well, nothing happened that night,” Alexander says. “Charlotte and I were home all of yesterday, and I spent most of the day in the study. We went to bed at around ten, but –”

“A moment, please,” Sherlock says, lifting one hand slightly. “Mary, what did you do yesterday?”

She frowns thoughtfully. “Went out with some friends,” she said. “We caught a movie, had dinner. Some of my friends were going to go get drinks, but I was just too tired. I got home around ten, myself, just as Daddy was going to sleep.”

“She reminded me to set the security and sent me off to bed,” Alexander says with a faint grin. “She looks after us all wonderfully.”

Mary looks down at her hands. There are spots of colour on her cheeks, but she doesn’t seem pleased by her father’s comment.

“And the security entails?” Sherlock asks.

“There’s a camera trained on the front and back doors,” Alexander says. “They don’t cover the whole property, though, and no one was picked up on them. There’s also an alarm set to go off if there’s an intrusion, but it was never triggered.”

“Who has the codes to set the alarm?” Sherlock asks.

“All of us who live here,” Alexander says. “No one else would have them.”

“And what was Arthur doing yesterday?” Sherlock enquires.

“Heaven knows,” Alexander says with a sigh. “He was out from morn till dusk. He still hadn’t returned home by the time I went to bed.”

“Very well,” Sherlock says. “Go on.”

“Well, I woke up after an hour and I just couldn’t get back to sleep,” Alexander says. “I tossed and turned in bed for a while, and then I finally gave it up. If I couldn’t sleep, I could at least get some work done. So I put on my dressing gown and went to the study.” His face starts turning red again. “The door was open, and when I went in, I saw Arthur standing in front of my desk, the necklace in his hands. I’m not proud to say it, but I quite – lost my temper with him. I demanded to know what he thought he was doing, if he’d been driven to stealing the heirlooms of other families to support his gambling.”

“Was he wearing shoes?” Sherlock asks.

Alexander pauses, thrown. “You know, I don’t believe he was,” he says slowly. “I can’t be certain, though. I wasn’t exactly looking at his feet.”

“You ought to,” Sherlock says. “Was there dirt on his feet?”

“Yes,” Lestrade breaks in. “I was one of the first on the scene; we had to get him some shoes, and I remember the dirt.”

And yet he hadn’t noticed anything peculiar? Sherlock resolves to force some intelligence into Lestrade’s brain, through whatever means necessary. Lestrade’s got excellent intuition (most of the time), and he’s willing to work hard; he’s just constantly let down by a lack of imagination.

“How did Arthur react when you entered?” Sherlock asks Alexander. Mary has now lost all colour in her face, and she looks dangerously close to fainting. Beside Sherlock, John shifts uncomfortably. Is something about to happen? What’s John anticipating?

“To be honest, he looked absolutely shocked at first,” Alexander says. “I suppose he never thought he’d be caught. I’m usually a sound sleeper, you see. Last night was unusual for me. Then he just became angry and refused to say anything else.”

“He did ask for five minutes to go out before we called the police,” Charlotte adds. Sherlock raises an eyebrow and she hastily adds, “I woke up because of the yelling. It didn’t take long to figure out what had happened.”

“Five minutes to go out?” Sherlock asks.

“He said we could call the police,” Alexander says. “I told him I would, you see. I told him I’d put it in their hands. He said that was fine, but he wanted to go out for five minutes and then he’d come back and I could do as I liked. Well, I told him I wasn’t that foolish. Give him five minutes and god knows where he’d be. When I told him I wasn’t letting him go anywhere, he decided to throw a tantrum and stop talking altogether.”

Sherlock turns slightly and glances at Lestrade.

“He’s in custody,” Lestrade says. “Still hasn’t spoken to anyone, as of –” He checks his watch. “An hour ago.”

“It’s that George Burnwell who’s to blame,” Alexander says darkly. “Alexander stopped gambling twice, and both times he went back to it because of Burnwell.”

Sherlock straightens in his seat. “George Burnwell,” he says. “You don’t mean the nephew of Judge Nathaniel Burnwell, do you?”

“The one and the same,” Alexander says. “Arthur loves Mary more than anything, you know, and he stopped gambling when she asked him to. But that George – well, I suppose I can see why Arthur was so enamoured of him. He’s got a slick tongue, that one, but he’s bad news all the way through.”

Is Mary – yes, she’s shaking. The suspicions that Sherlock has had have now crystallised. The only question remaining is the location of the broken piece of jewellery.

“I’ve had the displeasure of meeting him,” Sherlock reflects. “He was rather cruel to a lady I once knew.”

“Was he?” Charlotte asks.

“Not initially, of course,’ Sherlock says. “He’s quite skilled at charming them – making them believe that they’re the one person capable of changing him. I’ve seen it happen at least three times with my own eyes, and I suspect he’s done it more often. He seduces them, makes them think he’s turning over a new leaf. They lavish money and gifts on him, offer to pay his debts. He takes them up on their offers and then promptly breaks things off with them. I’ve never seen him change, though each and every woman I spoke to was initially convinced their case would be different.”

Mary sways in her chair, then falls off with an unceremonious thump. At least the floor’s got a nice, thick carpet on it. Sherlock watches as her parents panic and John hurries over. It’s quite the pleasure to watch as John deftly checks her breathing and pulse, then unbuttons the top of her shirt. “Hold her feet up,” he instructs Lestrade, who’s hovering. “Above the level of the heart. Not so high – that’s fine, yes. Keep them there.” He checks Mary’s breathing again. “No need to worry. It’s just all been a bit much for her. Shock, you know.”

He’s very efficient. Sherlock likes watching his hands, in particular. “Don’t they give you a blanket for that?” Sherlock asks, stretching his legs languidly.

“Well, shock can cause your core body temp to drop,” John says. “Mary’s not in danger of that, though. There we go, open your eyes. Thank you, Richard. Take it slow, Mary. Wait till the dizziness has passed before you try to sit up. There now.”

John’s got one arm around Mary’s back as he helps her slowly sit up and sip the glass of water Sir Richard had poured. Sherlock suddenly feels intensely jealous of her.

“Having second thoughts?” he asks.

Mary stares at her glass of water.

“Did you think you were special?” Sherlock continues. “Did he tell you he’d change for you? That you were worth it? That he’d never wanted to change before, but now things were different?”

“Dear Lord,” Charlotte says, drawing back in horror. Evidently, she’s a little quicker on the uptake than her husband is. Mary bursts into noisy tears, leaning forward to hide her face in her hands.

“What?” Alexander asks in confusion. John lets go of Mary and comes back over to Sherlock. Sherlock tilts a quizzical look at John, who simply shakes his head and slouches against the arm of the sofa, watching as Mary blubbers apologies to her parents and Sir Richard. Lestrade looks a tad flummoxed, but he rallies himself and tells Mary, quite sternly, that it’s in her best interests to confess what exactly happened.

So she does. She had been out for a movie and dinner not with her friends, but with George Burnwell, whom she’d been dating in secret. She had told him about the necklace; he had wistfully speculated that if only he had something of a similar value, he might be able to clear his debts. Then surely her parents wouldn’t protest their match, and he could openly court her. Somehow, Mary had found herself talked into stealing the necklace and giving it to him.

She’d seen her father off to bed, given it an hour, then deactivated the alarm and called George to tell him the coast was clear. He’d snuck up to the window in the cameras’ blind spots and waited while Mary retrieved the necklace and brought it to him. A simple transaction through the window, and off he’d gone.

(The disturbed gravel was from Burnwell, Sherlock adds quietly to John and Lestrade. The scratches on the window sill from Mary’s bracelet, which had scraped the sill as she opened the window.)

She didn’t know what had happened next. She’d gone to bed, and been woken another hour later by the sound of yelling. There was her brother with the necklace in his hands, and she had no idea what had happened.

“I would imagine, Mr Holder,” Sherlock says, “that you owe your son an apology. He found himself in a dreadful position last night, and you only compounded it by your accusations.”

“But what on earth did he have to do with any of this!” Alexander exclaims. He looks quite flabbergasted.

“It’s simple enough,” Sherlock says. “He returned home in time to see Mary’s little transaction with Burnwell. He hid, not willing to believe his beloved younger sister would be so cruel as to steal from not only her parents, but from a dear friend of the family. He waited until she’d gone down the hall to activate the alarm, then out he went through the window. There are faint footprints that tell the story. As Burnwell left, Arthur followed. Mary unsuspectingly reset the alarm and retired to bed. Meanwhile, a confrontation and a scuffle. Arthur snatched the necklace from Burnwell’s hands and raced back home. He had the presence of mind to deactivate the alarm before re-entering the house; all he cared about was preserving his sister’s secret. He went to his father’s study, opened the safe, reached in to return the necklace – then noticed, to his dismay, that the necklace had been damaged in the fight. Up he stands, thinking that he must return and see if the scrap can be retrieved, wondering how on earth this could be explained – and in walks his father.”

Sherlock unfolds his legs and stands up, eyeing the sobbing Mary in disdain. “And the rest you know. I have no doubt that young man has chosen to remain silent in the hopes of sparing his sister.” Sherlock turns to Lestrade. “I’d suggest you send your men off after George Burnwell. If you’re lucky, he won’t have pawned the piece off yet. If he has and you can’t locate it, let me know and I’ll see what I can do. John –”

“Yes,” John says, joining Sherlock. “I think it’s time we left.”

“Sherlock,” Sir Richard says. He’s sunk back in his chair, and he looks rather disturbed. “Thank you. And give my regards to your family.”

“It was my pleasure, Sir Richard,” Sherlock says, and gives him a courtly bow before sweeping away with John.

Chapter Three - Part Two

Fanfic - The Great Puzzle 2/3 [Sherlock BBC: John/Sherlock]

soera — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 04:09:32 GMT

Chapter One - Part One
Chapter One - Part Two
Chapter Two - Part One

Mycroft looks disconcerted. Sherlock is quite chagrined to realise that he does not enjoy the expression one whit.

“I must say, I didn’t see this coming,” Mycroft says, a hint of petulance in his voice. He’s never been very good with ignorance, least of all when it’s his own.

“Neither did I,” Sherlock says dryly. He hasn’t let Mycroft read quite all of John’s journal – there are some things he’d rather his brother didn’t see. But the bulk of it, yes, the parts relevant to the investigation at hand. No doubt Mycroft has inferred John’s thoughts on Sherlock, but Sherlock will pretend that those thoughts are his to hold.

Mycroft picks up one of the many documents John has procured and reads it again. Sherlock wouldn’t be surprised if he has it memorised already.

“If he’s telling the truth,” Sherlock says.

“This is quite… important,” Mycroft finishes.

“Have you ever heard of this Moriarty, then?” Sherlock asks. He knows the answer even before Mycroft shakes his head, but it still comes as a surprise.

“It is extremely vexing,” Mycroft murmurs, a frown creasing his brow.

“If it’s true,” Sherlock says. “If he’s been found out.”

He doesn’t continue. Mycroft looks up at Sherlock, and then frowns again. “Oh, dear,” he says.

“What?” Sherlock asks belligerently.

“I always thought Dr Watson might be the making of you,” Mycroft says. He begins to gather all the papers together. “All right. Come on. We’ll need to speak to – Jefferson Hope, was it?”

Sherlock exhales quietly. Mycroft is speaking as if it’s a foregone conclusion. That casual air of control is something Sherlock will never, under pain of death, admit to being comforting.

“Wasn’t expecting you,” Hope says. He smiles up at Sherlock. “S’nice, though. Visitors. Haven’t had a one, you know.”

Sherlock sits down.

“They told me, there’ve been a few reporters wanting to talk to me,” Hope reports conversationally. “They wouldn’t let them in though.” He smiles again. “Think they’d write a book on me?”

“They wouldn’t know how to write it,” Sherlock says.

“Write what?” Hope asks, affecting an air of confusion. Then he widens his eyes and leans forward. “Oh – how I killed them, you mean? But everyone knows that now, don’t they?”

Sherlock’s lip twitches. “The fake gun was instrumental, I suppose.”

“Must’ve threatened them to take it.” Hope settles back in his chair comfortably.

“Quite,” Sherlock says. “Or threatened them to make the choice, at any rate.”

Hope’s eyes narrow.

“And you promised to take the other one, didn’t you?” Sherlock says.

Slowly, Hope’s smile fades. “You’re very clever, Mr Holmes,” he says.

“More than you,” Sherlock replies.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Hope says.

“And yet you’re the one in here.”

Hope shrugs. “Free meals and lodging,” he says. “I don’t reckon I’ll be here long, anyway.”

“No, you wouldn’t be,” Sherlock says. “You’re dying.” His eyes scan Hope’s face. He can’t be entirely certain, but he thinks that that is perhaps shock that Hope is trying to hide. “What is it, a tumour? An aneurysm?”

Hope presses his lips together.

“An aneurysm,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. “Mm. Probably in the brain.”

Silence falls. Sherlock’s perfectly happy to let it draw out as long as necessary. Eventually, Hope shrugs. “You’re very clever, Mr Holmes,” he repeats.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says, lips stretching in some semblance of a smile. “Does Moriarty think so too?”

Ah, Sherlock thinks, as Hope loses his composure for a second. Got you.

“I believe we should act on good faith, as regards the rest of the information,” Mycroft says presently.

Sherlock stares straight ahead.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He wants John to have been telling the truth, because that’s better than thinking he’s been playing Sherlock all this while. He doesn’t want John to have been telling the truth because –

“Sherlock,” Mycroft says. His voice is soft and gentle and utterly detestable. “We’ll find him.”

They don’t find him. They do, however, find the remnants of the failed plot. The target doesn’t even have the decency to be anyone important. All he has is a wife who both abhors him and is rich enough to take out a hit on him.

It makes sense, Sherlock thinks reluctantly. John couldn’t have had time to become truly trusted. Of course they would have sent him out on a milk run. But no, no. John had said he thought he’d be able to get Moriarty here. They’re missing something.

“What else,” he bites out. Edmund Walters flinches back slightly, but there’s hardly anywhere else to go in the hospital room.

“That’s all I remember,” he says pleadingly. “I woke up in the ambulance.”

Sherlock scowls at the bandage on Walters’ head. He hadn’t even been shot; the bullet had gone neatly over his shoulder, barely grazing him. He’d attempted to duck for cover and wound up knocking himself out on the table instead. Idiot.

How completely useless.

They return to chasing electronic trails, trying to locate the people involved in Moriarty’s operations. Some of Mycroft’s people have been hard at work locating and rounding them up. Sherlock has spread the word amongst his own acquaintances amongst the homeless, who’ve rallied remarkably well to lend an unconventional support to Mycroft’s army of computers and soldiers. And yet, while all this work goes on, Sherlock himself is at a loss for what to do. He’s not used to waiting, and that is precisely what is required of him now.

Also, Lestrade keeps asking him to help on cases. It’s distracting.

When Mycroft finally finds proof of Moriarty’s operations – proof that hasn’t come from John, at any rate – Sherlock can’t bring himself to feel anything. On the one hand, he now knows that at the very least, John has been telling the truth about this one thing. Has he been telling the truth about the others? No way to know and no reason to dwell on that now. On the other hand, he is now absolutely certain that John is in danger, in danger and out of Sherlock’s reach. How is he meant to protect John when the idiot won’t stay by his side?

When all this is over and done with, Sherlock decides, he will have to have a long conversation with John. Possibly he will have to suggest keeping John safely tucked away at home for the rest of his life.

“My sources suggest that some planned operations haven’t been carried out,” Mycroft tells Sherlock. “It’s possible that Dr Watson’s succeeded in accomplishing his stated goals.”

“He also stated he didn’t expect to get out alive,” Sherlock says.

“He has proven to be quite resourceful thus far,” Mycroft says, casting a glance over the documentation that John has procured. “Far more than I would have expected of him. Let us hope that his abilities sustain him somewhat longer.”

Sherlock has never put much stock in blind faith before. He wants to now, but he doesn’t know where to start.

Triple murder, his phone wheedles. Lots of forensic evidence, but still no idea who did it. Thoughts?

Sherlock deletes the message.

“I investigated Janus Cars and Apate Construction,” Sherlock tells Mycroft. “Liars, one and all. But the companies also do the jobs they actually claim to, alongside their other business.”

“Must be lucrative,” Mycroft says. “Or, no, rather – an expensive front must keep itself up.”

“Everything this Moriarty does appears to be self-sustaining,” Sherlock says. “What if even killing him isn’t enough?”

“Then we finish up,” Mycroft says. “But for now, have a look at this.”

Sherlock bends over the table, peering at the computer screen. “How did you –” he demands, reading the dossier of information Mycroft has compiled on Moriarty. James Luke Moriarty, born 25th October 1976 in Belfast, parents Brian Moriarty and Elizabeth Moriarty née Kelly. Both deceased, October 1980, December 1980. Moriarty sent to foster care, adopted by Williams family, Kai, Janine and sons Mark and Matthew –

“Matt Williams was one of Carl Powers’ friends,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Quite,” Mycroft says. “Moriarty adopted the surname Williams for most of his life. He also dropped the first name in childhood and used his middle name, which explains why the initial background checks on Carl Powers turned up nothing. With two sons called Mark and Matthew –”

“A Luke would fit right into the pattern,” Sherlock says. The family was only peripherally related to Carl Powers, and hadn’t been important enough for anyone to take a closer look at their children. No one had realised that one child had been adopted. Sherlock pauses. “And I thought our parents were cruel.”

Mycroft gives him a wry smile. Sherlock realises, to his utter dismay, that he just shared a joke with Mycroft. This whole business of working together is truly playing havoc with his neatly-ordered world. His phone beeps again. Where are you? Just popped round to yours with the pictures but you’re not here.

Busy. SH Sherlock texts back.

With what? Come on, I’ve got three families here looking for answers!

You are not such an imbecile that you cannot resolve one case without my assistance. SH, Sherlock sends, and then belatedly realises that the text could be taken as a compliment. Bugger. Nothing for it now. This, Sherlock decides, is all John’s fault. Making him cooperate with Mycroft, and accidentally compliment Lestrade. He’d never have done either if the situation hadn’t compelled it.

Thanks? Lestrade replies. Uh, could still do with you looking things over though. Let me know if you’ll have time?

The text reads nothing like Lestrade’s usual. Evidently, the accidental compliment has also thrown him off his stride. Good. Sherlock should hardly be the only one to suffer.

“Problem?” Mycroft asks.

“No,” Sherlock says. “Luke Williams.”

Mycroft gestures at the screen. “All the available data. It’s quite comprehensive, actually. I’ve had my assistant personally gather this information, and had it verified by three different experts in my employ. I’m fairly confident that this information has not been edited in any way after the fact.”

“He doesn’t have access at this level, at least,” Sherlock says.

“Precisely,” Mycroft says. “Now, that could work in our favour. As things go, it’s precious little we have over him, though.”

“We need more,” Sherlock says, reading the rest of the data. Willed a small amount of money by a relative, used the inheritance to move out once legal. Rented rooms in three different places, Piccolo Street, Reichenbach Estate, Endover Avenue, before buying a small flat on the outskirts of London. He’s gotten some glowing referrals from all his previous landlords, none of whom appear to have noticed any sociopathic or megalomaniac tendencies in him. Well, they can’t all be Mrs Hudson, of course. Any other houses? None, apparently. But the names are interesting.

“He’s using both James and Luke after the age of twenty-three,” Sherlock muses out loud. “Never goes back to Moriarty, though.”

“Presumably, he’s reserving that for his less-than-legal activities,” Mycroft says dryly.

“Mm, but – remember what John wrote?” Sherlock says. “One of the first entries. Something about there being a Jim in IT.”

Mycroft stiffens. “At Barts, wasn’t it?” His fingers fly over the keyboard, and he pulls up a list of personnel working at St Bartholomew’s. He has to do a little adroit hacking to get the full list, but eventually they’re scanning through the listed IT personnel. And there he is. James Williams, employed just ten days ago. His resume is completely innocuous, but it’s interesting that he’s chosen to use this name, however well he’s managed to dissociate it from the surname Moriarty. Sherlock’s positive that Moriarty has multiple identities, some law-abiding, some... not. But choosing to use this one in this place – well, it can’t possibly be anything but a direct challenge to Sherlock. Thumbing his nose at a man he knows to be unaware of the danger next to him. And Sherlock certainly would have been unaware, if not for John.

The picture is of possibly the most unassuming man he’s ever seen. Well-groomed, and dapper. Not the sort of person Sherlock would look twice at.

“Recent photograph. That will be useful,” Mycroft comments. “Hm. He hasn’t been in to work for the past three days.”

“Can you find him?” Sherlock asks.

“I’ll set Emily on it,” Mycroft says, and it indicates something of the state Sherlock is in, that he doesn’t realise at first that Mycroft is (of course) talking about his assistant, she of the perpetually-changing names. Then he nods and steps away from the computer, pacing over to the window. Mycroft is good enough to leave him be, recognising perhaps, that Sherlock is in no fit state to converse.

Sherlock’s mind turns to John, as it has so often done these past few days. He has an accursedly vivid imagination, and it is helpfully suggesting, in graphic detail, exactly what kind of condition he might find John in. If he ever finds him. If Moran hasn’t killed him in revenge. Second-in-command, John had said. Intelligent. Amoral. Ruthless. Sherlock has often proclaimed himself all of the above, but he cannot conceive of deliberately setting out to kill a person. And not even out of any sort of personal vendetta, but purely for the sake of profit. Oh, the crimes are interesting, they surely are. What Mycroft has managed to uncover so far – those crimes they are now certain was orchestrated by Moriarty – they were very clever indeed, and under other circumstances, Sherlock would have enjoyed himself thoroughly in the solving of them. But not now, not like this. Not when his mind keeps throwing up images of John dead.

“I thought,” Sherlock says, “that it typically took a certain amount of time to become...” He hesitates.

“Emotionally attached?” Mycroft asks mildly. Sherlock winces. “It can vary. And with people who feel intensely, I imagine that it would not take them very long at all.”

Intensely, Sherlock thinks, glaring at the window. That’s his problem, isn’t it? He feels too much, and all the wrong things, at all the wrong times. John’s always understood though, and been patient about explaining things, so very unlike everyone else Sherlock has ever encountered. Sherlock has taught himself not to care, to attack first, to be the bastard everyone knows him to be, because otherwise it is difficult when he inevitably gets something wrong. But now that he’s found John, he doesn’t want to let him go. He doesn’t want to give up the chance to learn. About himself, about John.

He wants more time with John, and he will not tolerate anyone getting in the way of that.

Edmund Walters owns a casino. Edmund Walters also believes that his survival is due to Sherlock’s detective work. The latter is probably why there is now a standing invitation in Sherlock’s e-mail to freely use the VIP lounge at the casino whenever he so desires.

“There are worse resources to have,” Mycroft says reflectively. “Certain clients, for instance –”

“It’s hardly important now,” Sherlock says. Mycroft runs his hands over his umbrella handle thoughtfully. “All right. What?”

“I find myself returning to the scene of Mr Walters’ attempted assassination,” Mycroft says. “Nothing about him suggests that he would be important enough for Moriarty himself to be there. Why then, would Dr Watson appear convinced that this would afford him the opportunity to kill Moriarty?”

Sherlock sinks back in his chair. It’s the same question he’s been asking himself for the past few days, and he still doesn’t have an answer. Why would Moriarty have come along on the operation? Walters had been shot at in his office at the casino. The attackers had been hiding in the building opposite. The glass windows of Walters’ office had afforded the perfect view of the back of his head. One shot had gone through the tempered glass and over Walters’ shoulder just as he was pulling out his chair. He’d ducked, struck his head and been promptly rendered insensible.

Walters’ security guards had immediately risked themselves to get him out of the danger zone. No shots had been fired at them. While being transported on a stretcher through the back corridors, another four shots had come through the window at the end, narrowly missing Walters and his security contingent. Of the latter four bullets, only one had been recovered, embedded in the far wall. Sniper, definitely. Possibly military-grade. Those four shots could conceivably have come from the same building, possibly the same room, that had served as a stake-out point for the would-be assassin. The second murder attempt would have required a great deal more talent and finesse than the first, however, given the difficult angle and additional distance. Walters’ security was of the opinion that that was the crucial factor which had preserved them. Sherlock was of the opinion that Walters’ security was comprised of idiots.

Blood spatter had been found near where the sole bullet had lodged. Clearly, someone had been hit. Yet there had been no outcry. Someone who oughtn’t to have been there, then. Sherlock hopes that it had been Moriarty. But there had been no body either. What had happened, exactly?

And none of this explains why Moriarty had been there.

Sherlock strongly suspects, based on the evidence available, that the sniper who’d taken the shot was none other than John himself. But there was also evidence that John had not been alone in the empty office opposite Walters’ casino. No signs of violence, but it is unlikely that a failed assassination would have been received lightly.

What would John and his mysterious accomplice have done? Report in at once, John’s voice tells him. Not just successes but failures too, must be immediately communicated to the commander. He would have contacted whoever was in charge of the operation. Moriarty? Perhaps. Or Moran, or Sullivan. Why, why would Moriarty want to head up this – oh. Oh!

Sherlock leaps across the table, provoking a startled flinch from Mycroft. He doesn’t pay any attention, though, as he scrambles for John’s journal and flips through the pages impatiently. What had the exact phrasing been? Something about the “security detail” and Moriarty. Ah, yes. I also happen to know that Moriarty will be nearby. That’s it, of course it is.

“Moriarty wasn’t there for the operation,” Sherlock announces. “Or at least, not solely. He might have wanted to be kept in the loop, but he was there for the casino.”

“Gambling?” Mycroft says in interest, coming over to look at the book. “What made you say –”

Sherlock points out the line, and says, “Nearby. Not necessarily for the operation. We jumped to conclusions.”

“Ah, of course.” Mycroft looks somewhat disgruntled at missing that. “In which case, possibly as a customer, possibly on another crime of some sort.”

“That they wanted Walters’ death as a cover for,” Sherlock says. “Either way, John must have purposely missed so that he’d be ordered to fall back to a back-up position –”

“How could they have known Walters would come down that route?” Mycroft demands, then swears under his breath. Sherlock doesn’t pay attention as Mycroft calls Emily and tells her to re-interview the security guards in Walters’ detail. At least one must have been bought, of course. That’s obvious. Moriarty must have created a back-up plan in case John failed. No, this must have been planned with the expectation that John would fail. John had been right. They can’t have trusted him – not because they’d suspected his foreknowledge, but because he’s simply too new. They would never have trusted a new operative with something of this magnitude. Moriarty has flown under the radar thus far precisely because those he hires are extremely adept at what they do. And because he has set up people to take the fall for him, people who don’t know anything and cannot betray him. That’s what John has been meant to be, all this while. Someone to take the blame.

Suddenly, the whole operation makes sense.

“I suspect,” Sherlock says slowly. “That Walters has probably been robbed.”

Sherlock’s right. The whole assassination had been nothing more than a diversion for Moriarty. Two birds with one stone, Sherlock thinks as he puts the pieces together. He lays the plan out in his head, step by step as it must have occurred. First, the request by the wife, to have her husband killed. Second, the decision that the attempted murder would be the perfect cover for a daring robbery. Third, telling the wife that they would carry out the assassination themselves. Fourth, placing a rookie in the position of assassin. If by some miracle he succeeded, they’d be able to collect from the wife. If, as was likely, he failed, the attempt would still cause the same chaos as if he’d succeeded.

Fifth, telling the rookie what his job was to be. Kill Walters in his office, they’d say. If anything goes wrong, a guard has been bought to ensure that they will go down this particular route in getting Walters out. A second attempt can then be made. They might even have sold the job as an initiation of sorts.

Sixth, planning the robbery itself. Drawing security one way with the assassination attempt and breaking into the vaults (how? – that must have been a plan and a half all on its own). Seventh, allowing the rookie to take the fall for the assassination, and the robbery when it was found out. Even if he told the cops he knew nothing of the robbery, they wouldn’t believe him. Even if they did, there was nothing to go on. Giving up the rookie was necessary as a further distraction for them to be able to escape the casino unnoticed. The shots could only have come from the building opposite and he’d be found out quickly enough. That would be the point when they could make their escape.

It’s really quite brilliant. Equally brilliant is the way it falls apart. Sherlock rather enjoys piecing that latter story together.

First, John had been chosen as the rookie sacrifice. Second, John had known all along who the real puppet-masters were. Third, John had an exceedingly strong moral code and incredible strength of will.

Fourth, John had investigated enough to know what the true goal of the operation was, and where Moriarty would be during each phase. Fifth, John had deliberately missed Walters, despite being more than capable of killing him if he was so inclined. In so doing, John had been “forced” to move to the backup plan. Sixth, John had clearly known that at some time during the second attempt, Moriarty would nearby as he orchestrated the removal of Walters’ wealth. Seventh, John had taken the opportunity that was presented to him.

Sherlock is uncertain about how Moriarty’s story continues. He is fairly certain now that the blood that had been found belongs to the criminal mastermind. Either he’d only been injured, or his body had been removed by someone else.

And he has no idea at all how John’s story continues.

Walters is distraught at his suddenly empty coffers. In all the excitement surrounding his attempted murder, and the subsequent temporary shut-down of his casino, no one had even noticed anything amiss until Emily had called to check. Sherlock gladly leaves one of Mycroft’s men to handle Walters’ questions, and ducks into the office Mycroft has commandeered.

“Safe?” he asks by way of greeting.

“It’s been swept,” Mycroft says. No bugs then, but that doesn’t rule out other things. Sherlock nods in acquiescence.

“What did you call about?” Sherlock asks.

“This,” Mycroft says. “I’m putting together a team now. I presume you want in on it, but you’re not going in with them. We’ll wait outside.”

Sherlock scans the document on Mycroft’s laptop even as Mycroft speaks. He bites his lip. The address is for a flat in Reichenbach Estate. Reichenbach Estate, where Moriarty had once lived. Too great a coincidence, surely. A glance through the other information procured reveals that the current owner, one Finn Wilson, is in fact a probable alias. There’s enough, Sherlock thinks as he goes through the document, to strongly suggest that the flat is now owned by Moriarty.

Sentiment? He’d thought Moriarty might consider himself above that sort of thing.

It hardly matters, though. The chain of owners the flat had passed through before arriving in Moriarty’s hands is unimportant. What is important is that it’s the nearest of the properties they’ve managed to locate thus far.

They might have gone to ground. Sherlock knows any number of ways to vanish into the city. But Moriarty would not have expected to be found out. He does not know that Sherlock knows him, knows his game. There’s no reason, in Moriarty’s mind, to make a complete escape.

So. Reichenbach it is, then.

“He has been remarkably well-concealed, all these years,” Mycroft comments idly.

Sherlock picks at the smooth leather seat. The streets are deceptively quiet.

“I would never have found him without already knowing he existed,” Mycroft continues. “And certainly it would have taken far longer than five days, if I didn’t have such a wonderfully accurate starting point.”

It hadn’t all been accurate. Enough, though. Sherlock scratches under the seam, trying to locate a weak spot.

“Given all I’ve discovered now, the organisation will be taken down quite swiftly,” Mycroft assures him.

Sherlock digs his nail viciously into the bloody seat. It stays perfectly, stubbornly undamaged.

“I might prevail upon you to help me scour the world of this little blight,” Mycroft says.

That, at least, Sherlock can respond to. “Fine,” he says.

Mycroft abruptly reaches a hand up to his Bluetooth earpiece. Sherlock watches him with sharp eyes. “Yes,” Mycroft says. “Ah. His name? I see. Any injuries? Yes, quite. Bring him out. Is anyone in need of medical attention? Yes, yes. Have you located anyone else? A physical description? Yes, and the condition – yes, of course. Has Emily seen him? Yes, do. Ah, I apologise – Clarissa, yes. Good evening, my dear. Status? Is it now? No, the Royal London, I should think. If you would be so good as to contact Dr Lawson and have him ready. Yes. Yes. Thank you.”

Mycroft turns and smiles faintly at Sherlock. “Your doctor was found inside. He’s injured, but alive and stable. We’ll meet him at the hospital, shall we?” He leans forward and gives the driver the directions without waiting for a response.

Sherlock closes his eyes and focuses on breathing.

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock says.

John blinks blearily at him. “Sh’k,” he says, then squeezes his eyes closed. “Shh-l’k,” he tries again.

“Hush,” Sherlock says, reaching out to press the call button. “You’ve been missing for six days, and unconscious for at least part of that, I’d wager. Yes, he’s awake. He needs some ice.”

John looks confused. Sherlock can see the moment when he starts to remember. “M-” he starts to say, so Sherlock puts his hand over John’s mouth.

“Hush,” he repeats himself. “You’ll hurt your throat.” He slides his hand down, feeling John’s lips quiescent against his palm. They’re dry, likely from the air-conditioning. John has stated on multiple occasions that he doesn’t deal well with the cold. Nights in the desert had been very cold indeed, John had told him once. Sherlock runs his thumb over John’s lips. Not quite in need of balm at the moment, but he’ll keep an eye on it.

John looks a lot more awake now. His brow’s furrowed. Pain, probably. The stab wounds to the abdomen had, one and all, gotten infected. The contusion to the head had worried doctors at first, but they’d swiftly realised that it was days old and hadn’t caused any problems. Most worrisome was the fact that he clearly hadn’t had anything to eat or drink in a few days. He’d been insensate not from the injury, but from dehydration when they found him.

