Who I Have Become

even if you have 1

Even if you have 10

100

1000

Hey guys!

I was hoping to do this much, much sooner, but here we are. In the next few hours, I will be posting chapters 8, 9, and 10! For your long, long wait, I give you these three chapters at once! Hopefully, you won’t have to wait nearly as long for the rest.

The next three chapters are (excerpts included):

Chapter Eight: King of the Crossroads (36 pages, 15694 words)

“I don’t like it,” Harry said. “I know, I know,” Dean sighed, rubbing his face. “It’s our best lead though.” “And that’s why you’re my favourite,” Crowley smirked. Harry scowled at him. “Kindly piss off.” “And miss the chance to see how little it takes for you to go spare? Don’t think so.” “At least I’m not as bent as a nine-bob.” “No, darling, you’re just bent.”

Chapter Nine: Pestilence (34 pages, 14761 words)

“Sam and Dean…” Cas said, sounding a bit careful. “They said that they saw you, with their own eyes, going toe to toe with Lucifer.” “Yeah. And?” “And that should not be possible,” he answered bluntly. Harry scoffed, watching Cas as Cas scanned the hallway, vigilant. “Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence.” “You are powerful, Harry, don’t get me wrong. And I remember sensing old power from your wand. But neither of you nor you combined should be powerful enough to meet Lucifer head-on.”

Chapter Ten: Demon Deals and a Closed Bay (27 pages, 11989 words - WARNING FOR EXPLICIT SMUT)

In fact, Harry stopped listening to Dean altogether on the last stretch of road and just watched Dean talk. Dean was naturally expressive, eyebrows pinched in concentration on the road while the hand not on the steering wheel waved and gestured with his words. His lips would quirk every now and then, and he would glance over at Harry, as though checking he still had Harry’s attention. And though Harry probably wouldn’t be able to recall anything the man was saying - he thought it had something to do with cars - Dean definitely had his attention. He let his eyes roam over Dean, and his thoughts, undoubtedly let loose from drink, took a contemplative turn. It felt inevitable, in a strange, cosmic way. Dean felt inevitable. He was his own force of nature, as though he pulsed energy that Harry was innately gravitated toward.

*rubs hands* I’m excited to finally post again and share this with you! Thank you for your patience, and I do hope you like these.

“What’s this then?”

John looks down at the small box Sherlock has just laid on the arm of his chair, and then up to meet the eyes that refuse to meet his.

“A gift.”  Sherlock turns and walks back into the kitchen.

A gift?

It’s not his birthday, it’s not any sort of anniversary, John’s not done anything particularly brilliant of late, and besides, Sherlock doesn’t go in for all that sort of thing anyway.

A gift.

John picks up the small box, and turns it about in his hands.  Not too heavy, not too light.  Small and rectangular.  Wrapped in a fine paper that looks like something you’d see on the walls in an old Edwardian cottage.  He shakes it.  By the soft sound determines that it contains two, if not three small objects.

“Stop trying to deduce and open it.”  From the kitchen.

John rolls his eyes and grins.  “Pot, kettle, black.”

“Mmm.”

John opens it.  a small cardboard box with a gold seal, and inside two chocolate truffles nestled in berry-coloured tissue paper, and a tiny envelope.

John stares down at them.

Valentine’s Day.  It’s Valentines Day, and—Sherlock Holmes has just given him a box of chocolates.

“This better not be drugged.”

Sherlock makes a small sound of indignation from the kitchen.

“Wouldn’t be the first time, and you know it.”

“I don’t do that anymore, you know that.  We—talked about it.  I’ve stuck to my word.”

John takes one out, bites into it.  It’s chocolate orange, his favourite, and he hums with pleasure.  “Christ these are good.  You want the other one?”

“No.  They’re for you.  Did you open the card?”  

John stares back down at the tiny envelope lying on his thigh.  It contains something heavy.

He tears it open and dumps the item onto his palm.  A key.

