Sherlock & Co Flash Bang Event

…But right now, he didn’t recognise the John Watson in front of him. He had, of course, seen Watson drunk plenty of times before – cheeks tinged pink, stuttering more than usual, giggly and very affectionate, warm, soft, endearing – yet here, surrounded by all his old school mates, he was loud, brash, and downright rude. A different person entirely.

Sherlock hated it.

Feeling thoroughly brushed aside by his best friend, Sherlock slipped outside. Another glance told him Watson hadn’t even noticed. It was insulting. Watson could read him like a book, knew his cues and preferences and oddities better than anyone. How thoughtful of him, now, to forcibly drag him to an event only to ignore him the entire time. Resentfully, Sherlock thought he should’ve taken on any one of the boring cases, or anything really, if it meant spending the weekend not pretending to be the corner lamp.

It was a few days ago that Watson received the invite on Facebook from an old classmate to attend an unofficial secondary school reunion party. He was ecstatic, and predictably, had immediately asked Sherlock if he wanted to come with, claiming it had been a while since they had gone on a trip together. Sherlock thought it more logical for Mariana to come instead, but she had said something about going to Imani’s house while winking excessively at Watson behind his back. Sherlock still wasn’t sure what she meant by that.

And so Sherlock tagged along. He had been somewhat convinced that he could maybe enjoy himself as long as he stuck by Watson, but he supposed that was just wishful thinking, seeing as they had only really enjoyed Swindon the last time because they were alone on a case. Sure enough, when a group of men approached Watson, cheering and swinging their arms over his shoulders before handing him pint after pint, Watson forgot about him entirely. After that, other than a brief introduction of who Sherlock was, he had barely spared him another glance.

His fingers twitched for a cigarette. Instinctively, he patted his pockets. Nothing. He was trying to quit, of course, for Watson. Because no matter how convinced Watson was that his logic finally broke through to Sherlock, it really was his personal dislike of cigarette smoke that cemented the decision.

And yet there Watson was, surrounded by smoke and vape in that poorly filtered function hall without a care in the world. Some doctor he was.

“I hope you weren’t trying to sneak a cigarette out here.”

So occupied with his annoyance and fidgeting for something else to do with his fingers, he hadn’t even realised the subject of his thoughts had slipped out until he was right beside him, the smell of booze and smoke suddenly filling his senses. He willed his heart to stop beating so erratically.

“I don’t see you telling off all your mates for smoking,” Sherlock said, his tone a touch too sharp.

Watson chuckled, awkwardly, tilting his head slightly in confusion at Sherlock’s tone. “Yeah well, I don’t care about them. I care about you.”

Sherlock scoffed. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“What was that?” Watson was on alert now, not too drunk that he couldn’t detect Sherlock’s sarcasm, as rare as it was.

“Nothing.”

“No, I definitely heard you saying something.” Watson’s eyebrows furrowed, concerned, taking a step closer to Sherlock. “You good, mate? Was it too loud in there?”

Sherlock took a step back. “It was, indeed, quite loud, no thanks to your contribution.”

Watson’s eyes widened, looking visibly taken aback.

“Okay, what is your problem?”

“I don’t have a problem.”

“No, clearly, you do.” Watson crossed his arms. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You were giving me judgy eyes the entire time I was in there.”

“Judgy eyes?” Sherlock asked. “No it wasn’t judgy eyes, Watson. Frankly, I was just appalled at how far you were willing to go to appeal to your lads. Is being loud and drunk and ignoring your best friend– who came willingly with you, by the way–”

“Ha, willingly–”

“–the new fad? Because I definitely missed that public service announcement. Thank you for informing me, but I’d rather not act outrageously to ingratiate myself with asshole people.” Sherlock took a deep breath.

“You’re looking at me like that again.”

Suddenly, he realised how wound up he was. Rapid breathing, accelerated heart beat, sweaty palms. He could feel his lip curling and face tensed, in an expression of disdain or perhaps simply disappointment.

“Judgy eyes, is it?”

Watson’s eyebrows furrowed. “Actually, no– I got it wrong, it wasn’t judgy eyes. You’re looking at me like you don’t know who I am. But honestly I don’t know who you are, either, so I suppose it’s all fine and dandy.”

It was like a bucket of cold water poured onto Sherlock’s head.

“I–”

Watson huffed, eyes wide and incredulous. “‘Cause I can’t believe that’s what this is about. What, me acting a little bit drunk and changing myself up a bit to better fit in with people? You’ve already so graciously pointed out how my ‘self esteem wanes at the melancholy winds of autumn’ or some bollocks and you’ve definitely seen me drunk before – hell, even worse drunk–”

“Oh, believe me, I know,” Sherlock shot back, suddenly finding his words. “But not like this. Not surrounded by your old classmates, clearly desperate to prove something to fix that fragile ego of yours. Calling people “slobs” and badmouthing and exchanging what frankly should be considered blackmail and drowning yourselves in copious amounts of beer,” Sherlock breathed, “Tell me, was the validation from your peers worth it? Was the compliment-fishing successful? Has enough women fawned all over you to sustain you for the next year?”

Hurt flashed across Watson’s face. Sherlock immediately felt guilty, but before he could amend anything, Watson spoke again.

“Is that what you think of me?”

“…I don’t know what to think.”

Silence fell over them. The longer it grew, the more tense Sherlock felt, and the more he second-guessed himself – not a common thing for him to do, but it wasn’t uncommon when it came to John Watson. Slowly, he was starting to recognise his Watson again – his concern, his consideration, his insecurities. But listening to how he had been behaving this evening… it simply didn’t align with the Watson he knew.

Then again, he knew of how strongly Watson felt. He knew such strong emotions, no matter how much Sherlock admired them, were what led to Watson’s shoddy self-esteem issues and failure of rejection.

Finally, Watson spoke again.

“I don’t know how obvious this is, especially to someone who can deduce someone’s entire life in a single look, but I was not well-liked in school. I was the weird kid who was pitied because I had a dead dad. So when I started secondary school, I overcompensated, tried to act tough, copied what the boys my year were doing – and it worked. People liked whoever that boy was, so I just became that boy. I joined the football team, and suddenly I was one of the lads, people cheering me on and clapping me on the back for a good game. Then I started flirting with every pretty girl I came across because I was starting to look at boys the same way and that couldn’t possibly be right, it didn’t fit with who I should be.”

Sherlock felt that initial pang of guilt bury itself deeper in him.

“Don’t you know what that’s like, Sherlock? To feel like you have to change yourself in order to meet the expectations people have of you? To behave a certain way to fit the norms around you?" John stared him deep in the eyes. "Because I think you do.”

Sherlock did know. Of course he did. The way he masked throughout school before he even knew what masking was, all while playing constant catch-up to golden-child Mycroft under the impossible standards of their parents.

He understood John even more than he thought.

Sherlock ducked his head in shame. “I’m sorry, John. I shouldn’t have attacked you like that. I should’ve known – well, I did know, though not to that extent, but still, I shouldn’t have–”

John raised a hand to cut off his rambled apologies, shaking his head. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right, I’ve been acting like a dick.”

“I didn’t say–”

“–You didn’t, but I was.” Despite himself, John huffed out a laugh, before it turned into a sigh. “Besides, I shouldn’t have dragged you along to something you clearly wouldn’t enjoy. To be honest, I didn’t want to come here anyway. But I saw the invite and… I dunno. It was like a switch had turned on, like I was back in school and needed to prove myself again. And so I thought it would be more bearable if I at least had you with me. Then, of course, I actually did get here, and actually being surrounded by the people who only saw me as one thing throughout school, I just…”

“Regressed back into that persona?” Sherlock suggested. John nodded, sighing again.

“I couldn’t just be myself, could I? Why would they like a 36-year-old blown-up podcaster barely scraping by?”

Sherlock bit back a sigh of his own. His podcaster really was silly, wasn’t he? “Who cares what these strangers you knew twenty years ago think?” Sherlock gestured to the people partying inside, oblivious to everything – to all the greatness the real John Watson truly possessed. “Mariana likes that podcaster. Archie likes that podcaster. Stamford and Nadia like that podcaster.” He took a step forward. He was close enough now that John had to tilt his head back to look him fully in the eyes, as if searching them for lies. Sherlock knew John would merely find nothing but the truth he had denied himself for so long. “I like that podcaster.”

John’s eyes widened, complicated emotions swirling in them. Then he smiled sadly. "But see, Sherlock, that's just it. Like. And I appreciate it, of course, but... despite that persona being, quite frankly, a bit of a dick, sometimes it's that persona that people find attractive, you know? And yeah, it's been a while since I've dated seriously, but I like to think I'm still someone worth lo-" he paused, "worthy of romance. Sorry for being a hopeless romantic, I just-"

"More-than-like."

John blinked. "Huh?"

Sherlock swallowed. This was it. "I... more-than-like you."

John was still staring at him like he couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What- you?"

Sherlock let out a small huff of amusement. “Well, I doubt Stamford and Nadia more-than-like you, seeing as they’re married and all. And Mariana and Archie definitely don’t feel that way towards you either.”

“Sherlock…” John sighed, voice quiet and genuinely pleading with him. For him to be honest. And there it was – his inherent insecurity. And as much as Sherlock loved John for who he was, low self-esteem and all, he truly wished John could see just how deep that love ran.

“Haven’t you already observed, John?” He reached out for John’s hands, which he took on instinct. “Can’t you understand? You don’t need to fake yourself to prove anything to anyone.” Sherlock raised one of John’s hands to his lips – not exactly kissing it, but murmuring his words into his knuckles as if to etch them into John for him to understand. John’s breath hitched, but he made no effort to withdraw his hand. “Not when I need you, the real you: the man who unwittingly brought meaning back into my life when he entered that lab, the man who knows my habits like he knows his own, the man who sees all my flaws and loves me for it anyway.”

John chuckled in disbelief, shaking his head, running the hand not currently pressed against Sherlock’s lips down his face. “God. God, Sherlock. I really have been stupid tonight, haven’t I?”

“Foolish, maybe,” Sherlock said, lips upturning slightly. “Silly, certainly. But not stupid, John. Never.”