The door opens, and Sherlock sits back. The nurse is efficient and quick, checking on John’s vitals, IV and dressings in rapid order. Then she demonstrates to Sherlock how he needs to hold the ice chips to John’s mouth, letting the cool liquid melt and trickle down slowly so as to avoid aggravating his system.

Sherlock manages to feed John three whole chips before John decides it’s enough to be going on. “All right then?” John asks. His voice is still hoarse, but it sounds much less painful than before.

“I am,” Sherlock says. “The same can’t be said of you.”

John smiles. Rueful, wry. “I knew what I was getting into.”

Sherlock frowns and pushes another ice chip against John’s mouth. “Was it worth it?”

John obediently opens his mouth and sucks in the chip. He hasn’t once looked away from Sherlock since he’d opened his eyes. “Mm-hmm.”

Chapter Three - Part One

Fanfic - The Great Puzzle 2/3 [Sherlock BBC: John/Sherlock]

soera — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 04:07:55 GMT

Once again, divided into two posts because LJ's size limit can't handle the chapter in one post. Are my chapters maybe a little too long? *ponders*
Also, a shout-out and fervent thanks to the lovely folk over at little_details, who were able to help me with - well, some little details in this chapter that eventually changed the course of the fic. For the better, I think!

Chapter One - Part One
Chapter One - Part Two

two:
six impossible things

Sometimes I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast. – Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll

John never stays out past three in the morning, at the absolute latest. Just to be certain, Sherlock waits until eight before he accepts that John will not be returning.

Now what?

Sherlock goes up the stairs to John’s room. It’s normally off-limits, per John’s request. Sherlock hasn’t seen fit to break his word thus far – it’s so much more interesting working things out without any help from John’s belongings. But John had said he wouldn’t do anything stupid, and he’s clearly broken that promise, so Sherlock feels no compunctions about opening the door and slipping in quietly.

John’s room is neat and organised, the mark of a military man clearly evident in the perfect corners of the sheets. The wardrobe offers little but confirmation of John’s habits. Sherlock turns on the laptop, cracks the password in a minute, then waits for it to boot up.

Nothing interesting in the browser history. Doesn’t appear to have been specifically cleared, either, so John hadn’t felt the need to hide anything. Hm. He does have a blog, but there’s practically nothing on it, just a brief biography, and a couple of inconsequential entries. Sherlock checks each one, just in case. Only a few people have left comments.

Harry Watson. Obvious who she is, equally obvious that she’ll know just about nothing useful. Ella. Who’s this Ella that John writes of, who insists on John keeping a blog? 25th January is interesting, though. Sherlock knew that John had played rugby as a youth, though not that he’d kept up with his teammates. Doubtful that they’d know any more than Harry, but it’s a possibility that Sherlock cannot rule out just yet. John must have been meeting someone at the pub all this while, and his rugby friends are a far likelier choice than an alcoholic sister.

None of them mentioned my leg, reads the last line of the entry. What about John’s leg? There was nothing wrong with it. The only physical problem he might have been self-conscious about was his arm. Of course, this was before Sherlock had met John. Might John have had some trouble with his leg as well, that had healed by the time he met Sherlock? In that case, might the E Thompson who’s left a comment about a missed appointment, be a physiotherapist of some sort? But no, there’s the matter of the mysterious Ella. He will presume for now that Ella is E Thompson. Ella wants John to keep up a blog, and to meet her for apparently regular appointments. The former means she can’t be a physiotherapist – likely just a therapist. It’s possible. The war still haunts John, as is evident from the sporadic nightmares that drives John downstairs at unreasonable hours.

Very well, then. John has been seeing a therapist. She’s another person Sherlock might be able to talk to. Clearly, it will take some work to get any information from her. If she is at all ethical, she will not discuss her patients with anyone. Not without clear evidence that John is in danger, and that her notes could help save him.

Or without Mycroft. Sherlock pushes the possibility into the very back of his mind.

One more entry. Bill Murray. Had saved John’s life?

Sherlock’s struck with the sudden desire to thank a man he’s never even met. He firmly ignores it. Few helpful clues here, other than another name for Sherlock to track down.

The blog entries end there. Sherlock thinks back to when he’d met John. The day after this last entry, surely? John hasn’t been writing in his blog since he’d met Sherlock. That may or may not be significant.

A thorough search of the computer turns up nothing else that’s interesting. There are some photos of John in his younger years, in his army uniform, with his family, with his army mates, in London and in Afghanistan. Sherlock might have gotten slightly distracted by the carefree expression John wears in the majority of those photos, but he eventually concedes that there is nothing more to be found on the laptop.

Rest of the room, then.

The desk is Sherlock’s next stop. It once rested next to the door, as is apparent from the deep marks on the rug. John has moved it to the front of the small window instead. Apparently he prefers natural light to a desk lamp. Clearly, he works there. On the laptop? No, the angle at which he’s placed the desk would actually be inconvenient, with his laptop – the light would cause a glare off the screen. Something else, then. Written work? Does he read here?

Drawers. The top drawer is empty. Sherlock studies it carefully, but there are no marks to indicate what might have been stored there. The laptop, possibly? He leans closer and sniffs. Peculiar smell, almost faded. Something like alcohol. And bananas. Hm. Ah, dark spots on the table, as if a liquid had stained the wood. What could cause that staining, and why would John have it with him? Same smell as from the drawer, very faint. Sherlock runs his finger over the stains. They’ve soaked well in, but there’s a very thin layer of oil on his finger now. The depth of staining suggests that it occurred a while ago; the fact that there’s still oil on his fingers tells him that John had splashed a little more of the liquid on the desk recently, and it hasn’t had time to fully soak in. Yesterday, before leaving? The timeline does fit.

He turns back to the laptop and does a quick search online to confirm his suspicions about the source of the smell. Then he thinks back to John’s hands. His callouses still haven’t even begun to fade.

All right. John has a gun. No wonder he’d been eager for there never to be any more fake drugs busts. He’s taken the gun and everything he needs to maintain it with him. What else? Second drawer holds two novels and a medical textbook. Nothing noteworthy in the novels. Probably not the textbook, either.

Except it’s not a textbook. It’s a journal, its hard covers enclosed in a dust jacket from a similarly-sized textbook. The entries begin from the day that Sherlock had met John. Had John decided to start using this journal instead of his blog? Why conceal it thus? To hide it from Sherlock’s inquisitive eyes? Well – with good reason, perhaps, given what Sherlock is doing now.

Just had the most peculiar dream, the first entry begins. That, or I’ve finally gone round the bend. My leg doesn’t hurt anymore, though. Is it possible to get over a psychosomatic limp because of something that happens in a dream?

It was, at any rate, a very realistic dream. I almost expected to wake up there. Instead, here I am in this quiet bedsit I haven’t thought of in almost three months. It was three months in my dream. I’ve never dreamed such a long period of time, and so many events, in one night before.

I miss it. I want to wake up and know what became of the absolutely mad people I got to know in my dream. Or just one in particular. I don’t much care about the others. I want to know what happened to him, and if he made it out all right. Clearly I did. I woke up. But part of me can’t help but feel like he’s trapped there still, in my dream, and that he’ll die because I’m not there with him.

Ridiculous, of course. Ella would have a field day with me if I told her any of this. But I won’t. I won’t put it in the blog, either. I can’t say I think much of it. I did work on my blog, in my dream, and maybe it helped a little. I don’t think I could do it now, though, not after the dream. And yet writing seems to help, or it did in the dream, and so I’ve gone out and bought this journal and I shall put my thoughts down here.

1400

The clinic just called. I missed my appointment. Ella’s not happy, given I missed my previous one, too. I just forgot, though. I’d already stopped going, in my dream. And it was so real. I’d forgotten I had an appointment today.

Still no limp.

Arm hurts like hell though.

I’m going to go out for a walk. It’s pathetic, I know, but I want to go to Barts. In the dream, I met an old friend in the park beside the hospital, and through a coincidence, he introduced me to the most fascinating man I have ever known.

I know it won’t happen this time. I still want to go. It’s more than a little pathetic, but here I am.

1830

I don’t think it was a dream.

I don’t know what it was.

I’m meeting Sherlock tomorrow, to go look at 221B Baker Street. I’ll take it, of course I will. And I’ll see if anything else happens the way it did in my dream.

This makes no sense.

No one called “Jim” in the IT department yet though. I checked before leaving Barts.

Sherlock ponders the entry for a time before moving on to the next one. It’s dated the 3rd of February.

1300

Here I am, in 221B Baker Street, cohabiting with Sherlock. Even now, I can hear him clattering in the kitchen. He’s got some sort of experiment going. I saw bits of meat that I sincerely hope aren’t human. Must have a talk with him about keeping his experiments separate from the food. He might not care to eat much, but I certainly do!

God, I can’t believe this is real. I pinch myself quite frequently, willing myself to wake up. I feel the pain, but the scenery never changes. Then again, I went through quite a bit of pain in my dream, so who’s to say I’d wake up from a pinch?

The thing is, I can’t stop thinking about what if it was real. Because if it is, then Sherlock has three months left to live. Well, so do I, but that’s only if I stay with Sherlock. If I just left, I imagine I wouldn’t be nearly as interesting to “Jim.” He wouldn’t be able to use me to get to Sherlock. It might even be safer for Sherlock. That’s what I thought at first, but then I realised that no, it wouldn’t be. He’s an idiot, and he’ll put himself right in the firing line just to prove he’s right. Just so he won’t be bored.

I don’t know what to do. I live with one of the smartest men in the world, but I certainly can’t go to him for advice. He’d think me mad. I think me mad.

But the cabbie did turn out to be the killer. How could I have known that? I dreamed it, I dreamed what he did. But how could I possibly have seen the truth in my dream?

They haven’t found out the whole truth about him though. He didn’t tell them about the game he played. Choose a pill, one or the other. They take the one they choose; he takes the other. 50-50 chance of surviving. Or a gun to the face. The gun was the right choice, but none of those poor sods realised it. But right now, the coppers think that he just threatened them at gunpoint to take the poison. They don’t know about the game. I suppose it doesn’t make much difference, in the long run.

They don’t know about his brain aneurysm either. I wonder how long he’ll last? I hope he makes it to trial. I want to see what will happen this time around, since he’s alive.

I don’t regret shooting him in my dream. It was like being back in Afghanistan, seeing Sherlock bringing that pill to his mouth. You kill to save a friend. So I did. I’d known this man for a day at that point, and I shot to save him. He’d shown me my limp was psychosomatic. He’d shown me I could be more than I was allowing myself to be. And in his way, I think he cared. I don’t know that for certain, because he’d never tell me as such, and of course I can’t read him the way he can me. But I think he did. I like to imagine he did.

I have nothing of the same history with this Sherlock. In my dream, he saved me, and then I saved him, all in a day. You can’t help but get along, in that case. We don’t have that here. I don’t know what he thinks about me. I know that he’s not the same as the Sherlock in my dream, but I can’t help but still think of him the same way. He probably doesn’t think very much of me at all, but I’d be happy to throw myself between him and a bullet. He has no idea the power he has over me. Or perhaps he does. I wouldn’t put it past him.

He’s absolutely mad, mad, mad. He’s also charming. God help me, I don’t know how to leave him.

I really think I am going mad. At least I am in good company.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and expels it slowly. He needs a nicotine patch. He examines the rest of the room, discovering a few receipts from various shops he will have to investigate. There’s little else of import though, and so he takes the journal with him and retires to the sofa.

Three nicotine patches. He has a feeling he’ll need them. Then he opens up the journal again. The fading pattern of the ink, as well as the wear and tear of the book in general suggests that John has indeed been writing in it constantly. This isn’t a recent idea cooked up to explain the oddities of yesterday. It doesn’t rule out the fact that it was an idea cooked up at least a month ago, which John has been gradually implementing.

Sherlock rubs his chest absently. It’s feeling a little tight. Perhaps he ought to get some tea in him.

Later. First, the journal.

04/02/2011
2045

It occurs to me that certain aspects of my dream are easily verifiable.

Off to the museum tomorrow. I need to see what she has to say.

05/02/2011
2000

All right, so at least some parts of this are true. She was worried enough about how much I knew, to take me at my word when I said she was in danger. I don’t know if it will be enough to save her life. But she’s intelligent. With any luck…

Given today, I think I’m seriously going to have to put some thought towards the Problem. I can hardly walk up to a man and shoot him in the head, then claim I saw in a dream that he was a criminal mastermind. Well, I could, but I don’t fancy spending time in prison. And there’s still that niggling question of what if I’m wrong?

So information-gathering it is.

I hope to god Sherlock doesn’t figure out what I’m up to. The only way to lie to him is to tell him the truth. That’s what I’m going to do – tell him I’m going to the pub and meet some friends. I just won’t tell him who exactly, or what I’m planning on doing there.

This could all go very, very wrong. I wish Sherlock was with me.

07/02/2011
0135

Lucked out tonight (yesterday night?) when I met O’Malley. He was happy to introduce me to some of his friends. They don’t trust me yet, of course. But they will. I haven’t forgotten how to get myself in with that group.

Just hope I don’t have to prove myself.

09/02/2011

- cabbie’s death
- pink phone?
- no mention of name
- death of widower?
- conversation with SL

- find out more about him
- organisation?
- INFORMATION

If I can find proof, I needn’t explain how I came to know of his existence.

11/02/2011
1930

Stew’s on the stove. I’m going to try and convince Sherlock to eat today. He’s been on a case the past two days, which means of course that he hasn’t eaten anything in that time. I wish he’d realise it’s just not healthy. Or more to the point, I wish he’d care that it’s terrible for his body. He has a tendency to cherry-pick biological facts as they suit him. Yes, of course digestion does slow you down a little. That’s the point; to give your body time to convert the nutrients you need and send it into your blood and cells. Sherlock refuses to give his body that chance. He claims it allows him to divert all his energies towards thinking. Problem is that he’s not giving his brain the nutrition it needs to keep going – but just try and tell him that! I really do worry about the long-term effects on his health. He has giddy spells he pretends don’t exist. It’s one reason I don’t protest his demands for tea. At least it gives me a chance to get something into him. The sugar might be a temporary respite, but it’s better than nothing at all.

In other news, my “work” is going decently. It’s stalled a little, but I’ve put out some feelers. There’s actually an astoundingly high rate of veterans who wind up in prison. Technically, we’re decently provided for. In reality, some of us do wind up with a lot of red tape to get through. And in the interim, what are we meant to do with no money? I’m a little better off than some of my peers; I’ve got a decent amount squirrelled away. But then there’s loans and the cost of living in London, and so my savings are dwindling. I got lucky with the amount I was granted. Others don’t get even as much as I do. With all the trouble you can have getting your pension regularly, not to mention the pittance some wind up with – it’s really not surprising. Especially when you’re thrown out on disability. Many of us don’t get treated very well by the country we gave health, limbs and lives for. It’s been easy convincing people I’m a down-on-my-luck veteran with a good deal of bitterness and anger against the government system.

I hope to god I can maintain the charade.

19/02/2011
0800

I was asked yesterday if I’d like to do a small job for someone. A friend of a friend. Perfectly simple, just running a little package over to someone. I did, and I was introduced to a Sebastian Moran. He was scouting me, I think, to join the organisation. I think this might be it. I have no doubt that it will start off small. That they won’t trust me with much. But it’s the little people who go overlooked, and I’m counting on that to allow me to gather the information I need.

I need to figure out a safe way to communicate with Sherlock and Mycroft. I like Lestrade well enough, but this is rather beyond his usual job scope. I wouldn’t trust anyone but Sherlock to deal with this, and Mycroft’s resources can only be helpful to him. I hope Sherlock isn’t too proud to ask Mycroft for help, when the time comes.

I hate what I’m doing. I hate knowing I’m delivering drugs. I hate being undercover when no one knows I’m undercover.

I want this to be over.

24/02/2011

Moran is his second-in-command. He’s a vet himself, I can tell. I think he might be scouting me for “security” work. He knows a soldier when he sees one, too.

This one’s intelligent. I’ll have to be on my guard around him.

So far, I am certain that the organisation has branches here, in Ireland, in Russia (no specifics yet), in France, in Italy and in Germany. They do not have any hold over the Americas (USA, Canada, Mexico, the various South American countries which I’ll no doubt be unable to list in their entirety). They are currently looking to expand further into the continent.

They run drugs (primarily cocaine, heroin and methamphetamines) – that is the only specific crime they engage in, and I suspect it’s to maintain a steady source of revenue between cases. He’s a little more… grandiose than Sherlock is. The rest of the operations are dedicated to helping people carry out their perfect crimes. All the teams here? They’re for him to send out when it’s necessary to help someone “relocate,” or bring someone into the country illegally, or commit a perfect murder.

The organisation is very tightly controlled. He knows just about everything that happens in it.

So close. But no proof yet.

28/02/2011

Moran wants me to join a “security detail.”

If I’m asked to kill someone, I’ll have to get out as soon as possible. I can’t

03/03/2011

I wonder what Sherlock would do?

It’s been dangerous, sneaking around and trying to get information. At least I haven’t been asked to kill someone yet. And yet those drugs. I feel like I have killed people. More blood on my hands. Innocents. Like that boy back then. Sometimes I can still see his blood on my hands. He couldn’t have been more than seven. Seven, and hoping for me to save him, but what could I do with injuries that severe? It only took a minute.

I hate this.

My only respite is Sherlock. Being with him keeps me sane. People would probably tell me that’s an odd statement, given the random bits of bodies in the fridge, and all that. But he does. I’m so glad they haven’t asked me to move away yet. They’re still testing me. I hope they don’t know about my sneaking around. Part of me thinks they do, and they’re waiting to see what my agenda is. The rest of me is sure they haven’t figured it out yet. I’m not quite important enough at the moment.

I am considering letting Sherlock’s name slip. Orchestrating some scenario whereby I’ll be asked to go somewhere at an odd time, and I can say that I can’t, since I live with a very observant detective, and I don’t want to give him any reason to suspect me. If I do let Sherlock’s name slip, no doubt he will take an interest. I wonder if he’s been watching Sherlock all this time, ever since the Carl Powers case, ever since Sherlock came so close to solving what he must have thought was the perfect murder. It scares me how obsessed he is with Sherlock. It scares me what Sherlock might think of him. A perfect nemesis? Will he want to take him down if it means losing an “interesting” situation?

In my dream (?), I knew that Sherlock had decided losing me wasn’t an equable trade. I don’t know if this Sherlock would think the same way. If he would prefer to let this genius enemy go, just to ensure he’ll have interesting cases to solve in the future.

He’ll have to get involved soon though; the man’s already demonstrated he’s going to go ahead with it. I don’t know what the catalyst will be this time, but he’s definitely planning his games. That horrid secret message he sent to Sherlock’s website. Two more on the way, soon, and then he’ll set his games into play.

I’m not about to let him.

04/03/2011
0200

Have not been sleeping well lately. Every time I close my eyes, I see the bomb go off, I see Sherlock die.

I had a mildly terrifying thought earlier. There were three of us there, when the bomb went off. I know Sherlock died, the angle of his neck was obvious enough. I blacked out (and then woke up three months ago). I don’t know what happened to him, though – what if he went through whatever I went through?

And then I realise I’m thinking we – what, shared a dream? Or that this is Groundhog Day for me? It’s ridiculous, but at one in the morning, everything seems plausible to an insomniac.

I can’t stop worrying whether he knows. And even if he doesn’t, I can’t stop worrying that he’ll realise I’m not who I claim to be.

I hear Sherlock puttering about downstairs. He doesn’t have a case at the moment, so he must just be being his usual nocturnal self. I think I’ll go see if he won’t agree to play a spot of violin. He’s massively talented, when he isn’t mimicking the sounds of a cat being tortured.

0900

He played for me. I fell asleep in my armchair. I don’t know how long he kept playing, but when I woke up, there was an afghan tucked around me. I can’t believe people keep accusing him of being heartless.

Six hours of the best sleep I’ve had in days.

06/03/2011
2345

Moran’s making noise about giving me another job. I think I acquitted myself well enough on the last. I’m not sure that’s a good thing. It’s difficult undermining ops without letting them fail entirely, or having suspicion come to bear on me.

I may have failed in the latter. I don’t know. I find myself more and more resigned to the fact that I probably won’t

08/03/2011

My dearest Sherlock,

Sherlock starts violently. His heart’s racing, for some reason. Numbly, he places the book aside, then gets up and heads for the kitchen. PG Tips. He hates it, but it’s cheap and that’s what John chooses to buy. Cheap. Because he has debts, and lives in London, and has not nearly enough money.

While the tea steeps, Sherlock opens the refrigerator. A jar of eyeballs stares out at him, and he looks back contemplatively. Then he plucks out a carton of leftover spring rolls, plates the food, and puts it in the microwave. John worries about his eating habits. Why does John worry?

The spring rolls take just a minute, and Sherlock pours the tea out while the food cools slightly. The tea is milky and sweet and he can’t quite remember what he’s supposed to do with it.

His brain’s so full.

Nicotine patches. He’s lost track of time. He rips the patches off, folds them up, wraps them, and throws them away. Then he goes to the sink to scrub his hands. A while later, he realises that his skin is red and raw. He turns the water off, picks up his plate and cup, and returns to the sofa.

John is either mad, clairvoyant, or a time-traveller.

Whichever the truth, Sherlock has not seen it coming at all.

He finishes the spring rolls and lingers over the tea. The journal sits next to him on the sofa, innocuously pretending to be a textbook on neurology.

Time passes. Finally, he picks up the journal again, turning to the page he’d stopped at.

My dearest Sherlock, it reads,

I am not really sure how to begin this letter, or even what exactly to say to you. By this time, you probably think me mad. To have dreamed the events of three months – of meeting you, of working with you, of (a word was heavily blacked out here, and Sherlock could not make out what it had been) coming to know you… of dying with you – I know it seems the story of a madman. Even now, I am not quite certain what the dream is. What came before, or what I am living now? Either way, I find I am not willing to risk your life on the assumption that what I have “lived” was merely an invention of a fevered brain.

Therefore, I set out to verify certain aspects of my dream. If you choose to wait, you might find that near the end of the month, an old university acquaintance of yours contacts you regarding a vandalism case. His name is Sebastian Wilkes. The vandalism case will turn into a murder case, and then into an international smuggling case.

Or it may not. I have already been to speak to Soo Lin Yao at the National Antiquities Museum, where she served as an expert on Chinese antiques. I did not tell her that my information comes from my dreams, but my knowledge of the Chinese crime syndicate she is hiding from was enough to convince her to flee. This may change some of the events I feel I lived through. I am fairly sure that at least two of the murders will still occur, though.

What happened in my dream was this: there is a crime syndicate called the Black Lotus Tong. Soo Lin was conscripted as a child, alongside her brother. She quickly grew disillusioned with them and eventually fled the country. Her brother, on the other hand, believed every word of their rhetoric, and grew to become one of their most skilled assassins.

Two parallel crimes: one, the murders of Edward Van Coon and Brian Lukis. Both encountered apparently random graffiti before they died. (This graffiti is what will prompt Wilkes to contact you – there is no clue as to how the vandal got into the office. When I tell you that Soo Lin’s brother’s nickname is “the spider,” you will no doubt understand how it was carried out.) The graffiti was in fact a code – a book code, to be precise. The symbols were actually ancient Chinese numerals, and each pair of numbers stood for a word: page number, then word number. The book used was the London A-Z. The graffiti both men encountered read “Deadman.”

They were both smugglers, working for the Black Lotus. One of them stole a tiny jade hairpin, thinking it would not be missed. Unfortunately for him, it actually cost nine million pounds. Naturally, the Black Lotus came after him. They didn’t know if it was Van Coon or Lukis, so they threatened and killed them both. Sadly for them, they were still unable to recover the pin. Van Coon had given it as a gift to his secretary, with whom he’d been in a relationship.

While here, the Black Lotus also went after Soo Lin. Given that they smuggled antiquities, her usefulness to them will be apparent to you. She was murdered for failing to cooperate. Hopefully, my warning will allow her to survive. I could think of nothing to do for Van Coon or Lukis. You might have more success. Or you might choose to let things play out, to see if any of what I claim, comes to pass. I certainly will not blame you if you do; it is exactly what I did at first. It was only when I realised that you might be in danger, that I began trying to change things.

There you are, then. It’s about all I can offer in the way of proof, as regards my dream.

Proof about Moriarty, on the other hand, is a little more concrete.

James Moriarty set himself up as a “consulting criminal” – your antithesis. I think he’s been interested in you from a very early age. What he said while he was holding me hostage makes me think that Carl Powers was his very first kill. He’d thought it perfect, and he was astounded to realise that someone had seen something amiss. That someone was you. He kept an eye on you and your career thereafter, especially after you set yourself up as a consulting detective. I don’t know if he got the idea for his career choice from you or not, but what he does is, he tells people how to commit the perfect crime. For a price, he’ll plan out a murder that will never be pinned on you. You’ll have to carry it out yourself; he never gets his own hands dirty. For a little extra money, he’ll provide you with any help you might need.

Janus Cars is one of his fronts, according to my dream. My current research has also backed that up. In my research, you’ll find other fronts.

It’s up to you what you will do with the information.

As for me, it should be obvious from the previous entries in this journal that I have managed to join his organisation. (I was about to write “infiltrate” but that seems far too much like a spy movie.) I was able to gather some information. It may be enough to give you a place to start. I’d like, of course, to see his organisation brought down.

If you choose to ignore all that I have written here, that’s fine. I plan to obtain whatever information I can get, and put it in the usual place. It’ll be there waiting, whatever you decide to do with it – proclaim it to the world or burn it, I don’t care.

As for where the information is – I don’t know if you’ve discovered this yet. (Somehow, I doubt it, given the state of your bedroom.) In the first drawer of your bedside table, taped to the top, is a key-card. I’m sure that you or Mycroft can locate the safety deposit box that it opens. You have access to it. All the information I’ve gathered is stored there. I thought about making backups, but I honestly haven’t the faintest where I could conceivably store them. I just hope that no one else gets to the information before you do.

My goal is to kill Moriarty. It’s said that you have to cut off the head of the snake to truly kill it. I honestly don’t know if killing him will result in the fall of his organisation. I hope it will. If it doesn’t – well, that’s up to you.

Watch out for Sebastian Moran. He’s as amoral as his employer, and only marginally less ruthless.

As I write this, I’m planning to whet your curiosity tomorrow. It’s a fine line I’ll have to walk – getting you curious enough that you’ll go snooping when I don’t return, but not so much that you refuse to let me leave. I know the flimsy disguise this journal wears won’t fool you for long. It’s been enough all this while (you never did invade my room unless to call me out for a case… and thank you for that, for respecting that boundary when I asked it of you), but once you’ve set your mind to things… well. I wish I knew what you’ll think once you’ve read all this.

Casey Sullivan (that’s the one I report to directly) has requested me on a “security detail” tomorrow. I know what that means. I also happen to know that Moriarty will be nearby. When the time comes, I will do my utmost to kill Moriarty, and give the target a chance to get away.

I don’t know what will happen to me then, or even if I’ll be successful in killing Moriarty. There’s also Moran to contend with, of course – he’s never far from his master – and I highly doubt I’ll have time to take out both of them. I rather suspect that even if I do kill Moriarty, I won’t see or hear Moran’s bullet coming.

Whatever does happen, I’ve come to terms with it. My only regret is that I didn’t have longer with you.

Please know that I have the sincerest regard for you. It has been my privilege to know you, and be granted a glimpse into your mind and heart. You are both a great man, and a good one. Don’t let anyone – including yourself – tell you otherwise.

Yours,
John

Sherlock gently closes the journal, sets it on his lap, then stares at nothing for a very long time.

Presently, he rouses himself off the sofa. He retrieves his phone, opens up a new text message to Lestrade, then types I need to speak to Jefferson Hope. SH

Now. Carl Powers. He has certainly never spoken of that first case to John before. There are a number of ways in which John might have come to know of it. Establishing the truth behind any of those reasons would entail measures Sherlock does not want to resort to just yet. There are, however, ways in which he can discover other truths.

There is indeed a key-card taped to the top of his drawer. It takes little time to track down the corresponding facility. Not one of the best, but probably the best John could afford. Sherlock discovers, upon his arrival there, that he is already listed on the paperwork as being approved to access the safety-deposit box. Inside are sheaves of paper – photocopies of receipts, notes, and some extremely incriminating documents.

There is still a minute possibility that these may have been forged. A thorough examination back at the flat turns up no indications of a forgery, so if they are in fact fake, they’re high-quality fakes. John has had neither the time to create them, nor the money to buy them. Either he’s been provided with them by someone else, or they’re real.

Sherlock curls up at the head of John’s bed and thinks.

There’s also another journal, this one detailing members of the supposed organisation that John has personally encountered. There’s no way to confirm their real names or identities, of course, but John has set down every last bit of identifying information he could remember. Some of it is telling, even if John has clearly not drawn the logical conclusions – this man once worked as a plumber, this one in the navy. Without names, fingerprints or DNA samples, there’s still little to start with. Sherlock nonetheless commits the trivial details to memory.

He checks his phone when it vibrates. Lestrade. The serial suicides guy? In remand, don’t think you’ll be allowed.

What would it take? SH, Sherlock texts back.

Won’t happen unless you’ve got him on a different charge, Lestrade replies immediately.

Sherlock considers that, then sets his phone aside. John has procured some telling records, which Sherlock proceeds to memorise. Perhaps he should start with some of these fronts. Janus Cars, Apate Construction, Safe and Co-

His phone vibrates. Lestrade again. Why do you ask?

Apate Construction. Where’s John’s laptop? On the desk; bother. Sherlock stretches out and manoeuvres it closer without moving from the bed, finally catching it by the side and lifting it towards himself. Apate Construction. Google first. It has its uses. Company website. Quite professional in appearance, well laid-out and organised. There’s a history section; it’s a sixteen-year-old company, owned by a Sheldon Bartley. He has a partial resume on the site, detailing his work experience. Sherlock takes down the pertinent identifying information. There’s enough there for him to check out Bartley’s true history. What else?

Ask him if he’ll speak to me off the record. SH

Sherlock breathes in deeply. The room smells like the cheap soap and shampoo John uses, like the lavender freshener Mrs Hudson has installed in every room, like the faint musk of a male body, like John. John. What is he doing now? Has he already been found out? Is any of what he has written true?

Is he alive?

Sherlock’s phone rings. Lestrade. Sherlock lets it ring out, then picks it up when it vibrates with a new message.

Pick up! What’s going on?

The phone rings again. Sherlock bites his lip and answers. “I’m not quite certain right now,” he says.

“That’s almost definitely not going to get you in,” Lestrade says. “Look, the thing is, right now you’re on standby as a witness – they’re hardly going to let you in and potentially compromise things.”

“I think he might be dying,” Sherlock says. “Brain aneurysm. You should have that checked out.” He hangs up. He doesn’t have time for this. Lestrade won’t be able to help with this one. Mycroft will, but Sherlock isn’t sure he’s quite that desperate yet. Except, John had written that, hadn’t he, he’d written how he hoped that Sherlock wouldn’t be too stubborn to go to Mycroft. And why, if this was a grand plot targeting Sherlock, would anyone willingly draw Mycroft into the game?

Options? That it’s a double-bluff, that by mentioning Mycroft as being possibly necessary, he’d harden Sherlock’s resolve not to call in his loathsome older brother. That the plot includes Mycroft, in which case Mycroft’s many governmental shenanigans will have to be taken into consideration. That the plot is solely targeting Mycroft, and Sherlock is being used to get to him. That John is telling the truth, and needs help.

Sherlock breathes in (lavender and musk, musk and lavender) and out. He holds his breath for a few seconds, then picks up his phone and makes a call.

Chapter Two - Part Two

Fanfic - The Great Puzzle 1/3 [Sherlock BBC: John/Sherlock]

soera — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 04:01:55 GMT

Chapter One - Part One

It takes a little work to analyse the possible dump sites. After that, it takes a little time to find the right one, and the case. Sherlock takes another taxi back to 221B, almost vibrating with the need to inspect its contents. The driver is truly atrocious, but finally, finally, he arrives back home.

Mrs Hudson has left a covered plate of sandwiches on the kitchen, perilously perched next to Sherlock’s chemistry kit. He ignores it; food is irrelevant now. Mrs Hudson has also taken Robert. This is slightly more troublesome, but Sherlock hasn’t the time to sweet-talk her into giving it back.

Label on the case – name, address, phone number, email address. Clothes, toiletries, all in keeping with Jennifer Wilson’s lifestyle. No laptop, that’s peculiar. No phone, that’s downright impossible, especially with her job. Phone’s gone missing then. How and why and where? Didn’t bring it with her? Not possible. She was a fastidious sort of woman, a careful one. With all those affairs, she’d have to be. She’d never be so careless with her phone. Possible but unlikely that she’d have lost it. Then why isn’t it in her case?