He picks it up.  “You sending me on some sort of scavenger hunt?”

“No.”

“What’s this for then?”

Sherlock sighs.  “Check your phone.”

John fishes it out of his pocket.  He has a text from Sherlock.  A link.  He clicks and blinks down at the estate agent’s listing that appears.  It’s quaint, homely, somewhere rural with a nice garden.  Old enough that he assumes its probably Grade 2 listed.

“We got a case?”

“No.  We have a house.”

“We?”

Everything is silent in the kitchen.  John cranes his neck around to peek over the back of his chair.  Sherlock is staring down at the experiment before him on the table.  Just staring.  He takes a deep breath, holds it.  “We aren’t getting any younger, we take less cases.  Rose is gone away to school now, Mrs. Hudson is…”  He swallows.  “I thought perhaps you might consider…”

And suddenly John understands.  Sherlock has bought this house.  He’s bought it for—them.

“You want to retire?”

“Before I—embarrass myself.  Yes.”

“Hey.”  John gets to his feet, and goes to stand beside Sherlock, who presses his shoulder almost imperceptibly against John’s thighs the minute he draws close.  John lays a hand atop his head, rubs his fingers into curls threaded through with silver and shorn closer than they had been when they were both younger.  “We all make mistakes.  That last case was…”

“I’m getting too old for it, John.  You’re getting too old.”

“Oi.”  It’s gentle and half-hearted.  He’s right.  John’s known it for awhile, but not wanted to say, because, truthfully, he had no idea what would happen next.  On the surface, at least, it’s the work that has kept them together all these years.  They’re partners.  It’s what they do.  Without it…  Well, John wasn’t sure he’d still be needed—wanted.

Sherlock looks up a him.  Face a mirror of worry.  “Would you consider it?”

John smiles crookedly.  “What?  Retire to the country with you, like two doddering old gentlemen?”

Sherlock’s eyes drop.  “I told Sally after the last one, that I wouldn’t be doing any more cases for the Met.”

John feels all the oxygen go out of the room.  “You never told me that.”

“I…”  John sees a muscle in Sherlock’s jaw jump.  He swallows tightly and draws in a shaking breath.  “I worried you might…  It’s what we do.  It’s who we’ve always been, I thought…”

“You thought I would go?”

Sherlock swallows again.  “Will you?”  It’s barely a whisper.  He stares down at his hands.  He won’t look up.

John’s chest aches.  He aches for the fact that they have shared a flat for almost two decades, and yet in all that time he’s never managed to say the things that matter.  After all this time, Sherlock still doesn’t know.  He wants John—wants to spend the rest of his life with John, and yet he still doesn’t know that that is exactly what John has wanted almost from the start.  

“You didn’t have to buy us a Grade 2 listed cottage to get me to stay.”

Sherlock’s head pops up.  There are tears in his eyes, and John feels gutted.

“I’m an idiot.”

Sherlock looks confused at the confession.

“I’m an idiot.”  John repeats, reaches a hand out, pulls Sherlock to his feet when he takes it.  “Come here.”

Sherlock walks into his arms.  They do this.  They do this at least.  It’s familiar.  And when John’s arms are around his waist, he looks up at Sherlock’s red-rimmed, and slightly confused eyes, and smiles.  “Of course I’ll stay.  Of course I’ll follow you anywhere you want to go.  It was never just about the work.”

Sherlock’s bottom lip wobbles, and John pulls him closer.  “You’re my best friend, and—I’ve loved you for years.”

The tears spill over.

“Don’t know what I’d do, or where I’d go if you ever wanted me to leave.  So yeah, let’s go be eccentric, grumpy old retirees together, then.  Let’s—do all the things we’ve been too stupid to do up until now—before it’s too late.”  And to illustrate his point, John presses up onto his tiptoes, presses his forehead to Sherlock’s, and when he doesn’t pull away, presses one inch closer still—and kisses him.