“I’m glad you’re here, then.” John shifted their hands so their fingers were now intertwined, falling to swing idly between them. Despite the cold John’s hand felt warm and rough. Sherlock wouldn’t have it any other way. “To stop me from being foolish and silly.”

Sherlock squeezed his hand. “As long as you’re also there to do the same for me.”

John squeezed back, smiling. “Always.”

Another silence fell over them, this time marginally more comfortable.

“Let’s go home.”

Sherlock blinked at John’s sudden declaration. “Back to Carol’s house? Now? Don’t you want to say goodbye to your friends?”

John rolled his eyes, affectionately. “You know as well as I do they’re not my friends. I don’t even remember half their names. But no – I meant back to Baker Street.”

Oh, of course. Not John’s childhood home, in a town he had outgrown years ago, with faces he barely recognised. Their home. Their bubble of comfort and routine, but also excitement and Mariana and Archie and love; so, so much love.

Sherlock nodded, smile widening. “Home it is.”

Guilt chewed holes into his stomach. He was so sick-- sick missing home and missing them and wanting oh-so desperately to run back into 221B as fast as he could. To dry tear-stained cheeks and hold all the love in the world as close to his chest as possible. John would be so warm. Mariana would still smell like coconut oil.

Good god, it had only been a couple months, yet the detective was already losing his mind.

Mycroft brought him tea and freshly baked biscuits that afternoon. They didn't discuss it.

Still, it felt just as comforting as any of his podcaster's hugs.

To die without dying, one must give up their life for a long period of time. For Sherlock Holmes, it was necessary to sacrifice himself for 2 whole years. The spider was long gone, but its web still remains-- ensnaring the innocents unfortunate enough to fly into its path. Innocents that Sherlock vowed to protect.

But to stay alive without a life of your own is quite a task on its own-- from the moment he'd escaped the falls it'd been a cold, heartless existence which the detective trekked through, all violently fixated on one point, each step a careful calculation. He couldn't allow himself to feel, to worry, to wonder-- to be weak in a situation requiring as much care as this- it couldn't happen. It would ruin him, and everything he loved.

There were very few moments when his heart and mind fell away from the clinical precision of the task at hand. Very few.

But not none.

The further he worked from London, from his heart and soul, the easier it was to focus. The real trouble returned when it came time to chase those final strands down-- and those fraying ends laid deep within central London. Central London, where his heart rests in mourning.

He wasn't trying to get distracted. Really, he wasn't!

It was a coincidence-- pure bad luck, poor timing- then again, it made sense. John never ran a strict schedule, but Archie did.

Sherlock nearly jumped when he heard the sudden barking and racket of a dog. It's supposed to be normal in parks, but without his ear defenders, the detective was always a little on edge. Not like it mattered how calmly he reacted to the barking.

"Woooah-- hold on, mate, come back, boy- HEY!"

A bulldog immediately barreled straight into his legs, sending everything in his arms flying in a frankly comedic display. His hat caught wind and flew off, the books and files he'd kept tucked between their pages scattered like confetti, and Sherlock, dressed in a loose skirt and long sleeved sweater, fell flat on his ass.

Before he could even begin to recover, the detective found himself being smothered in the sloppiest, grossest dog kisses imaginable. He couldn't help but laugh, somehow endeared to this stranger immediately. All dogs give kisses the same, really, but something just felt so--

"Wh-- Archie!"

Oh, God. Sherlock was doomed.

And there was John Watson.

There he was. His heart.

The man yanked Archie up off of Sherlock, holding the wriggling, excited little lump of a dog like a misbehaving child. "Jesus, Mate, how did you even do that?" Archie had shucked his entire leash in his excitement, apparently, whining as John hooked it back into his collar.

Sherlock was disguised-- well disguised, too-- but Archie obviously knew it was him. He knew and he was so happy. Even bundled in John's arms his tail was beating a zippy rhythm against his owner's stomach.

And all he could do was stare. Stare and stare up at John Watson.

And John looked back. Looked and looked like he didn't know, like he couldn't tell, through some divine or instinctive source, that it was Sherlock. It hurt in the moment, to be looked at like that-- no love, just the trained patterns of social conventions and politeness. Not his John, not his podcaster, his fool, his light- Just... John.

A stranger.

"Bloody hell-- I'm so sorry! He's, ah, normally really not that excitable, I don't know what got into 'im--" John reached down and began to collect the books and papers to the best of his ability, still holding Archie like a grunting, wiggling purse.

Sherlock blinked, shaking his head to both clear his mind and reassure John. The Librarian's voice was much softer than his own, taking a more feminine twist with a sweeter cadence. Reserved and unassuming.

"No, no, it's alright, W-- Sir," He was so fucked. His cover is blown-- regardless of whether or not John recognizes him, he can't keep his composure, not like this. Not when John was right at his side, when he could tell he'd lost weight, suffered sleepless nights, and yet he was still smiling for a stranger. An empty, shielded smile, but a smile nonetheless.

"You sure? He ran at you crazy fast-- here, let me help you up," And he offered his hand, letting Archie finally settle on the ground again. The bulldog was clearly pouting, but he watched with wide, wet eyes, panting and shivering with delight. Sickeningly happy.

Sherlock tried to remain calm as he took John's warm, broad hand in his. Fireworks went off in the back of his mind, sizzling underneath his skin as John Watson, his John Watson, pulled a stranger up off the ground, steadying her as she adjusted to standing on two wobbling legs.

"Easy now-- You alright? No pain, no injuries?"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, willing the cooler air to calm his racing heart. "All well, just-- a little disheveled. Thank you, Sir."

"Again, really sorry about this, mate-- He's not like that all the ti-- Wh- see Archie, that's how you greet somebody!" The dog poddled around at Sherlock's feet, nuzzling his ankles and reaching up to lick his calves. He always said hello to Sherlock like that.

He laughed, feigning amusement when it was really pure shock. "He must've got excited." Obviously, why would you say that?

"Still no good reason to be rude, Archie-boy. Yeah, you'd best be sorry." Archie whimpered just a little, looking up at Sherlock. He wants to be pet. He wants to get picked up. He misses Sherlock.

A puff of air masquerading as laughter is all that escapes him. "Don't worry, I forgive you, buddy." He reached down and scratched the top of Archie's head. The bulldog melted into the touch, and Sherlock immediately felt very sick.

"I, ah, ought to be going now, if I could..."

"Oh-- yeah, yeah, of course, sorry--" John offered the books, and their fingers brushed together when he took them back. His stomach twisted further, an even tighter knot than before.

"Cmon, boy, bye bye now." The doctor tugged Archie gently, but the bulldog barely moved an inch. Why isn't Sherlock coming with? Why aren't they walking together again?

'I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry.'

"Have a good night."

"Yeah, you too, mate-- have a good one! Come on, boy..."

Sherlock turned on his heel and fled.

Focus, Holmes, you have to stay focused.

John's hand was so warm in his. He looked so tired. So, so tired and lost.

You'll never see him again, you'll lose him forever if you go astray.

He's so much skinnier too. If John is this unwell, how is Mariana? Is she still in London at all?

You must stay focused, Holmes. You can't get distracted.

Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks. He closed his eyes and breathed in, filling his lungs with the fresh city air. And when he breathed out again, he dissolved.

Sherlock Holmes died in Switzerland.

So in his place, a librarian walks down the street.

Every listener held onto the hope that Sherlock would figure out how to clear John’s name. Sherlock & co wouldn’t have existed without their favorite podcaster after all. 

“Sherlock! John’s counting on us right now! Ay dios mio..”  “Mrs Hudson I am doing all that I can despite the circumstances.”

Archie’s whines, whimpers, and cries filled the apartment. He missed John, just as much as Sherlock, and Mariana did. What happened, you may ask? Let's start from the beginning. 

Everyone knows, nothing ever goes as planned. 

The agency had taken a case where a woman had gone missing. Her husband contacted the agency when she seemingly disappeared. Sherlock very nearly dismissed the case, if it weren’t for John stepping in to convince Sherlock to take it on. 

Mariana unfortunately couldn’t join them in the case, she had some business of her own to deal with. She would call them every now, and again to check on them.

John’s usually cheery voice spoke up into the microphone. “Hello listeners! It’s your favorite podcaster speaking! And next to me is our favorite detective bloke.” 

The low, slightly tired sounding voice of Sherlock filled the listener’s ears. “Hello listeners.”

“We are currently in a very fancy private vehicle because a rather rich man has hired us to investigate a disappearance! Zach I think is his name?” John looked over at Sherlock for confirmation.

“It’s Zachary, Zachary Longhorn. Mr Longhorn has invited us to his estate to investigate his wife’s disappearance. I was..reluctant to take this case, the money would be helpful, yes but with the details given to me it sounded like Mr. Longhorn’s wife had just simply.. run away.” 

John had a skeptical look on his face. “You think she ran away? She had a good life, a lovely husband, loads of money, why would she run from that?” 

“Perhaps she had an affair? Or maybe she had grown tired of him? There are many logical, or illogical things that may have caused her to want to leave.” 

“An affair? Have you seen how in love they are??” He was questioning Sherlock’s thinking. Although, his thinking sometimes made little to no sense to him. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to give John a smartass sounding response when the driver spoke up from the front. “Alright lads, we’ve arrived, Mr Longhorn will be waiting for you in the foyer.” 

Sherlock quickly undid his seatbelt, and got out of the car, John following shortly behind him. They both looked up at the large estate. It sported large brick walls, large grass fields, slate tiled roofs, and many windows. 

“Wow..bloody hell..” John was awestruck by the view he had of the estate. Sherlock spoke up after a moment. “A very lovely estate indeed..time to go meet the owner.” 

“Hello listeners, we are currently walking up to the estate of Mr Zachary Longhorn.” You could hear footsteps echoing as they made their way inside. Zachary was waiting in the doorway for them. 

“Ah! Gents! Glad you made it, would you like some tea?” He gestured for them to follow him into the living room. He picked up a fresh cup of tea from the table, and held it out to John. 

John followed behind Zachary as they walked into the living room, it was quite cozy with a fireplace in the middle. “I’d love some thank you.” He happily took the cup,taking a careful sip of the hot liquid in his cup. It was a very good cup of tea. “mm this is good stuff.”

Zachary turned to Sherlock, and held up a cup for him with a warm welcoming smile. “Sherlock?”