No. No, no. He’s going about this wrong. Why on earth would she have it in her case? That would be stupid, inconvenient. Mike’s had been in his coat, John’s in his jacket pocket. John. Sherlock snatches up his phone and sends off a quick text. Baker Street. Come at once if convenient. SH. But what if it isn’t? Surely John will come anyway. He’s got to. He’s moving in. Except he hasn’t moved in yet. And he might not want to. Where has John got to, anyway? If inconvenient, come anyway. SH.

No guarantees that John will come, but at the very least, he’ll know he’s wanted. He’d had a peculiarly useful way of pushing Sherlock’s mind onto the right track, nudging him away from the other possibilities. Only the drugs had ever done that before. He’s plain and obvious and unassuming enough, and no doubt he’ll last barely a week with Sherlock even if he decides to take up the flat – but he’s also ex-army, and a doctor, and his eyes had thrilled with delight both at Sherlock and the possibility of a mystery. Adventure.

Sherlock quite understands. The ennui he experiences between cases will one day be the death of him.

So. No phone in the case. A handbag, of course, but no phone had been found among the possessions found with her, either. The phone would have to have been easily accessible. And now it’s gone.

Only one person could have taken it. Why, though? A trophy? Nothing was taken from the other bodies. What makes this one different? The case had been dumped because it would have drawn attention. Why take the phone when it’s not necessary?

Sherlock growls under his breath and jumps up. He needs a nicotine patch. This quitting business is very tiresome. The phone, the phone, the phone is important. How is it important? He scribbles down the number on a piece of paper and studies it as he paces over to the ornate slipper in which he keeps his supply of patches.

He pastes the patch directly over the track marks that scar his veins. He doesn’t like looking at them anyway.

All right. Think.

Sherlock puts the paper down on his desk. The murderer has the phone. He must. But one must be certain in order to proceed with confidence. How best to confirm the location of the phone without actually laying hands on the murderer?

By making contact, of course. But his number is far too public.

“Mrs Hudson!” Sherlock yells. “I need to borrow your phone!”

No response. Either she hasn’t heard him or she’s ignoring him. Both possibilities are entirely likely. Perhaps John will let Sherlock borrow his phone. If he comes at all. Oh, this will be tricky. Sherlock puts on another patch, and then another, then throws himself on the sofa. He shouldn’t do this, he knows he shouldn’t. But he’s promised himself to stay off the hard drugs and he needs something to help him think, something to push his mind in the directions it needs to go. He sees so many possible paths all at once. It gets dizzying.

Sometimes, the cocaine had pushed him onto the wrong paths. Often, actually. That’s the reason – not Mycroft’s pressuring or even Mummy’s disappointment – that Sherlock had finally made the decision to kick his drug habit. It had made enduring the boredom between cases easier, but it had also ruined his ability to work those cases he found.

John’s somewhat like a drug. It remains to be seen if he will serve as a nicotine patch, or as cocaine.

Three patches, then. Never more, that’s a promise he’s made himself. And not for too long, either. Think. He’ll have to remove the patches soon. Think.

Sherlock is still lying on the sofa, working out contingency plans, when he hears a knock at the door. Mrs Hudson moves to answer it. John, perhaps. Sherlock glances languidly at his watch. Yes, likely John. Also, bother – almost time to remove the patches. He sucks in a breath of enjoyment, imagining the nicotine coursing through his veins.

“What’re you doing?” John asks.

“Nicotine patch,” Sherlock says absently. “Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brainwork.”

“Good news for breathing,” John returns.

“Ugh, breathing,” Sherlock huffs. “Breathing’s boring.”

“Three patches?” John says. “That can’t be good for you.”

“It’s a three-patch problem,” Sherlock says. “I don’t leave them on long. You needn’t fear I’ll collapse.”

“All right,” John says. “You wanted me for something?”

Sherlock thinks about that for a moment. Ah, the text. Time to spring the trap he’d planned out before. “Oh yes,” he says. “Can I borrow your phone?”

“Need to call someone?” John asks.

“Text, actually,” Sherlock says. Is there any way around this? It’s risky, but no, he can’t see anything else he could do. John makes an inquisitive sound and Sherlock realises he’s been mumbling under his breath. Hadn’t that been one of those things Ellery had informed him was abnormal?

“On my desk,” Sherlock says hurriedly. “There’s a number. I want you to send a text.”

John frowns at him, but pulls out his phone and moves to check the number. “Just so you know, you shouldn’t call someone from halfway across London just to send a text.”

Sherlock twists a little so he can see John’s face from his reclined position. “I didn’t.”

John looks surprised at that. “You just –”

“I asked you to come so I could think at you,” Sherlock tells him. “Mrs Hudson took my skull, you see. But since you took so long, I used the nicotine patches instead. No harm done.”

John looks down at his phone. “So… the texting…”

“You’re here now,” Sherlock says. “And I do need your phone.”

John’s lips are quivering. Sherlock simply does not understand these mercurial moods of John’s. It’s fortunate that they aren’t intrusive. And at least he seems prone to bouts of good humour, unlike Sherlock’s own tendency towards black moods.

Sherlock dictates to John, who dutifully types out the message. “What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.” There, Sherlock pauses. Where to draw the murderer towards? Northumberland Street might be safe. They could always keep an eye out from Angelo’s. But simply watching is of little practical use, and Sherlock knows he could not watch without attempting to lay his hands on the murderer. Better, perhaps, to bring him here. He hasn’t yet posted his new address on his website. Ought to be safe enough.

“Is that all?” John asks cautiously.

“No,” Sherlock says. “Add this. 221B Baker Street. Please come.”

John’s fingers hover over the phone for a good few moments before he slowly types out the addendum. “Um,” he says, sending the message. “Did I just text a murderer?”

“Well, yes,” Sherlock says. “You’re quite quick on the uptake.”

“No, I wouldn’t say that,” John says firmly. “Wouldn’t say that at all. Only in retrospect, really. Why are you asking him to come here?”

“Where else?” Sherlock asks.

“Of course,” John sighs. Then he drops his phone on Sherlock’s stomach, clears the table by pushing aside some papers, and sits down on it.

Sherlock stares down at the phone contemplatively. That casual air of ownership is new. A lot of things about John are new.

“Met a friend of yours,” John says.

A friend? That’s impossible. He doesn’t have any friends. Acquaintances, at best.

“An enemy,” John corrects when Sherlock expresses his incredulity. “Arch-enemy, according to him. Is he really?”

“Absolutely,” Sherlock says.

He only sees it because he happens to glance up at John precisely that moment. John looks absolutely devastated for a moment, but then, as before, the emotion is swiftly hidden behind calm neutrality.

Is having an arch-enemy that traumatising?

“Drove me to some out of the way warehouse,” John says. “Kidnapped me, really. I’d complain, but I don’t think it would do me much good. At least he offered to have me driven me back, but I told him I’d walk.”

“Did he offer you money to spy on me?” Sherlock asks. Doesn’t hurt to check that it was in fact Mycroft. Of course, there’s no one else it could be. Who else would be interested in kidnapping John to get at Sherlock?

“Yes,” John says.

“Did you take it?” Sherlock asks.

“I thought about it,” John says. “Figured we could split it.”

Sherlock’s lips crook upwards of their own accord. Peculiar.

“Couldn’t in the end, though,” John says in a vaguely apologetic voice. “Sorry.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” Sherlock says. “Whatever makes you happy.”

John hadn’t taken the money. John hadn’t taken the money. John had chosen Sherlock.

There are so many things that are new about Doctor John Watson.

John’s phone rings. Sherlock peers down at it, and John obligingly reaches over, tilting the screen into view. Number withheld. Sherlock smiles in satisfaction. That’s it, then. The killer clearly has the phone. Now, if only he takes the bait.

“That’s him,” John says. “The murderer.”

“Must be,” Sherlock says. “And now we wait.”

“Just wait?” John asks. “Surely we should call the police.”

Sherlock scoffs at the thought. “And have them make a mess of things as always? They truly are very trying to work with.” Unlike John, who has been quite pleasant to have around, and whose words help rather than hinder. But he mustn’t get used to it. John will be leaving soon. Sherlock surprises himself with the realisation that he’d really like to try and make this flatmates thing work with John – John who’s been properly appreciative of Sherlock’s mind, John who’s taken everything that’s happened in his stride, John who’d chosen Sherlock over Mycroft. But there’s nothing he can offer John; nothing he and only he can do for John. There is nothing holding John to 221B and to Sherlock, and so even if he takes the flat, it won’t be long before Sherlock himself inadvertently drives him out.

But John does so clear his head.

“I’m sure they say the same about you,” John says dryly, and Sherlock grins. He knows they do. “At least fill them in on what you’ve got so far –”

“There’s little new we can tell them,” Sherlock says, waving off the suggestion. “I need a way to lay my hands on our murderer first.”

“Then at least tell them you’ve got the suitcase,” John insists. “They’ll need to log it in as evidence. Catching the murderer’s all well and good, but we need to make sure he stays in prison – not escape on a technicality.”

“Surely the evidence is damning enough,” Sherlock says, frowning.

“Not everyone sees the world the way you do,” John says. “In fact, it’s pretty safe to say practically no one does. We can’t look at him and read his guilt. And there’s always going to be a question of whether the evidence was planted, if you go rummaging for it without an officer on hand. After all that work catching them, do you really want them to slip the net again?”

Sherlock thinks about that for a moment. He knows the procedures the police need to follow. Of course he does. He’s always considered himself above that, though. It’s hardly due procedure to call in a consulting detective. And it’s so boring, following up on all these tiresome details when all he really wants is to just get at the heart of the mystery. But of course John has a point as well.

“Soon,” he concedes reluctantly. “I want to have more facts first. Who is this person who can abduct his victims from the middle of a busy street without anyone noticing? Someone we don’t think twice about, someone we trust. Who passes unnoticed, wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?”

He looks over at John, who’s leaning forward slightly, eyes focused on Sherlock with a slightly disconcerting intensity. John’s biting his lip in thought.

“People we tend to overlook,” John says. “Uh, janitors, cleaners, homeless people.”

“Unlikely,” Sherlock says. “Our murderer still has to convince his victims to travel somewhere with him, and people are quite close-minded about the homeless.”

“Doormen,” John suggests. “Uh, police officers.”

“There’s a possibility,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. “Our victims were driven, of course. But all the same, why get in a police car if you haven’t been involved in an accident or some such?”

“What, they just get into his car?” John asks. “What does he do, drive up to them and ask if he can give them a lift to certain death?”

“I highly doubt he phrases it quite like that,” Sherlock says with a grin. He rather likes John’s sense of humour. “He wouldn’t – oh!”

Sherlock swings up and off the sofa, catching the phone before it can tumble off his body. “Oh, John, you’re brilliant,” he crows happily, seizing John by the shoulders. “That’s it, of course that’s it, that’s how he does it.”

“Great!” John says, eyes wide. “How does he do it?”

“It’s so obvious,” Sherlock moans. “How did I miss it all this while? Oh, John, you should have come earlier. I could have solved this ages ago if you’d been here.”

John’s face turns pink enough that Sherlock can see the flush of colour even in the muted light. He watches, charmed, as the colour spreads across the bridge of John’s nose, and splashes over his cheeks and jawline.

There’s a loud sort of commotion downstairs, and Sherlock lets go of John’s shoulders with a frown. Mrs Hudson doesn’t sound happy, but the noise isn’t abating.

“What on earth is going on?” he murmurs, getting up. Then Lestrade shows up – and not just Lestrade, but Donovan and Anderson and Beech and Smith – just about everyone he loathes, really.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock says coolly. He shouldn’t be surprised. He isn’t. He works best with Lestrade and Gregson, but they both do tend to throw their weight around when they think Sherlock’s withholding evidence, or failing to work fast enough. They never do understand that Sherlock needs to have all the pieces in place before he presents the evidence. It’s no use knowing the gist of a thing without being able to prove every aspect. It’s at moments like these that Sherlock’s opinion of them falls, moments like these which ensure that Sherlock will never have anything more than a purely professional relationship with them.

“What’s this, then?” John asks, getting up from the table.

“Drugs bust,” Lestrade announces. Anderson’s already over at the mantelpiece, attempting to pull the knife out of the pile of letters.

“Ah,” John says, frowning. The others begin to spread out, snapping on gloves and touching his things, they’re ruining his system, Sherlock hates it. Mrs Hudson is standing in the door, wringing her hands. She’s upset, and that’s just as bad. John is liable to find out that Sherlock was once a drug addict, and that’s the worst of all, he knows how people like John regard addicts, recovering or otherwise. “Where’s your warrant?”

“What?” Lestrade asks.

“Warrant,” John says patiently. “Presumably you have one. Seeing as I’m also living here, I’ve got the right to read it, don’t I?”

“Oh,” Lestrade says. “Well. We don’t have one.”

John makes a thoughtful sound under his breath. “I’m not really quite up on my law,” he says pleasantly. “But wouldn’t that mean that you have no legal cause to be here, and that we could in fact have disciplinary action taken against every person in here?”

That does it. No one in the room is moving now.

“I suppose it does,” Lestrade says. He’s looking a little pale.

Sherlock can’t think. His mind is completely and utterly blank, and all he is capable of doing is staring at John.

“In that case, would you be so good as to take your men outside?” John asks politely. “And then perhaps we could have a little chat, like civilised men?”

Sherlock doesn’t pay attention to what Lestrade says, or the commentary from the people there as they troop down the stairs with their metaphoric tails between their legs. Mrs Hudson comes over, gives John a hug (he looks bemused, but hugs her back) and retreats to her room after a few reassurances from John and an absent smile from Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” John asks after a moment. There are footsteps on the stairs – two people, slow and hesitant. Unwilling.

“It’s all so new,” Sherlock says helplessly.

John turns that over in his head, just as Lestrade and Donovan reappear, looking somewhat chastised but still defiant. “Is that bad?” John asks with a tinge of anxiety.

“Not in the least,” Sherlock says.

They sit down like – as John put it – civilised people.

“Information exchange, then?” John says. He still sounds for all the world like he’s sitting down with three of his best friends, and they’re going to go frolic among daisies after having a nice cuppa. Sherlock swallows the half-hysterical laugh before it can emerge. “Have you found anything useful?”

They have, but Sherlock’s not entirely certain how to fit it into his information. He mulls the puzzle of Rachel over in his head, allowing John to fill the police in on what Sherlock’s discovered thus far. The attempt at contacting the murderer is met with consternation, but they allow John to finish detailing what he knows of Sherlock’s discoveries before turning their attention to Sherlock.

Rachel. Rachel. Ugh, why would she scratch out her stillborn child’s name? Death roughly coincides with the collapse of her marriage, possible correlation. But no, that can’t possibly have anything to do with this. Jennifer Wilson scratched the name into wood. With her nails. It would have been hard, it would have been painful. She’s got no reason to do it.

“It doesn’t make sense,” Sherlock bursts out in frustration, leaping from his chair and pacing furiously. “Why Rachel, why would she write that?”

“Thinking of her child?” Donovan suggests. “People do that.”

“It was ages ago,” Sherlock says. “Why would she still be upset?”

“Why –” Donovan begins.

“It can be traumatising losing someone you love,” John interrupts. “Especially a child, especially a stillborn. It’s like they never really had the chance, you know, to do anything, to be anyone. And she was the mother, on top of that. I imagine she felt some measure of guilt, as well. Wondering if it was something wrong with her that made her lose the child. Not everyone feels that way, of course, but for some it can take far longer than a decade or two to even start letting go.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says, thoughts temporarily derailed. “That makes sense.”

John smiles at him reassuringly. “She knew she was dying; it’s entirely probable she was thinking of the baby she’d lost.”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock says absently. “She would, if death was on her mind, death and dying too soon. But it doesn’t explain why she would write the name down. That took effort. It would have hurt. It’s not something you do unless it’s important.”

“It’s a message to whoever found her,” John says thoughtfully. Sherlock listens, his brain still working furiously, trying to puzzle through the myriad choices open to him. “She was trying to give us information. Maybe it’s not the child herself, maybe it’s the name – a code or something –”

And that’s it, snap – everything else clears away and the truth is beautifully, painfully obvious.

“John, you can never leave me ever again,” Sherlock orders wildly, diving for his laptop. “Email address, on the label, the bag. What’s the email address?”

Lestrade and Donovan are both asking questions as John reads out the email address to Sherlock. Obvious, so very obvious. A password, of course, nothing else could make sense. A password for a smartphone. Oh, she was clever. Sherlock doesn’t even register the explanations he’s providing as he logs in and goes straight for the GPS.

Three minutes. Oh, he will positively explode with the waiting. John’s hand lands on his shoulder, stilling the impatient fidgeting.

“She was rather ingenious, wasn’t she?” John says.

“She must have realised, while she was in the taxi,” Sherlock says. “He must have told her what was going to happen – she couldn’t get to him while he was driving, so she started planning instead. Trying to figure out how to escape him, but coming up with a contingency plan to make sure he was found if she died.”

“A taxi?” Lestrade says, astonished. “It’s a taxi driver?”

“Yes, of course,” Sherlock says, watching the little clock timer on the screen. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. You said it yourself, John, he as good as drives up to his victims and asks to take them to certain death. He drives a taxi, that’s how he gets his victims in his car, where he can take them wherever he wants. Come on.”

The timer continues to scroll in patient circles.

“Oh,” John says. “That’s what you meant.”

There’s yet another knock at the door downstairs. It’s a revolving door tonight. Probably one of the detectives returning. Lestrade had best get rid of them. Sherlock’s in no mood for Anderson now, not when he’s so close to catching the murderer.

“A bloody cabbie,” Donovan says in a marvelling tone. “No one would have seen it coming.”

“That’s the point,” Sherlock says. “That’s how no one managed to see them vanishing. What could be more normal than a person getting into a taxi?”

“Isn’t this doorbell working?” Mrs Hudson says, leaning in around the door. “Sherlock, dear, the taxi you called for is waiting downstairs.”

Sherlock looks up from the screen. “I didn’t call –” he begins, then stops. “Ah.” The GPS tracker chimes as if to punctuate the word.

221 Baker Street.

They all stare at it for a moment. Then Sherlock clears his throat and looks back at Mrs Hudson with a smile. “Taxi, you said?”

“Yes, he’s waiting,” Mrs Hudson says. “Are you going out again? It’s awfully late.”

“I don’t believe I am,” Sherlock says, then twists to look at Lestrade and Donovan. “Well? Have at it. He’ll have her phone on him, or in the taxi – that will surely be enough.”

It’s John whom Lestrade is looking at, though. “You’re good for him,” he says with a faint smile. “Better than us, that’s for sure.”

The expression on John’s face is surprise, Sherlock’s sure. But pleasure as well. “Thank you,” John says. “And you know, next time you want information – just ask.”

Lestrade grins outright at that. “Noted.”

The arrest itself is quite anti-climactic. The cabbie – Jefferson Hope, his name is – gives up quietly when Lestrade and Donovan appear to arrest him. He confesses to all the murders, but refuses to explain how he had made the victims kill themselves. The fake gun found on him is certainly how he got them to follow him out of the car and do what he wanted. No doubt he’d forced them at gunpoint to swallow the pills. Sherlock doesn’t doubt that he’d played mind games of some sort with his victims, but the end result is the same: an apparent suicide and a nearly flawless murder.

It’s been quite a beautiful case.

And John still hasn’t left.

Eight days now since John had first moved in with Sherlock, and he still hasn’t left. Sherlock’s prediction of a week is clearly wrong, and Sherlock cannot help but be pleased by it. John is such a delightful flatmate. Really, the best he’s ever had.

It’s not that John doesn’t complain, of course. He doesn’t quite like having Sherlock’s experiments in the refrigerator, and he – as he promised – protests when Sherlock plays the violin in the early hours of the morning. But after he gets a good grumble out, John’s generally quite forgiving of the experimentation and music. He’s been so accommodating, in fact, that Sherlock’s giving serious thought to John’s request that he package up any refrigerated experiments.

“I don’t want decomposing flesh dripping into my curry,” John had explained. “It ruins the taste, and it’s a waste of money. Also, it could kill me.”

All very good points. Sherlock doesn’t quite see the point in eating as often as John does, but he’s willing to concede that if one wanted to eat curry, one would generally prefer it to be free of ptomaine. Still, wrapping or sealing some of his experiments as John asks, might alter the results. This dilemma is something that requires thought. Sherlock has determined to give it careful consideration. This fact, in turn, has caused some surprise. Never before has he been willing to compromise on his experiments.

John Watson is endlessly fascinating, if only for the responses he provokes in Sherlock.

Sherlock finds that he cannot stop analysing John. Whatever else he is engaged in, part of him is always paying attention to John. That part knows when John is tired (often; he doesn’t sleep well), when John is stressed (often; possibly lingering trauma from the war), when John is relaxed (occasionally; when John is watching truly atrocious television), when John is intrigued (occasionally; when Sherlock explains the nature of his current work).

John is interested in Sherlock’s work. He has already demonstrated a willingness to follow Sherlock around once. Sherlock wonders if he would be willing to do so again.

So it is that when a new case crops up (a civilian looking for aid this time), Sherlock asks John to accompany him.

John accepts.

This, Sherlock decides, is quite delightful.

He solves the case (of course he does), and John remains constantly by his side, perfectly happy to let Sherlock talk at him, allow the sporadic comments on his (and everyone else’s) intelligence (or lack thereof) to slide off his back, and generally be appreciative of Sherlock’s genius. It is a heady feeling, made all the better by the fact that John demonstrates no antagonism towards the fact that Sherlock’s intelligence is clearly far superior to John’s own.

In fact, John goes on to make it to a month, and though they do have sporadic quarrels – whether or not it’s acceptable to leave a human hand in the shower, for instance, or a whole pig’s carcass on the table – they generally manage to sort things out quite well. If John feels that he is becoming unreasonably frustrated, he takes himself out the door rather than become confrontational with Sherlock.

It’s rather a novel way of dealing with Sherlock, in all honesty. Most people prefer to hurt him in some way – either with (ineffective) words or (marginally more successful) fists.

And he does try the patience of most, he knows. He tries John’s patience too, at times, but John remains with him all the same. Surely there’s something to that.

He makes a study of John’s expressions. One day, he hopes to catalogue them all, and assign them their proper emotions. It’s always tricky. People are always subtly different in the way they show their feelings. He has analysed general trends, of course. He has had to, in order to understand the people he works with, the criminals and victims alike. He has never before been tempted to make a thorough analysis of a specific case study.

He is making excellent headway with John.

Besides John’s responses to various situations, he also finds himself examining John’s lifestyle. John is still unemployed, though he has been looking for a job. In the interim, while he waits for responses, he spends as little as he possibly can. The rent and utilities must of course be paid. Food is the cheapest he can possibly afford. The same goes for toiletries, which in addition are bought in bulk, presumably for a discount. John does not go out if it entails spending money, except on those occasions he had been working with Sherlock, and they had wound up at restaurants.

Frugal, though not desperately so. Sherlock hopes that this does not mean John is saving up to move out.

One anomaly in John’s behaviour is that after the first week or so, John had started going out to the pub almost every evening. The location is evident from the state of John’s shoes and jacket when he returns late at night, sometimes even in the early hours of the morning. But John spends little there, and never returns drunk. John is also not that avid a sports fan, and never has friends call round the house, so Sherlock is at a loss to know why John insists on spending so many evenings out at the pub.

Perhaps it is precisely because he doesn’t have friends round, that he chooses to meet them outside? Though Sherlock and John have compromised on Sherlock’s experiments, it does not follow that John would subject his friends to the same. It is the explanation that makes the most sense (and allows for a non-drinker to remain in a pub for hours without getting summarily ejected – surely he is with others who do spend money).

Sherlock is generous enough to allow John his evenings. Besides, as proven by his tests, John will always return to his side if he asks.

John does not quite like it when Sherlock texts him to return, only to ask him to send a text to Lestrade.

(Or to anyone else.)

But John prefers to spend the daytime hours at home. He’s quite pleasant company, in all honesty. He has an ability to read Sherlock’s moods; he knows when Sherlock desperately needs quiet and time to himself, when Sherlock is in need of company, when Sherlock’s boredom is getting the best of him, when he should ignore Sherlock’s sulks and when he should force Sherlock out of them. He doesn’t always get it right, but he does so more often than anyone else. Even Mycroft doesn’t handle Sherlock quite as well, though that could certainly be attributed to Sherlock’s antagonism towards his brother.

Speaking of Mycroft, his brother had come to him once in the course of the past month, ostensibly to ask for Sherlock’s services in a little puzzle involving one of his employees. Sherlock had turned him down, of course, and at any rate, Mycroft’s real reason for turning up had been to inform Sherlock that John’s background checks had turned up nothing worrying.

Not that Sherlock had been worrying.

John has led a fairly uninteresting early life. There are a few official records of domestic disputes at his house when he was a child, but nothing came of them. There is an (unsubstantiated) possibility that John had fallen in with a few unsavoury characters in his teenage years. Despite his connections, however, he has never committed any crimes. He studied at Barts, spent a few years in a hospital, then signed up for the army. During training, his instructors had reported him to be remarkably focused, talented and intelligent, with an ability to work well under pressure. As an army doctor, he should not have been on the front lines – but had in fact been tapped to take part in two ops, both classified enough that Mycroft had regretfully declined to provide details. Clearly, his ability to work well under pressure had also translated into an ability to work well under fire. He was, by all accounts, well liked and a fierce protector. He had been awarded a Military Cross. The injury that had led to his being invalided home was a bullet to the shoulder.

Some of the bullet fragments are still lodged in John’s shoulder. Sherlock notes that in the unlikely event John is injured, the attending medical team should be informed that he cannot undergo an MRI.

John had undergone surgery for the injury at a medical base in Afghanistan. Four months after the initial injury, he had finally been flown home, tired and drained a way that had little to do with the injury itself. John had evidently meant to make a life-long career out of the army, and having been discharged, no longer quite knew what to do with himself.

His qualifications make him best suited to be a trauma surgeon. His loss of precision movement in his left arm makes that impossible.

It’s no wonder he’s taken to Sherlock’s particular brand of madness. He doesn’t need to have a perfectly steady arm to follow Sherlock around, and the controlled chaos that frequently surrounded them must feel in some way like being back on the battlefield.

A good rush of adrenaline also enables John to temporarily work around the stiffness and faint tremors. He pays for it later, when things have settled, but he seems to enjoy the rush all the same.

John is quiet and peaceable. John is excited by danger. John has killed people. John has saved lives. John is unassuming and easily overlooked. John has undergone classified, specialised training.

John is a study in contradictions, and Sherlock loves everything about it.

Then, one day, John asks Sherlock a question. It’s a perfectly ordinary day. There’s nothing about it, or John’s behaviour, to suggest the words that will come out of John’s mouth.

“I have a question,” he says. “A hypothetical scenario I’d like to put to you.”

Sherlock looks up from his phone briefly. “Is it really hypothetical?” he asks in interest. He’s found that that particular phrasing usually means it’s not. What’s got John asking Sherlock, of all people, for advice?

“Not entirely, no,” John says wryly. “Some parts are, though.”

“Go on, then,” Sherlock says, putting his phone down on the table. He tucks his legs up under him and watches John.

“All right,” John says, clearing his throat. “Um. Say there’s a person you can’t stand. Whom you absolutely loathe. He does things that go against everything you stand for, and you’re pretty sure he’s involved in illegal things as well. But you’re also pretty certain he’s got himself covered, and you’d never be able to pin anything on him. And he’s not the only one involved anyway.”

This sounds promising.

“What would you do?” John asks. “Pretend you’re fine with him and try and get information to bring the whole group down? Or just focus on taking him down? Bearing in mind, of course, that it’s going to be very difficult to get any information on him or his people. And that he’s very good at acting, and probably has everyone around him fooled.”

John falls silent and looks at Sherlock. He’s wearing Expression #48. Uncomfortable, then, but eager for Sherlock’s opinion. This is important to him. Sherlock turns the problem over in his head.

“It depends on how integral he is to the group,” Sherlock says at last. “If the group can function without him, it is far more important to gain enough information to bring the whole group down. If, on the other hand, he is the lynchpin of the group and it is likely to collapse once he is removed – well, the choice seems obvious.”

John thinks about that for a while. He’s wearing Expression #32 now, but is licking his lips nervously every so often. That deserves a new categorisation of its own. #54 it is. John does have a tendency to lick his lips when he’s nervous, or excited, distracted – actually, maybe Sherlock needs to think about re-organising his list; he needs sub-categories.

“Presume the latter,” he says at last. “But his… friends can be quite… violent.”

“It is imperative,” Sherlock says sharply, “to preserve your own safety. If it appears likely that they will turn on you, clearly they must be taken down at the same time.”

John smiles thinly. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Good to know you’re of the same opinion.”

“John,” Sherlock says, leaning forward. “If you’re involved in anything –”

“I’m not,” John says reassuringly. He pushes to his feet with a sigh. “I’m just wondering if I should be.”

“Don’t,” Sherlock says abruptly. It certainly sounds like an interesting situation, but also a dangerous one. John could get hurt, John could even get killed. Sherlock realises that he is standing. He doesn’t remember getting up. “Tell me about it, I’ll come up with a way to –”

“Let me think about it,” John says. “I want to make sure I’m not jumping at shadows in the first place.”

“I have contacts,” Sherlock insists. “People on the street. Lestrade. Lestrade likes you. Mycroft, even.”

John’s eyes are slightly widened, his mouth just a little open. Sherlock can’t remember what expression that is. He’s got it classified somewhere, but he can’t remember.

“Sherlock,” John says, then falls silent. He takes a few steps forward, reaches out, and clasps Sherlock’s biceps in a firm grip.

“I’ll be fine,” he says finally. “I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“I’m not worried,” Sherlock says, because of course he isn’t. What would be the point of getting worried? “I simply believe that it would be quite inefficient for you to embark on a solitary crusade, especially given the resources available to you.”

The smile John gives him is wide and open. “I know,” he says. “And thank you for that.”

There are two cold spots on Sherlock’s arms when John lets go.

John refuses to speak any more on the topic, despite Sherlock’s very subtle questioning. Instead, he chooses to act as if it is a completely normal day. He makes chicken salad for lunch and badgers Sherlock until Sherlock has some. He puts the kettle on at precisely four, and makes tea for both of them. He puts the leftover salad in tortilla wraps for dinner, and stares silently at Sherlock until Sherlock finally eats one. In between, he reads a medical journal, surfs the internet for an hour, watches some television, and reads a bit of a novel.

He thoroughly ignores any attempts at information-gathering. This, Sherlock thinks, is rather annoying.

After dinner, John puts his jacket on. “Out to the pub,” he tells Sherlock.

Sherlock rolls over on the sofa. “Don’t do anything stupid,” he says warningly.

John grins. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he says, and leaves.

He doesn’t return.

Chapter Two - Part One

CC?

Fanfic - The Great Puzzle 1/3 [Sherlock BBC: John/Sherlock]

soera — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 03:33:55 GMT

Title: The Great Puzzle
Rating: Light R
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Warnings: Sherlock being Sherlock - i.e. some possibly disturbing thought processes. Minor mention of suicidal thoughts in the final part - it's mostly glossed over and not addressed in any depth, but... just in case. I don't think there's anything that specifically needs a warning - but if you think otherwise, just drop me a comment or PM to let me know, and I'll edit this ASAP.
Summary: Sherlock has never encountered a more interesting puzzle than Dr John Watson.
Author's Notes: This first chapter might initially seem to be a rehashing of the first episode, but give it a chance. You'll soon see some oddities. =D
This chapter has been divided into two parts, as it's too large for LJ to handle in one post. The link to the second part is at the bottom of the page.

The Great Puzzle

one:
a poor sort of memory

It’s a poor sort of memory that only works backward. – Through the Looking Glass, Lewis Carroll

A drop of liquid splashes onto the petri dish almost exactly in time with the perfunctory knock on the door. Sherlock looks up as he discards the tip. Mike Stamford – affable enough man, with an unfortunate tendency to introduce people he doesn’t like to Sherlock. Lately, it’s been students, arrogant, pompous students with not an ounce of talent to back up their lofty claims of intelligence.

It’s not a student this time, though. The man who comes in with Mike is about his age, older than Sherlock. Tanned face, durable but low-quality clothes, military bearing, regulation haircut. Military man. Still serving or not? Depends.

“Bit different from my day,” the stranger comments. Ah, a military doctor, of course. Which reminds him of that case PC Downing had asked him to take on. Obvious, really, that it was the ex-army brother who did it, but then it’s Scotland Yard that looked into it, so he supposes he shouldn’t expect too much. Sherlock sets the petri dish down and moves to his chair, pulling out his phone.

No signal. Of course not. There are far too many dead zones in this building for Sherlock’s comfort. Perhaps it’s time to look into another service provider. Mike never seems to have these problems. Hm.

“Mike, can I borrow your phone?” he asks, over whatever it is Mike had been saying to the stranger. “There’s no signal on mine.”

“And what’s wrong with a landline?” Mike asks.

“I prefer to text,” Sherlock replies. Words are difficult enough as it is. Communication is a lot easier when one doesn’t have to worry about inflection and body language. Besides, it’s not like he has a lot to say to the imbeciles who make up most of the population of the world.

“Sorry,” Mike says. He doesn’t sound very sorry, but then Sherlock might be reading him wrongly. It wouldn’t be the first time. And people wonder why he prefers to text. “It’s in my coat.”

Why, Sherlock wonders, would anyone allow themselves to be separated from their phones?

“Ah, here,” the stranger says. “Use mine.”

Sherlock looks at him again. Now, that’s peculiar. Most people don’t volunteer their phones just like that. “Oh,” he says. Nice phone, too. Bit of a giving sort, then. “Thank you.” That’s the sort of thing you’re supposed to say, isn’t it?

Definitely not an over-arrogant student, or even a new colleague. Mike proves it by introducing the stranger as an old friend. John Watson. Sherlock remembers the conversation he’d had with Mike just that morning, before he’d gone down to see Molly. That explains things. Clearly, Mike thinks this is someone who might suit Sherlock as a flatmate. Of course, Mike knows nothing of Sherlock’s requirements in a flatmate, so it is entirely likely that Mike is wrong.

Sherlock takes the phone from the stranger, and catches sight of his wrist. Tan-line; not from a holiday then. Rough, work-weathered hands. Calloused? He’s holding his arm stiffly. Left-handed, but he’s been using his right hand quite easily. He’s learned to work around the injury, somewhere in his left arm. His face is tired and stressed beyond his years, with that peculiar weariness Sherlock has only ever seen develop in the faces of survivors. He’s seen some action, but where?

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” he asks, studying the phone before flipping it open. Engraving – Harry Watson, Clara, kisses. Scratches and dents on the cover – and on an expensive phone at that, not well-cared for. Clearly at odds with this John Watson’s attire, both in terms of upkeep and expense. Second-hand from a family member then. Brother, probably. Alcoholic, going by the scratch marks on the power connection.

“Afghanistan,” John finally replies. Sherlock glances up. His lips are quirked like he’s just heard a brilliant joke, and he’s trying not to laugh out loud.

“I see,” Sherlock says, and finishes up his message just as the door opens. “Ah, Molly, coffee. Thank you.” He returns the phone to its owner, takes his cup, then pauses. “What happened to the lipstick?”

“It – wasn’t working for me,” she says with a little laugh.

“Really?” Sherlock asks. Odd. It had made her look quite nice, he’d thought, so he tells her so.

“Okay,” she says. She doesn’t sound very happy. Must have gotten things wrong again, spoken too much where he should have stopped. He’ll work it out eventually. He ignores the fact that he’s been telling himself that same thing since he was a child.

The coffee’s not very good. “How do you feel about the violin?” he asks, typing in his email password.

“Depends on how well it’s played,” John replies after a moment.

A problem already. He was right; this man won’t do for a flatmate. “I think I play well,” he says. “I do play often though. It helps me think. Sometimes I don’t talk for days on end. Will that bother you?” It certainly had his past unfortunate flatmates. “Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other.”

“I might come throw a cushion at you if you decide to play an aria at four a.m.,” John says. “Otherwise, that’s fine.”

“Will you throw anything else?” Sherlock asks. William had once flung Sherlock’s experiments at him before flouncing out in a dramatic manner (and then returning sheepishly to quietly pay off his month’s rent to the landlady). It had been rather costly getting his equipment and chemicals replaced.

“Nothing damaging,” John assures him. “And honestly, I probably won’t mind as long as I don’t have to be up early the next day.”

“You don’t have a job yet,” Sherlock says. He’d hardly have had time to find one, and the probable state of his finances suggests he’s currently surviving on his pension. More to the point, perhaps Mike hadn’t made quite so terrible a choice as Sherlock had initially thought.

“No, not just yet,” John says. “But then, you know that.”

Nothing really interesting in his emails, so he logs out. Where’s his riding crop? Must have left it with the body – damn, and he’s just annoyed Molly in some way. She’s going to be snippy with him now. Sherlock shrugs his coat on. “I do, yes,” he agrees. John Watson might just be the sort of tolerant flatmate he could use. “Got my eye on a nice little place in central London,” he says. “Together, we ought to be able to afford it.”

He glances at his petri dish. No change to the liquid, so he’s right about the reaction, and the rest can wait till later. He still needs to retrieve his riding crop and then find out where one could possibly get a live alligator in the middle of London. Certainly can’t show John the place today, at any rate. If Mrs Hudson allows him to, perhaps he could move in tomorrow morning.

“We’ll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o’clock,” Sherlock says. “Sorry, got to dash. Think I left my riding crop in the mortuary.”

“And the address would be?” John asks.

“Oh, yes,” Sherlock says. “221B Baker Street. I’ll see you there.”

As the door swings shut behind him, he hears John say, “He’s always like that, isn’t he?”

Perceptive man. Sherlock smiles as he strides down the hallway.

Sherlock swings out of the taxi, watching as John Watson knocks briskly at the door to 221B. “Hello,” he calls out.

“Ah, Mr Holmes,” John says.

“Sherlock, please,” Sherlock replies.

“Well, this is a prime spot,” John says, looking around speculatively. “Must be expensive?”

“Mrs Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal,” Sherlock explains, waiting expectantly for the door to open. “She owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida.” She’d been beside herself when she’d realised he might escape on a technicality. Sherlock had helped prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the murder had been meticulously planned and carried out by the late Mr Hudson. “I was able to help out.”

“By stopping or ensuring the execution?” John asks, and there’s that little quirk of the lips again. What is it that’s tickling him so?

“Ensuring it, of course,” Sherlock says.

The door opens and there’s Mrs Hudson, arms already open in welcome. Sherlock beams at her and gives her the warm hug she’s looking for. Mrs Hudson is a rare specimen of a human being, he’s found. She tuts about his behaviour all the time, but as long as he’s not hurting himself or anyone else, she’s perfectly willing to leave him to his own devices. Just as importantly, she’s never hurt by his sporadic ill moods, and she’s accepting of his little quirks and foibles; always has been, right from the moment she’d come to him for help.

“Mrs Hudson,” he says, stepping back and gesturing at John. “Dr John Watson.”

“Hello,” she says warmly, shaking John’s hand. He seems quite taken with her too, Sherlock notes. Excellent. He does hope that John will take up a room. Sherlock’s already moved in, after all, and though he could technically afford the whole place without a flatmate, it really would ease his budget if he had one.

Then again, food isn’t exactly a necessity. He might be able to get by.

Sherlock darts up the stairs ahead of John. He’s a little surprised to find he’s eager to see John’s reaction to the rooms. That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Eagerness, that’s usually a good emotion. He waits till John catches up, then opens the door.

John stops in the doorway, his body stilling. Only his head moves, turning slowly as he takes in everything. Sherlock watches his face carefully. A relaxing of the facial muscles, slight lowering of the eyelids, softening of the mouth and a slight smile – all positive signs, all signs of contentment. Good.

“This is very nice,” John murmurs, finally taking a few steps in. Sherlock glances around. He really does think so too, and on top of everything else, he’ll have Mrs Hudson as a landlady! He’s already explained his propensity for experimentation to her, so she’s unlikely to evict him the way Mr Matthews had.

“Very nice indeed,” John says, and even his voice seems relaxed and happy.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “Yes, I think so. My thoughts precisely.” He looks over at his chemistry set. Really should finish setting up soon. He hadn’t had much time this morning.

“Went straight ahead and moved in,” Sherlock says.

“All your things, then?” John asks.

“Yes,” Sherlock says. Then he realises that he probably should have told John that before. And perhaps not left the boxes out in the middle of the common area. He heads over to the boxes and picks up a few things. “Well, obviously I can, uh, straighten things out a bit.”

He sticks a knife into the mantelpiece to hold the letters in place, then belatedly remembers that normal people don’t do that.

Oh, bollocks. This flatmate lark really isn’t for him, and John Watson is going to decide Sherlock’s not for him, and Sherlock will escort him out and thank him and that will be that.

“Does the skull have a name?” John asks instead.

Sherlock glances at it. “Robert,” he says.

“I was really expecting Yorick,” John says. “Too obvious, I suppose.”

“A little, yes,” Sherlock says. “He’s a friend of mine.” Do people say that? “Well, I say friend…”

“What do you think then, Dr Watson?” Mrs Hudson interjects. Sherlock takes off his coat. This isn’t exactly going well. Scarf off too. All for the best, really; John’s bound to be a distraction anyway. “There’s another bedroom upstairs, if you’ll be needing two bedrooms.”

No, it’s not going well at all.

“Two bedrooms would be good, yes,” John says. Sherlock chances a look back at him. Doesn’t seem offended by the implication. Of course, he doesn’t really know Sherlock yet. Then again, he hasn’t yet batted an eye at Sherlock’s abrupt manner, or even at Robert.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Mrs Hudson says. “There’s all sorts here. Mrs Turner next door’s got married ones,” she adds in a confidential whisper.

“Ah,” John says. He couldn’t possibly have missed the implications of what Mrs Hudson had been saying before, could he? “All the same. Always nice to have a space of your own, isn’t it? And I imagine Sherlock will need space to be experimenting and all that.”

Sherlock jerks upright. John’s teasing him. The left side of his lip’s quirked up just a little, and when he sees that Sherlock’s watching, the smile broadens and he winks. Teasing, definitely. But not maliciously. That’s… novel.

“That’s true enough,” Mrs Hudson agrees amiably. “My husband, God rest his soul, he could get a bit difficult at times. I’d pop over to my sister’s when I needed some air, but if we’d had an extra bedroom that would have been lovely. Especially on cold days. Oh, Sherlock, the mess you’ve made!”

Sherlock glances at her. Kitchen, chemistry kit. It’s not really that much of a mess; he hasn’t even unpacked everything. But it’s little bother – Mrs Hudson won’t often be up here anyway. He opens up his laptop and switches it on.

“I looked you up on the internet,” John mentions, leaning casually against the table. Sherlock studies his eyes. Warm and open, no sign of deception. “Found your website.”

“What did you think?” Sherlock asks. Might be interesting to see what this ex-military doctor thinks of his methods. And it is fun to demonstrate his techniques.

“Honestly, I didn’t think it was possible,” John says candidly. “Most people couldn’t manage it. But then, of course, you’re not most people.”

Sherlock considers that. “No,” he says. “I’m not.” He peers at John. “You understand how it works, then?”

“Only theoretically,” John says. “And only in retrospect. I certainly couldn’t do what you do.”

“Oh, it’s simple observation,” Sherlock says. “Anyone could, if only they bothered to look, really look.”

“We look,” John says. “I just don’t think most of us know how to look for the right things. You get straight to that – I don’t think you even see anything irrelevant.”

“Well,” Sherlock says. His entire face feels unaccountably warm. “That’s quite untrue; I see irrelevant things all the time, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” John says. “Do you mind me asking – how did you figure out I’d just come back from Afghanistan?”

“Oh, that’s simple,” Sherlock says. “Your –”

“What about these suicides then, Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson interrupts absently, wandering back towards them, scanning the papers. Sherlock glances away, abruptly realising that John’s standing really rather close to him. “Thought that’d be right up your street.” He looks out the window, at the police car pulling up. Ah.

“Three exactly the same,” Mrs Hudson says in a wondering voice.

“Four,” Sherlock says. “There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time.”

“Four?” Mrs Hudson asks. Sherlock ignores her. The main door’s just opened and shut, and there are quick footsteps on the stairs. Lestrade heaves into view a moment later, and Sherlock immediately demands answers.

It would have to be Anderson there, of course. Anderson puts him off in the worst way. At least if it was McAlister’s team, he’d be able to concentrate. All idiots, but they’re none quite as bad as Anderson. Always so eager to prove himself, and always so very wrong.

A fourth, though. A fourth suicide, and a note! That’s brilliant. That’s truly, honestly, brilliant. He runs it through in his mind even as he tells Lestrade that he’ll follow him shortly. A note. What could it possibly say?

Lestrade leaves. Sherlock waits until he hears the door shut, then lets the delight bubble over.

“Oh, it’s Christmas!” he exclaims in glee, bouncing over to his coat and shrugging into it. John looks like he’s struggling not to laugh at Sherlock impromptu little bouncy dance. It’s better than some of the reactions he’s gotten before. He tells Mrs Hudson he’ll be back late and to have something cold waiting, barely registers her response, tells John to make himself at home, and dashes into his room. Gloves, he’s got gloves somewhere. A fourth and a note. Not a suicide, of course, none of them have been, but this is the first chance he’s got to really prove it. Poison again, perhaps, be nice to have an opinion of that right away instead of waiting for the –

Oh.

Oh. Sherlock finds his gloves, tugs one on as he goes back to the living room. Mrs Hudson’s just gone down the stairs, presumably back to her own place.

John’s standing by the window, looking out and strangely… lost.

It’s not an emotion Sherlock has any data for. He files it away to consider later.

“You’re a doctor,” he says, and watches as John’s shoulders straighten. “In fact, you’re an army doctor.”

“Yes,” John says.

“Any good?”

“Very good.” John doesn’t sound arrogant in the least. Wonderful trick, that.

“Seen a lot of injuries, then,” Sherlock says consideringly. John tilts his head slightly. Questioning, that’s what that is, surely? An invitation to continue? Even if it isn’t, Sherlock’s taking it. “Violent deaths.”

“Yes,” John admits.

“Bit of trouble too, I’d bet,” Sherlock says.

“Quite a bit,” John says, and for the first time, Sherlock sees outright anguish in John’s eyes. The stark emotion startles him, and so does the speed with which John recovers his equilibrium. “Enough for a lifetime. Enough for two.”

“Want to see some more?” Sherlock asks archly.

“Oh, god, yes,” John says.

John hesitates for a moment before entering the taxi. It’s another oddity which Sherlock can find no reason for. Perhaps it’s something to do with his military career. There must have been a reason for him to have come home, probably related to the arm injury. John does not, from Sherlock’s limited interaction with him, strike him as a man who would have quit voluntarily.

He knows the look John wears.

“So,” John says. “You were going to explain it to me.”

“Explain – oh yes,” Sherlock says, remembering. “Quite straight-forward. Your hair and your bearing tell me you’re military, but your conversation as you entered the room said you’d trained at Barts. So, army doctor. Your face is tanned.” Sherlock reaches out and takes John’s hand, pushing back his sleeve a little. There are patches of toughened skin on John’s palm and fingers. He was right; they’re calloused, and the pattern is quite suggestive. “But there’s no tan beyond the wrist. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. You instinctively favour your left hand, and use it for less strenuous tasks, but there’s a stiffness about the arm that makes you turn to the right hand for anything requiring more muscle. You’re capable with the right, but it’s not yet instinct to use it, so the injury to your left arm is only a few months old at most. Your gun callouses haven’t faded, and you’re still house-hunting, so you’ve clearly only recently left the army. Army doctor, a recent injury, and then leaving the army? Wounded in action, then. Suntan, wounded in action – Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“Well,” John says after a moment. “I have to say, I wasn’t expecting that.”

Sherlock frowns. “You did ask.”

“I know,” John says. “Oh, that’s not what I meant. Anything else you can tell about me?”

Sherlock gives him a wary look. “Most people don’t want to know.”

“I’m asking,” John presses. “I won’t be bothered. Go on, then. Surely there’s more you can tell about me.”

“You have a brother you don’t get along with,” Sherlock says. “Probably either because he’s an alcoholic, or because he’s walked out on his wife.”

“And your reasons for that?” John asks, and so Sherlock explains everything he’d seen in John’s phone. There’s a brief silence once he’s done. Sherlock forces himself not to fidget.

“That,” John finally says, “was amazing.”

Ah. Not quite the response he’d expected.

“You think so?” he asks.

“Yes, of course,” John says. “Extraordinary, it was quite – extraordinary.”

John’s looking straight at him. Sherlock feels that damnable warmth slowly flooding his face again. “That’s not what people normally say,” he comments as casually as possible. Then he realises he’s still holding John’s hand, and drops it hurriedly.

“What do people normally say?” John asks as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock doesn’t need to think about it; he’s heard it far too often. “Piss off.”

John huffs out a breath of laughter, and Sherlock can’t help but smile.

As it turns out, Harry Watson is John’s sister, not brother. Sherlock’s still a little annoyed when they get to the police tape and are greeted by Sally Donovan’s dulcet tones. She does seem to think that “Freak” is an acceptable substitute for his name. She’s the only one Sherlock knows who uses the word as an actual noun.

Yesterday, he’d been careless with Molly and hurt her. Today, he knows exactly what he’s doing, and the stunned, horrified look on Donovan’s face is exactly what he’d been hoping for. He crooks a little smile at her and proceeds into the building, a quiet John on his heels.

Quiet. Oh, bother. John’s probably the sort to think that one shouldn’t air other people’s dirty laundry in public. He does seem a rather staid, morally upright sort.

Well, no matter. He should know what he’s getting himself into. Really, what’s important is the possible note.

Lestrade decides to question John’s presence as well, and Sherlock’s probably a little too snippy with him. At least Lestrade knows not to push him any further. There’s a reason why he prefers working with this particular DI, over anyone else in the Yard. He grabs some latex gloves for himself and waits while John gets suited up.

The body’s upstairs. Five letters are scratched into the floor.

It is beautiful.

When he’s done inspecting her, Sherlock points John to the body and asks for his thoughts. John’s thoughts, apparently, are that the victim asphyxiated. No, no, no, it’s poison, same as the others, but before Sherlock can say that, John points out the vomit pooled in her mouth.

“Choked on it,” he says. “Can’t tell what killed her first, honestly. Suffocated by her own vomit, or the poison itself.” He looks up at Sherlock. “You do think it’s poison, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock breathes. “Yes, it is.”

“Two minutes, I said,” Lestrade interrupts impatiently.

He wants answers; Sherlock gives them to him. He doesn’t understand, of course, so Sherlock explains them, each tedious little step at a time. Somehow, it’s far less annoying when it’s John he’s talking to. The obvious appreciation might have something to do with it. Even Lestrade’s always been more concerned with just getting the facts. There have been very few people in Sherlock’s life who have thought the speed and shape of his thoughts were something to be admired.

John does. There are things Sherlock does not understand about John, but this much is obvious.

Also obvious is that the victim had a suitcase. A suitcase which is now missing. A suitcase that couldn’t have been removed by anyone else but the murderer. He’s barely paying attention to what he says as he flies down the stairs, pausing sporadically to respond to Lestrade’s shouted questions.

And, miraculously, it’s John’s question that shoves his mind in the right direction. Of course she never got into the hotel, he’d known that from the moment he saw her, but explaining that to John, that had made him realise that of course, of course, a woman with that much fondness for that terrible shade of pink would have had a pink case, and there’s little that’s more attention-grabbing than a pink case. He’d been thinking it might be a female killer – statistically probable, given the choice of murder weapon. But no, a female killer wouldn’t have worried about being caught with a pink case. Chances are that it’s a male, then, despite the use of poison, and people tend to notice men with bright pink suitcases. He’ll be able to confirm that if he can find the case. A mistake, at last, and John’s innocent question had opened up new possibilities much sooner than they would have otherwise occurred to him.

He shouts something up at Lestrade, he’s not sure what, and then he’s out in the cold night air. There’s only so far that case could have gotten, and he’s determined to find it.

Oh, he’s positively in love; this is downright gorgeous.

Chapter One - Part Two

Fanfic - Counting Stars: Concern [Torchwood: Jack, Gwen]

soera — Mon, 07 Nov 2011 14:12:41 GMT

Title: Concern
Rating(s): PG-13
Characters/Pairing(s): Gwen, Jack
Warning(s): Spoilers for Counting Stars, and all attendant changes etc made to canon within that ‘verse.
Summary: Gwen has a question, Jack talks philosophy, and Ianto wants his suit cleaned.
Author's Notes: Counting Stars-verse – click here for the Master List. For those who don't want to read it, all you need to know for this fic is that Jack and Ianto have a telepathic connection, and at one point in Counting Stars, the option of an improved Retcon is offered to the survivors of Torchwood One. Only Ianto and Jack are aware of this.

Concern

“Jack? Do you have a minute?”

Jack tossed one more scrunched-up ball of paper and watched intently as it hit the rim of the bin and bounced in. “Two points,” he declared happily, dropping his feet off the edge of his table and swivelling in his chair to meet Gwen’s amused eyes. “As you can see,” he said. “I’m in the midst of very important work, but I can make some time for you.”

“Thanks,” she said, laughing as she closed the door behind her and sat down.

“What’s on your mind?” Jack asked.

Gwen hesitated. “Um,” she said. “A few questions.”

“That tone of voice doesn’t bode well,” Jack observed.

“I don’t know if this is going to be like Flat Holm,” Gwen admitted. “If I’ll be happier not knowing.”

“What’s it about?” Jack asked mildly.

“Ianto, in a way,” Gwen said. “I was wondering where it was he kept disappearing off to, when he’d take trips up to London. It seemed a bit odd –”

“Ah,” Jack said. He thought about it for a moment. “No, you probably won’t like knowing the truth.”

“Do I need to?” Gwen asked uncertainly.

“No,” Jack said. “Out of curiosity, what do you think he’s up to?”

“The thing is,” Gwen said, “I didn’t really think that much of it until I went to get some Retcon yesterday – remember, that girl who found the spaceship – anyway, I saw the logs then, and I realised Ianto’d been taking out Retcon quite regularly. And then I remembered one of the dates as one he’d gone to London for, because that was my best friend’s birthday and I’d thought of asking for the afternoon off but I decided not to since we’d be one person down, and then I started wondering and I checked the logs and sure enough, the dates all matched up…”

Jack grinned at his desk as Gwen came to a nervous stop in her rambling. “Wonderful detective work, Ms Cooper,” he admitted. “Yes, he’s been going up there to administer Retcon. Yes, he has approval, yes, it’s Torchwood work. And I don’t think it’ll hurt you as much as Flat Holm did to know what it’s about, but I do think you’ll be much happier not knowing. So.”

“So,” Gwen echoed.

Jack spread his hands. “Up to you, Gwen. If you want me to tell you, I will. Not in too much detail, I think, but I can at least give you the basics.”

“Maybe,” Gwen said slowly. She didn’t meet his eyes. “You could just outline it for me, for now.”

“Torchwood London went down spectacularly,” Jack said. “There were very few survivors. Those who got out – not all of them wanted to keep their memories.”

Gwen jerked slightly in shock.

“Retcon, in high doses, alters personalities,” Jack said gently. “And usually for the worse. Shorter tempers, poorer focus, that sort of thing. And for them, it would have been a very high dose.”

“That new version Owen came up with last year,” Gwen murmured.

“Exactly,” Jack said. “We gave them the choice. Some turned it down.”

“Some didn’t,” Gwen finished.

Jack inclined his head.

“I don’t understand,” Gwen said, her voice tiny and bewildered. “It’s been so long. Why would they choose to lose everything since then –”

“I’m not saying I know what they’re thinking,” Jack said. “But I imagine it’s a matter of whether the good outweighs the bad, or the other way around.”

Gwen sighed and leaned back in her seat. “You’re saying that for some of them… even a few years isn’t enough time.”

“Not enough good time,” Jack agreed. “Truth is, Gwen –” he hesitated.

“Truth is?” Gwen pressed.

“I try and shield you from some of the things out there,” Jack finished reluctantly. “We’ll probably never have to worry about an attack from Cybermen or Daleks again, so I never wanted you to know exactly what they’re capable of. What they did at Torchwood London.”

Gwen’s eyes were fixed on Jack’s, but the look in them was much more understanding than Jack had thought it would be. “Andy told me, once,” she said, “that I’m different now. That Torchwood had hardened me.”

Jack winced.

“You don’t want it to do any more than it has to,” Gwen said reflectively.

“I wish it didn’t do it to all of you,” Jack admitted quietly. “Of all of you, though, you’re the easiest to shield. Owen’s the next easiest – as our doctor he’s got access to certain medical records that don’t paint a very pretty picture, but in real life, he doesn’t usually see the absolute worst.”

“Toshiko and Ianto?” Gwen asked.

“Have both seen too much, in different ways,” Jack said. “I think maybe that’s why they get along. I try and help where I can, but with them… there’s not as much I can do.”

Gwen bit her lip and looked down. “I think I get that,” she said softly. “It’s what I do with Rhys, isn’t it? Just – different degrees of information.”

Jack rested his elbows on the table, and his chin in his hands, and watched her.

“Oh,” Gwen said finally, in realisation. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” Jack said softly. He’d known she’d get it eventually. It was a tricky balancing act he was constantly engaged in – making sure that his team had enough information not to get killed out there, but keeping information from them that would break them quicker, ruin them. Whatever they might say, they were all innocent in a sense, and Jack wanted desperately to preserve whatever was left of that innocence. If that meant playing his cards close to his chest, that was what he’d do. If that in turn meant he eventually began to live a life of secrets, it was something he’d deal with.

“I’m sorry,” Gwen murmured. Jack glanced away from the look of compassion she was giving him.

“So am I,” he said.

“Is it enough?” Gwen asked. Jack tilted his head questioningly. “Protecting us like you do. Giving up yourself to do that. Is there anything left for you? Is it enough, what you’ve got for yourself?”

Jack smiled a very small smile. “Enough to be going on for now,” he said. “Thank you for asking.”

Gwen shrugged, then sighed. “I suppose Ianto will rein you in if you get too self-sacrificial,” she said reflectively. “Actually, I’d best go tell him that.”

“Telling tales already?” Jack asked, half-amused, half-outraged.

Gwen gave him the sweetest, most innocent smile she could muster. “It’s very good of you to look after us, Jack,” she said. “But you’d best remember you need looking after too.”

“I’m certainly not arguing with that,” Ianto said as he entered the office. “Like a child, this one.”

“Are you still mad about yesterday?” Jack demanded. “I apologised! A lot!”

“You spilled a plateful of marinara sauce and pasta on my best suit,” Ianto said, putting Jack’s coffee down on the table. “You’ll be apologising a lot more, believe me.”

Gwen tried and failed to hold back a snort of laughter. Ianto’s eyes were definitely amused when he turned to her, despite the look of annoyance on his face.

“Didn’t mean to interrupt, sorry,” he said as he handed over her cup. “Just wanted to get these to you while they’re still hot.”

“Thanks, love,” she said, beaming at him. “Actually, I think we’re about done here. Thanks for hearing me out, Jack.”

“You’re welcome,” Jack said, sipping at his coffee. Then his face twisted in outrage. “Ianto! Is this instant?”

“Haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” Ianto said blandly, heading out the door.

“Chocolate and good wine,” Gwen advised a chagrined Jack. She darted out the door after Ianto. “Hey, wait up, Ianto!”

Jack took another gulp of coffee. This was the team he had – tattling on him, and feeding him instant coffee. Wonderful, wonderful people.

Do finish your paperwork, Ianto’s mental voice came to him exasperatedly. You’ve been putting it off for weeks!

Tattling, instant-coffee-feeding, paperwork-demanding soul-stealers. Jack couldn’t wipe the grin off his face as he got back to work.

~fin

It's been a while, everyone! I had to re-write this one a couple of times before I was happy with how Gwen came out. I really wanted to stay true to the development I hope I allowed her by the end of Counting Stars. I also haven't had much time to write at all lately (and it looks like I'll be busy at least for a couple more months), so I don't know when I'll next be able to post something. Sorry, but I hope you like this in the meantime.

Given RL stuff, I really don't know if I'll be able to respond to comments either - I certainly haven't had much time for the past few things I've posted. I do read and appreciate every comment I get though, so here's a pre-emptive thank you to everyone who reviews! =D

Fanfic - A Portion of Thyself [Sherlock BBC: John, Sherlock]

soera — Sat, 27 Aug 2011 04:22:45 GMT

Title: A Portion of Thyself
Rating(s): PG-13
Pairing(s)/Character(s): John, Sherlock
Summary: John pays a visit to his lawyer, and Sherlock finds once again that some things John decides are beyond his abilities to deduce.
Part of the Affection-verse, though this can be read as a stand-alone. Not S2-compliant.

A Portion of Thyself

The only gift is a portion of thyself. Thou must bleed for me. - "Gifts," Ralph Waldo Emerson

“You’ve been to your lawyer,” Sherlock observes.

“What gave me away?” John asks. He shrugs off his jacket and sits down in his chair, stretching tiredly.

“Your left wrist and your trousers,” Sherlock says. “What took you so long?”

“It took a while to sort things,” John says casually.

“Two months ago, you were complaining about how lawyers demand money per hour, and how you can’t afford them,” Sherlock says. He’s studying John’s face intently. “And yet today, you spent five hours with a lawyer. Unless you went somewhere else before or after, of course, but I see no evidence of that on you. No, you went straight there and back, and eliminating the time for travel, you still spent far longer there than you should have had to.”

“I’ve asked my old captain to be my executor,” John tells Sherlock. He massages his neck absently. “I thought of asking you, but then I thought I’d best get someone else.”

“I could have done it,” Sherlock says. “You updated your will. Why?”

“They say you should do that every time some significant change happens in your life,” John says. He glances at Sherlock ruefully. “I’d say you count.”

“Oh.” That actually seems to stump Sherlock for a moment. “You wrote me into your will.”

“Yes,” John admits.

“It still took far too long,” Sherlock insists.

“I did want to add some unusual requests,” John says. “Mark – my old captain – wouldn’t have been free any other day, so we had to get it all done today.”

“You requested for him to be there.” Sherlock sighs and gets up, pacing over to the window. “You make less and less sense every day, John Watson.”

“It’s not really complicated,” John says. “I asked Mark to be there to make sure as executor, he knew what I wanted done. It took a while because I had an unusual request. But it’s all sorted now.”

“What was the unusual request?” Sherlock asks, then goes on without waiting for a response. “No, don’t tell me, I’ll figure it out. Your – ah, it seems we’ve a case on our hands. If I don’t miss my guess, that’s Gregson who’s just come to the door. You haven’t met him yet, have you, John? He and Lestrade are about the only ones I can bear to work with, though I suppose Dimmock’s coming along.”

John blinks. The sound of conversation drifts up from downstairs, as Gregson greets Mrs Hudson. “No, I haven’t met Gregson yet. I think Lestrade’s mentioned him though.”

“Good, good,” Sherlock says. “Let’s hope he’s brought us something interesting.” He gives John a thoroughly mischievous look.

“Let’s,” John says, smiling faintly. “As for the other thing, I left you my head.”

“Sorry, what?” a perplexed voice comes from the door.

Sherlock mouths, your head, at John. John nods and shrugs sheepishly.

“That possibility had not crossed my mind,” Sherlock murmurs, eyes sharp as he studies John. There’s a brief silence; Gregson looks dreadfully uncomfortable, John notices absently.

“I don’t believe I shall ever tire of studying you,” Sherlock says presently, then whirls to face Gregson. “Well, what do you have for me?”

Gregson has for Sherlock a murder-suicide which an autopsy has revealed to be a murder-murder in a locked room. Sherlock takes a look at the pictures which Gregson has brought, poses a series of apparently irrelevant questions that Gregson can’t answer, then demands to see the room himself. John trails in his wake as Sherlock bustles out of the flat, a whirlwind of energy that John’s forgotten how to live without.

When he dies, if Sherlock outlives him, he imagines that his skull will eventually wind up on the mantelpiece. He hopes so, at any rate. It’s a comforting thought.

~fin

Fanfic - With Affection Thereafter [Sherlock BBC: John, Sherlock, Moriarty]

soera — Thu, 11 Aug 2011 06:17:29 GMT

Title: With Affection Thereafter
Rating(s): PG-13
Pairing(s)/Character(s): John, Sherlock, Moriarty
Warning(s): (spoilers in warnings; highlight to read or skip this warning) Murder; character death.
Summary: The bomb explodes. John reacts.
Author's Notes: Set immediately after TGG. Title and all dialogue in the fic taken from the Lasagna Oath – the modernised rewriting of the Hippocratic Oath, by Dr Louis Lasagna.
Dipping my toes into the Sherlock fandom. I'm writing a longer piece that may or may not ever see the light of day, but in the meantime, have this ficlet.
Edit: This fic has now become the first of a 'verse I'm calling the Affection-verse. Not S2-compliant, obviously.

With Affection Thereafter

If I do not violate this oath, may I enjoy life and art, respected while I live and remembered with affection thereafter. May I always act so as to preserve the finest traditions of my calling and may I long experience the joy of healing those who seek my help. – Hippocratic Oath, Dr Louis Lasagna

The bomb goes off, and three bodies hit the water.

It’s not entirely planned. The impact shoves them all in the direction of their movement at that point. Sherlock had turned to the side; John had been angled forward from a crouch; Moriarty had started to his left. The blast hurries them along, pushes them forward. Sherlock’s back snaps sharply and he hits the water face-first. John plunges into the water after him.

When he hits the water, this is what he thinks of: ears, brain, abdomen, lungs. Apnea, bradycardia, hypotension. Butterflies, ghostly pale on translucent grey. Haemorrhages, tissue shearing, pulmonary contusions. Overpressure, reflections, blunt trauma.

This is the next thing he thinks of: Sherlock.

The water is still shuddering as he kicks forward frantically. Can’t surface yet, he thinks, still a chance of fire and falling debris, and the snipers, what happened to the snipers? Sherlock caught the blast in the back, possible complications? Spinal trauma, god, no. Apnea might help, keep water out of his lungs. But too long and that will kill him and why isn’t he moving?