Sherlock held out a reluctant hand. “I’m very much alright, thank you for the offer Mr Longhorn.” 

Zachary let out a slight chuckle, putting the cup down on the table. “Your loss I suppose, and call me Zachary, please. Thank you two for coming out here, I hope my driver made the ride tolerable?”

“The ride was very smooth-” “When did you find out Maria was missing?”

Zachary tensed up at the sudden question from Sherlock. He cleared his throat, and sat down in one of the seats, gesturing for the two to join him on the couch. John sat down with Sherlock on the couch, preparing himself for whatever else Sherlock might ask Zachary. 

“She…had left for work yesterday, I had prepared a dinner for us to enjoy when she got back as she usually got home quite late...but she never came home.” Sherlock interlaced his fingers in his lap, he unintentionally started shaking his leg as he took in what Zachary had said to him. 

“She works in an office does she not?” He rubbed his chin with his thumbs as he thought about the facts he had started to collect. 

“H-How do you know that exactly-“ “My job Mr. Longhorn, is to know what others do not.” He leaned his chin against his fingers, his hands clasped together, and his eyes closed.

Zachary shuffled in his chair. “My wife works in an office, yes, she’s a secretary.” Sherlock soon opened his eyes, looking over at Zachary. 

“You’re having an affair.” He said it very bluntly, catching Zachary, and John off guard. Zachary was taken aback by the sudden accusation, he got very defensive, and angry at Sherlock. 

“E-E-Excuse me?! How dare you accuse me of such a thing! I was very loyal to my wife, and I miss her very very much.” He started to tear up.

“Sherlock! You don’t just accuse people of affairs, what- what proof do you even have?!” John rubbed his temples in annoyance. 

“Oh I don’t have proof, but I do have deductions. I’m not accusing you Mr. Longhorn, I’m simply stating the obvious. You’re rubbing your wrist, there’s an odd shaped tan line on it, almost as if you’ve been wearing a watch for a long time. You only ever take it off for bed I’m assuming so why is it missing? Maybe because you forgot it when you left your mistress’ apartment.”

Zachary opened his lips to speak, but he couldn’t get a word out as Sherlock continued.

“Your shirt collar is flipped the wrong way on one side, as if you were getting dressed in a hurry.” Sherlock gave him a judgmental look.

“Mr. Longhorn your wife has gone missing, and you’ve decided to fool around with another woman? Or maybe you had your wife killed so you could be with that woman instead.”

Zachary was now very angry, he stood up, clearly outraged with what Sherlock was implying. “How dare you! It was a one time thing, and even then I respected Maria! I’d never lay a finger on her!”

“Sit down Mr. Longhorn-“ Zachary fixed his collar, glaring at Sherlock while taking a deep breath. “I need- I need to get some fresh air.” He stormed off towards the foyer, the sound of the front doors shutting, and opening echoed in the mostly empty estate. 

John sighed, he got up to follow behind him. “Gods sake Sherlock..I’ll go check on him.” He hadn’t realized he had left the microphone on the table before he left. 

John made his way through the foyer, he pushed the front door open, and stepped outside. He looked around as he stepped onto the front steps, the smell of fresh cut grass filled his nose. “Mr. Longhorn?” He started walking to find him, he wasn’t sure where he had gone when suddenly he felt this sharp pain in the back of his head, and before John knew it, everything had gone black. 

When John opened his eyes, he had no idea how long he had been out. There was one thing he was aware of, however, the smell of blood. He looked down at his hands, there was so, so, so much blood. 

“W-What the hell-“ He sat up, pain seared through his head. His eyes widened as they landed on something, or rather someone in front of him. It was Zachary.

Blood on my shirt, rose in my hand.

There was a pool of blood around him, a large kitchen knife stuck out of his chest. Zachary’s eyes were open still, they held fear in them. Then, he heard footsteps coming towards him. That low familiar voice filled his ears “Watson?” 

You’re lookin’ at me like you don’t know who I am.

John turned to look at the detective, his hands trembling, and cold from the blood that was on them. “S-Sherlock I- I didn’t do this I- don’t know what happened, please you need to believe me-“

Blood on my shirt, heart in my hand. Still beating.

“Watson I-“ There was a look in Sherlock’s eyes, a look of sadness, fear, and uncertainty. He didn’t know what to believe at that moment. For a split second he didn’t see his best friend, and podcaster. What he saw was a monster.

John winced slightly. “No, ‘course not. I wouldn’t expect you to come her for fun. Those things working at all?” He gestured to the ear defenders that took the place of Sherlock’s usual set for this investigation. They were a shimmering silver-blue and had great black bat-like wings attached to the earmuffs.

“About as much as these.” Sherlock tugged irritatedly at the dark glasses shading his eyes. They were a shiny gold, with shutters crossing them like blinds. John couldn’t resist and tugged on the gold chain hanging from them.

“Stop that!” Sherlock pushed John’s hand away and then painstakingly pulled the opposing chain which opened the shutters back up again. He muttered something about the ridiculous nature of fashion.

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” said John. He moved closer to his best friend and ran a finger down the line of his neck that the voluminous leather cape he was wearing left bare aside from a series of intricately wrought golden pendants and chains. “I’d have to say that the agent who hired us has done the world of Metal a favor by gracing us all with this particular view of you.”

Sherlock blushed, though he did not move away from John’s caress, or his compliment. But he responded with, “Not the time, Watson,” with what he gamely tried to make a gruffly professional tone of voice.

John wasn’t having it, however. He slipped his hand beneath the massive specs on Sherlock’s face and cupped his cheek, saying, “Won’t Mariana be disappointed to miss out. Of all the nights to turn down working on a case due to some prior engagement—”

“Watson, watch out!”

Sherlock knocked John down onto the plush carpeting. Over their heads a velvet-clad body swept through the air, leaving a trail of glittering black feathers in its wake.

The crowd began chanting. They shouted out two letters, over and over again. “V-D! V-D!”

“Watson, why is it that the audience is crying out about sexually transmitted diseases?”

“Disease—? Oh, you berk, that’s for the band: Velvet Dread.”

On stage a glittering ball was dropping slowly from the ceiling. An array of purple lights focused on the giant mirrored globe and the entire venue began shimmering in lavender and violet. Hands rose in the audience holding mirrors and the whole of the arena turned into a scintillating field of light.

John shook his head, dazzled. “Stunning…”

The lights shifted once more. All went dark, except for a set of figures standing on the stage, now luminescent. The sound of a bagpipe’s drone began, followed by the whine of electric guitars.

“There’s the cue, Watson. Follow me.”

Sherlock shot off through the crowd, his cape flying out behind him, winged helm fluttering like a demon.

John came after, making apologies as he went. “Oof, sorry, mate. No harm meant. Oh, sorry, I’m sure that won’t bruise too much…”

They made it close to the stage as the percussionist and her array of crystal chimes rolled into place and the lead singer began the haunting call of a lost love amongst the moors. Sherlock paused momentarily as a pair of fiddlers took up the melody, but then he pushed on, John in his wake.

They came upon a pair of security staff that towered over even Sherlock. The one on the left straightened out the white glove he wore and the other adjusted the green carnation in his leather tuxedo’s lapel.

“Um, Sherlock. What exactly are we supposed to do here?”

Sherlock ignored John, and pulled out one of the thick chains hanging around his neck. A plain metal clip at its base was clamped onto a laminated backstage pass. The gargantua with the flower waved him on. Watson tried to follow but was held back by the behemoth wearing the gloves.

“Sherlock, um. Is there one of those with my name on it?”

“Oh, he’s with me.” 

The guard let John follow.

“Thanks for letting me tag along.”

“Of course, Watson. Wouldn’t want to do this without my dear Podcaster.”

“And what exactly is this? Does this have something to do with that very public threat on the lead singer of Velvet Dread’s life?”

“Very perceptive. We have been hired to protect her. We’re heading now to the green room. Each band’s occupation is carefully timed so that the festival can proceed without causing any hold ups for each of the groups. My sources tell me of a last minute change—”

“You mean Wiggins and his mates, the friendly ticket scalpers?”

“—Yes, precisely. Since the unlicensed reselling of concert tickets at an outrageous profit has been outlawed online, in person sales have skyrocketed. It’s quite the boon for those who have the right connections. But as I was saying, they have inside information about the lineup and let me know that the order of performances has been changed. Steel Inferno is now going to follow Velvet Dread.”

“That’s a very bad idea. I’m not the most up on symphonic metal, but even I know that the lead singers of those two bands have had a prank fest that’s turned into a blood feud. Literally.”

“It does tend to get the public’s attention when a celebrity has a screaming fit on the London Eye.”

“I’ll never understand how exactly that gal was able to fill the viewing capsule with fake blood. She must have had help from someone who worked there.”

“Possibly.”

“Wait, you know how she did it, don’t you? Don’t just shrug noncommittally. You know how one of the most notorious gags in the UK was perpetrated and you didn’t tell me? What is the point of dating the world’s only consulting detective if not to be brought in on this kind of thing?”

“Dating? Living together intimately for two years counts as dating in your world, does it? Well, I’m glad to learn that now, before…”

“Oh, you know what I mean. What should I say instead, shagging? Getting over? Snogging with intent? But wait, you said before. Before what?”

“That would be telling, Watson. Privileged information.”

“Privilege? I’m your bloody partner. In every sense of the word! How can you not tell me?”

“Shush, John. We’re almost there.”

“Where?!”

“Quiet,” Sherlock hissed as they reached the door to the green room.

John mouthed, “Make me!”

“Very well,” Sherlock breathed quietly. Then he pulled John into his arms, capturing John’s mouth with his—mid-grimace—calmly removing John’s finger from the corner of his own mouth as he’d made a rude face at his partner.

Sherlock’s hand found its way into the stiff crown of hair on John’s head as John melted in his arms, following the grain of the short fibers as they stuck up straight into the air with the help of far too much product, and pulled John’s foot up and around his thigh. Sherlock smiled into the kiss as he remembered John exhorting him to help find boots with a heel higher, higher, and “Even higher, mate!”  all the while denying that it was to make him “finally” taller than Sherlock himself.