A thumb-drive tumbles sadly through the water in front of him. John grits his teeth, grabs for the back of Sherlock’s jacket, then immediately lets go. No, not this, not like this. Possible spinal injury? How to best minimise further damage, how should he –

He needs air. Sherlock’s floating near the top of the pool, so it’s hardly any distance at all to cover. John breaks the surface and takes a quick look around. He’s no deductive wizard, but he knows how to take in the important things at a glance. Parts of the building have collapsed but the ceiling is not about to fall in on them, there’s enough smoke filling the place to make it impossible for the snipers to pick them out (if they’re still alive), and Sherlock is still in the water.

There’s a way of doing this properly, John knows, but he can’t remember it and anyway he’s liable to cause more damage if he does it wrongly. He settles for being inordinately careful as he rolls Sherlock around, bringing his nose and mouth out of the water. Sherlock isn’t breathing, but John refuses to think about that for now. A slow crawl forward takes them both to the side of the pool, where he’s faced with yet another problem. From his current position, he can’t push Sherlock out with possibly causing further trauma. He needs to lever him out from the opposite direction. Sherlock’s body bobs limply in the water as John clambers out, then reaches down to gently, carefully, pull Sherlock out and onto the side of the pool.

There are fragments of rubble around them. John has been hit by at least a few pieces of shrapnel, but he can’t spare the time to worry about that. He unbuttons Sherlock’s jacket, then his shirt, then stops.

Moriarty is clinging to the side of the pool.

He isn’t seeing much of anything, John can tell. Blood is streaming down the side of his head; must have been hit by shrapnel. Or possibly the edge of the pool, as he went in – John replays the last minute in his head and reconfirms the fact that Moriarty had to have entered at a thoroughly awkward angle. He’d probably bounced off the edge before hitting the water. Concussion? Likely. It’s hard to be sure, but John thinks the water’s a little red around Moriarty. He’s probably got more open wounds than just the head trauma. Primary blast injuries – probably much the same as Sherlock’s likely to be suffering.

John looks down. Sherlock’s heartbeat throbs in his wrist, slow but steady against John’s fingers. John can’t quite remember when he’d started checking for a pulse.

Sherlock’s still not breathing, though. John uses his free hand to open Sherlock’s mouth and check for obstructions. Nothing. John leans down, seals his mouth over Sherlock’s, and breathes.

Again. And again. And again, until Sherlock takes in a shallow, pained breath.

John gets up on unsteady legs and moves over to Moriarty. Moriarty is breathing, he realises resentfully, still breathing though clearly in dire need of medical assistance. He might survive if he gets it.

Moriarty doesn’t look up. An explosion, John thinks, can render even great minds human. He glances back at Sherlock, then kneels down in front of Moriarty.

“If it is given to me to save a life, all thanks,” John says. He can’t hear his voice, and for the first time he realises that there’s a loud buzzing in his ears that’s drowning out everything else. Tinnitus, possible perforation of the eardrums, doesn’t matter. John reaches for Moriarty’s shoulder, and the man finally, finally looks up.

“But it may also be within my power to take a life,” John says, and pushes down. Moriarty loses his grip on the side of the pool, and sinks below the water. John leans forward, keeping up the pressure as Moriarty flails weakly.

“This awesome responsibility,” John says, “must be faced with great humbleness and awareness of my own frailty.”

Moriarty’s movements are growing weaker. John waits patiently, counting the seconds in his head. The transition from unconscious to dead comes at three hundred and forty-two. John pulls Moriarty up to check, then rolls him back into the water. Then he goes back to Sherlock. Sherlock, who’s now breathing on his own but still unconscious. John sits down next to him and strokes wet, black hair away from his face.

“Above all,” John tells Sherlock quietly, “I must not play at God.”

~fin

Fanfic - Some Blessed Hope [Torchwood: Jack/Ianto]

soera — Mon, 18 Jul 2011 06:16:59 GMT

Title: Some Blessed Hope
Rating(s): PG-13
Pairing(s)/Character(s): Jack/Ianto
Summary: Jack loves Ianto. It doesn't matter which version of Jack, or which version of Ianto. Some things are constant.
Author's Notes: Pretty much a they-were-meant-to-be fic. This was actually inspired by a comment left on another one of my fics - to quote, I am convinced that Ianto Jones from any dimension, universe, or imagination would be a) beautiful, b) intelligent, and c) loved by Jack. So this is dedicated to you, dd0206, for inadvertently prompting this fic. =D

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

- “The Darkling Thrush,” Thomas Hardy

Some Blessed Hope

“Went shopping today,” Jack announced, sauntering through the door.

“For groceries or sex toys?” someone called out.

“Both,” Jack said. “Clearly.” He deposited the bags in the kitchen and began putting everything away. “Although, technically speaking, there are a few things in the groceries bag that we could use as sex toys as well –”

“Jack!”

“Or just aids, you know,” Jack continued unrepentantly. “Chocolate sauce. Strawberries. Whipped cream.”

“Do we actually have all that?” The voice seemed intrigued rather than scandalised now.

“You wanted me to make cheesecake, didn’t you?” Jack said. “I might have gotten a bit more than I need, strictly speaking.”

A laugh. “Of course you did.”

Groceries safely stowed, Jack tossed the remaining bags on the couch and took to the stairs, heading for the large open-plan bedroom on the second floor. Then he stopped in surprise, taking in the sight of his lover lying on the bed naked and stroking himself.

“Should I get the stuff I bought?” Jack asked.

“We can do that later,” his lover said, lazily rolling over onto the pillow beside him. He turned his head and gave Jack an inviting look. “Fuck me?”

“Oh, hell,” Jack groaned, as he began to strip hastily. “You’re going to kill me, Ianto Jones.”

Jack woke slowly, which was rather peculiar. He was accustomed to the transition between sleep and wakefulness being so abrupt as to be practically non-existent. As a child, he’d slept with an ear open, ever aware that an attack could occur at any moment. As a Time Agent, that self-training had been augmented and polished until the only times he ever woke slowly were when he’d been drugged or knocked unconscious.

That wasn’t the case here. He was fading slowly into wakefulness, blanketed by a feeling of warm security like he’d never felt before.

It was a peculiar dream, he thought, rolling over so that his inevitable erection was pressed between his bed and belly. A bit more domestic than he preferred, but at least it had soon gone in the usual direction. He moved his hips gently, the friction making him suck a quiet, anticipatory gasp of breath through his teeth.

Who had he been dreaming of? The memories came to him in snatches, in pieces; a Welsh accent, blue eyes, an impish smile. No one he knew, and so he must have invented him, have put together a lover from the men he’d been looking at but not been allowed to touch, these past months. Sweet blue eyes, and a big body that would wrap around him and cover him and keep him safe, and Jack reached down and jerked himself hard, ungentle and rough, and came.

Safe, he thought afterwards, sitting by the window and watching the hansom cabs roll by, watching the girls in long dresses and boys in tunics darting by on errands for their parents. Moments like these made him feel keenly the loss of his time, made him wish to be anywhere but 1870. They also made him remember the TARDIS vanishing, leaving him behind because he’d not been worth saving.

He didn’t deserve safety.

Just follow the screams, Jack thought to himself.

The rogue Flek was easy enough to track down. When he found it, it had cornered a young lady in an alley. There was a suspiciously body-shaped lump next to her. Damn, Jack thought, and fired.

The Flek roared and lunged forward, prompting another terrified shriek from the girl, who scrambled backwards.

The Flek collapsed right on top of her friend.

The girl screamed again, and kept screaming.

Jack holstered his gun and stepped forward to check on the Flek. Definitely dead. Pity he hadn’t been able to rescue this one, but it had been in heat and there was just no reasoning with a female Flek in heat. He’d decide what to do with the body later.

“Help me with this?” he asked the girl.

She kept screaming.

“Suit yourself,” he said, and with a supreme effort, rolled the Flek over. The body underneath it, as it turned out, wasn’t as dead as Jack had thought it to be.

“Oh,” he said, looking down at pained blue eyes. “You know, you’re probably better off unconscious. Flek poison hurts kind of a lot.”

The blue eyes managed to convey total derision without ever moving.

“And the paralysis, yes, there’s that,” Jack agreed, eyeing the man. Cute guy, really. Probably about nineteen years old, twenty, something like that, same as his girlfriend. He’d do him, Jack decided, then pushed the thought aside.

“Hey, stop screaming,” Jack told the girl. She didn’t seem inclined to listen. “Seriously. You’re safe now. You’re also making me go deaf.”

She whimpered, but at least she stopped screaming.

“Thanks,” he said, flashing his most charming grin at her. He dug around in his pocket for the small flask he always kept with him, and offered it to her. “Here, have a bit, it’ll settle your nerves.”

She chugged the whole bottle down without stopping. Jack was duly impressed.

“So, you’re not hurt, right?” he asked.

She stared at him. Then she stared at the alien.

“Are you?” Jack pressed.

She stared at the Flek a moment longer, then scrambled to her feet and took off running.

“Hey!” Jack called after her. “Agh, always annoying when they do that.” He returned to the prone body on the ground. “Sorry about your friend. Look, you can stay with me for a bit while the poison wears off, yeah, and then you can be on your way.”

The guy looked a bit depressed.

“Oh, don’t blame her,” Jack said, pulling the guy up and into a secure hold. “People tend to freak out when they nearly get eaten by an alien. Well, not so much me. Or you. I didn’t hear you scream. Unless you hit really, really high notes when you scream, but I think that was your girlfriend who led me to you. Come to think of it, I’m surprised no one else is here yet, she’s got some set of lungs on her.”

The guy twitched.

“Hey, I felt movement,” Jack said in delight. “Good, you’ll be back on your feet sooner than I thought. So, yeah, that thing was an alien. It’s called a Flek. Carnivores – big surprise, right – no natural predators on their home planet. They’re not,” he added confidentially, “used to being beaten up on by other people. And here we are.”

He carefully lowered the guy’s legs and braced him between the car and his own body, then got out his keys and opened the passenger door.

“All without dropping you,” Jack said brightly. “Can you talk yet?”

“Ah ‘ink sho,” the guy said. He was slurring a lot, but Jack could make out what he was saying.

“Good,” Jack said. “So, what’s your name?”

“Intah,” the guy said.

Jack thought about it. “That sounded like ‘into,’” he said, “which can’t be right. Welsh-type name? Into, into…”

“Antuh,” the guy said insistently.

Jack snapped his fingers. “Ianto,” he said.

“Yus,” the guy said, relieved.

“Knew a couple of Iantos once,” Jack said conversationally, finally getting Ianto settled in the seat. “One was nice. The other one tried to kill me.”

Blue eyes glimmered in good humour.

“Wonder which one you’ll be like?” Jack asked. “Sit tight, I’m just going to get the Flek.”

He locked Ianto in before leaving. The guy might be cute, but Jack didn’t trust him just yet. Although, to be fair, he’d taken the whole affair with remarkable aplomb. Maybe, Jack thought, he’d offer the guy a job instead of Retconning him like he had the girl. Ever since Alex had killed the entire team two years ago, Jack had been running Torchwood Three solo, with only occasional aid from London. He was managing, but it was definitely a strain.

“So,” Jack said once he’d returned with the Flek and stashed it in the back of the car. “Limbs starting to regain feeling?”

“Maybe,” Ianto said. “Heavy.”

“Sounds about right,” Jack said, leaning over the centre console to take Ianto’s wrist. His heartbeat was sluggish, but not dangerously so. “Looks good to me.” He looked up and found his gaze caught by clear blue eyes.

“Good?” Ianto asked.

Jack’s lips curled in a slow smirk. “Very good.”

Jack woke up feeling simultaneously happy and irritated. After a few moments, the happiness won out.

It had been a few weeks since he’d dreamed of his imaginary lover. Once, he’d have been nervous about such a long gap between dreams, but now, he knew it was fairly normal. The dreams never stopped altogether, and he’d long since stopped being scared that they would. They were the usual sort, ones that Jack woke up from with an aching erection.

There was something pathetic, Jack thought sometimes, about looking forward to a dream lover the way he did.

It was odd, though. This hadn’t been an erotic dream in any way, shape or form. Except maybe right at the end; maybe it had been heading that way if he hadn’t woken up. But mostly it had been about chasing down an alien he’d only ever seen in holograms. And he distinctly remembered thinking about having lost his team. Torchwood. What did that mean?

Jack rolled out of bed with a heavy sigh. No point thinking about it. It was just a dream, for heaven’s sake. He had more important things to be concerned about, such as finding the Doctor and figuring out exactly why he’d suddenly developed such an allergy to death.

The boy was very good at hiding, even when there wasn’t anywhere to hide.

“What’s your name?” he asked. The boy was tucked up in the corner, making himself so small and unassuming that no one paid any attention to him. “Mine’s Sterling,” he added, crouching down. The chains clanked uncomfortably and he winced.

The boy stayed quiet, watching him with wide, fearful eyes. It had been that naked terror that had caught his eye in the first place.

“It might not be too bad,” he told the boy. “I mean, people who get caught on these raids, they go all over, right? We might go somewhere at least decent.”

The boy looked perilously close to bursting into tears. Sterling cast about desperately for something to cheer him up with.

“Don’t you know anyone here?” he asked finally. It was an unnecessary question; he knew the answer from the way the boy acted. “Well, that’s all right. You know me now. How about we be friends?”

The boy looked up at him with a startled expression in those big blue eyes. Sterling fell a little in love with those eyes and that expression.

“Just stick with me,” he said. “I’ll take care of you. Where’re you from, anyway?”

And finally, an answer. “Cardiff?” the boy said quietly.

Sterling frowned. “Not heard of it,” he admitted. “Where’s that?”

“Wales,” the boy said, then elaborated on seeing Sterling’s befuddled expression. “Britain? Earth?” And now he was back to being a terrified little creature.

“As in, New Earth?” Sterling asked. “Or New New Earth?”

The boy blinked. “As in Earth Earth,” he finally said.

“Wait,” Sterling said. “Wait, wait. What year are you from?”

The boy hesitated. “It’s, um, nineteen-ninety-two,” he finally said in a tiny voice.

Sterling stared at him. He’d had a niggling suspicion, but he hadn’t expected to be proven right. And from so very long ago! He’d never have imagined it, the boy seemed so – well, normal. “That explains it,” he finally said. “It’s the year fifty-eighty-three now. I didn’t know the raiders were doing time jumps too! Was anyone else taken with you? What was it like back then? Wait, that means you’re pure human, aren’t you? Wow!”

The boy looked thoroughly terrified. Sterling managed to rein himself in with some effort. But really, he was determined to find something to be cheerful about on this godforsaken ship. The boy seemed a good choice. Besides, something about him, something about that vulnerability on his face, just made Sterling want to protect him. Maybe also something about the way the boy was unconsciously inching closer to him, looking at everyone else as if they might eat him.

Seemed the boy had already picked him as protector. That was a role Sterling could perform well enough.

“I have a brother, y’know,” Sterling said, settling against the wall. He shoved the chains off his lap, letting his hands fall to his sides so they wouldn’t have to support the weight of the manacles. When he was as comfortable as he was going to get, he indicated for the boy to do the same.

“His name’s Grey,” Sterling continued once the boy was settled, half against the wall and half against him. “When this last raid came, dad told me to protect Grey, to not let go of him.” A rueful smile touched Sterling’s lips. “I had to, though, ‘cause they caught me. But it’s okay, Grey’s with mama and daddy and they’ll be fine. So I reckon, I just need to get through this too and then I can find them. You’ll come with me, of course,” he added impulsively, and the grateful look in those blue eyes made him glad he’d said it. But the look passed soon, and the boy’s eyes began to droop, and Sterling realised that he was finally starting to flag. The hyper-alertness he’d maintained all this while was finally taking its toll, and so Sterling made his voice as gentle and soft as possible and watched as the boy slowly fell asleep on his shoulder.

“And when we’re back on Boeshane – that’s where I’m from – we’ll go to the Time Agency or something and get you back to your time. Maybe we could have some adventures together before that! Imagine it, flying through space, just you and me, on our own spaceship. That’d be cool, wouldn’t it, and we could go to Dallima, mama says they make the best eats there...”

Were dreams a kind of wish fulfilment or something?

Jack struggled awake. For once, he didn’t particularly feel like hanging on to his fictional blue-eyed lover. For one thing, the child had been far too young (even if he’d been about the same age in the dream) and for another thing –

Jack kicked the sheets off and sat up, groaning. It had been a few years since he’d thought of Grey. The dream reminded him of everything that could have been, if he’d been just a little quicker, just a little more careful. Just a little better.

He spent the rest of the day trying to convince the vortex manipulator to work. He failed. Then, in the evening, he got a message from Torchwood. They had more work for him.

He scowled at nothing in particular. At least he’d finally learned what Torchwood was. There was something peculiar about these dreams, about how real they were. A part of him was almost looking forward to finding out if everyone in Torchwood really would die.

Anything to get away from them.

Carl whistled as he sauntered down the large marble staircase in search of the kitchen and some breakfast. The elaborate staircase was ostentatious and tacky, like everything else in the house, but the wealth on display had him seriously considering becoming a boy-toy. It seemed like it would be lucrative. He ran a hand over the polished wood of the staircase railing, studying the flawless carvings. The opulence clearly wasn’t a smokescreen. He’d known families that came from old money, families which had spent all that money and continued pretending to be rich when they were actually in debt. This wasn’t one of them.

They just had bad taste.

Then again, since this house belonged to the youngest son of the family, maybe he was the only one of the lot who had no concept of tasteful elegance. At least he was decent in bed; that might be his sole saving grace. Not good enough that Carl would be tempted to stick around for too long, but –

“Coffee, sir?”

Carl stopped in his tracks, taking in the clear blue eyes and tall body hidden by a well-tailored suit. Butler, he thought dazedly, the guy looked like a butler, who the hell even had a butler these days, though maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised given what he’d seen of the place.

“Sir?” the butler asked in a tone perfectly modulated to convey concern, but mask the ‘are you an idiot or do you just enjoy wasting my time’ beneath it.

Carl thought he might be in love.

Jack had a grin on his face the whole morning. He wasn’t used to feeling off-kilter when he met someone hot. But damn, his imaginary blue-eyed lover had looked edible in that tailored suit.

His blue-eyed boy, who was never afraid to call him out, but always in private, who would never embarrass him in public, but had a distinctly wild, frisky side to him. He wasn’t perfect. At times, he was insecure, jealous, petulant. But Jack liked him, in all the incarnations he’d seen him, and he seemed to like Jack too. That had to mean something.

The dreams felt more like memories than inventions, but he’d definitely never encountered the man in real life before. He remembered dreaming the names of places and things he'd only encounter years later, remembered dreaming events, some of which had already come to pass – enough to make Jack a little uneasy about the nature of his dreams. His recurring lover, though, was someone he was yet to meet. And if he’d ever dreamed his lover’s name, he never remembered it when he woke up, so he had nothing more than blue eyes and a familiar face to go on; no way of searching for him, finding out if he actually existed, learning if his dreams had any basis at all in reality. It was just one more question to ask the Doctor, when he finally found the elusive alien.

He kept the memory of his blue-eyed boy in his thoughts all day. It made shooting himself in the head for a circus trick a little easier to bear.

Shane had been going to the cafe every day for almost a month, often enough that he’d become a familiar face there. When he’d studied the entire area and planned out his escape routes, he arranged to meet Cassidy there.

Cassidy, who in fourteen years (for him) would meet a younger Shane for the first time, when he sentenced Shane to losing two years of his memories.

It had taken some doing to get Cassidy to meet him. The man was practically jumping out of his skin when anyone so much as looked at him. Shane wasn’t surprised; this was Cassidy’s first mission as team leader, and it had gone quite badly. He had a team-member down, no medical supplies, a damaged vortex manipulator, no means of contact with Primary, and to top everything off, they weren’t due for pick-up for another month. Cassidy was a nervous wreck, as he watched his team-mate deteriorate every day.

This Cassidy was a far cry from the stoic judge he’d be in fourteen years’ time. It was lucky for Cassidy that Shane McCale, as a retired Time Agent living in the past, had recognised the tell-tale signs of another Time Agent.

Luckier for Shane, if he pulled this off right.

“Did you bring it?” Cassidy demanded, sliding into the seat opposite Shane.

“Said I would,” Shane said calmly, and pushed a bag over to Cassidy. Then he reached out and smacked Cassidy’s hand when he made to open it.

“Can I get you anything?” the waiter enquired.

Cassidy flinched. “Uh, tea,” he said hurriedly.

“Top-up?” Shane asked, tapping his coffee mug. “Shot of hazelnut.”

“Of course,” the waiter said, taking Shane’s mug. “Any particular type of tea for you?” he asked Cassidy.

“No, just –” Cassidy said, frowning.

“Earl Grey,” Shane suggested. “He’ll have it black.”

“Of course,” the waiter said, one eyebrow arched. Too late, Shane remembered what ordering for someone else looked like in this century. Oops.

“Sub-dermal regenerator in here?” Cassidy said in an undertone, once the waiter had left.

“Yep,” Shane said. “Have the anti-particulate injector?”

“Here,” Cassidy said, fishing a small container out of his pocket and dropping it in Shane’s hand. “More than worth it for this,” he added, giving Shane a relieved smile. “Have fun playing with that.”

“I will,” Shane said. Cassidy got up and left without waiting for his drink. Shane watched him go, wondering what he’d do when he found out that the sub-dermal regenerator didn’t actually work.

Shane wasn’t entirely without a heart. He’d pre-programmed a distress signal to be sent to the Time Agency in a few hours. By that time, Shane would be long gone, with the anti-particulate injector he’d been trying so long to find, and which no one outside of a Time Agent would ever have been allowed access to.

“That looked a lot like a drug transaction, I hope you know,” the waiter said, putting Shane’s coffee down in front of him. He hadn’t brought any tea.

“Gonna turn me in?” Shane asked, batting his lashes at the waiter. Same one who was always here when he came, he noticed, with pretty blue eyes and a cute, up-turned nose. Hm, he did have a bit of time before he had to leave.

“Oh, absolutely,” the waiter said. “There’re cops waiting for you right outside, you see.”

Shane deliberately looked out the window, his eyes roving over the empty sidewalk.

“Invisible cops,” the waiter said blandly.

Shane laughed delightedly. Then, for the first time in a long while, he made an impulsive decision. “Hey –” he glanced at the waiter’s name-tag. “Ianto, nice name. Ianto, have you ever wondered what it would be like to go travelling through time?”

Sometimes, Jack thought that he was a very bad person.

He’d once wished that what he’d dreamed would come true, that all of Torchwood would get killed. They had. He hadn’t liked the reality as much. It made him wonder about his blue-eyed boy. Would he like the reality as much? Something told him he would, but he was starting to second-guess himself now.

The dreams varied wildly. Once he’d met his boy while they were both attempting to escape a hungry velociraptor. It had been an interesting bonding experience. Another time, his boy had been on the Board of the Shadow Proclamation, and Jack had been his bodyguard. Every time, there was some new facet of his boy’s personality for him to discover. He thought that if he did meet his boy in real life – and the dreams were too real and too frequent to be mere dreams – then he would still like his boy. Would still fall for his boy, no matter what the reality turned out to be.

His blue-eyed boy had kept him sane through the decades of waiting. Jack was too invested in him to let go, whether he wanted to or not.

But would his boy want him, that was the question. Jack had wished Torchwood dead, and they were. First Three, on New Year’s, and now all of Torchwood One. It didn’t reduce the anger at what London had tried to do, but it did make him wonder what right he had to call himself better than them.

He’d lured broken, lonely Suzie in with promises of power and importance. He’d kidnapped broken, scared Toshiko and made her trade one master for another. He’d taken advantage of broken, grieving Owen and manipulated his love for his fiancée to make him join. He was no better, when it came down to it, than the monsters he professed to hunt.

And surely his blue-eyed boy would see that. Surely his boy would want nothing to do with him.

The Weevil took full advantage of Jack’s distraction and sank its teeth into Jack’s neck. Jack howled, struggling to get free, and get his anti-Weevil spray out. The angle was all wrong, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to get to his weapons before the Weevil killed him. A small part of him thought that maybe he deserved it.

Then the Weevil let go and rolled off him with a disgruntled growl. Jack looked up, gasping, and saw someone swing a stick at the Weevil. The alien staggered, stunned for a moment, but recovered quickly and jumped at the Samaritan who’d come to Jack’s aid.

Jack took a moment to grab his Weevil spray, then returned the favour, getting the Weevil off the guy and finally subduing it. He could feel the skin on his neck knitting back together.

The guy who’d helped him, his skin wouldn’t have mended so easily. Jack wondered if he could ever be selfless enough to help someone. Even if it was just something small. Something that his blue-eyed boy might appreciate, something that might make him worthy of his boy. But there wasn’t time to think of that now; he needed to do damage control.

Jack looked up at the man who’d saved him, and found himself looking into familiar blue eyes.

The first time Jack saw the kid was in a shopping centre.

“Put it back,” Jack told him.

“Put what back?” the kid asked.

Jack smiled at him. “Put it back and I won’t call security on you. Or take matters into my own hands.”

The kid eyed him for a brief moment, then shoved past him and took off out the door. Jack sighed, picked up the CD the kid had dropped, and headed for the cashier.

He found the kid outside the shopping centre, kicking a can around idly. “Was it a bet?” he asked casually. The kid stiffened, but didn’t turn. “Or are you just that broke?”

The kid shrugged. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and kicked the can violently. It flew up, smashed against the concrete divider, and tumbled back down.

“I’m guessing broke,” Jack said, walking towards the kid. “Not worth it, kid. Try and get a job.” He tapped the kid’s head with the CD, then left it there.

The kid jerked, startled. The CD started to slide off his head, and he reached out and caught it as Jack walked on by. Jack didn’t bother looking back to see how the kid was taking having been gifted the CD. The quality of the quietness he’d left behind him spoke volumes.

The second time Jack saw the kid was in the same shopping centre.

“How’s it going?” Jack asked, smiling broadly.

“Well enough,” the kid said. “Is that all, sir?”

Jack pushed the two CDs across the cashier’s counter and watched as the kid deftly scanned them. “Yep, that’s it.”

Jack spent the first few days in the TARDIS recovering. A bed had never felt so good to him before. He’d thought he’d known what it was like to go without, to survive on the bare minimum. Now, his small bed under his office seemed like all he needed, and a spare room in the TARDIS was the height of luxury.

After a time, he decided that he had himself under control. Enough, at least, to be civil to the Doctor. Even the Doctor could be fooled by a good enough actor, and Jack was a very good actor.

“I have a question,” Jack said casually.

“Go on, then,” the Doctor said distractedly, as he fiddled with some component or other. Jack suspected it was make-work.

“How exactly did Rose make me immortal?”

“Told you,” the Doctor said, pursing his lips. “Time Vortex, in human, not a good idea.”

“But how exactly,” Jack said. “What does that even mean, a fixed point in time and space?”

The Doctor sighed. “There are a lot of dimensions out there, Jack,” he said patiently. “Infinite ones, in fact. With infinite copies of ourselves, all slightly different, running around in them. What Rose did was wipe out every other version of you. You’re the sole Jack Harkness in all the dimensions, in all of time-space, and that just isn’t meant to happen. The only place you exist is along your linear timeline. It’s wrong.”

“You’ve mentioned,” Jack said dryly. “What happens to these other universes? Their Jacks just – vanish?”

“It’d be like they never existed,” the Doctor corrected. “Everyone’s lives would go on, and they’d never know there was supposed to be a Jack Harkness there.”

Jack thought about that. Then he tried not to think about it.

“And that’s why I’m immortal?” he asked. “How does that even connect?”

The Doctor slid aside a panel in the wall and ducked inside. His voice echoed oddly as he spoke. “You’re not tied to the time-stream anymore. You can’t die if you’re not tied to the time-stream. You’d just keep returning to the same point.” He re-emerged and gave Jack a vaguely exasperated look. “It’s hard to explain. Humans can’t really understand it.”

Jack gave him a black look.

“I’m not being patronising,” the Doctor insisted. “You really can’t. You can’t see the flow of time, and it’s not something you can understand unless you can do that.” He made a vague gesture. This Doctor liked to talk with his hands. “Time flows through everything, that’s the natural order. But not you, Jack. Time goes around you. It doesn’t touch you.”

Jack shook his head. “Any other side effects?” he asked. “Other than immortality?”

“Not that I know of,” the Doctor said. “There shouldn’t be any backlash.”

“Backlash?”

“From Rose wiping out your alternate selves,” the Doctor explained. “But no, I don’t think anything would have happened from that.”

Except it had. Jack nodded absently and left the room without saying good-bye.

His dreams weren’t dreams. He’d always known that, but he’d never expected them to be memories of his other selves from other dimensions, various versions of Jack Harkness that no longer existed. Had never existed. He had no way of proving the theory right, and he had no desire to run it by the Doctor, but he felt absolutely certain that that was what the dreams were.

Lives he might have lived. Lives he almost felt he had. Lives he wanted to live up to.

And his blue-eyed boy was instrumental to the happiest of those lives.

“Oh, hi,” Jack gasped out.

“Hi,” the man he’d just crashed into said. Blue eyes stared down at him in shock. “Um, you’re bleeding.”

“Hadn’t noticed,” Jack said flippantly. “Help me up, would you?”

“Agent Hinder!” someone yelled. “You know you can’t get away. Give up!”

“I’ll pass,” Jack muttered, as Blue Eyes hauled him up. Jack took a step forward, then felt his legs folding beneath him again.

“Ow,” Jack commented breathlessly.

“I think I’ve seen this film before,” Blue Eyes said. “The sidekick always dies. This is a very bad idea.” And then he bent and heaved Jack into his arms, and took off down the road.

“If we don’t die,” Jack told him, “I’ll make this worth your while.”

“Not dying is a good thing,” Blue Eyes wheezed. “You need to go on a diet.”

“This body is perfect the way it is,” Jack said indignantly.

“I need to hit the gym more,” Blue Eyes said.

“I’d say that body’s perfect the way it is, too,” Jack said, giving Blue Eyes his best lecherous look. It didn’t work very well, given that Jack more closely resembled a corpse than anything else.

“Are you trying to make me drop you?” Blue Eyes demanded, and turned into a quiet building. Jack peered over his shoulder as Blue Eyes slowly gasped his way up the stairs. No blood trail that he could see, so hopefully the Time Agents tracking him wouldn’t think to come here. He certainly wouldn’t have entered a flat of his own accord; he’d never have put anyone else at risk.

Jack closed his eyes and rested his head against Blue Eyes’ chest. Vaguely, he registered the shifting of his body, the click of a door, and finally, cool sheets under him.

“Lucky I live here,” Blue Eyes panted. “Don’t think I could have carried you much more.” A pause. “Shit. Shit. Hey, you alive still?”

Jack made a vague sound of assent.

“Hospital?” Blue Eyes asked. Jack made a sound he hoped was a negative. “Shit. What, I’m supposed to fix this myself? They didn’t cover this in our CPR course!”

But for all the panicking in his voice, Blue Eyes’ hands were efficient and soothing as they wrapped up the worst of Jack’s wounds. The bleeding was slowing and Jack was fairly certain he’d pull through all right. There were advantages to being in the past; the Agents chasing him hadn’t been able to use their sonic weapons in public, and Jack’s genetically advanced body was more than capable of recovering from a couple of gunshot wounds.

Especially with Blue Eyes helping him. Who, Jack wondered, did something like this for a perfect stranger? Blue Eyes clearly knew that he might have made the wrong choice, that Jack might be on the wrong side of the law – hell, technically, he was, at least as far as the Time Agency was concerned. And yet he’d decided to help him anyway, even at the risk of getting caught up in something that had nothing to do with him.

Jack couldn’t think of many people in his time, let alone this, who’d do something like that.

“Can I keep you?” Jack asked sleepily.

Blue Eyes’ hands stilled on him momentarily. “You’re the stray,” he finally said, “who followed me home. I think that’s my line.”

Jack was still grinning when he finally fell asleep.

Jack slipped into the flat quietly, toeing his shoes off in the doorway and stealthily making his way into the living room. Ianto was on the balcony, leaning against the railing and looking out at the night.

He’d been so scared to hire Ianto. He knew what kind of life expectancy most Torchwood agents had. But Ianto had been persistent enough that Jack had known he’d had some other agenda. And so Jack had taken him in, hoping to help him, hoping Ianto would trust him, never expecting the way things had blown up, never expecting that Ianto would eventually learn to trust him again after all that had happened. Never expecting that this universe’s Ianto might also want him, just like in his dreams. The prospect of losing Ianto terrified him, and he could find only the slightest solace in knowing that at least the dreams would never stop.

Jack slid his arms around Ianto’s waist, relishing the little jump Ianto made.

“Miss me?” Jack asked, nuzzling Ianto’s neck.

“Don’t I always,” Ianto replied, leaning back into Jack’s hold. “Did it go all right?”

“Weevils secured and awaiting tagging tomorrow,” Jack said. “No deaths or injuries. Do I get a reward?”

Ianto turned in Jack’s arms and kissed the tip of his nose. “One day I’ll be old and bald,” he said, ignoring the most likely option for his future. “And this isn’t going to work anymore.”

“Why not?” Jack asked, licking Ianto’s chin. Stubble rasped against his tongue.

“You’ll need some young, fresh thing,” Ianto said. “Imagine me at ninety, and unable to get it up.”

Jack laughed softly. “Still don’t want anyone else,” he told Ianto. “Ninety, with no sex drive, with Alzheimer’s and having forgotten me, I’m staying. I’ll take you for as long as I can have you.”

Ianto went very still.

“Come to bed,” Jack said, and kissed Ianto. “I want to feel you.”

He was sitting on Mrs Carlson’s front porch when Jack first saw him.

“Hey,” he said, leaning over his fence to study the new arrival. Sharp blue eyes, grey hair, a bit of a paunch but in much better shape than most guys his age. Good-looking, Jack decided. He must’ve been popular when he was younger. “You new around here?”

“Could say that,” the man replied. “This is my daughter’s place.”

The guy had a gorgeous accent, but one entirely unlike Ariana Carlson’s, or for that matter, any of their neighbours in their little corner of Illinois. He certainly wasn’t American, but at the same time, the accent sounded like something Jack had heard before. Peculiar.

“Moving in with her, or just visiting?” Jack asked, as he absently tried to place the accent.

“Bit of both,” the man admitted. “If I like it, I’ll be staying.” He tapped his leg. “Can’t get around too well on this anymore, so it’s this or a live-in caretaker.”

“Only if she’s pretty,” Jack said before he could think it through. He was vastly relieved when the man grinned back.

“Be something to look forward to, at least,” the man said. “But knowing my luck…”

Jack laughed. “Jack Harkness, by the way,” he said, waving.

“Ianto Jones,” the man replied.

“Welsh!” Jack said in delight. “I knew I’d heard that accent somewhere before.” Back in Cardiff, when they’d stopped Margaret Blaine from blowing up the place, and he’d decided to leave the Doctor and Rose after that, to get the Doctor to drop him off a few decades into the future, and to make his own way because really, he had to be able to stand on his own feet at some point, right?

“You’re the first person I’ve met here who’s got it without me telling them,” Ianto said with a smile. “Why don’t you come on over here, Jack? I’m too old to be yelling across the street.”

“Not afraid I’m a mad serial killer?” Jack asked, dutifully crossing the street. He unlatched the Carlsons’ gate and went in, seating himself on the porch stairs.

“If you are, you’ve got my girl good and deceived,” Ianto said. “She’s told me all about you already.”

“They’re all lies,” Jack said instantly.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say all,” Ianto said. “Maybe half. She did say you were very handsome. Like a movie star, she said.”

“Thank you,” Jack said, preening. Then he stopped and frowned. “Wait, are you saying that was a lie or not?”

Ianto just grinned at him.

“Mean,” Jack said with a pout. He liked talking to this guy already. And he was easy on the eyes. And not all that old. And Ariana had told him that her mother had passed away when she was a child, and that her father had never remarried. Stop it, he chided himself.

“Never,” Ianto replied. “So, now my daughter’s gone and run off her husband, are you going to step in?”

Jack laughed. “She’s a bit young for me.” Fifteen years wasn’t huge, to him, but she acted a lot less mature than thirty. “And besides, now I’ve set my eyes on you...” He nearly bit his tongue off. Shit. He hadn’t meant to say that.

“Stolen your heart, have I?” Ianto asked casually. “Guess I’ll have to let my girl down easy.”

Jack felt lighter than he had in a long time.

~fin

Fanfic - Never Without A Reason [Torchwood: Ianto, Owen]

soera — Sun, 26 Jun 2011 04:14:46 GMT

Title: Never Without A Reason
Rating(s): PG-13
Characters/Pairing(s): Ianto, Owen, background Jack/Ianto
Summary: Five times Ianto wanted to punch Owen but didn't, and one time he did.
Author's Notes: Entirely canon-compliant, with specific reference to the events of (in order) Cyberwoman, Small Worlds, Captain Jack Harkness, Kiss Kiss Bang Bang, A Day In The Death and Exit Wounds.
Also, Areale made me do it.

Never Without A Reason

Anger is never without a reason, but seldom with a good one. – Benjamin Franklin

one:
mistaken identity

Ianto does not remember covering the distance from the kitchenette to the stairs.

He can still hear what Owen just said, playing over and over in his head. Bastard doesn’t even care someone’s dead, he’s not human. Ianto does remember how he had felt when he’d realised that Lisa had killed Tanizaki and Annie, very nearly killed everyone on this team, very nearly killed everyone on the planet and maybe more after that. He also remembers the look of grim satisfaction on Owen’s face as he gunned down Lisa, as he’d been told to, as he’d had to do, a necessity, yes, but that didn’t mean Owen had to enjoy it, and who was the one who didn’t care someone was dead, who was the real bastard here?

“I can’t believe he’d just sacrifice Jasmine like that,” Gwen says in a low voice, and Ianto stops on the stairs. “That he’d just let them take her.”

They’re not talking about Lisa. Ianto listens. They can’t see him from where they are, and so they continue to talk.

“There’s always a choice,” Toshiko says passionately. “But he didn’t even give her that chance. We could have stopped the faeries, we could have found a way.”

Ianto feels his fists curl of their own accord. Of the three of them, he has always preferred Toshiko’s company, but right now, he would like nothing better than to slap her.

“Saint Jack said there wasn’t a way,” Owen says mockingly. “And of course he knows everything. Know what I think, I think he didn’t even care about that girl. It was easier to just let her go, and he didn’t want to work to keep her.”

Ianto now feels like punching Owen. He looks away, trying to keep his temper, and his gaze falls on Jack. Jack, who is standing off to the side, well within ear-shot, and the three of them know it. They know it and they’re still saying these things. There’s something buzzing in Ianto’s ears, something very much like rage and the desire to feel Owen’s bones breaking under his fists.

Why does he feel so strongly about their mistreatment of Jack?

He doesn’t allow himself to think about it. Instead, he walks the rest of the way down the stairs, coming up behind the other three. He stops and says, “I’m sure there was a way.”

He sees Jack turn away.

“We could have found something,” Toshiko agrees fervently. Owen looks like he doesn’t want to be agreeing with Ianto, but he nods along with Gwen.

“It would have taken a little extra work,” Ianto says softly. “But I can’t imagine she would have been a danger to the world, not the way Jack kept making her out to be.”

“Exactly,” Gwen blurts out. “Why would she even have wanted to leave? They must have been doing something to her, all we had to do was figure that out, stop it, and we could have saved her.”

“I know,” Ianto says. “Just a little more effort instead of taking the easy way out and killing her, and maybe we’d have saved Lisa.”

Gwen physically recoils from him. Toshiko flinches and Owen goes still. Ianto arches an eyebrow, smiling a humourless smile. “Right,” he says. “I meant Jasmine, of course.”

He doesn’t wait for a response, and continues on his way into the archives. He sees Jack’s back as he passes, tense and bowed. He’s not ready to forgive Jack just yet, not completely, but at least Jack’s not a hypocrite and that makes him far more palatable than the rest of the team.

He’d nearly punched Owen for Jack. With time, Ianto thinks, retreating into his sanctuary, with time, he might be able to forgive Jack.

two:
overkill

The alarms are blaring and Ianto is frozen in horror.

Part of him hates himself. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to be affected by what Owen had said. Owen knows nothing of his relationship with Jack. He knows that Jack is just a warm body he needs, to help him forget. He knows that he is the same, to Jack. He knows that Owen thinks him desperate for Jack’s love, which isn’t true, but which he would maybe not be averse to at some point, and isn’t this a lovely time for that realisation to dawn?

Most of him, though, is fantasising about breaking Owen’s nose. Never open the Rift, that cardinal rule that all Torchwood employees were expected to follow, and Owen had broken it – for what? To bring Diane back? She’d chosen to leave, unlike Lisa. And Owen doesn’t care that he’s risking the entire world, just so long as he gets her back.

Ianto hates hypocrites. Hitting Owen suddenly doesn’t seem enough.

So he shoots him instead.

three:
goading

“Tea-boy’s useless,” Owen states. “We’re just three of us in the field and it’s not enough. We need one more.”

Useless, Ianto thinks, and fumes silently, clenching and releasing his fists as he tries not to take out his frustrations on Owen’s face. He knows Owen’s aware that Ianto can hear him. He also knows that that’s why Owen’s chosen to talk about it.

He can’t deny that they’re short-handed without Jack. He certainly wouldn’t say he’s useless, though. With Toshiko barely ever in the Hub these days, he’s taken over the bulk of the coordinating. He’s the one who provides them with the information they need, who’s been working long nights alongside Toshiko to get as much of the archives computerised as possible, who’s been interviewing witnesses with Gwen, who’s been keeping the SUV stocked and Myfanwy and the aliens fed and watered.

He briefly considers “forgetting” to restock Owen’s field-kit for him, then dismisses the thought. It might be nice to get some acknowledgement, but he’d never risk Owen dying just so he could make a point.

For all that, though, he’s left twiddling his thumbs in the Hub far too often, while the others try not to die on the streets.

It hadn’t been too hard to shoot Owen before. He’d managed to hit what he was aiming for, even if the recoil had been sharper than he remembered from his lessons. He’s never had cause to put those lessons into practice, but he hasn’t forgotten everything either. He’s in no way ready for the streets, but he has the basic knowledge, he’s relatively fit, and it won’t take too much work to get him field-ready.

Two weeks later, Ianto finds himself driving the team to the site of a Weevil attack. He remembers Owen’s words, we need one more, and wonders if this was what the acerbic doctor had intended all along.

four:
protective

“That desperate, huh?” Owen says with a smirk. “Guess no one else is willing to put up with you.”

Ianto’s hand is half-curled before he realises what he’s doing and forces himself to relax. Really, this is getting to be an autonomic reaction. He’ll have to work on that. Owen’s far too good at getting under his skin. If there’s one real skill the doctor has, it’s in pissing off everyone around him, including Ianto.

But there have been moments over the past few months without Jack, when Ianto has suspected there is more than misanthropy beneath Owen’s biting comments.

“When was the last time you got laid?” Ianto asks, raising an eyebrow. He knows that Owen’s been putting in long hours too, and has certainly not had time to go out on the pull. His guess is confirmed when Owen scowls at him.

Ianto hides a smile. It’s really much more satisfying to cross verbal swords with Owen than to physically fight with him, anyway.

“What’s so great about our fearless leader anyway?” Owen demands, and Ianto’s pretty sure he isn’t imagining the undertone of You could do better. It’s the unspoken words that stop the joke Ianto is about to make.

“He isn’t,” Ianto says instead.

Owen’s brow furrows, but before he can say anything, Jack calls out to Ianto. Ianto glances down the hallway at him. “Be there in a minute,” he says neutrally.

“Yeah?” Jack says uncertainly.

“Yep,” Ianto says. Jack hovers in the doorway for a moment, fidgeting like he had at the office they’d been searching. Then he shrugs, nods and disappears into the twin room he’s booked for himself and Ianto.

“Huh,” Owen says thoughtfully.

“Yep,” Ianto says.

“Weird,” Owen says. He looks at Ianto. “Guess you two deserve each other.” There’s no malice to the words, and Ianto gives him a small smile before heading down the hall, to his room and to Jack.

five:
easy target

Owen has been doing very well. For that matter, so has Ianto. Their relationship has settled into a relatively peaceful one. They match wits often; sometimes Ianto wins, sometimes Owen wins. Sometimes the loser buys the winner drinks the next time the team goes out. They’re at least amicable towards each other.

When Owen makes a biting comment about Ianto shagging Jack, Ianto lets it go. He knows it’s the despair talking, the desperation and refusal to believe what’s happening.

Ianto understands that. His heart might still have been beating after Canary Wharf, but he certainly hadn’t felt alive. It had taken him a very long time – especially after Lisa had been killed – to find some reason to keep going.

Owen will have to find a reason of his own, but pushing away everyone around him certainly isn’t the way to go about it.

“He broke his finger,” Toshiko sobs into Ianto’s chest. Her makeup is running, her clothes are wrinkled, and her face is blotchy from crying. She’s a mess. He’s never seen her this poorly before, and he doesn’t like seeing Toshiko reduced to this wreck. “God, he’s hurting so badly, Ianto, but I don’t – I can’t – he doesn’t want –”

The problem with Owen being dead, Ianto thinks regretfully, is that if Ianto broke his nose now, Ianto would feel awfully guilty later.

one:
in limbo

Ianto’s eyes are blurring.

He closes them and focuses on the burning, willing it away. When he opens them again, his vision is marginally clearer. It’s enough to let him see the form he’s attempting to fill out. There’s a lot of paperwork that needs to be done. He scribbles quickly, wanting to get it over and done with. When it’s finally complete, he sets the clipboard down on the floor and looks up.

Toshiko’s lying down in front of him, her eyes closed and expression peaceful. Her face is turned slightly towards him, as if seeking reassurance even in rest. He has become her confidante and best friend without ever noticing, and he suddenly feels a great swell of tenderness towards her.

Her hair is neat, but Ianto reaches out and brushes it back anyway, just to feel it under his fingers. The strands are soft and light from having been recently washed. They feel like feathers. He imagines Toshiko as a bird, as a small, strong bird, and smiles faintly.

He bends, kisses her forehead, then decisively closes up the cryogenic unit and pushes the drawer shut.

Ianto exhales slowly and turns around. Beside Toshiko’s body is another open unit. This one is empty.

Jack hadn’t found anything at the plant, when he’d gone searching. The life-signs sensor had stayed stubbornly silent, even in the face of Jack’s breakdown.

Ianto touches the empty air where Owen’s head should be. It feels odd to think of Owen as dead again, truly, completely dead this time. It feels like he should be wandering into the Hub complaining about being a radioactive zombie. It won’t happen, Ianto knows it won’t happen, but he’s not willing to let go. He’s not willing to forget.

This is Owen’s drawer, and will remain so for at least as long as Ianto is at Torchwood.

He closes the drawer and leans against it for a moment. Toshiko. Owen. He’d just been starting to really get close to them. He’d just been starting to grow fond of Owen, not just tolerate him. Trust Owen to leave just as things were getting good between them, to take away the brother he hadn’t realised he’d needed.

Ianto turns and slams his fist hard against the drawer. He’ll regret it later, but all he can feel right now is the fury making his vision go white.

Ianto finally straightens, pulling his hand away from the cool metal. He turns, looks directly ahead, and returns to organise the clean-up.

~fin

Fanfic - The Spirit of Torchwood 4/4 [Torchwood: Jack/Ianto]

soera — Fri, 10 Jun 2011 06:50:06 GMT

A/N: Hey, guys - just so you know, I'm not going to watch Torchwood Season 4. I'm sure most of you know that I didn't like S3 (and no, not just because Ianto died; I didn't like the stylistic, structural or thematic direction of the season). It frankly turned me off Torchwood, and what I've heard of S4 hasn't given me any incentive to return.

I've made a conscious decision not to watch S4. If you do, and you enjoy it, I'm glad for you; just don't ask me if any of my fics will take S4 revelations into account. They won't. I suspect I won't be writing as much Torchwood fic once S4 starts, but whatever I do write will stick to S1 and S2 canon. There will probably be cameo appearances from Rhiannon and her family; anything else from S3 and S4 will be disregarded.

Still, it's been a fun ride, y'all. Don't give up on me just yet - I still have a few Torchwood fic ideas I want to throw out there and share with you. Meantime, I hope you enjoy the last part of this little tale:

Part One
Part Two
Part Three

By the time they could safely leave the hotel, Ianto felt a little like a wrung-out dishrag. Jack was snoozing in a contented – and naked – pile next to him on the bed, though, so he couldn’t quite bring himself to be annoyed about it.

His phone buzzed and he reached for it before it woke Jack.

“Hi,” he said softly, lying back down and turning his eyes on Jack again. There was something restful about watching Jack sleep. He was always so full of energy, always fidgeting even when sitting down, so rarely ever still. In his sleep, though, he was relaxed and tranquil in a way Ianto had never before seen him.

It was fascinating.

“Hi,” Toshiko said. “Any idea where Jack is? He’s not answering his phone.”

“Yeah, he fell asleep in my room a while ago,” Ianto said. “Why?”

“Oh, he’s with you, is he?” Toshiko said significantly. Ianto heard muted laughter in the back, and blushed. “Gwen’s asking if it’s safe to head back now. Owen wants to give her another once-over in the Hub, and then she wants to go home before Rhys starts worrying.”

Ianto double-checked the time, just to be certain. They were well past the danger zone.

“Yes,” he said. “It’s fine to go on now.”

“I suppose you won’t be leaving just yet,” Toshiko said slyly.

Ianto paused, then shrugged and decided to go for broke. “Still plenty of things I want to try out,” he said cheerfully. “So no, not for a few hours yet.”

Sleepy blue eyes peered up at him in amusement. Ianto smiled down at Jack even as Toshiko sputtered through her laughter on the other end of the line.

They exchanged a few pleasantries and then Ianto hung up. Jack was stretching out on the bed now, lithe and cat-like, in a manner which made Ianto want to do all sorts of unprintable things.

And this time, there was no need to restrain himself.

“I never did ask,” Jack said, patting the wet, leathery skin of the huge alien. “Can you see the ghosts of aliens? Or is it just humans?”

“Aliens too,” Ianto said. “Ever wrestled with a dead Weevil before?”

“Just when you think it’s over,” Jack muttered.

“This one isn’t here, though,” Ianto said. “Can’t blame him for not wanting to stay.”

“Suppose not,” Owen sighed. Ianto reached out without looking and put an arm around Owen’s shoulders, half-hugging him briefly in commiseration. It said something about how much Owen regretted having to euthanise the alien, that he permitted the action for a good minute before finally stepping away.

“Oi, what’s this, then?” he said, catching sight of Ianto’s hands as he moved back. The skin had been scraped raw and bloody around the wrists.

“Had to get out of the ropes somehow,” Ianto said, shrugging.

Jack looked him over in distress and Ianto shook his head slightly.

“Come on,” Owen said. “Let’s get this cleaned up.”

“What about Rhys?” Ianto asked.

“I’ve already patched him up,” Owen said. “I’ll take a better look when we’re at the Hub, but he’s not going to keel over.”

“I’ll go talk to them,” Jack murmured, and brushed past.

“He’s gonna be a problem,” Owen observed.

“Probably,” Ianto agreed. “I’ll talk to him later.”

“You reckon Gwen’ll let him Retcon Rhys?” Owen asked quietly as he worked on Ianto’s hands. Toshiko came over to join in the quiet conversation, away from the other three.

“No way she’ll do it,” Toshiko said.

“I’m with you on that,” Ianto agreed.

“Ah, but think Jack will see it that way?” Owen asked.

Toshiko and Ianto exchanged knowing looks. “Nope,” they said together.

“Considering what they’re talking about,” Damien said, wandering over, “I think you’re right.”

“Why, what are they saying?” Ianto asked in an undertone.

“Gwen and Jack are ganging up on poor old Rhys,” Damien reported. “Alternating between yelling at him for being an idiot and getting involved, and praising him for doing pretty well under fire… for an untrained civilian.”

“Who’s doing the yelling?” Ianto asked, grinning.

“Both,” Damien said. “Though mostly Gwen.”

Ianto smirked and relayed what Damien had said to the other two.

“Somehow, I’m not surprised,” Toshiko giggled.

“Look, even this goes the way I think it will,” Ianto said. “I don’t want Rhys knowing about my ability, all right?”

“He won’t hear it from us,” Owen said, wrapping off the last of the bandages. “You’d best have a chat with Gwen later.”

Ianto nodded and flexed his wrists experimentally. There was still some pain, but it wasn’t too bad.

“All right, we’re done!” Owen called, packing up his medical kit with Toshiko’s help. “What’s the plan?”

“Back to the Hub, first off,” Jack said. “UNIT’s on the way to lock down this place and get it cleared up. Tosh, nothing in the systems, right?”

“Nothing we need to be concerned about,” she replied. “I’ve flagged all the distributors they were selling to, and sent out warnings about contaminated meat from this place. I’ll keep an eye on that, make sure everything does end up destroyed.”

“Good job,” Jack said. “Ianto, how’re the hands?”

“Fine, sir,” Ianto replied. “Just a little twinge now and then.”

“All right, then I want you to stay here and work with UNIT,” Jack decided. “Owen, we’ll need you back at the Hub to give Rhys a proper once-over. Ianto, Tosh and I will coordinate with you from the Hub if you need anything.”

“Got it,” Ianto said. In the bustle as everyone got their things together, he managed to catch Gwen’s shoulder. “Gwen,” he said quietly, “I know he’s found out about Torchwood, but he still doesn’t know about my ability. I’d like to keep it that way.”

“He wouldn’t tell anyone anyway,” Gwen said.

“I know,” Ianto lied. “But it would make me feel a lot better. Look how long it took me to tell you lot. And I only did that because I trusted you not to tell anyone else.”

Gwen’s eyes softened. “Of course I won’t, pet,” she said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think how it must be for you.”

“It’s been a hard day on you,” Ianto said, smiling briefly. “I think you’re allowed a lapse now and then.”

She flashed him a quick grin which quickly faded. “I’ll –” she hesitated. “I’ll have to Retcon him, won’t I?”

Ianto bit his lip. “We’ll talk about that later,” he said. “Let’s just worry about getting him healed up first, all right?”

“Sir, quick word with you?” Ianto asked, phone pressed to his ear.

“What is it?” Jack said. Ianto could hear the SUV’s engine humming in the background, and the quiet murmur of the rest of the team and Rhys.

“You probably don’t want to discuss this out loud right now,” Ianto said. “Not with Rhys and Gwen there, especially.”

“Mm,” Jack said.

Ianto leaned in the doorway and watched the road for any sign of UNIT’s vehicles approaching. “I don’t think we should Retcon Rhys.”

“No?” Jack asked.

“He’s got a bullet hole in him,” Ianto said. “If we Retcon him, it’ll take some doing explaining how that happened. And, as he’s proven, he’s not a complete imbecile.”

“Just a partial one,” Jack said, a grin in his voice.

“Sir,” Ianto said reprovingly.

“I’ll be good,” Jack said with a laugh. “Anything else?”

“I think it’ll be good for Gwen,” Ianto said. “The job’s getting to her. And… she just doesn’t know how to talk about it, Jack. We all know how much is safe to say, when and how to lie, when and how to just cut off any questions. She doesn’t. She’s too open for that. Retconning Rhys will hurt her.”

“You think so?” Jack asked thoughtfully.

“Yes. Though I don’t really understand it myself,” Ianto confessed. “I suspect it’s because I’m far too accomplished a liar.” He paused. “Sometimes, I envy her a little.”

“Me too,” Jack said. After a moment, he added, “All right. We won’t.”

Ianto grinned. “Tell Gwen while Owen’s working on Rhys,” he said. “She’ll be happy.”

“All right,” Jack said. Lowering his voice, he said, “And you really weren’t hurt, right?”

“I really wasn’t hurt,” Ianto assured him. He straightened, spotting flashing lights heading his way. They didn’t look like police vehicles. “We’ll talk about that later if you like, Jack. But I wasn’t hurt, and I understand why you had to send me after them. I’m not angry or upset in any way.”

“Thanks,” Jack said in a small voice.

“You’re welcome,” Ianto replied. “I should go now. Looks like UNIT’s arrived.”

“All right,” Jack said. “Be safe.”

Ianto absently wondered why Jack had said that, when the danger was already past.

“Have you ever watched The Princess Bride?” Ianto asked by way of greeting.

Jack turned to look at him in disbelief. “No,” he finally said. “Can’t say I have.”

“Don’t be deceived by the title,” Ianto said with a smile. “It’s actually quite brilliant.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Jack said, looking back down into the medical bay. Rhys was looking a little nervous at all the blood covering Owen’s hands, but it seemed like he’d be fine. With Toshiko helping Owen and Gwen sitting with Rhys, no one else was listening to their quiet conversation.

“I was thinking we could watch it some time,” Ianto said. “Better than going to the movies and needing to run out halfway to catch a Weevil. I know I’ve got a copy somewhere.”

“All right,” Jack said equably. “What’s it about?”

“Sort of a fairy tale, except hilarious,” Ianto said. “Starts off with a man having brought a book over to read to his grandson, who’s laid up in bed.”

“Story in a story?” Jack guessed.

“Right,” Ianto said. “Grandpa has to assure his grandson that it’s not entirely a kissing story, of course.”

“I like kissing stories,” Jack said with a grin.

“I don’t doubt it,” Ianto said. “That’s right at the beginning. Buttercup’s always making unreasonable demands of Westley –”

“Buttercup?” Jack interrupted. “Seriously?”

“Oh, hush,” Ianto said.

“Sorry,” Jack said, sounding not at all sorry.

“And every time she makes a demand,” Ianto went on, “Westley replies, ‘As you wish.’ Eventually, she realises that every time he says that, he’s really saying ‘I love you.’”

“Ah,” Jack said. The very tops of his cheeks reddened slightly.

“Naturally, they get split up just as they’ve realised they’re in love with each other,” Ianto continued casually. “And thereafter, it’s battles and pirates and miracle men and rodents of unusual size.”

“We’ll watch it,” Jack said. “At some point.” He didn’t quite seem able to meet Ianto’s eyes.

“Thanks,” Ianto said, politely not smirking. “Be nice to unwind. So, what’s going on with Rhys now?”

“Jack, could I speak with you a moment?” Ianto asked.

“Sure,” Jack said. “What is it? And are Owen and Gwen in yet?”

“No, not yet,” Ianto said, entering Jack’s office and closing the door. He stepped over to the monitors and quickly switched them on, checking to see where Toshiko and Adam were. With the screen firmly on Adam, Ianto perched on the edge of Jack’s desk.

“Adam’s been with us for ages,” he said slowly.

“Yes,” Jack drawled out. “Why?”

Ianto shook his head. “Can you pull up the security footage without anyone else knowing?” he asked. “From about eight yesterday evening?”

“What’s this about?” Jack asked, but his fingers were already flying over the keyboard as he retrieved the necessary information.

“Damien and Corinne told me some disturbing things,” Ianto said. “I’d like to verify them before I say anything else.”

Jack frowned, but continued to work. “All right,” he said at last. “What are we looking for?”

“According to Damien,” Ianto said without looking at the screen. “At just past eight yesterday, we got something coming through the Rift. You were the only person in the Hub, so you went out after it.”

Jack took a few minutes to review the security footage, and nodded. “Seems right.”

“About two hours later, Damien said you came back with Adam,” Ianto said.

Jack skipped forward a couple of hours, finding the moment when he’d returned. “Must have met him along the way,” he said.

“Can you remember that?” Ianto asked.

Jack’s brows furrowed. “Now you mention it – no,” he said thoughtfully.

“Damien doesn’t remember Adam,” Ianto said softly. “None of them do.”

“I remember him perfectly fine,” Jack began, then stopped. “I trust him. Why do I trust him?”

Ianto looked away. “I trust him too, but the more I wonder why, the less I feel capable of answering that,” he said. “I know all the reasons I trust you. There are real emotions associated with my memories of you, or Owen, or Tosh, or Gwen. But the memories of Adam, they…”

“Don’t feel real,” Jack whispered.

“Six thirty today morning,” Ianto said. “That’s when I got here.”

Jack hastily scrolled to the appropriate time. Adam had spent most of the time at a computer. At approximately half past six, the cog doors rolled open.

“Who’re you?” Ianto asked warily when he came across Adam, his hand instinctively going to his gun in preparation.

“Oh, come on,” Adam laughed, placing a hand on Ianto’s neck. “That joke’s getting old fast, Ianto. It was funny the first time though, remember?”

Jack and Ianto watched in growing discomfort as on-screen, Ianto visibly relaxed after a moment, hand falling away from his gun. He smiled. “Couldn’t resist just once more,” he said, clapping Adam on the back and moving past him. “You’re in early today.”

“Ran into Jack earlier,” Adam said with a smile. “We decided to spend a little time together, so I came back with him.” He laughed. “You know him. It’s hard to say no.”

Ianto paused. “Mm,” he said noncommittally. “Well, I’m off to the archives now. Be up around eight for the usual round of caffeine.”

“Looking forward to it,” Adam called after him.

Jack hit pause. “Was he just insinuating I hit on him?” he asked.

“Seemed that way to me,” Ianto said. “Which also struck me as odd. Adam’s never been mean that way, but that was – either he was being nasty, or he didn’t know about us, neither of which makes sense. That was when I left to go talk to Damien.”

“And he said?” Jack asked.

“Exactly what we saw,” Ianto said. “When I came back up, Tosh was already here, but Corinne said he’d done the same to her.”

A few more minutes with the security footage proved Corinne had been speaking the truth. Jack dialled Owen and Gwen in rapid succession, informing them that they were to stay away from the Hub until further notice.

“Lock-down?” Ianto asked.

“Do it discreetly,” Jack instructed. “I don’t want to tip him off before I’m ready.”

Ianto nodded. “Think there’s a way of getting rid of him?” he asked.

“First, let’s find out what he is,” Jack said grimly. “Then we’ll decide what to do with him.”

When Ianto woke up, it was to the sight of Damien’s concerned face.

“Ugh,” he mumbled. “What hit me?”

Damien looked inexplicably relieved. “You’re all right?” he asked. “What do you remember from this morning?”

Ianto blinked blearily, trying to focus. He felt like he’d just come out of a very deep sleep. “Morning?” he asked. After a moment, he frowned. “Nothing. What happened?”

“An alien that did something to your memories,” Damien informed him. “It got to you, Jack and Toshiko. You had to Retcon yourselves to stop it.”

Ianto suddenly felt a bit more awake. “It got in our heads?” he asked in horror. Looking around, he saw Jack and Toshiko both asleep at the conference table next to him.

“Yes,” Damien said. “Jack found out that the only way for it to survive was by implanting memories of itself into other people. Getting rid of those fake memories killed it off.”

“But you remember it,” Ianto said in confusion.

“Believe me, there were quite a few hours of discussion about that,” Damien said, smiling slightly. “Jack was fairly certain its existence depended specifically on the people whose memories it had directly manipulated. We saw it, but it didn’t affect us. You all decided to risk it, and it looks like it’s worked.”

Ianto glanced at Millie, who was fidgeting impatiently near Damien, clearly recognising that Ianto was speaking to someone else and waiting for her turn. “Millie?” he asked. “It worked? It’s dead?”

“I kept a watch over it,” Millie said immediately. “Disintegrated into nothing. You’ll have to start up the security cameras again. Jack had to shut them down and permanently erase all the footage from the past day or so, to get rid of all traces of the alien. Oh, and Jack had to erase more of his memories, so he’s lost the latter half of yesterday too.”

Ianto watched as Toshiko stirred next to him. Jack was still completely out of it. “But it’s over now,” he said.

“It’s over,” Damien assured him.

“There was no way out but to kill it?” Ianto asked.

Damien didn’t look happy. “No,” he said. “It managed to escape Jack for a while there, Ianto. Did some terrible things to your head. I won’t lie. I’m glad it’s dead.”

Ianto looked around. “Well, no new friends hanging around,” he observed. He gave Damien a little smile. “Thank you.”

Damien inclined his head slightly. “You’re welcome.”

“Makes me wonder,” Jack said. “Do all creatures that die have the potential to become ghosts?”

Ianto frowned. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve seen humans, Weevils, a blowfish once, a Hoix once. Only the humans ever seem inclined to stay long. The others all moved on within the day. I’ve never seen any animals or any other type of alien before though.”

Jack sighed and rolled out of bed, padding over to the window.

“Exhibitionism is still illegal,” Ianto said, taking a few moments to enjoy the sight of a naked Jack.

“Give it a few decades,” Jack advised him with a grin, parting the curtains just slightly, to look out.

“Only a few decades?” Ianto marvelled. “Sooner than I thought.”

“The twenty-first century is when everything changes,” Jack told him.

“You do keep telling us,” Ianto murmured.

“Am I boring you?” Jack asked archly, closing the curtains again and moving back to the bed.

“Not at all,” Ianto said. “Really, boring’s not quite the word I’d associate with you.”

“What is?” Jack asked, straddling Ianto playfully.

“Innovative,” Ianto suggested. “Ground-breaking. Positively pioneering.”

“I like the alliteration there,” Jack noted.

“It’s rather nice,” Ianto agreed.

“Did you have a good birthday?” Jack asked.

“Save for the possible invasion of Earth,” Ianto said. “The rest of it was really quite enjoyable.”

Jack smiled at him. “Good.”

“You really should get off me now,” Ianto said conversationally.

“Why?” Jack asked, settling in more comfortably.

“Isn’t Martha coming over today?” Ianto asked. “I ought to get my work done sooner, so I can be there to help her when she needs it.”

“Fine, fine,” Jack sighed. “Be practical.” He leaned down and kissed Ianto firmly. “But we will pick this up later.”

“I have no doubt about it,” Ianto said, grinning.

The moment Owen was shot, Ianto felt something freeze in him.

As Martha attempted to help him, Ianto turned his eyes on Owen, who was standing next to his body.

“Oh, bugger,” Ianto said with feeling.

“Well,” Owen said, looking up at Ianto. “At least you can see me, eh, mate?”

“He’s dead,” Martha said, instinctively looking up at Ianto.

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Ianto said. “But I rather wish I couldn’t.”