How could he complain when the midnight blue platform shoes they finally settled on gave John a bounce to his step that made the short, solid, faithful man somehow even more magnetic to Sherlock’s eye and spirit?

“Ready now, John?”

“Anything you want, handsome… Wait! Ready for what?”

But Sherlock was already pushing open the door, behind which they found a balding man in a brown paisley shirt, holding an elegantly coiffed woman wearing a spun-sugar top hat and shredded morning coat at gun-point.

“Now, Watson!”

And John was leaping across a couch to tackle the aging gunman. Well, one could call it leaping, but it was a bit more like tripping. And by tackling, one would have to say it was a bit more like falling sideways. But the effect was the same, and John gripped the fellow by his too-long lapels as Sherlock pulled the gun out of his hand, holding it with a corner of his cape.

“What is going on here?” said a familiar voice. A leather-clad form made itself known where they were sitting in an inflatable neon-pink rocking chair. John and Sherlock stared.

"You're looking at me like you don't know who I am.”

Mariana’s hair was swept upwards, her head lined with tight fishtail braids that pulled her lovely locks into a ridge running the length of her crown and down her back. Highlighted in red hot hues, her hair picked up the color of the flaming contacts she wore and contrasted with the blood red spiked jacket she wore like a second skin.

“Mari!” cried John. “What are you doing here?”

“Me? I’m enjoying the backstage pass my high school sweetie gave me for old time’s sake. What are you doing on top of that man? And what are you two knuckleheads doing here?”

“Case,” said Sherlock.

“Erm, following him,” said John.

“Uh, ahem. If you’re done here I’d like to move on,” said the man underneath John’s bum.

“Not going anywhere. ”

Sherlock had recovered from the surprise of seeing Mariana, and was helping the be-hatted woman back to her tottering feet. 

“Thank you! You’re even better than I’ve heard.” She looked at where John sat on the ground. “And willing to go above and beyond for a client.”

“Client! But aren’t you the lead singer for Steel Inferno?”

The woman in the hat blushed. But then hearing the band start a song on the stage, and she panicked. 

“Sherlock, can you explain this? I’ve got to get out there with my girl.” 

At Sherlock’s nod, she ran up the steps and out the door marked “Stage.” Before the door closed, they could see her grab a microphone and join the lead singer of Velvet Dread. They saw dazzling smiles light on both the women’s faces before the door shut once more. 

John made himself more comfortable on the would-be-murderer’s back. 

“Happy to perform. Though, erm, Sherlock. What exactly did this bloke do?

“This vile fellow is Velvet Dread’s manager,” said Sherlock. “That feud you mentioned, John, between Velvet Dread and Steel Inferno has been upping the value of the band.”

I’ve heard that,” said Mariana. “They fill venues and album sales have even spiked. I never could have gotten in without Patty’s VIP pass.” She flashed her lanyard.  

“But it was all about to come to an end,” Sherlock continued “His client wanted to come clean with the public about the actual romantic nature of the two lead singers’ relationship.”

The manager struggled against John and said, “We had everything perfect. They just didn’t understand how much that would have cost me!” 

“I’d say you valued his percentage of the money they were bringing in for you a bit too much. Above human lives even.”

“Umph. So, what did he try to do?” asked John, taking the manager’s arm and maneuvering him into a hold that kept him still. 

“Nice move, John!” said Mariana.

John preened. “I haven’t forgotten everything yet, from my soldiering days.”   

Sherlock gave John a possessive glance that had John blushing a bit, then continued with his account. 

“What did he do? He took his management duties a step too far. He was going to trick the two lovers into meeting, murder them both and make it look like a terrible argument gone wrong. Since everyone thought they were enemies, not dearest of partners, they would assume it was a natural though tragic escalation of their public fight.” 

As he said this, Sherlock emptied the gun of its ammunition and placed them in an evidence bag. He then gave a satisfied nod and held out a hand gallantly to Mariana. 

She said, “And the manager would do well, since bands so often spike in popularity when the lead dies. What a sad world we live in.  But well done, detective.” She bowed over his hand and turned it over to kiss the palm, smiling as Sherlock was now the one who blushed.

The police soon joined them. After turning the manager over to their custody, hugs were exchanged all around. John got some help changing out of his platforms into some much more comfortable crocs which Sherlock had thought to bring. 

Together they watched the two supposed enemies light the stage on fire with the magnetic chemistry of their true feelings revealed for the first time. The chaos in the auditorium kicked up a thousand-fold as the lead singers kissed, and the light techs improvised a strobing whirlwind as the bands of Velvet Dread and Steel Inferno joined forces on stage.

“This alright now, mate?” John asked, giving Sherlock a concerned glance. Knowing the light, the sound, the crowd and everything could be a lot too much for the man.

“Are you okay, Sherls?” asked Mariana.

And in the midst of that maelstrom, the hands of Sherlock’s two best friends, flatmates and beloved lovers slipped around his slender waist. He was enveloped in warmth, tenderness and love, freely and fully given.

The detective pulled down the shutters on his glasses, pulled the bat ears more tightly over his ears, then tucked his hands into their back pockets. One to each, snug and secure. 

He gave a happy sigh.

“Absolutely blissful.” 

The music blared on. The crowd raved and the theatre shook. And Sherlock’s beloveds stayed close by his side.

He hadn’t heard anything over that roaring sound. As he had approached the bend that took him to the bellows of Reichenbach, Mariana’s voice had faded into the background, the sound of rushing water taking its place. It was bigger than it was yesterday. They’d all seen it at a distance, seemingly nothing impressive from their place on the other side of the waterfall. Sherlock dragged them up a hiking path on the other side, wanting to scope out the scene. As beautiful as the views were, looking out across the valley and mountains on the other side, traditional Swiss houses on their respective plots of land sitting politely amongst wandering sheep, John couldn’t help but complain. All in good fun, of course, but it was true that the steep hills and uneven stones had made the climb difficult.

That didn’t matter to him now. The moment he’d reached town, realized no one was in danger, realized he’d been tricked, he turned and sprinted from the hotel without a word. Mariana was hot on his tail, all the more concerned by his terrified face and quick entry followed by his immediate exit. He’d barely managed to get any words out as they both ran across town.

Sherlock. Professor Moriarty. Waterfall. Danger.

John had just been up there, he knew the way. And despite being sore from having climbed it earlier that day, and having hiked the other side the day previous, he barely noticed the ache in his legs and chest. Adrenaline surged through his body, tunnel vision taking over. Only one car passed while he and Mariana sprinted towards the bottom of the mountain that would take them to Reichenbach—they didn’t even slow down.

From road, to mud, to rock, to road, to rock, to road, to mud, more mud—

John slipped more than once, but he never felt any pain when he hit the ground. All he could think of was getting to Sherlock before the professor did. He didn’t think he would beat Mariana to the top. John had spent plenty of time putting himself down (in jest, he always told himself, but deep down he knew that wasn’t entirely true) for the muscle he’d lost since being injured in Ukraine. For the weight he’d gained since settling into Baker Street. Mariana was thinner, taller, but ultimately not the one who had spent the last two and a half years on the ground doing the work to chase down criminals across London with Sherlock Holmes.

He rounded the corner, putting all of his strength into his legs. The waterfall had loomed over him when he stood at the bottom, but around the bend, all was quiet. He needed to keep going, he was close, he just had to make it up to the top. Between the rain from earlier and the cast-off from the waterfall, the stone path was more of a hinderance than a help. Halfway up the final hill, John’s foot caught a puddle and he went crashing down. He barely felt a thing, scrambling right back up onto his feet.

It had rained all night and all morning. Not the kind of rain that settled over London, a brief pour before returning to a consistent drizzle. No, this had been a proper spring storm. All through the night, rain had pounded the roof of their hotel, the old building rattling through thunder, and lightning shining through the thin curtains. It kept waking everyone up, but John suspected Sherlock didn’t sleep at all. The whole morning he figured it was because they were in an unfamiliar environment—Sherlock was uncomfortable with the creaking bed, the loud storm, their brand-new surroundings. But John knew better now. It was because he knew. He knew.

Sherlock knew this would happen.

Of course he fucking knew.

And he kept John out of the loop.

John blinked, only just beginning to realize how badly he was trembling. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there, just past the fork in the path that led to the precipice beside Reichenbach. How long he stared at the scene. A smashed microphone scattered along the muddy, stoney path. The mangled fence. No Sherlock to be seen. Not even Professor Moriarty. He didn’t realize he was standing directly under a runoff until his hair began to droop down in front of his eyes, soaking wet.

“John?” Not Sherlock’s voice. Mariana’s.

John couldn’t move. Her voice barely pierced through the sound of the waterfall. Was it even Mariana’s? For a moment it sounded like Sherlock’s. Then it sounded like Mary’s.

Oh god…

No, that wasn’t him, that was…He slowly found the power to turn. Mariana was a bit damp, the waterfall’s spray not sparing her, her deep red curls stuck to her face through a combined effort of sweat and water. Her glasses fogged up with every pant. Then John heard her again. “Oh god…no. No, no, no, oh my god. Oh god, oh god—”

The local police pulled Moriarty’s body out of the river downstream late that night.

There was no sign of Sherlock.

John and Mariana kept holding out hope for something. Anything at all. Footsteps leading away from that fateful ledge near the waterfall? There was a set of two footprints, but they were most certainly from an earlier couple hiking up past Reichenbach. Backpackers headed on to Rosenlaui. Not Sherlock.

Undeterred by everyone’s warnings (including the large, obvious sign), John had made his way down towards the bellows, desperate to find something. Anything. Perhaps if there was nothing there, it was evidence Sherlock hadn’t fallen at all. Maybe he’d really gotten away, covered his tracks like he would know how to do. The steep drop-off to his left didn’t even occur to him as a danger. One wrong move, one more slip, and he’d be dealing with a hell of a landing.

He made it down in one piece.

The water was dark and murky, impossible to see through with the water falling at a rate unlike anyone had seen in months. The storm had done a number on filling the river above. Despite his desperation, John knew better than to dive right into the water himself. But he still waded up to his calves, leaning over to drag his hands along the mud beneath, searching for—

Searching for what, exactly?

Can’t prove a negative. Even if he didn’t find anything, it didn’t mean Sherlock didn’t go over the ledge. Didn’t fall through that tiny, useless chain-link fence.

Regardless of how hard anyone hoped—prayed, even—John still found a shoe.

Mariana had scolded the both of them for not packing proper hiking boots, only boarding the plane with the trainers they had on. John had paid for it by slipping on his way back up to Reichenbach. Back to Sherlock.

Falling cost him time. Precious time he evidently couldn’t spare. But all John ended up with on his falls was scrapes on his hands and mud down his front. Sherlock’s fall had resulted in something far, far worse.

John and Mariana didn’t get back to the hotel until long after it had gone dark. They barely spoke a word between them as they trekked back to their small, dinky hotel in the center of town. No officers had offered to give them a ride. They all spoke quite good English, used to all sorts of international backpackers getting lost and stuck in various places. But it wasn’t a language barrier that had caused difficulties, it was their unwillingness to let John and Mariana help in any meaningful way. It didn’t matter if they were a private detective agency, British civilians had no jurisdiction in a missing person’s investigation in small-town Switzerland. Even if said missing person was the detective part of their detective agency.

The officers chatted amongst themselves as John and Mariana finally decided to slip away. John didn’t bother asking Mariana to translate. He knew “Brienz” was a nearby town at the end of the river, having thoroughly studied the maps of the region Sherlock shoved in his direction. He knew “Interlaken” was the next biggest city after that, at the other end of the lake the river fed into.

They weren’t searching for a missing person. They were searching for a body.

Neither of them had any complaints about damp clothes, or bloodied hands, or muddied trousers as they sat next to each other on John’s hotel bed. Mariana pressed herself tightly into his side, shivering as a chill set in. The silence was only broken up by an occasional sniffle from her. John just stared down at his shoes, still tied and caked in mud. Time moved oddly. He wasn’t sure when his vision had gone blurry.

John cleared his throat. “I’m…going to shower.” He barely managed to get the words past his cracked lips. Mariana looked over at him as he moved to stand.

She kept a steady hand on his arm, standing up with him. “John—”

“I need a shower,” he said, voice clipped, still not meeting her eyes. Mariana moved to stand in front of him. It took several moments, but he eventually raised his head.

She squeezed his arm as soon as his eyes met hers. “I’ll be right here.” He nodded. Of course she would. Switzerland was too expensive for them to afford anything nice. They’d opted for one of the cheapest rooms they could find that didn’t have a bathroom shared with the whole floor, meaning all three of them had been crammed together in a twin-sized bed each, all in the same room.

Slowly, he managed to peel himself away and retrieve the pajamas he’d thrown haphazardly onto his hotel bed that morning. It felt like ages ago now. Years. Like his entire memory was being replaced by his time spent wading through riverbeds looking for any proof his best friend had survived tumbling down a waterfall.

John wanted to make it quick, get back to Mariana before she felt the truth of the matter set in—before she started to really feel alone. But the warmth of the water beckoned him to stay. He got to work, scrubbing himself down as best he could. He had to get rid of the dirt beneath his fingernails. He had to wipe away the dried blood from his palms. The memories had to go. John didn’t dare let a single drop from that accursed waterfall remain on his skin. He was burning red all over as he scraped the cloth violently over his skin and steam filled the room, threatening to suffocate him.

But just as he rid himself of any evidence, a new thought entered his mind. He’d just erased all the last bits of Sherlock off of him. The mud from the path he’d walked on, the water from the river he’d drowned in.

John felt sick. Properly sick, he felt like—

He leapt out of the shower, barely kneeling in front of the toilet before throwing up what little he’d actually eaten that day.

There came a pounding on the door. “John?” Mariana’s muffled voice sounded from behind it.

John wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, heart pounding and chest heaving. “F-Fine! I’m fine, Mariana.”

“John, let me—” The doorknob jiggled.

“Unless you wanna see me naked, you don’t want to do that, Mariana.” The jiggling stopped. “I-I’m fine…” His voice trailed off, probably barely audible behind the door and over the sound of the shower. “Just give me a minute, okay?”

After a moment, she answered in a soft tone John barely caught. “Okay…”

He took a second to reign in his breathing. When had he started crying again? With shaking legs, he rose upright and stumbled back into the shower, rubbing a hand over his face. The hot water pounded against him. Better than being pelted by freezing water.

John successfully held back his next bout of nausea.

When he finally stepped out from the shower, properly dressed, but still not quite dry, Mariana was standing right outside waiting for him. She was so close to the door, he nearly bumped into her. “Oh! Sorry,” she mumbled, stumbling back right before they could whack heads.

John’s brow furrowed. “Were…were you waiting there the whole time?” Mariana didn’t answer but rather avoided his eyes instead. He cleared his throat. “It’s a bit…sorry, I made a bit of a mess in there. Water’s all over the floor.”

“I don’t…um, I actually don’t really…want to shower.” John frowned, and Mariana grimaced. “I know, I know it’s…I-I feel gross. Ugh, John, I feel so gross, but I-I don’t know if…” Her voice cracked and her shoulders began to jerk up and down. “I-I don’t really want to be alone right now—” Her own sobs cut her off, but John was right behind, pulling her into his arms. It didn’t take more than a second for him to join her in grief.

The two of them sank to the floor right there, pressed up against the wall. Their bodies shook in unison, both of them clinging to the other. Neither of them could get out a word. They didn’t have to.

John woke up with a yell stuck in his throat. His whole body jerked from some since-forgotten night terror, waking Mariana with a start. The two of them had miraculously managed to find sleep, but only holding each other in a single bed. Twin-sized be damned, neither of them were willing to brave the coldness of being alone. There was something, some lingering feeling from his dreams. John couldn’t put his finger on it. Mary’s face melting into Sherlock’s. Warm blood seeping onto his hands, quickly plunged into freezing, alpine water.

“John.” Mariana’s voice wasn’t soothing, or reassuring. It wasn’t what he would expect to hear to be comforted from a nightmare. No, it was laced with terror, a hushed gasp barely breezing past her lips as she smacked his arm. He turned over to look at her.

Instead, he was greeted with the back of her head. Over her shoulder, the shadow of a figure lingered in the doorway. He shot straight up, scrambling for the bedside lamp.

Click.

A soft, yellow glow illuminated the room. Illuminated the man standing under the doorframe. His sharp features were more gaunt than ever before. His usually golden-toned skin had gone pale, as if his body had been completely drained of blood. His hair, always a bit of a mess, was wilder than either John or Mariana had ever seen it. It had barely dried, sticking in every-which-way, some curls still damp against his skin. All of his clothes clung to his body. Noticeably, he was missing a shoe.

John flung himself out of bed, but not in the direction of the man who looked all too much like Sherlock Holmes. He stood on the opposite side of the bed, staring as quick breaths ripped through his body. “Oh my god.” Mariana slowly sat up the rest of the way. “Sherlock—”

John took off like a bullet, lunging at his friend and wrapping his arms around him. He expected the man to anticipate it, which was his mistake. Instead, he all but tackled Sherlock, sending the two of them tumbling out of the hotel room. They hit the floor with an echoing bang, practically shaking the whole floor of the old, budget hotel.

“Sherlock!” Mariana jumped up, not caring one bit about her volume. She greeted them out in the hallway, falling to her knees and pulling both of them up and into her arms. “You idiot,” she sobbed, “you asshole!” Despite it all, John found himself laughing. And crying. Glad. And furious. He squeezed Sherlock tighter, his own shirt taking on some of the water left in Sherlock’s clothes.

“Sherlock. Sherlock, you…you…” He couldn’t even formulate anything coherent.

Neither John nor Mariana were sure exactly how long they sat like that, half in their room, half in the hallway, a mess of limbs on the floor. Miraculously, no travelers poked their head out to tell them off or yell at them in another language. So, uninterrupted, the three of them stayed there.

Eventually, John found the strength to pull himself back from Sherlock. He didn’t dare let go, lest this all be a figment of his imagination. His eyes found Sherlock’s, and the sight made his heart sink. It was like Sherlock was just staring straight through him. They were looking at each other, but there was nothing there. The spark that John usually saw in the depths of Sherlock’s deep, dark eyes was nowhere to be found. “Sherlock. Sherlock, mate, what the fuck happened?” No answer. “Come on, talk to me.”

Sherlock just blinked lethargically and the pit in John’s stomach grew. He slowly climbed to his feet. “Let’s get you inside, okay? Christ, you’re freezing, where’s your jacket?” A ridiculous question, John knew that. It was somewhere caught on a branch or a rock, still being battered by the river. Or maybe already sunken to the bottom of the lake at the end. "Mariana.” She nodded, standing up as well, offering Sherlock a hand. He just stared at it. John’s hands shook. “Sherlock, come on.” He simply slipped his hand under Sherlock’s arm, pulling the lanky man to his feet.

He wasn’t exactly dead weight, but he certainly wasn’t aiming to be helpful. Together, they all stumbled back into their hotel room. Mariana locked the door behind them, turning on the overhead light. Sherlock grimaced and pulled in a sharp breath. She immediately whispered an apology and turned it back off again, leaving the bedside lamp as their only source of light. For now. The sun was just barely beginning to rise, still hidden behind the mountains, but a glow was beginning to spread across their peaks.

John helped Sherlock down onto the nearest bed, standing right in front of him and keeping his hands firmly on his friend’s shoulders. “Sherlock, talk to us. What the hell happened up there?”

There was very little doubt in John’s mind that Sherlock had really gone over that cliff at Reichenbach. The man was shivering, still damp, and had mud in all sorts of unusual places. Like he’d crawled out a river somewhere. It was a miracle. Nothing short of a miracle that Sherlock hadn’t hit his head on a rock on his way down. That he hadn’t lost consciousness and drowned. That Moriarty hadn’t bested him and managed to kill him in some other cruel way.

John reached up and touched Sherlock’s face. The man flinched, but didn’t pull away. He was already sporting an impressive black eye. John knew well enough he’d been punched—not like he’d fall perfectly on a rock to hurt him exactly like that. As John’s eyes flicked along Sherlock’s body, he started seeing more bruises than he would have liked. But it was okay. If a few bruises were the price of survival, it would just have to be fine.