Owen squatted and attempted to poke his body, only to have his hand go through. “Oh,” he said. “Well, that’s peculiar.”

“Ianto,” Jack said, eyes glimmering. “Is he –?”

Ianto nodded silently.

Toshiko looked rather like her world had just ended.

“Can’t touch her, can I,” Owen said, getting back up.

“Nope,” Ianto said.

“But you?” Owen asked, coming over and laying a hand on Ianto’s shoulder. “Hm, that’s peculiar.”

“You never did run your tests,” Ianto said. “You might’ve known why, then.”

“Couldn’t even figure out something that would help,” Owen admitted. “Obviously nothing weird about your blood-work or brain scans or anything. Didn’t know where else to look. What to look for.”

Ianto took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re awfully calm,” he murmured.

“I am, aren’t I?” Owen said. “I wonder why.” He looked at his body. “Suppose I was expecting it, in a way. Knew that if I couldn’t talk him down, I’d be dead. And well, here we are.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Jack said abruptly, roughly. “We need to get back to base for now.”

Ianto reached up and took Owen’s hand, weaving his fingers with Owen’s. He didn’t comment on the minute tremors running through Owen’s body. He didn’t let go, either, throughout the entire journey back.

Without Owen, they were short a doctor. Once Martha was back in her hotel room, Jack called a quick meeting.

“Any objections to asking Martha to stay on for a bit?” he asked. “Just while we – get back on our feet.”

“Well, if anyone’s going to replace me,” Owen said. “At least it’s a pretty girl.”

Ianto slanted an amused look at him.

“Is – is he here?” Toshiko asked hesitantly.

Ianto nodded towards the seat where Owen was lounging. “Right there,” he said. “He said that at least it’s a pretty girl replacing him.”

Toshiko’s lips trembled.

“Mind playing messenger boy?” Owen asked, watching Toshiko closely.

“Now?” Ianto asked.

“Later,” Owen decided. Ianto nodded.

“Oh,” Jack said. “I need the codes for the alien morgue.”

“That’s what he wants to know?” Owen asked indignantly. “Come on!”

“Priorities, Owen,” Ianto said. “Codes?”

Owen sighed. “2-3-1-1-6-5,” he rattled off.

Ianto repeated the number to Jack, and added, “He’s also rather annoyed that of all things, you chose to ask about that.”

Jack ducked his head and shrugged half-heartedly. “What, I’m supposed to ask what it’s like being able to walk through things?”

Owen’s eyes widened. “I can too, can’t I?”

“Don’t get any ideas,” Ianto warned. Owen leered at him. “I swear, Owen, I see you anywhere near my house and you are in for a world of pain.”

“Oh, come on,” Owen wheedled. “Just for a bit, sometimes.”

“Visits are fine,” Ianto agreed. “But you follow the house rules. Number One is that no ghosts are allowed in the bathroom or bedroom except by invitation.”

Owen blinked. “Only you would have a house rule like that,” he said.

“What kind of house rule is that?” Gwen asked at the same time, looking like she was torn between sadness and laughter.

“A very necessary one,” Ianto replied. “Now, if anyone would like to ask anything, I’m quite used to being – as Owen put it – messenger boy.”

Getting Toshiko alone was the easy part.

Telling her – verbatim – everything that Owen had to say… and watching as she broke down completely, on the other hand…

Ianto held her as she cried, and wished he could do more for her.

The next week was a blur to Ianto. Martha got a temporary transfer to Torchwood, giving them a bit of breathing room while they started hunting for another doctor. Owen tagged along on all their runs, usually alongside Ianto. They discovered, through Owen’s newly-found spying ability, that Henry Parker’s nifty little gadget wasn’t anything to worry about. They also discovered, after gaining the contents of his collection, that some of those things were certainly something to be worried about. Ianto got used to repeating Owen’s commentary, usually in a fake accent that never failed to make Gwen laugh and Owen hit him.

Toshiko slowly remembered how to smile.

“You know,” Jack said to Ianto. Martha’s transfer period had finally run out, and they were once again one person down. They were coping, for now – Owen was able to instruct Ianto well enough, but they really had to winnow down their list of possibilities soon. “I thought I might go after the second Glove. I know someone who probably knows where it is. Where I can find it.”

“What on earth would you want it for?” Ianto asked.

“To talk to Owen,” Jack said. “To –”

“Ah,” Ianto said.

“It’s so dark when you die,” Jack said, staring up at the ceiling.

“Only when you don’t know where else to go,” Ianto replied. “It takes a while, sometimes. Less if you believe there’s somewhere you’re going. Doesn’t matter what belief in particular, far as I can see.”

“Are you sure?” Jack asked, rolling over and pinning Ianto with an intent look.

“Positive,” Ianto said. “I can’t see it myself, but I can – feel certain things, through them. Damien, he’s told me he can constantly feel the pull to move on. They all do. Some are afraid to, some take a while to register the pull, but they all eventually go on.”

“Why is he still here, then?” Jack asked. “And Owen?”

“Probably for similar reasons,” Ianto said. “Damien got fond of me, somewhere along the way. He’s sticking around now to make sure I’m all right. And Owen’s worried about Tosh.”

Jack smiled sadly. “They never really got that going,” he mused.

“That’s probably why he’s staying,” Ianto said. “Insulting all of us, ranting about our incompetence and proclaiming he’d do much better, is just a bonus.”

Jack smothered a laugh in Ianto’s chest.

“He will die a slow and painful death,” Ianto promised no one in particular as he exited the bridal shop. “Or at least, his reputation will. Shut up, Millie.”

“Sorry,” she said through her giggles. “It’s just – he completely thought it was for you!”

“As if I’d wear a dress,” Ianto said, sniffing. “I’d have far too much shaving to do.”

That set Millie off again. Even Ianto was grinning a little, against his will, as he hurried back with Gwen’s makeshift dress. The stress of the wedding and her unplanned pregnancy appeared to have turned her into a real Bridezilla, and he didn’t want to give her any more reason to be unhappy.

The wedding was a fiasco in the end, but one thankfully rescued by a ghostly Owen’s instructions on how to use the Singularity Scalpel. Ianto hadn’t the first clue what he was doing, and he rather suspected that Owen wasn’t entirely sure, either.

Fortunately, Rhys didn’t know that.

Gwen and Rhys finally got married while covered in exploded Nostrovite. It was, Ianto reflected, oddly appropriate for a Torchwood wedding.

“You realise,” Ianto told her afterwards, “that there was no way around this without Retcon.”

“I don’t even know why I was acting so irrational,” she confessed. “If real pregnancy’s anything like that, I’ve been put off for life.”

“It’s not,” Ianto said, grinning. “Nostrovites secrete a chemical mix that interferes with human biochemistry. It would have sent your emotions all over the place, far more than normal human pregnancies supposedly do. Why do you think we just went along with everything you wanted?”

Gwen choked on a small laugh. “Don’t agitate the crazy woman with the alien baby in her, right?” she asked.

“Exactly,” Ianto said. He glanced over at Jack and found him talking to Rhys. Ianto wondered absently if he ought to be worried. “It would’ve sped up the maturation. Unfortunately, it was a high-stress situation anyway, so… Mam came for her baby a little sooner than we expected.”

“I did cause a lot of chaos, didn’t I?” Gwen said sadly.

“It wasn’t all you,” Ianto said kindly.

“Ianto,” Gwen said hesitantly. “Earlier, I – I nearly kissed Jack.”

Ianto stilled.

“Who turned out to be the Nostrovite,” Gwen said hastily. “It wasn’t actually him. I just… I don’t even know why I tried. I had such a crush on him when I started, but I don’t feel – he’s very important to me, but it’s not him I want, it’s Rhys.”

“Nostrovite chemicals,” Ianto said after a moment. “Like I said, sends your emotions all over the place.” It had likely dredged up old feelings, and she hadn’t been able to stop herself from acting on them. He gave her a small smile. “Thank you for telling me, but I don’t blame you.”

She gave him a slightly watery smile. “Thanks,” she said.

“It’s all right,” he said, reaching out and hugging her lightly. “Don’t you cry now, your makeup will run.”

She sniffed a bit as she hugged him back, but withdrew with a smile on her face and no tears in her eyes.

“I’ll get the music set up for your first dance,” Ianto said. “Go on and grab your husband from Jack before Jack puts any ideas in his head.”

Gwen laughed and nodded. “Thanks for doing this,” she said, and hurried off towards Rhys.

The music selection he had to work with wasn’t the best, but Ianto had done a little moonlighting as a DJ, back when he’d been trying to put himself through university. He might have dropped out mid-way through the course, but he still remembered everything he’d learned through his various jobs. He put on the most appropriate song he could find and watched as Rhys and Gwen finally had their first dance as a married couple.

“Nice and chaotic, this one,” Damien remarked.

“Torchwood wedding,” Ianto said as if that should explain everything. It did, really.

“Mm, yes, give you that one,” Damien agreed.

Ianto smiled slightly.

“Are you going to dance with Jack?” Corinne asked eagerly.

“Not planning on it, no,” Ianto replied.

“Oh, come on,” she said, pouting. “You’d look so good together.”

“Secretly, you’re just a voyeur, aren’t you?” Ianto said. “Or, come to think of it, it’s not that much of a secret.”

“Oi,” she said in mock-offence. “I don’t watch, I just… instigate.”

“Because that makes it so much better,” Ianto said, rolling his eyes.

“Ianto,” Owen said, in a preoccupied tone of voice that suggested he hadn’t realised Ianto had been speaking to empty air. “Do me a favour, would you?”

“What is it?” Ianto asked.

“Go have a dance with Tosh,” Owen said. “Just one song.”

“Any requests?” Ianto asked. The second song had just begun, and Jack was watching Rhys and Gwen as if he was wondering whether to cut in.

“Nothing really,” Owen said. “Just… sweet.”

Ianto ducked his head to hide a smile at the uncharacteristic hesitance in Owen’s voice. “I can do that,” he agreed.

Midway through the second song, Jack finally decided to cut in and dance with Gwen. Ianto watched, letting the song play through. “Wind Beneath My Wings” was already queued to play next. As the current song came to an end and Jack and Gwen separated, Ianto straightened his tie and confidently stepped over to Toshiko.

“Hullo, Ms Sato,” he said, smiling at her.

“Something I can help you with, Mr Jones?” she asked playfully.

He held out a hand. “I’d like this dance, if I may,” he requested. “In lieu of someone who can’t do so at the moment.”

Her smile stayed strong. “Whose idea was this?”

“Owen’s,” Ianto admitted, as she placed her hand in his. He led her out onto the dance floor, as Bette Midler’s voice softly rang out. “He’s right here with us now.”

Owen’s hand was reassuringly warm and solid on his shoulder as Ianto moved slowly with Toshiko. Her smile was heartbreakingly beautiful.

“You said before,” she murmured, “that there’s somewhere for them to go.”

“There is,” Ianto said. “But he’ll go when he’s ready. It’s not doing him any harm, being here.”

“Where –?” Toshiko asked. Ianto nodded slightly to the side, and Toshiko turned to face that direction, resting her head on Ianto’s chest.

“Go on whenever you feel like it,” she whispered. “I do still feel sad, but I think I’ll be all right, now. I want you to be happy, Owen, and if it’s better for you there, then go on.”

Ianto chanced a look at Owen. Such a look of genuine tenderness wasn’t something he was accustomed to seeing on Owen’s face. Smiling slightly, he looked back down at Toshiko. That look wasn’t meant for him.

Jack cornered Ianto in the Hub, just as he was about to leave. A few seconds later, Ianto found himself pinned against the wall, determined hands working his clothes off.

Owen howled in dismay and took off running through the cog door.

“Were you trying to make me jealous?” Jack growled. For a moment, Ianto thought Jack was actually serious, but then he heard the playfulness beneath the words.

“What?” he asked eloquently. Jack’s fingers were performing a few clever tricks that were rapidly making him lose the ability to think coherently.

“Dancing with Toshiko like that,” Jack said, biting down hard on Ianto’s exposed shoulder.

“It was for Owen,” Ianto protested. “Besides, you looked pretty cosy with Gwen there.”

“I asked Rhys for a dance,” Jack said. “He looked like he was a second away from a heart attack.”

Ianto stifled a laugh.

“And then I thought, let me dance with Ianto,” Jack went on. “So I look over and what do I see?”

“I’m dancing with Tosh and Owen?” Ianto supplied.

Jack paused. “And Owen?”

“All I was,” Ianto said, “was a reason for Tosh to be out on the dance floor.”

Jack’s eyes softened. “How’re they doing?”

“Better,” Ianto said. “Much better. I think Owen’s almost ready to go on now.”

“Oh,” Jack said, suddenly stilling.

“It’s a good thing,” Ianto said gently, wrapping his arms around Jack in a hug that was more about comfort than sex. “Toshiko’s willing to let him go. And once he’s sure she’s all right, I think he’ll go on.”

“It’s good for him?” Jack asked in a tiny voice.

“It is,” Ianto said, and kissed Jack’s lips softly. “I promise.”

The Doctor informed Ianto, via Martha, that his investigations thus far hadn’t turned up anything reliable. He did have a few new promising leads that he was planning on checking out, and would contact Martha again once he learned anything of significance. More importantly, hidden in the message Martha read to him, was an apology to Jack. Ianto didn’t think Martha realised it was there, and so he didn’t ask her about it. Jack had smiled when Ianto had relayed the message. He hadn’t said anything about it, but he did seem more relaxed than before. That was something, at least.

Owen moved on. Toshiko had both laughed and cried when she’d found out.

“Ghosts can’t see each other,” Ianto told Jack. “It’s just me who can see all of them. I think I can pretty much see anyone, living or dead. And vice versa. Living or dead, they can see me. It makes me wonder, when I die, will I still be able to see them? Will they be able to see me?”

“Don’t stay,” Jack said immediately. “You don’t have to stay and help them.”

“Not for that,” Ianto said, and no matter how much Jack tried to convince him, he refused to elaborate.

After the Night Travellers, Ianto spent the next few days with the victims who’d died, talking to them, explaining what had happened, apologising. He couldn’t shake the guilt at not having been able to save them. Even though he knew Jack was getting worried about him, it was hard to pull himself back together. It didn’t help that none of the victims could accept what had happened to them.

Everyone has a breaking point, he thought dully. Damien kept telling him that. There comes a time when you can’t take any more and you have to get out while you can.

But that in turn brought up the question of how Jack could possibly get out of anything. How could he keep living, without losing himself?

“You trusted me to figure it out and keep it going,” Ianto said in an undertone. “Why not let them know?”

Jack turned a frustrated look on him. “Do you remember, you once said Gwen doesn’t know how to lie?”

Ianto nodded cautiously.

“She doesn’t know how to accept when something’s out of her ability to fix, either,” Jack said. “I don’t want to do that to her.”

Realisation dawned in Ianto’s eyes. “You don’t want her to have to realise she can’t help everyone.”

“More or less,” Jack said. “I don’t know how she manages to still think she can, in this job, but she does. She needs that. I think I need that, too.”

Ianto nodded. “She also doesn’t know how to give up, Jack.”

Jack stared at him wordlessly.

“She’ll find out,” Ianto pressed on. “Maybe not now, not immediately. But she won’t let it go. Remember how she was with Eugene? Or even when trying to find out about us? She won’t let this go. Isn’t it better to control the information she gets?”

“If she finds out a bit,” Jack said tiredly, “she won’t rest until she’s got the rest. And then she’ll still –”

“There’s nothing you can do to stop that,” Ianto said softly. “Sooner or later, it’s a lesson she’ll have to learn.”

Jack fell into a brooding silence. Ianto glanced over at the conference room, where Toshiko and Gwen were talking quietly. Gwen looked distinctly unhappy. So did Toshiko, but unlike the Japanese woman, Gwen didn’t seem like she had any intentions of letting it go.

“I’ll explain it,” Jack said. “But I’m not letting her near the island.” He gave Ianto a near-pleading look.

“I’ll call Helen and inform her to debrief the staff,” Ianto said. “Send her pictures to give them. Gwen won’t get inside. Toshiko too, for that matter.”

Jack leaned in slightly, then stopped and gave him a small smile instead. Ianto took a step forward and brushed his lips lightly against Jack’s.

“I’ll call Helen,” he repeated, stepping away. “Go talk to the girls.”

Jack’s eyes followed him as he left.

“There’s nothing inside,” Adrian reported. “Unless you count the bombs.”

Ianto stopped short. Jack, Toshiko and Gwen continued on a few paces before realising they’d lost him, and turning back.

“Bombs?” Ianto repeated.

“Bombs,” Adrian confirmed. “They’re not strong enough to do more than bring down this building, but I wouldn’t advise any of you being inside at the time.”

“What’s the time left on them?”

“Probably a little under a minute now,” Adrian said.

“Right, then,” Ianto said, giving the team a strained smile. “Apparently, the building’s rigged with bombs which will go off in less than a minute. I’d suggest we stay out here.”

“Good idea,” Jack said after a moment. “Nothing living in there?”

Adrian shook his head. “Absolutely nothing that I saw.”

“Millie?” Ianto asked.

“I didn’t find anything,” she said. “Just the bombs.”

“Nothing,” Ianto said. “Now, I hate to bring this up now, but if we got readings that brought us out here and there’s nothing here but bombs, then clearly –”

The windows blew out with a deafening crash, and the old building slowly began collapsing in on itself.

“– Someone’s trying to set us up,” Ianto finished.

“Well,” Jack said, staring at the destroyed building. “Let’s find out who, shall we?”

Gwen had rallied the police around. A few judicious lies had prompted the police to treat the Weevils like they were all having violent psychotic breaks. Once they were prepared for violence, they stopped going down quite so easily. That in turn meant that they could help more people, and that the number of fatalities and injuries had started dropping. Of course, it also meant that the police got up close and personal with the Weevils – enough to realise that they weren’t, in fact, men in masks.

Ianto had no idea how this mess was going to be cleared up.

Toshiko was on the phone, directing frantic power station personnel on how to contain the imminent nuclear meltdown. Since the breakdown had been caused by alien technology interfering with the power supplies, including all the fail-safes, they’d been at a loss to stop what was happening. Fortunately, with Toshiko’s remote assistance, that particular catastrophe looked like it had been averted.

It was a real pity, Ianto thought, that he wouldn’t be around to help fix all this. The cover story alone would be a pain.

Jack was still missing.

Ianto stared down the barrel of the gun and suddenly wished he’d said something a little more intelligent to Jack, as his last words. Something that might have lasted.

“Don’t you go down without a fight!” Damien roared. It was as if something jolted to life in Ianto, and he went for his own gun instinctively.

Two guns fired, almost in unison.

“Jack?” Toshiko asked, bewildered.

“Long story,” Jack said, clambering out of the cryo-storage unit. “What’s happening?”

“No clue,” Toshiko said. “Nuclear station’s contained, still panic on the streets though.”

“Weevils are contained,” Gwen added. “They finally started going back into the sewers, so I got back here as quick as I could.”

“And what are you doing here?” Jack enquired of John.

“I was helping,” John protested.

“He actually was,” Toshiko said reluctantly. “He was the one who noticed an anomaly in the morgue, too.”

“Good thing,” Jack said, looking around. “Grey?”

“He’s disappeared,” John said grimly. “No clue where’s he got to, which obviously isn’t a good thing.”

Jack took a deep breath and shook his head. “Okay. Where’s Ianto?”

Toshiko ran a hand through her hair in frustration. “Don’t know, can’t raise him,” she admitted. “He said he was going to run down to the lower levels of the archives, see if there wasn’t anything we could use to stop the Weevils, and you know sometimes the comms go out, that far down –”

“He knows better,” Jack said, taking off. After a moment of startled silence, the others followed in his wake. “He wouldn’t go into a dead zone without warning you first.”

When they found them, the bodies had already begun to cool.

A long trail of blood marked Ianto’s progress towards Grey. Then, a smear on the floor and bloody handprints on Grey’s chest and sides and hand. Ianto was on his side, staring at nothing, firmly clutching the device Grey had been using to drive the Weevils mad.

“He stopped them,” Jack said numbly.

Toshiko whimpered. John looked away, uncomfortably aware that at least part of the blame for this death could be placed on him.

“Ianto,” Jack whispered, taking a hesitant, unbelieving step forward.

“Hi,” Ianto replied.

Toshiko, Gwen and John (though he would later deny it) all let out high-pitched shrieks.

Ianto faded in and out of view, kneeling next to his body. He looked up at them, an expression of mingled hope and surprise on his face. “Sorry,” he said. “Wasn’t sure if you’d be able to see me. Haven’t quite got the hang of this. Jack, don’t faint, there’s work to be done yet.”

Jack nodded automatically, still looking perilously white.

Ianto looked off to his side and frowned. “Well, I wasn’t exactly planning on it, was I?” he snapped, then returned his attention to the living people in the room. “So yes, my fellow ghosts can still see me,” he added dryly.

“Ah,” Gwen managed.

“I didn’t think you would, though,” Ianto said. “Suppose there’s a reason for that?”

“Could ask the Doctor,” Toshiko said after a long pause.

“Should do that,” Ianto agreed. He looked down at Grey. “I’m sorry about him. He was rather intent on killing me, though.”

Jack made a vague sound of understanding.

“I’m not seeing things, am I?” John asked quietly, a near-hysterical tinge to his voice.

“Ah, yes, John Hart,” Ianto said reprovingly, standing up. “You know, this was all quite selfish of you. And really, haven’t you learned by now not to let people attach bombs to you?”

“Um,” John said.

Ianto looked down at himself. “So, am I more or less visible to you now?” he asked hopefully. “This is really rather hard.”

“Flickering,” Toshiko said. “Like – static through your body.”

“Oh,” Ianto said. “Well. I’ll work on that.” He gave them an apologetic look. “All a bit new to me, I’m afraid.”

Which was when Jack decided to faint.

“Never going to let you live this one down, you realise,” Ianto said, eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Shut up,” Jack groused.

“No, really,” Ianto said. “Great, invincible leader of Torchwood, he who makes UNIT generals quake in their boots, fainted at the sight of a ghost!”

“I did not faint,” Jack corrected primly. “I blacked out.”

“You fainted,” Ianto said gleefully. “Like a little girl. No, not like a little girl, that’s just insulting to little girls everywhere, my niece would never forgive me. Like a – mmph!”

Ghost or not, Ianto was still pleasantly solid to the touch. True, he looked a tad transparent, but Jack could still shut him up quite effectively with a kiss.

“Aren’t you going to leave?” Jack asked against his lips. Something a little like static shock buzzed between them at all points of contact. It didn’t hurt a bit – quite the opposite – and Jack decided he quite liked the feeling.

“Not just yet,” Ianto said. “I think I’ll stay a while longer.”

Jack closed his eyes and rested his head against Ianto’s neck. Ianto didn’t feel any different. He’d always said that he could interact with other ghosts exactly as if they were human, but Jack had always thought Ianto was exaggerating to make his ability seem less otherworldly. Not any longer. He opened his eyes a sliver, taking in Ianto’s faint body and the parts of the Hub he could see through Ianto.

It was peculiar, but Jack rather thought he could live with it.

“It’s all right if I stay, isn’t it?” Ianto asked anxiously.

Jack privately reflected that it had been a long time since he’d heard such a stupid question.

“Well,” he deadpanned. “That depends. Think a ghost is capable of shagging?”

~fin

Fanfic - The Spirit of Torchwood 3/4 [Torchwood: Jack/Ianto]

soera — Fri, 03 Jun 2011 08:43:18 GMT

Part One
Part Two

The next day, Jack woke up.

It wasn’t something any of them expected, not so soon and not quite in the fashion Jack chose. He sauntered out of the recovery room early in the afternoon, grinned at his shocked employees, and said, “Missed me, kids?”

It took a moment, but then Gwen squealed and flung herself at Jack, nearly forgetting to drop the cable she was holding first. Jack laughed and hugged her, spinning her around and kissing her cheek briefly.

Ianto looked away, taking a moment to compose himself as Toshiko and then even Owen hugged Jack as well. Corinne gave him a sympathetic look and placed her hand on his shoulder. By the time it was his turn, Ianto felt a little more in control of himself.

“Welcome back, sir,” he said with a reserved smile.

“Good to be back,” Jack replied, beaming at him.

“How is this possible, though?” Toshiko asked incredulously. She couldn’t seem to stop smiling.

“Didn’t Gwen tell you?” Jack began, shrugging. Then he paused and took a closer look at Ianto, who hurriedly smoothed out his face.

“Conference room?” Jack suggested after a few long moments. “No, wait, my office, actually, I should see what there is to do while we talk.”

“Jack?” Gwen asked uncertainly.

He gave her a reassuring look. “It’s fine,” he said. “They deserve to know, too.”

The story that Jack gave them was simple enough, though still incredible. Apparently, he’d had an accident a long time ago that had left him unable to die – permanently, at least. Gwen had found out by chance when Suzie had shot him in front of her. Somehow, that made Ianto feel a little better. Jack explained that he was currently still searching for the Doctor, the one person he thought might be able to give him an explanation about what had happened to him, and undo it.

“You do realise that the Doctor is officially listed as an Enemy of Torchwood,” Ianto observed.

“He doesn’t deserve it,” Jack insisted, pacing the room while the others sat on chairs they’d brought in from the Hub main. “I travelled with him once, I know him.”

“I’ll work on getting the Charter changed,” Ianto replied.

“Oh,” Jack said, sounding taken aback, as if he’d been expecting more of an argument. He gave Ianto a pleased look. “Sure, if you can.”

“Do my best,” Ianto said.

“Getting back to the important things,” Owen said pointedly. “Like Jack’s immortality?”

“If I find a version of the Doctor who knows me,” Jack said, “I’m going after him. I don’t know any more than you do, and I’d like some answers.” He glanced at the hand in a jar that sat in pride of place on the table. “That’ll let me know if he’s around.”

“A hand?” Millie asked. “As detectors go, that’s an… unusual one.”

“If I could run some tests,” Owen began.

“No!” Jack and Ianto exclaimed simultaneously.

Jack twitched and turned to Ianto in surprise. “Okay, I know why I don’t want to,” he said. “What’s your reason?”

Ianto flushed.

“I had the strangest thought earlier, when I saw you,” Jack said conversationally. “I thought you already knew I couldn’t die.”

“Busted,” Corinne said, wincing.

Ianto swallowed and looked down, nervously rubbing his wrist.

“You knew?” Gwen asked. “How?”

Ianto glanced up briefly at her, then at Jack. Jack didn’t seem particularly angry – just curious, though Ianto knew he was skilled at hiding his true feelings when he wanted to. All the same…

“I’m an archivist,” he said. “I found a few interesting records.”

“And here I thought I hid my trail so well,” Jack said, amused.

“You did,” Ianto said. “There’s nothing in the electronic database. I found these in the old archives. Level B10? No one ever goes there, and I wanted to know if there was anything useful we might be overlooking.”

“And you found records of my old cases?” Jack asked.

“A few,” Ianto said. “And – and a journal.”

“Whose?” Jack demanded.

“Emily Holroyd,” Ianto said, and watched as Jack blanched.

“Well,” Jack said. “That would explain why you know I don’t want any tests run on me.”

“Quite,” Ianto said. “I destroyed it when I realised what it was. And I rewrote the other records to make it seem like they were about another agent.”

“Sneaky,” Toshiko said admiringly.

Ianto shrugged, looking at her thoughtfully. Then he looked at Owen, and at Gwen. He trusted these people, he truly did. He wasn’t blind to their flaws, but he’d rather have them at his back than anyone else. He remembered Lisa’s laughter when she’d died and realised that he could still see her, her query on why he hadn’t told her.

“All right,” Jack said equably, apparently ready to move on.

“But the real reason why I went looking in the archives,” Ianto said quietly, “was because I already knew you were immortal.”

Jack paused.

“What the hell,” Millie demanded.

“What’re you doing?” Corinne asked in alarm.

“Ianto, you’d better be sure of this,” Damien said warningly.

“How?” Jack asked.

Ianto swallowed. “John Ellis told me,” he said. “I pretty much talked him into thinking he’d been imagining things, but it just didn’t make sense.”

“John Ellis,” Jack repeated, sitting down slowly behind his desk. “He didn’t know I couldn’t die. Not until I –”

“Died with him,” Ianto filled in. “Right.”

“You talked to him after he was dead,” Toshiko said slowly. Ianto could see the looks in their faces, and knew what they’d be thinking.

“Not the Glove, or anything like it,” he said calmly. “It’s just that I can see ghosts.”

“It sounds so blunt when you put it like that,” Millie said.

“You can see ghosts,” Owen repeated in disbelief.

“I make it a point not to talk to any ghosts who seem attached to people I know,” Ianto said, shrugging. “But I didn’t want Ellis hanging around Jack because he was curious.”

“Back up,” Gwen said. “Back up to the part where you think you can see ghosts.”

“I don’t think it, I know it,” Ianto said with conviction. “Ever since I was a child. The first one I saw whom I knew was my Nain. She attended her funeral. I recall she thought the eulogy was hilarious.”

“You were young,” Gwen said. “Isn’t it possible you –”

“She hung around, giving me unsolicited advice for ten years,” Ianto said dryly. “It got to the point I didn’t dare bring any girls home, for fear she’d start critiquing their taste in clothes and makeup. She was already doing it with my attire, and my sister’s, not that Rhiannon could hear her. I had to put up with it, though.”

Owen snorted at that. “Doesn’t mean you weren’t hallucinating,” he said pointedly. “And if those hallucinations have been persisting all this while, then you could have a serious problem.”

Ianto glanced at Jack, wondering why he was being so silent. Before he could say anything, though, the blonde woman he often saw by Owen stepped up.

“If you can see ghosts, can you see me?” she asked hopefully.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied politely.

“Oh,” she breathed. “Oh, my. I didn’t dare hope it was possible.”

“Ianto?” Toshiko asked uncertainly.

“It seems rather an invasion of privacy on my part if I talk to the dead loved ones of my friends,” Ianto explained. “So I try not to do it.”

“Well, it’ll help prove your case right now,” she said teasingly. “My name’s Katie, and I used to be Owen’s fiancée.”

Ianto’s eyes widened. “Fiancée?” he asked in surprise. He looked at Owen. “You were engaged?”

The colour suddenly rushed from Owen’s face.

“Her name’s Katie,” Ianto supplied helpfully.

“How do you know that?” Owen choked out.

Ianto shrugged. “She’s right there.”

Owen looked around wildly as if he might be able to see her if he looked hard enough.

“Ianto,” Jack finally said. “You’re not lying, are you?”

“No, sir,” Ianto said. “I’m not, but I do understand if you choose not to believe me.” He chose his words carefully. “I’m familiar with disbelief and… negative reactions to my ability.”

“Would you tell Owen something for me, Ianto?” Katie interrupted.

“What is it?” he asked her.

“Tell him I love him, and I don’t blame him or Torchwood, that I think he’s doing brilliant work now and I want him to keep it up, and be happy, even if it’s not with me,” she said in a rush. “Also, to stop being a bloody knob, throw out the damn alcohol, and get his life back in shape.”

Ianto bit his lip to stop the smile, but dutifully relayed the message.

“Sounds like Katie, all right,” Owen said, with a short, half-hysterical laugh.

“Are you moving on?” Ianto asked suddenly. Katie was gaining that shimmer and he suddenly wasn’t sure he wanted her to move on. “Only, you’re doing that glowing thing, and I don’t think Owen’ll –”

“He’ll be fine,” Katie said. “He just needed to hear that I don’t blame him.”

“What d’you mean, move on?” Owen demanded.

“She’s leaving,” Ianto said. “Ghosts aren’t meant to linger here. There’s somewhere else they have to go, and she’s leaving now.”

“But she can’t,” Owen said pleadingly.

Katie winked out of existence.

Ianto looked over at Owen. “It’s a much better place for them than here,” he said. “Every time one leaves, I catch the barest glimpse of where they’re going, and I know it’s good for them.”

“Is she gone?” Jack asked quietly. Ianto nodded, then looked away as Owen’s face crumpled.

“Remember what she said, Owen,” Jack said. “She doesn’t blame you, and she wants you to be happy.”

“I can actually say with certainty that she’d not want you to beat yourself up over her,” Ianto added. “I may not have talked to her before, but I did see some of her… uh, antics when you came to work hung-over.”

Owen choked on a laugh. “Did she try to strangle me?” he asked. “Or did she try to throw things at me?”

“Both,” Ianto admitted.

“This is really real then,” Toshiko said at last. She looked a little crestfallen, and Ianto suspected that it was at the news that Owen had had a fiancée he obviously felt deeply for.

“You can see ghosts,” Gwen added in disbelief.

“It would appear that way,” Jack said, resting his elbows on the table and propping up his chin in his hands. “You’re just full of surprises, aren’t you, Ianto?”

“That’s about it, really,” Ianto murmured. “Nothing else surprising about me.”

“Are there any ghosts here?” Gwen asked suddenly.

Ianto reached out and snagged Damien’s wrist without looking. “Damien here,” he said. “He was Head of Engineering at Torchwood One.” He glanced at Jack. “He was the one who helped me with… Lisa.”