The bed creaked under Mariana’s weight as she slowly lowered herself down onto the bed right next to Sherlock. She watched him closely. Nobody said a word. Sherlock wouldn’t meet John’s eyes. John’s throat felt tight. “Sherlock,” he said slowly, crouching down to be eye level with his seated flatmate. “Are you hurt?” Sherlock met his eyes again, but with that same look. That blankness.

What the hell was he doing? John was just standing here in shock, thanking whatever power that be that Sherlock was here and alive. He shouldn’t just be standing there; he should be figuring out what was wrong. Something was wrong. Definitely very wrong.

He moved his hand along Sherlock’s jaw down to rest on his neck. He applied pressure, checking the time on the clock on the nightstand and counting the heartbeats. After a few moments, he shook his head. “Mate, you’re freezing.” Sluggish pulse. Cold to the touch. Still damp. Who knows how long Sherlock had been fighting back against the current of that river; how far it had taken him and how long the trek back to the hotel would have been. And with only one shoe to top it all off. John looked over at Mariana, still clinging tightly to Sherlock’s side, almost afraid that letting go would make him cease to exist. “Grab some blankets. And some of his clothes.”

She burst into action, grabbing Sherlock’s suitcase from underneath his bed. John sighed, keeping a tight hold on the man in front of him, once again avoiding his gaze. “Sherlock, we’ve gotta get you out of these clothes and into something dry, okay? Can’t have you catching pneumonia after you managed to survive all of that.” Sherlock barely moved a muscle, only letting his eyes flick back and forth, taking in his surroundings and avoiding John. John’s heart clenched, but he pushed past it. “Come on, mate, work with me here.”

Without asking permission, John began to undo the buttons on Sherlock’s shirt. The man began to squirm. “Sherlock,” John said sternly, not stopping for a moment. Mariana appeared by his side, folded clothes under one arm and a stack of blankets stolen from the other two beds under the other. John looked up at her and nodded. “Great. Thanks, Mari.”

She set everything down on the bed and kneeled beside John, looking at Sherlock. “Are you alright?” she asked softly. Sherlock met her eyes for only a brief second, quickly looking down at his lap.

Once John got the last of his buttons undone, Sherlock began to pull away. John kept a steadying hand on his arm. “Hey. Hey, Sherlock, come on.”

“’m sorry…”

His voice was so quiet, so hoarse, that both John and Mariana nearly missed it. Mariana shook her head. “No,” she said quickly, “don’t apologize, Sherlock, you don’t need to.”

“You have nothing to be sorry about,” John said slowly. There was something deep in his chest that felt like anger. Anger that he’d managed to be tricked, angry at Sherlock for not letting him on his plan. Anger at the universe for daring to put them in a position like this. “We’re just glad you’re…that y-you’re okay.” The word “alive” felt bitter on his tongue. “Come on, we’ve gotta get you into something warmer.”

With no audible protest from Sherlock, John began pulling the man’s shirt off, ready to ball it up and toss it aside. But as he took it in his hands, he brushed across the collar and paused, staring down at it. The light-blue shirt, darkened from water, had a deep stain along the collar, dripping down the back. John’s mouth went dry. “Mate, are you bleeding?” Without waiting for an answer, John reached over and began to prod the back of Sherlock’s head. Sherlock pulled away with a grimace.

John’s fingers didn’t come away bloody, but he most certainly felt some blood-caked curls only just beginning to dry. “Shit. Come on, let me take a look—”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock repeated, a bit clearer this time.

John shook his head. “It’s alright, Sherlock, you’re alright, just let me take a look.” He took a seat next to the detective, leaning over to comb through the man’s hair to look for the wound. Sherlock was a little more cooperative, flanked by John and Mariana. He still flinched away, but John remained steady. “Mariana,” he said, not losing focus on the task at hand, “could you grab some clean cloths?”

Without a word, she shot to her feet, striding quickly towards the sink.

“I…I understand it’s late…” Sherlock muttered.

“Yeah,” John said with a huff of a laugh, “barely sunrise. But it’s okay. You don’t have to worry about that, Sherls, it doesn’t matter.”

Mariana was by John’s side again, handing over two cloths, one dry and one damp. “Thanks,” John said quickly, prodding the back of Sherlock’s head again.

Sherlock’s eyes drifted over to Mariana, now holding one of Sherlock’s clean shirts tightly in her hands. His frown deepened. “Where’d you get tha’?” Sherlock’s words were a bit slurred. John paused.

Mariana looked down at the shirt in her hands. “Just out of your suitcase. Should be clean, don’t worry.”

“I…” Sherlock shook his head. “Sorry, I just didn’ know what to do.”

“You don’t have to worry about that,” John reassured. “You did what you had to. Professor Moriarty won’t be bothering us anymore, I can promise you that.”

At that, Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “What?”

Everyone paused, sitting stock-still. John slowly moved to face Sherlock more fully. “He’s dead, Sherlock. He didn’t survive falling down Reichenbach. But you did. Thank god, somehow, you did.”

Sherlock just continued to stare at John, still blank, still like he was looking right through him. After several long moments, Sherlock opened his mouth again. “I’m sorry to bother you, but…I think I need help.”

John’s stomach dropped. “That’s what we’re here for, mate, that’s what we’re doing. Mariana?”

“On it.”

Together they managed to get a fresh shirt on him—a flannel pajama top. He was clammy to the touch, shivering beneath each layer they stacked on top of him. John located the wound (Sherlock would be left with an impressive bump for a while) and was pleased to find it wasn’t actively bleeding. Mariana left John to handle getting Sherlock out of his wet trousers and into something a bit more comfortable. Happy with their work, the two of them both sat on either edge of the bed. Mariana watched closely as John cleaned away the blood and dirt on the back of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock’s eyes flicked back and forth between the two of them, still frowning. “I-I don’t understand.”

Mariana cocked her head. “What don’t you understand, Sherlock?” She moved closer.

“Why you’re helping me.”

That wasn’t at all what John expected to hear.  His frown deepened. “What the hell do you mean? Why wouldn’t we help you?”

“You didn’ call for an ambulance,” he mumbled, “isn’t that what you’re s’posed to do?”

John actually fought a smile. “Mate, you don’t need an ambulance. You aren’t in any immediate danger; I know how to treat some bumps and early stages of hypothermia. Now, if you’d been any further along that’d be a different story. Can’t give you warm intravenous fluids in a shitty hotel room, I’m afraid,” he chuckled.

Sherlock didn’t look any less confused. “Wouldn’ mos’ people call an ambulance if an injured stranger showed up ‘n their room?”

John’s blood went cold. For a moment it felt like he’d been the once who’d fallen into an icy, Swiss river. He bit his tongue. Mariana managed to speak before he could. “Sherlock…what the hell are you talking about?”

He turned to her, a curious expression on his face, but didn’t say a word. “Hey,” John said sharply. He moved out from behind Sherlock. The man looked over at him, eyes still glazed over, still in a haze. “Sherlock, do you know where you are right now?”

He had that same look in his eyes. Dull, muddied. Sherlock shook his head. “Um…I don’t know if…” His hands twitched and he frowned again.

“If what,” John urged, looking for something—anything.

Sherlock began to fumble, teeth chattering. “I don’…I dunno…” His body began to tremble. “Why d-did…why ‘m I wet?”

John’s body went tense. “Sherlock,” he said slowly. But there was that same nothingness staring right back at him. “No. Come on, mate, you managed to get back to our hotel room, you know where you are.”

“John.”

Mariana’s warning tone gave him pause. He hadn’t realized he’d been raising his voice. John’s heart pounded against his ribcage, his whole chest aching far worse than when he ran to that cliff up Reichenbach. He waited for Sherlock to snap out of it; tell him it was all a joke in poor taste. But that wouldn’t be like Sherlock. A joke of this magnitude without resulting in some sort of research? No.

“Don’t look at me like that,” John murmured. Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched. “You know where you are, Sherlock, and you know you’re not a stranger.”

“John,” Mariana warned again.

“I’m…I was looking for my friends.” He moved to get up. “Apologies, I’ve…I-I’ve got the wrong room.”

Mariana put a hand on his shoulder, easing him back down. “No, Sherlock. You don’t. You had the key, you got in. These are your clothes; you’re in the right place.”

He began to shake, and this time John couldn’t tell if it was from the cold or something entirely out of his wheelhouse. “I was in a river…” He looked down at myself. “M-My clothes…”

Oh. John didn’t know why he hadn’t considered it before. Sherlock nearly died. Really, he should have died. Professor James Moriarty hadn’t survived the fall down onto the rocks below, why would Sherlock be so lucky? He’d been beaten up, tossed over the edge of a cliff, and nearly drowned in a river in a foreign country. That would fuck anyone’s sense of reality up—that would give anyone a shock.

John reached out, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder. “Sherlock, look at me.” The man looked up, trembling under John’s touch. “You’re alright, yeah? You’re safe. We’re all here in our hotel room in Meiringen, remember? Switzerland? You helped Mariana pick it out. Had a bit of a spat over it, actually.” He glanced to Mariana, who caught on quickly.

“You wanted something nicer,” she said, “and I can’t blame you. Frankly, this hotel sucks. But it’s all we could afford to put on the company card. Switzerland prices, sheesh,” she said, almost laughing.

“…Sauvage…”

She chuckled. “Yeah, you wanted to book there. But, Sherlock, really? That was waaayy out of budget. In your dreams. There was no way I could have pulled that off.”

“I-I was kidding.”

“You still need to work on your sarcasm, mate,” John said. “We really thought you were considering putting us in massive debt with that one.”

There was a long pause before Sherlock spoke up again. “…I’m cold.”

“Alright,” said Mariana, “scoot over.” Before either man clued in on what she was doing, she moved right in next to Sherlock, pulling the covers up over her. Sherlock looked a bit affronted, but didn’t stop her. She settled in right next to Sherlock, and she could feel just how cold he was. “Jesus, you’d think you’d drowned in a river or something.” Her laugh was only half-hearted, realizing maybe her joke wasn’t in the best taste.

“I…I did.”

“Nearly,” John corrected, holding up a pointed finger. “You didn’t actually drown.”