Jack nodded in realisation. “Wait,” he said suddenly. “Damien’s that guy you mentioned before, your friend –”

Ianto shrugged. “Kind of a surrogate father,” he said. He gave Damien’s hand a shake, ignoring Damien’s mild protest. “Always watching out for me. And yes, I can interact with ghosts just as well as I can interact with any of you. Probably just looks a bit odd to you, though.”

“A bit,” Toshiko agreed with a giggle. Jack’s eyes were bright and cheery. The entire team looked like they were already settling into this new information about Ianto. If Torchwood did nothing else for them, at least they were probably some of the most adaptable people on the planet.

Ianto gave her a small smile as he dropped Damien’s hand. “And Millie, Corinne and Adrian are here too,” he said. “All ex-field agents at One. I think Corey’s probably down in the archives, staring wistfully at the shelves. The others don’t usually come in here.”

“You’ve got quite the army wandering the streets though,” Damien observed. “Your own super spy network.”

“True enough,” Ianto said, giving Damien a smile. He looked back at the others. “Damien just commented on my – what was it?”

“Super spy network,” Damien repeated obligingly.

“Super spy network,” Ianto relayed. “The others – from Torchwood One, I mean, there’s maybe two hundred of them left who haven’t moved on – anyway, the lot of them are spread out across the majority of Britain. They tend to pop by and let me know if there’s anything interesting going on.”

“That’s how you always know what’s happening everywhere?” Jack asked incredulously.

“Guilty,” Ianto said, amused at the look on Jack’s face.

“Cheat,” Jack said, laughing. “So long as you use your superpowers for us, Ianto Jones.”

“Wasn’t planning on anything else,” Ianto replied with a slight smile.

“They took it a lot better than I expected,” Damien commented.

Ianto shrugged minutely. They were reacting all right now, but after the information had had time to sink in – that was the important thing. He’d just have to wait and see.

“Eugene!” Jack crowed all of a sudden, pointing accusingly at Ianto. “That’s why you got all weird when we said we saw Eugene Jones!”

Ianto couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled past his lips. “Oh,” he said. “You should have seen him when he followed Gwen back here. Jumping around like a kid in a candy store.”

“Was he really?” Gwen asked, eyes sparkling.

“I think we made his day,” Ianto confessed. “Except maybe when you were about to cut into his chest. He fainted.”

Owen snorted at that. “Not surprised,” he said.

“And that’s why you wanted to study the Eye,” Jack added in realisation.

“Yep,” Ianto said. “To see if there’s a reason behind why I can see them.”

“I would offer tests, but I don’t think you’d take me up on that,” Owen said dryly.

“Depends on what they are,” Ianto said slowly. “If you think up anything that might help, let me know and I’ll think about it.”

Jack gave him a sideways look. “You wouldn’t mind?”

Ianto shrugged. “If it helps me understand it,” he said, “I don’t mind. Is that hand supposed to be doing that?”

Jack spun around to look at the severed hand, sitting pretty in its jar. The entire thing had begun to glow, sparkling motes of light dancing around it.

“He’s here?” Jack breathed in disbelief. Toshiko lunged for the security monitors and in a few taps, had brought up the footage of the Plass directly atop them. “He’s here,” Jack said again, staring at the blue box that was sitting innocuously on the fake slab that covered their invisible lift.

“So go, already,” Ianto said, rising. “He doesn’t know you’re here; he might not stay long.”

“I don’t know when I’ll be back,” Jack said, scrambling for a bag under his desk. He shoved the entire jar with the hand into his bag, then continued to grab a few other miscellanea while he talked. “He’s not exactly great with his landings, got twelve months instead of twelve hours once. Uh, I’ll make him get me as close back as possible, but I might be a while. Ianto, you’re in charge. Don’t do field work, you need to stay alive to run things. And the rest of you stay alive too! Um, UNIT and Helen are calling today. Ianto, check my accounts, you’ll figure it out. And –”

“We’ll wear sunscreen,” Owen interrupted. “Go!”

Jack slung the bag across his shoulders, beamed at them, then caught a thoroughly surprised Ianto by the arms and planted a hard, fast kiss on his lips. “Be safe,” he said, then took off for the exit. The cog door screamed shut behind him.

“What,” Owen said, raising an eyebrow, “was that?”

Ianto was fairly positive his face could rival a tomato. “I have no idea,” he said, manfully ignoring Corinne’s laughter.

“Looked like a kiss to me,” Toshiko said, grinning.

“Did rather, didn’t it?” Gwen said. “Kind of hot, actually,” she added thoughtfully.

“You’re shagging Jack?” Owen demanded.

“No,” Ianto insisted. “He flirts, of course he flirts, he flirts with everyone, but that’s it.”

“But that time, after Suzie,” Gwen objected. “When I walked in on the two of you with your arms around each other?”

“He was upset!” Ianto protested. “He stole a hug, that’s all!”

“You didn’t object!” Corinne sang.

“Oh, shut up, Corinne,” Ianto growled, and stalked from the room.

His departure might have been a little more dignified if everyone – even Damien, the traitor - hadn’t been laughing behind him.

As Ianto had expected, when the truth about his ability had had time to sink in, the team became a little uncomfortable around him. It wasn’t as bad as he had feared, though, and after a week or so, they began to relax again.

Eventually, Owen came to him to find out more about what Katie had done while she’d still been around. Ianto was happy to share what he remembered, and Owen willingly explained some of her more peculiar actions and words to Ianto.

It was odd, but after that, Owen actually became somewhat mellower. Ianto even caught him apologising to Toshiko once, for disrupting one of her programs by accident.

“I think it’s done him good,” she confided in Ianto later. “Let him move on some.”

“I reckon so, too,” Ianto admitted. It was the first time his ability had directly helped a living person. He found he rather liked the idea.

The team finally got used to the idea, and after that, they truly didn’t seem to have any problems with it.

Ianto wondered what Jack thought of him, as he travelled with the Doctor. If he thought of him at all.

With Jack gone off for the time being, the team found that their workload had increased quite a bit. No one had realised exactly how much work Jack had regularly done after hours. Without his frequent night patrols, the Weevil population on the streets grew unmanageably large. A month after Jack left, the problem came to a head, and they were forced to spend a couple of days proactively rounding up Weevils and returning them to the sewers before further damage could be caused.

“We might want to set up a rota,” Gwen suggested. “Take turns on night patrols, like Jack did.”

“Not advisable,” Ianto said immediately. “Dying wouldn’t stick for Jack, so he took risks we can’t afford.”

“We’d have to go it in pairs at least,” Owen mused. “But that leaves us running the risk of becoming over-fatigued.”

“So forget the night patrols,” Toshiko said. “Why don’t we do day patrols instead?”

They all looked at her expectantly. “Face it,” she said. “When we’re at the Hub, a lot of the time we’ve not got anything to do. Slow days like that, why don’t we go out on patrol? The two who aren’t driving can continue with paperwork and anything online in the back.”

“And I can coordinate from here if something does happen,” Ianto said. “It’s a good idea. Thoughts?”

“What about things like autopsies?” Owen asked. “We do need to be in the Hub for some of the experiments and things. Like if Tosh has a new programme she wants to run, she can’t do that from the car.”

“Patrol every other day,” Gwen said. “It doesn’t have to be daily, after all. We can take an extra day off if the work’s piling up here.”

“Worst case scenario, patrol in alternating pairs,” Ianto agreed. “That way, you each get an extra day to clear any backlog.”

“Should work,” Owen said, and Toshiko chimed in with her agreement. They hashed out a quick schedule to try out. They’d have to modify it as the circumstances dictated, of course, but it looked promising to begin with.

“You’ve gotten so organised,” Jack marvelled.

Ianto very nearly dropped his stack of folders. “Jack?” he said blankly. Somewhere in his peripheral vision, he noticed another man and a woman behind Jack, looking around curiously. It was Jack that all his attention was on, though, Jack and that terribly weary look in his eyes.

“What happened?” he blurted out, dropping the folders on the nearest table. “What happened to you?”

Jack laughed softly. “You can’t possibly have cheated for that. How did you know?”

Ianto couldn’t take his eyes off Jack. “Everything,” he replied. “Just –”

“Who’s this, then?” the unfamiliar man asked, eyeing Ianto strangely.

“Ianto Jones,” Jack said. “Ianto, meet the Doctor and Martha Jones.”

“Pleasure,” Ianto said, lips quirking in the tiniest of smiles. He glanced back at Jack, eyes still distressed.

“It was a bit rough,” Jack admitted. “How long have I been away?”

Ianto swallowed and accepted the unsubtle change of topic. “Four months,” he said. “The others are just out on a patrol.”

“Things have changed,” Jack said in admiration.

Ianto shrugged. “I don’t think any of us knew how much you were doing after hours,” he said. “Not until the Weevils started popping up everywhere. We decided to do daytime runs to get them back into the sewers before their above-ground population became too overwhelming for us.”

Jack nodded. “And… Helen…”

“All sorted,” Ianto said. “Payments made as usual, and no change on that front.”

Jack relaxed minutely. “All right,” he said. “No injuries or anything I should know about?”

“The usual suspects when chasing Weevils,” Ianto replied. “Nothing major, and no one’s currently running on an injury.”

“Good enough,” Jack said. He glanced at the other two. “You two want to have a look around?”

“Should I call Myfanwy down?” Ianto asked archly.

“After the tour,” Jack said, grinning wickedly.

“I don’t like that look on your face,” Martha decided.

“So, how long till the rest of your team gets back?” Martha asked. “I’d like to finally meet the infamous Torchwood.”

“What have you been saying, sir?” Ianto asked suspiciously, setting cups of tea in front of Martha and the Doctor.

“Sir?” the Doctor mumbled in disbelief.

“Me?” Jack said. “Nothing, nothing at all.”

Ianto raised an eyebrow.

“Really nice suit, by the way,” Jack said, appreciatively raking his eyes over Ianto’s rear as Ianto bent over to retrieve some biscuits from a lower cabinet.

“Stop it,” the Doctor said in exasperation.

“What?” Jack asked. “Ianto, does it bother you, my saying that?”

“I’d be far more bothered if you stopped,” Ianto replied calmly. “I’d then be forced to check you for mind-altering substances.”

Jack grinned. “See, Ianto’s fine with it,” he said happily. “Oh, is that coffee? Ianto Jones, I could kiss you.”

“What’s stopping you?” Ianto murmured under his breath.

“This,” Jack said, hefting his coffee cup aloft, “is the best coffee I’ve ever had.”

“Better than Adrixian Four?” the Doctor asked.

“Much,” Jack said. “Adrixian Four is like instant coffee compared to this.” He inhaled deeply, relaxing into his chair. “Heaven in a cup.”

“Oh, I’ve got to try some too then,” the Doctor said, turning bright, puppyish eyes on Ianto. “I mean, if it’s better than Adrixian Four coffee! That entire planet’s devoted to coffee, you know. Well, it will be in about three hundred years, anyway. All around the planet, all types of coffee grown in all sorts of conditions. Their speciality brew comes from the tropics, and it’s supposed to be the best coffee in the universe.”

“That’s this,” Jack mumbled, closing his eyes in bliss as he took a deep draught.

“He might be saying that because I manage to get it as strong as he likes,” Ianto said. “At that strength, it’s probably capable of taking the skin off your tongue.”

The Doctor winced. “Maybe a little less strong then.”

“You generally prefer tea?” Ianto asked.

“Oh yes,” the Doctor said, hefting his cup of tea happily. “Tannins, you know.”

“Of course,” Ianto said blandly. “Ms Jones?”

“Oh, god, just Martha,” she laughed. “And yeah, I guess I’ll try some too. Plenty of sugar though.”

Ianto made up a couple of cups for them, similar to how he made Toshiko’s. She was generally a tea-drinker too, but she fancied Ianto’s coffee when it was a little weaker, and had a good dash of cream and sugar in it. They seemed to like it well enough, at any rate.

“I could bring him to Adrixian Four, get him a shop,” the Doctor told Jack. “They’d love him there.”

Jack gave him a disbelieving look. “Uh, no,” he said, clutching at Ianto’s hand. “Mine.”

“Lovely to know I have a say in this,” Ianto said, giving Jack a bland smile. “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I should go inform the others that you’ve returned.”

“I’ll come with!” Jack said, bouncing up. “Be right back, you two.”

“I thought I was mishearing things the first time,” the Doctor said, frowning. Ianto shut the door behind them, but they could still clearly hear the conversation. “But ‘sir,’ really?”

“Doesn’t quite seem to fit the image, does it?” Martha observed.

“Always,” Jack sighed dramatically. “I always get that. People don’t think I deserve respect.”

“I can’t imagine why, sir,” Ianto replied.

“I don’t know why,” Jack said. “But I actually get the feeling you didn’t mean that sarcastically.”

Ianto stopped in front of Toshiko’s desk, meeting Jack’s eyes squarely. “I didn’t.” He put on the headphones, tapped into the group channel and waited for everyone to check in.

“Hullo,” Ianto greeted them. “Got a bit of a surprise for you lot. Round up for today and get back here, will you?”

“It’s barely two,” Owen protested. “We’re just getting started, really.”

“I know,” Ianto said. “But believe me, this is something you’ll want to see.” He tilted his head at Jack, gesturing at the headphones and attached mike enquiringly.

Jack grinned and leaned in, speaking into the mike. “Unless you feel like you’re doing just fine on your own, of course,” he said. “Don’t let me stop you from doing your work.”

“Oh, for –” Owen began, but was drowned out by the girls’ exclamations. Ianto winced as feedback squealed.

“Yes, yes, we’re all very excited,” he said in his most bored voice. “So, come on back now, all right? Incidentally, the Doctor and a friend of his have also dropped by for a visit, so on the off-chance you run into a stranger in the Hub, please don’t shoot.”

“I’ll think about it,” Owen said. “On our way back now. Give us half an hour.”

“Will do,” Ianto said, and hung up. His eyes flickered over to Jack, who still hadn’t moved back from when he’d leaned in to talk.

“Hey,” Jack said softly.

“Hi,” Ianto replied.

Jack hesitantly moved a little closer, but it was Ianto who finally bridged the gap. He didn’t know when the kiss got as desperate as it did, but when they finally broke apart, they’d somehow wound up against the wall, panting wildly, bodies flush against each other. Ianto could feel hard brick pressing into his back, and firm flesh pressing against his front, and he pulled Jack into a tighter hug and buried his face in his neck.

“Missed you,” Jack confessed quietly.

Ianto made a sound of agreement and attempted to burrow a bit closer. Jack sighed contentedly, leaning into the hold.

After a few minutes, Jack finally stirred, taking the slightest step backwards. Ianto unwillingly loosened his hold.

“Much as I like this,” Jack said, smiling. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”

“Doesn’t sound too good,” Ianto observed.

“It’s not bad,” Jack assured him. “There’s a reason the Doctor’s here now. I mean, he barely ever sticks around unless there’s something going on, you know? Took everything I had to convince him to come down just for a day, see what Torchwood’s become instead of what he knew it to be. That was the excuse, anyway.”

“And the real reason?” Ianto asked.

Jack shrugged. “He’s been to a lot more places in the galaxy than I have,” he said honestly. “Seen a lot more than me. If there’s anyone out there who could explain your ability, he’s more likely to know than I am. I didn’t tell him,” he added hastily. “I just wanted him here in case you decided it was all right to ask.”

Ianto bit his lip. “He won’t tell anyone?” he asked anxiously.

“He won’t,” Jack assured him. “Neither will Martha, if you want to tell her, but of course you don’t have to. You can trust them both, I promise.”

“Let me think about it?” Ianto asked.

“Sure,” Jack said. “But – and I don’t mean this to put pressure on you – he doesn’t usually stay long. If you want to, you’ll have to decide soon.”

“Okay,” Ianto said. “I should – go talk to Damien about it.”

“Any of them here now?” Jack asked.

“Christ. No, thank god,” Ianto said, flushing. He didn’t want to imagine their reactions to his and Jack’s rather heated kiss. Fortunately, the others had decided to lend a hand by checking out the parts of Cardiff that the team wasn’t patrolling at the time. They’d been a great help in getting Torchwood to problem areas before anything serious could happen.

“Live a little,” Jack said, grinning. “What’s a bit of exhibitionism?”

“No, Jack,” Ianto said firmly. “Absolutely not.”

Jack laughed and dipped his head to kiss the side of Ianto’s neck. “No?” he asked. “Pity. Oh well, there’s plenty of other things we can do.”

“What,” Ianto asked, staring at the ceiling, “have I gotten myself into?”

Jack returned to keep the Doctor and Martha entertained. In the meantime, Ianto retreated to his workstation in the archives. He thought specifically of Damien, and then said, “Damien, do you have a minute? Need some advice.”

A few seconds later, Damien appeared in front of him. The ability to call a familiar ghost to him was something Ianto had discovered by accident a few months ago. Damien said it sounded as if Ianto was standing right next to him, speaking to him. Damien did have the option not to respond, but it had opened up new avenues of communication for them.

It also made Ianto wonder what else he didn’t know about his ability.

Ianto quickly summarised his dilemma for Damien. The older man thought about it in silence for a few minutes.

“Ask him,” Damien finally said.

“You’re sure,” Ianto said.

“He doesn’t stay long when he’s here,” Damien said, counting off on his fingers. “Most people don’t know he exists. Those who do, also know how to keep a secret, or the fact of alien life would have been exposed long ago. Most of the time, he’s not here on Earth, so who’s he going to reveal this to that might affect you? He travels a lot, so it’ll be hard tracking him down to get any information on you.”

He looked at Ianto and shrugged. “There’s always a risk, but if you’re going to ask anyone for help, he’s probably your best bet.”

Ianto sighed. “That’s what I thought.” He hesitated.

“But?” Damien prodded.

“Telling the team’s one thing,” Ianto said. “I trust them. I don’t even know the Doctor. All I know is Jack trusts him.”

“You also know that trust isn’t something Jack gives lightly,” Damien pointed out.

Ianto nodded slowly. “You definitely think I should do this then,” he said.

“Yep,” Damien agreed.

“Okay,” Ianto said, taking a deep breath. “Thanks.”

Damien smiled at him. “You’re welcome. I’ll just go back now, then. Oh, and you might want to tidy your hair before Corinne sees you.”

Ianto flushed scarlet and Damien vanished with a laugh, snapping back to wherever he’d been before Ianto had called him over.

Ianto neatened up in the bathroom, taking his time and thinking about what to say. Then he pulled up all the courage he had, and headed back up.

Jack, the Doctor and Martha were discussing the relative merits of some planet or other when Ianto returned. He took a seat beside Jack and waited for a break in the conversation. When it came, he gave Jack a slight nod.

“Yes?” Jack asked.

“Yep,” Ianto said.

“Okay,” Jack said. “So, Doctor. Ianto’s got a question he’d like to ask you, but we’d like assurance that the information stays private.”

“Oh, of course,” the Doctor said, looking intrigued.

“Should I leave?” Martha asked.

Ianto glanced at Jack, then shook his head. “Not as long as you’ll keep the secret,” he said.

“Thanks,” she said, smiling faintly. Ianto suspected she knew exactly how much it had cost him to trust her like that. “I will.”

“So, what is it?” the Doctor asked. “It’s not about the Simulacra, is it, because those people just wouldn’t stop when I asked them to, so when they wound up as, well, slugs, really, it wasn’t –”

“Ianto can see ghosts,” Jack interrupted bluntly.

The Doctor blinked.

“Ever heard of anything similar?” Jack asked conversationally.

“Ghosts,” the Doctor said, frowning. “No, no, can’t say I’ve come across anything like that. Things people thought were ghosts, yes, but not actual ghosts. Hm, let me think – you’re sure they’re ghosts, now?”

“Yes,” Ianto said.

“I just had a really disturbing thought,” Martha said slowly. “Saxon’s ghost isn’t anywhere around, is it?”

Jack flinched violently. Ianto frowned minutely as he looked around, then shook his head. “No one here at the moment, at any rate,” he said. “You meant Harold Saxon? Should he be here?”

“No,” Martha said immediately. “Rather a good thing if he’s not here.”

Jack curled his hand painfully tight around Ianto’s. Ianto let him.

“Is it people you used to know or some such?” the Doctor enquired.

“Not only them,” Ianto said. “I tend not to talk to the ones I don’t know. They get a bit obsessive sometimes, following me around.”

“You have ghostly stalkers?” Jack asked, frowning.

“Not anymore,” Ianto said. “But when I was younger, yes. It’s how I started –” he hesitated, looking over his shoulder.

“What?” Jack asked.

“Owen’s already taken to calling me Melinda,” Ianto said, grimacing. “I hardly want to give him more ammunition. But I try and convince them to move on, where I can.”

“Melinda?” the Doctor asked in confusion.

“The Ghost Whisperer,” Martha laughed. “I suppose it’s fitting, in a way.”

“Thanks,” Ianto said dryly. “Really, I just do it to preserve my own sanity. Do you know how loud a roomful of frustrated ghosts can get?”

“They can’t see each other,” Jack added, grinning. “So they don’t realise there’re others all talking at the same time. Right?”

“Right,” Ianto said. “The ones I’m friends with, they know that and they’ve gotten good at figuring out who I’m talking to, based on my responses. And they know not to take it personally when I ask them all to shut up for a minute.” He smiled.

“Not so much with the ones you don’t know?” Martha asked.

“Mm-hmm,” Ianto agreed. “And it’s a bit odd standing in the middle of the street and yelling at nothing, you know?”

“Well, I’ve never heard of quite this sort of ability before,” the Doctor said thoughtfully. “The closest would be – probably about six centuries from now, on Raynham, I suppose –”

“Raynham,” Ianto repeated under his breath.

“If you go about Townshend City, there’s a group of people, I think, who say they can speak to the dead,” the Doctor went on. “Never put much stock in it myself, though I heard plenty of people say it wasn’t a scam. Could go have a look, I suppose, see if there’s anything to it. Though it still doesn’t explain why you’d have this ability.” He frowned at Ianto. “You are human, aren’t you?”

“Entirely so,” Ianto said dryly.

“Hm,” the Doctor said contemplatively. “Quite peculiar then. Rather unusual ability, especially for a human. You humans don’t tend to get very many people who’re gifted like that.”

Ianto barely refrained from rolling his eyes.

“If you manage to find out anything, could you let us know?” Jack asked.

“Oh, of course,” the Doctor said. He gave Ianto an apologetic look. “Not of much help right now. Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Ianto said.

Corinne chose that moment to appear next to him. “There’s a bit of a mess with –” she began, then stopped when she caught sight of their unexpected company. “Oh, he’s back!” she said in pleasure. Then she caught sight of Jack’s and Ianto’s hands, still interlaced under the table.

Ianto winced at her deafening squeal.

“What?” Jack asked.

“Corinne gets a bit – enthusiastic, sometimes,” Ianto said with a sigh.

“She here?” Jack asked curiously.

“Just popped by,” Ianto said, gesturing vaguely towards where she was standing. Then he yelped as she grabbed his free hand and shook it vigorously. “What, what?”

“What I was trying to tell you,” she said. “Before you distracted me with the lovely hand-holding, thank you, oh, did you kiss, you must have!”

“Corinne,” Ianto said in exasperation. “Focus.”

“Right,” she said. “There’s a bit of a mess with a blowfish. Seems like it’s on drugs, and it’s just stolen a sports car.”

“Brilliant,” Ianto said, sighing. He’d have to go re-route the others to the blowfish then. With any luck, he and Jack could catch up to them and help get the blowfish under control. They were always dangerous when they were high.

Then he caught sight of the expressions on the others’ faces. “What? Corinne said there’s a drugged-out blowfish that’s gone and stolen a car, so –”

“Back to work,” Jack said delightedly.

“Can we come along?” the Doctor asked excitedly.

“A blowfish?” Martha asked incredulously.

“Oh, dear,” the Doctor muttered. “Oh, dear.”

“Really think there’s any way out of this that leaves that blowfish alive?” Jack asked pleasantly.

“Well,” the Doctor said. “If we just tried talking to him, perhaps.”

“Ever seen someone on meth?” Ianto asked. “You’ve got one chance to talk them down. If paranoia kicks in, or psychosis, then there’s nothing more you can do. A blowfish on any type of drug is exactly the same way.”

“The team will already have tried reasoning,” Jack added. “Clearly, it hasn’t worked.”

“Did they try enough, though?” the Doctor pressed.

“They’ll have tried right up until he decided to hold these people hostage,” Ianto said. “And probably even then. But right now, those people take priority. They’re completely innocent in all this.”

“And that blowfish isn’t?” the Doctor asked indignantly.

Ianto regarded him coolly. “He had a choice about taking those drugs, and he had a choice about taking these people hostage,” he said.

“I really don’t see any other way, Doctor,” Martha said softly, laying a hand on his arm.

The Doctor pursed his lips unhappily. “Humans,” he said. “Always so violent.”

“Are Time Lords really exempt?” Jack asked, baring his teeth in a parody of a smile. There was tense silence for a moment, before Ianto cleared his throat.

“Blowfish,” he reminded Jack.

Jack nodded after a moment. “Cover me from here,” he told Ianto. “I’ll see what I can do.”

It ended with a dead Jack and a subdued blowfish. Ianto refrained from asking the Doctor if it was a preferable outcome to a dead blowfish and an uninjured Jack. He hefted Jack’s body in a fireman’s carry and brought him to the back of the SUV while Gwen administered Retcon to the hysterical family that had been taken hostage. They’d believe that they’d been victims of a home invasion and nothing more.

Martha, Ianto noted, looked vaguely sick as she looked at Jack’s dead body.

“You do know about him, don’t you?” Ianto asked, carefully laying Jack down. He arranged Jack’s body into a comfortable position.

“He’ll come back,” Martha said. “Yes, I know. It’s just –”

“He’s died a lot, hasn’t he?” Ianto asked, smoothing Jack’s shirt down. “While he was with you.”

Martha’s eyes clouded. “Yes,” she said finally.

Ianto nodded and fell silent, waiting for Jack to come back. Owen brought in the unconscious blowfish and secured it, then patted Ianto’s shoulder lightly and hopped back out to help Gwen and Toshiko with the cleanup.

It didn’t escape Ianto’s notice that he’d also steered Martha away, leaving Ianto alone with Jack, if only for a few minutes. He was vaguely grateful for that.

Jack came back to life flailing and gasping just like all those times Millie had described to him. What struck Ianto as strange was the absolutely terrified look on Jack’s face as he came back, the way he recoiled instinctively from Ianto, scrambling away. It took a few moments for his expression to clear, and then a look of relief took over.

Odd, Ianto thought. It had been as if he’d expected someone else to be there.

“Jack,” Ianto said quietly, cautiously reaching forward.

“Sorry,” Jack responded. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Ianto said, holding out a hand to Jack. After a moment, Jack took it, and let Ianto pull him up.

“Blowfish contained, as you can see,” Ianto said, gesturing at the alien trussed up in the corner.

“No one was hurt?” Jack asked.

“Just you,” Ianto said, squeezing Jack’s hand lightly.

“I’ll come back,” Jack said. “I always do.”

Ianto nodded slightly. “He wasn’t able to help you, then.”

“Nope,” Jack said, voice catching slightly. “You know, you’re the first person to put it like that?”

“Like what?” Ianto asked.

“Most people ask if I can be fixed, or put back to normal, something like that,” Jack said, smiling at Ianto. “Never if I can be helped.”

The blowfish was secured in one of the cells until the drugs wore off. After that, it would be brought to an island co-owned by Torchwood and UNIT, until such time as transport back to its native planet arrived. It was Torchwood’s responsibility to contact those planets, and the island afforded the spaceships enough privacy to discreetly land and remove the prisoners.

The Doctor left shortly after ensuring that the blowfish would indeed be treated well. Martha went with him after thanking Ianto for the coffee. She also gave him her number and told him to call if he ever had any questions about Jack’s time away.

He rather thought he could get to like the spirited young lady.

The team retired to the conference room to properly catch up with their leader. Jack spun a grand tale about seeing the end of the universe, and the team were suitably amazed.

Ianto didn’t need Damien to realise that Jack was leaving out far more than he was telling them.

He would ask Jack later, he decided. Hopefully, Jack would tell him at least a little. If not… he’d give him some time. But first he’d try, after the others left and things were a little quieter.

Sadly, John Hart’s arrival put that plan to rest.

“Oh yeah,” Jack commented. “Loving that office feel.” He flashed Ianto a quick grin. “I always get excited in these places.”

“Are you that deprived?” Ianto asked politely.

“Maybe a little,” Jack said. “But probably not so much anymore?” He raised his eyebrows.

Ianto tried not to smile. “Suppose you’ll have to wait and see,” he said.

“Not too long,” Jack said, leering at him. Ianto turned away to hide the amusement on his face, flipping through a folder on a desk just for something to do.

“Bomb’s not in there,” Jack said, a smirk in his voice. “Unless it’s a very, very small bomb.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Ianto said, finally starting to laugh as he glanced back at Jack.

Jack beamed, coming up behind Ianto and winding his arms around Ianto’s waist. “I can do quiet,” he said. “If it’s worth the effort.”

Ianto attempted to get loose, but Jack simply held on tighter. “Not here, Jack,” Ianto said. “Definitely not here.”

“After we get back, then,” Jack purred, nuzzling Ianto’s neck in direct contrast to his words. He licked a line along Ianto’s jaw, tracing the shape of his face up to his ear. Ianto shivered as Jack tugged on his earlobe lightly with his teeth.

“After we’ve dealt with all this, and we’re back either at yours or mine,” Ianto said. His hands somehow found their way under Jack’s coat, mapping the lines of cloth-covered muscle. “Preferably yours, I don’t want Camilla walking in on us.”

“Camilla?” Jack enquired in a mumble as he continued to lip Ianto’s ear. With one hand, he loosened Ianto’s tie and undid the top couple of buttons. A single finger ran along Ianto’s collarbone, half-ticklish, half-sensuous. Ianto shivered again, pressing closer.

“Ghost,” Ianto explained. “A child.” Jack’s shirt had come un-tucked. Peculiar how that had happened. The first brush of skin on skin thrilled him. “Stays at home, mostly, doesn’t like coming out.”

“Mm,” Jack mumbled, too busy nibbling on Ianto’s neck to really respond.

“Ianto, we’ve got a problem – oh, shit, sorry, sorry, bad timing,” Corinne yelped.

Ianto let out an undignified squeak and hastily extricated himself from a surprised Jack’s grasp. “What?” he asked Corinne, flushing. “I thought you were with Gwen?” Jack’s face immediately slipped back into professionalism, realising that if Ianto’s friend had left her assigned station, it was because something had gone wrong.

“That would be the problem,” Corinne said. “He’s poisoned Gwen and gone after Owen and Toshiko.”

“Where is she?” Ianto asked immediately. Once she’d relayed the information, Corinne left once more to keep an eye on John’s movements.

“Gwen’s been poisoned,” he told Jack, as he fished out his phone. He called Owen and Toshiko quickly, updating them on the situation and warning them that John Hart was presently on his way to their location.

“Have they found anything yet?” Jack asked. Ianto relayed the question. They had, and so Jack told them to get to Gwen as soon as possible and help her.

“How do we play this?” Ianto asked.

“Have your stun gun?” Jack asked. “Good. Let’s get up to the roof and find you a hiding place. I have a sneaking suspicion I know what John’s after.”

Having failed to locate Owen and Toshiko, John came to Jack next. He seemed only mildly annoyed to find out from Jack that they’d already located the device, and that Ianto had returned to the Hub with it.

“Then why’re you here?” he asked.

Jack smiled, glancing up at the starlit sky. “Remembering,” he said. “I was just headed back, actually.” He took a couple of steps diagonally forward, beginning the slow process of manoeuvring John into the right position.

From his concealed vantage point, Ianto listened as John tried to convince Jack to leave the planet with him. It was rather gratifying to hear Jack claim that this was where he belonged.

It was even more gratifying when he finally got to stun John Hart.

It really didn’t come as a surprise to any of them that John Hart’s greediness had come back to bite him in the rear. At least they finally managed to get rid of him – and they even wound up with an unexpected free day. Of course, they’d have to spend it in a place where they wouldn’t run into their past selves. Since Owen, Gwen and Toshiko had spent a good bit of the afternoon patrolling Cardiff, that was a little problematic. After a bit of discussion, they decided to book a few rooms at a hotel and relax.

As a bonus, Gwen would get to relax her stiff muscles in the spa.

“I told you not to kiss him,” Jack said, shaking his head severely at her.

“It was a bit unexpected!” she retorted, mock-glaring at him. “I wasn’t exactly planning on it!”

Jack grinned and patted her shoulder. “Well, what’s important is you’re all right now,” he said. “Go pamper yourself a bit.” He glanced over at the others. “Goes for you lot, too. You deserve it, with all you’ve been doing while I was gone.”

Ianto snapped his phone shut and came over. “Got us rooms,” he announced. “They’ll let us check in right away.”

Jack gave him a pleased grin. “Let’s go, then.”

Jack and Owen looked at each other. Then, simultaneously, they cried, “Dibs!” and took off running for the sports car.

“Men,” Gwen said, rolling her eyes. Toshiko nodded vehemently in agreement.

Ianto rather felt inclined to agree.

“So,” Jack murmured as the others trooped into the hotel ahead of them. “You did get us a room together, right?”

Part Four