“No…No, I did.” John and Mariana watched him curiously. “I-I think I…” His eyes went wide as he searched for an explanation. “I died.” The others furiously shook their heads. “No, I did. I did, I fell, it was loud, and cold, and I couldn’t see, and I couldn’t hear, and it—” Sherlock choked on his own words. Tears sprang up in his eyes. “It was cold. I couldn’t breathe. I can’t…I-I can’t breathe.”

In the same instant, Mariana wrapped her arms around him and John lifted the covers, jumping under to join them. The bed barely fit two, and it was far too small for three, so he half dangled off, but John couldn’t find it in him to care. They both clung to Sherlock, feeling his chest jerk up and down as he failed to control his breathing.

“Easy,” John said softly, “easy. Listen to me, Sherlock. You can breathe. You can, I promise, just copy me.” He grabbed his hand, placing it firmly against his own chest. “Like this, mate, yeah? Like this. Slowly now, slow breaths. In…and out. Okay?” Sherlock still trembled, but color started to return to his cheeks. “Exactly. Perfect, you’re doing perfectly. Keep breathing just like that. In…out…”

It didn’t look like Sherlock even realized he was crying. “John…I was looking for Watson, John Watson.”

John nodded, his tongue feeling heavy, his lungs like they were starving for air. “I’m here, Sherlock, I’m right here. You made it back to the hotel.”

“An’ Mariana—”

“Right here.” She laced her fingers with Sherlock’s, squeezing his hand tightly. “I’m right here.”

“No,” he mumbled, refusing to make eye contact with either of them. “Moriarty. H-He said he’d kill them. I had to stop him. I had to, I had—” He cut himself off with a long, shaky breath.

“Professor Moriarty is dead,” John said plainly, “but you are not. We’re right here, me and Mariana. You made it back to our hotel room. It’s over, Sherlock, Moriarty is gone. You’re alright. We’re all here.”

It was several full minutes before anyone spoke again. John thought maybe Sherlock had finally dozed off, the stresses of the events finally wearing him down. But then the detective spoke. “Watson?” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“Yeah, mate?” John answered in a similar tone.

Sherlock took an unsteady breath. “You’re here?”

He nodded, pulling himself further under the covers, partially squeezing himself under Sherlock in order to fit. “Yeah. Right here.”

“Mariana?”

“Mm-hm.”

They all laid there together, tangled bodies on a twin-sized bed. After a few moments, Sherlock spoke up again. “Sorry…I-I don’t know what I…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I was…disoriented.”

“That’s okay,” said John, pulling in closer. Sherlock was almost a regular temperature again. Living. Breathing. Not dead. Not washed up on a riverbank or sunken to the bottom of a lake downstream.

Deciding that was enough of reddit, and emotions, for the night, Sherlock closed the laptop perched on the arm of the sofa and sat up. There’s barely enough room to lay on it, but without a bed in the small apartment, he has to make do. If Lestrade would only pay him enough or give him more cases, he could maybe get an apartment. But instead every other paper on the small table is an ad for flatsharing that he hasn’t put out yet. The other papers are bills. Hopefully they will mostly disappear by this weekend, when he hopefully will be sharing a flat with someone. The digital clock on the shelf says it’s 03:25 and usually that wouldn’t matter too much and he would keep going until he found a big enough clue, but Sherlock has to prepare for that new experiment in the morning before the potential flatmate comes over.

He’s running on his treadmill, checking the display and glancing at the door. Sherlock knows it’s probably not going to be him, but he can’t help but hope. This was how they met before. Ever since he became capable of complex thought, Sherlock has thought about his past life. He’s thought about the era in which he lived, the family he had and what he worked as. As a Victorian with a small family, he often worked many jobs at the same time. As a child it was easiest to work as a postboy, he took after his brother after he quit to get a better job in one of the workhouses. But Mycroft always had a way about him that got him into higher standing jobs more easily. That stands true even now. Sherlock never had that charm, most people found him too off-beat, so to speak. A job that didn’t require him to be around people, like a postboy, was better. He also did odd-jobs for his neighbors if they asked, like finding peoples beloved dogs. He got a kind of reputation with specifically his detective work. As he got older, he tried to build on it more. If Mycroft could leave their home and prosper, so could Sherlock. In a very different way of course, since Mycroft had his own office in inner London, and Sherlock worked about of his homes loft for a long time.

Then it all changed when he finally got his own office. Because with his office and his detective agency came John Watson. And John Watson became his life. Not immediately, of course, but slowly he threaded his life into Sherlocks. With tea put down in front of Sherlock at any time of day, and a look his way whenever someone was being just a tad too annoying. Sherlock always smirked when he caught Johns eye, and they both knew what they were thinking. After a while, John switched from calling him Holmes or My Dear Holmes, which already had him fluttering, to calling him Sherls. Love wasn’t part of Sherlock before this. Sure, he loved his brother in a way, but romantic love hadn’t crossed his mind. But with every new case and every adrenalin-filled chase, he could feel it growing in him. He hoped John would feel the same, but he couldn’t force it, so he didn’t bring it up for years. John Watson changed his life. With just a step into his office he-

Oh, my god. He almost falls, stumbling off the treadmill. Oh. My. God. “Whoa, are you okay?”, the man in the doorway asks. John asks. He’s looking at him, at Sherlock. He could feel the air freeze around him. That voice. That voice has been in his dream for as long as he can remember. He runs forward and clasps his hands on Johns shoulders. They feel so incredibly real.

“John..”, Sherlock sighs. “I finally found you”.

“What do you mean found me?” John asks, confused. A worried expression reading on the mans face with maybe a hint of distain as he cocked his head jerkily to the side. What. He could feel his hands tightening on John’s- was it really John?- shoulders.

“Uh-..don’t worry. I’m sorry.” He cleared his throat awkwardly brushing the fake dust off John’s jacket. Taking a step back, Sherlock took a hard look at this John’s face. It looked like his John, that little wrinkle on his brow as he also took in how Sherlock looked. Probably insane, from the treadmill and the blood on his arm from his experiment. He seemed to notice it at the same time since he looked down and looked worried for a second.

“Oh wow, how did that happen?”

“There’s no worry, I’m fine. It’s just an.. experiment i was doing, I can stitch it myself.” Sherlock used the distraction to focus on something else that the most important person in the world, and turned around to find his med kit. John moved faster.

“No, I should do it, I’m a doctor. Let me do it.” This is the worst case of deja vú Sherlock has ever experienced. John’s insistence to help, especially with medical things, reminds him of the war doctor who walked into his office and immediately decided to be his carer with no questions. Maybe this was the same man, just not the one who remembers Sherlock. And that was unbearable. He has finally found him, and it was all for naught. John didn’t know Sherlock. His hands against his arm as he sewed him up felt so familiar, and it broke Sherlocks heart. He truly thought he wouldn’t have to go back to his unfeeling past. But if this is the John that exists in this world, this is the John that Sherlock wants to be around. John looks up at him as he asks: “How does that feel?”

Sherlock represses the tears and the feelings and answers with a tight:

“Fine.”

It’s truly uncanny how similar his two existences can be. Sherlock and John now live together, which is like the past, but it’s the small things that tug on Sherlocks heart. The tea still comes at all hours of the day, and John even starts eyeing him when someone is being idiotic, although Sherlock can’t quite bring himself to smirk back. This John still closes the door after both of them when they leave Baker Street, but Sherlock doesn’t turn around to take his hand. Sherlock is waiting with baited breath every time he gets addressed, he’s waiting for the day where John stops calling him Sherlock and starts with Sherls. It never comes. Day after day they go through similar routines, John takes over food and finances after a while, and Sherlock can’t see John cooking for too long until he is overcome with memories and retreats to play a melancholy piece on his violin. Mariana joins the crew, as John has been calling it, and she becomes the person who makes sure they don’t go bankrupt. Sherlock’s happy he can focus on only his work.

Work that he gets distracted away from so easily. Why does it matter if they reconnected now in this life? You’d think for a man built on logic he’d have an answer for this scenario but he doesn’t. It’s been months now since the three of them finally found the familiar roles for everyone in the flat, but he still isn’t used to the way John made his heart flutter. He can’t say anything yet, he doesn’t think it’s time. But even so.

“Hey John,” he says still at his desk trying to act busy to hide his anxiety. “Do you believe in past lives?” He finally managed out of him before he looked up to the man sipping tea and looking at his laptop, in the same old chair he always resides in.

“How do you mean?” John responds without looking up, “Like, reincarnation and things like that?”

“Yes.” Damn it Sherlock, too curt. Keep it together. “It’s for a case.” “Ah okay, hm..” He looks up from whatever he’s doing, leans back in his chair and stares thoughtfully at the ceiling. “I mean, there’s no proof for it that I’ve seen or heard of. And even if it were possible, most people would only think of any memories as dreams, and ignore them. Well, I think I would.” John gets a strange look on his face when he says that last part. Like he’s trying to convince himself of something. Sherlock brushes it off, he has to seem normal about this topic.

“Oh, yes, I guess I would assume the same.” He wouldn’t. Archie walks into the room and plops down beside John. He reaches a hand down to pet him and continues. “But if it was real, and someone knew for sure that they had a past life, I would feel really bad for them. Like, imagine how hard that must be, knowing you had a life before, but also knowing you can’t go back there. All the people you knew, gone. And how far back can a past life go? Can you be reborn multiple times? I couldn’t imagine going through that.” Sherlock has completely lost focus on what he was doing. Hearing John talk about something so close to Sherlocks heart, and sympathizing with him, even thought he doesn't know it. He’s shamelessly staring now, he knows it. The image of John sitting in the chair he always sits in, with tea and his laptop on the table, petting Archie. And it really doesn’t help that the light is hitting his face in such a flattering way. He looks so contemplative, and so, so beautiful.

“If I was reborn again, I think I’d probably try and have a life similar to the one I already lived. I’d try and be a doctor again, if that still exists in the same form in the future. Maybe skip the military, but that could mean I never moved in with you. Butterfly effect and all that. And I would never want a world where I didn’t meet you, Sherlock.” John looks up at him and smiles. Sherlock can’t take it anymore and stands up. He stands still for a second, looking back at John. Stuck between fight and flight, his traitorous brain has chosen freeze. Should he escape up to him room? Say a closing phrase and leave? Or should he finally confess? To at last tell him everything? John’s face is just so open and handsome and he has just been so kind to Sherlock without knowing it. John seems to notice something has changed and stands up to walk towards him.

“Sherlock? What’s going on? Did you figure something out?” The way his eyes change slightly when he gets excited is so familiar, and it scares him. Because this is not his John. So he shouldn’t look exactly like his John, it feels wrong, and it makes Sherlock so sad. He takes a step back when John approaches. John also stops, and looks more worried than excited.

“Sherlock..?” Those damn eyes. Sherlock can’t stop looking at them, at his whole face. It’s Johns face, it is, he knows it is, it has to be his John but it isn’t. He doesn’t remember and he never will, only Sherlock does, and it hurts him so much that he will have to live with this John who isn’t his John but is so incredibly similar. Because what else can he do? He found him after all these years, and he is living with him and doing detective work, just like back then. He will not leave willingly. He takes more steps back to try and get his head back into gear. Stop panicking, stop it. He looks down at the ground to wrench his eyes and thoughts away from John.

“Sherlock, are you okay, what’s going on?” John says whole walking closer and holding his hands out grabbing Sherlock’s shoulders. “Look at me Sherlock, how can i help?”

Now John’s touching him, and that makes it so much worse. That warmth spreading from familiar fingers into his cold shoulders. Sherlock takes a breath, and another. He looks up.

“It just kills me that you look at me like you don’t know who I am.” Sherlock says as calmly as he can muster. Which sounds more like his voice breaking in sadness. John freezes, confused. He looks like he’s trying to figure what that means, and what to say back. Sherlock looks into his eyes, the eyes that don’t recognize him in this life. He feels his energy leave him all at once, and he gives up. He was not ready for this confrontation right now and he doesn’t want to continue this conversation. John slides his hands off of Sherlocks shoulders, eyes blank. Sherlock takes it as an out, and leaves for his room. John doesn’t make a move to follow, still frozen in what Sherlock can only guess is confusion. As he steps over the threshold to the hallway he hears John mumble something. Sherlock turns around to look at him. John is still looking at where Sherlock used to be, his eyes still blank and arms slack by his sides. He mumbles again. Sherlock is worried now, should he not have said anything? He moves back towards John slowly.

“John?.. Did you say something?” He says while trying to meet John eyes. He finally moves and looks at Sherlock. He suddenly looks less confused and more like he’s had a realization. But he doesn’t say anything.

It's clear to Sherlock that John's being scolded, an audible wince in his tone. "I know, mum. I just-" a sigh. "You don't know what it's like living with him. He's so lazy. Constant mess. Everytime I clean, I turn around and there's something new."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at this, a snort that would seem humorous in any different situation overcoming him. John only cleans when he has to.

"And he's so awkward. Can't meet a new person without him staring them down. It freaks people out, mum."

He stops listening, tearing himself away from the closed door between the two men. He wasn't sure if he could handle much more of it, the weight of the words stuffing his ears with cotton, ensuring nothing else could get through.

It's not like John's wrong, though, Sherlock realizes, as the distant mass of guilt buckles down on his shoulders. It's enough to send him stumbling back to his bed, sitting on the edge and thinking back on recent events.

The messes. That was something John had always assured he understood. The overwhelming and looming presence of a meltdown post outing, resulting in scattered objects and a rush to isolation. He never thought much of it, and it was always tidied once he emerged, each resident of the flat becoming increasingly familiar with Sherlock's aversion to the destruction left in the wake of meltdowns.

He supposed the laziness was accurate as well. Without the rush of a case, noon would creep by before he woke, falling asleep along with the rise of the sun. He wouldn't chalk it up to laziness, though. It was how he operated, and John's newfound ignorance stung more than he'd ever like to admit.

He didn't even have to ponder the awkwardness. He had known since he was young that people tended to find his mannerisms strange, distant from the sense of normalcy most people resided in. He knew he was different, and he had been under the impression that the podcaster down the hall knew as well, but cared for him regardless.

To find out that someone he had reluctantly begun to call his best friend held aversions to his nature--much like those of his youth--struck something deep inside of his heart. It felt as if the life he had begun to build was cracking around him, the chippings of fresh paint caked underneath his fingernails.

Hearing John's voice begin to ebb, the world around him fading in and out, he slipped under his covers, sunlight just barely peeking through his windows.

He wasn't entirely sure when he fell asleep, mind simultaneously running a mile a minute, yet also slowing to the point of numbness even on the cusp of rest, but he eventually awoke to the quiet sounds of the flat. His body felt unnaturally heavy, skin weighing down on his bones and eyes sunken into his face. John’s words rang in his mind, a cacophony of chants in the same tone, all barreling down on Sherlock.

For a while, he sat in the silence of his room, occasionally straining to hear the tip-tap of Archie’s nails along the tiles. He found himself lost to his thoughts and the aching loneliness of your best friend revoking his compassion, clouding anything else attempting to penetrate his consciousness.

How long had he waited for this? A safe corner of the world, surrounded by people who understood him. People who looked at him with something other than pity or fascination, like he was some sort of discovery to be studied. People who accepted him how he was rather than forcing him to oblige by the rules of a standard he had no interest in participating in.

It felt as if it was all shattering around him, caving in and rupturing his lungs in the aftermath, the lingering debris of faith and of hope suffocating his airways. He truly thought this would last, exceeding expectations and breaking down the methods of navigating humanity, the ones he had crafted since he first noticed his misplacement.

Unfortunately for him, though, he was still stretched along the bed within the very flat his world fell into. Next to his bed rested some cheesy mug, one with a bad pun and the remnants of whatever he had filled it with in the nights prior. His ear defenders were sprawled on the floor, a safe distance from his bed, attainable from an arms length. A faded, scratched vinyl sticker of the podcast’s logo stuck to the wall next to him.

He couldn’t sit here like this anymore, he decided, swiftly shifting to an upright position with a grunt and a shake of the head, hoping to straighten himself out a bit, though it only resulted in him stumbling as he stood.

Once adjusted, he made his way to his door, taking a deep inhale before opening it and venturing out of his room, his eyes performing a quick sweep of the surrounding area for any signs of John or Mariana, coming up short. He proceeded to the living room, the heat of embarrassment tickling behind his ears at the leftover mess from the last time he was out here.

It never bothered him before, but with the knowledge of John’s aversion towards it, he now felt shame burrowing in his chest. It forced him into tidying, returning everything to its designated home in the quietest way possible, a stuffy stillness settling in the air that continued to grow increasingly uncomfortable.

It was awkward, to say the least. Awkward like the way John described, staring at the objects he picked up like he was lost. The sinking realization that he was only proving the shorter man right dropped into his gut, and he chucked the shoe in his grasp at the couch as if it personally offended him.

As if he had some sort of curse placed upon him, Sherlock heard the floorboards creak, indicating John’s presence along the short hall. He ducked his head and straightened his shoulders, posture winding tight rather than his typical relaxed state within the flat walls. He turned like he was caught doing something he shouldn't have, something worse than the gentle toss of a shoe. Some unspoken sin tying back to the conversation Sherlock overheard earlier.

His eyes bore holes into John, bundles of nerves igniting fires under his skin, an itch trickling down his limbs. He swallowed dryly before a huff of breath escaped him, similar to when he would hear a ridiculous joke and refuse to dignify it with a response.

John had the audacity to return the gaze, though his was full of concern and curiosity.

“Are you okay, Sherlock?’’ He questioned, brows furrowed and mouth in a frown. “You’re uh.. You’re looking at me like you don’t know who I am.” A quiet chuckle followed, though his face never quite moved from the tight lipped expression that settled there once he saw the distress in Sherlock’s eyes.

Silence followed, a long stretch in which Sherlock tried to figure out what to say. Maybe John didn’t know–maybe he was unaware that his flatmate heard him complaining about how he existed to his mother?

“I could’ve cleaned that, mate. Was planning on it once I got some editing done, but then Archie decided he needed to g-”

“I thought I did.” Came the interruption, the first indication that Sherlock had even heard John since he came into the room.

“Sorry- what?” The concern grew in his face, followed by twinges of confusion.

“I thought I knew who you were.” Was the only provided elaboration, leaving John even more confused if the crease between his eyebrows was any clue.

Before he had any time to express that confusion, however, Sherlock was shutting the door to his bedroom–rather swiftly at that–and abruptly ending what could barely be called a conversation.

He truly couldn’t find it in him to care what John did afterwards–whether he stood there unblinking and reciting the last month in his brain, or if he carried on with his day–and it only became his concern when he later emerged again. After a long day of isolation and overthinking, he needed some sort of subsistence, usually provided with a reminder from his flatmates.

As soon as he stepped foot into the kitchen, he heard the sharp refusal of Mariana, the assertiveness not going unnoticed as she led him straight back to the living room.

There he found John, unnaturally nervous on the couch, an expression Sherlock would never get used to seeing on him.

With a final gentle push for emphasis, Mariana crossed her arms and made her leave, calling out behind her. “You boys better figure whatever this is out!”

As if on cue, John took approximately five seconds before he began speaking. It was a flurry of words before Sherlock could truly make out what he was saying, cotton stuffed in the sides of his ears at the memory of this morning.

“I just don’t understand, Sherlock, mate. I’ve been trying to figure out what could have you so upset and I don’t know. Give me something to work with, I’m lost.” And with that, he stopped talking, the frown from earlier returning as he stared at Sherlock, a little desperate for his response.

“I heard you earlier. On the phone.” It was short, and maybe Sherlock should’ve given him more, but the conversation played on loop in the back of his mind, sympathy trying to peek its way through.

“Oh– yeah, my mum called. Sorry, was I too loud? Sometimes I start rambling and don’t realize how loud I can get. Should’ve realized you were trying to sleep.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to be confused now, head shaking minutely as he stared ahead of him. “I heard what you said, Watson. I.. I’m lazy, and messy, and awkward. I’ll be out as soon as I can. You don’t have to worry about it.’’

That got a reaction out of him. Immediately, John’s face fell and his brows shifted, mouth gaping open. “Sherlock, mate, no– my mum asked how Archie was doing. I was talking about Archie. What kind of friend starts loudly complaining about you in our shared flat? I’ve done some shitty things, but that is not one of them.”

“Oh.” Was all Sherlock could say, mind whirring with the effort of reversing the thoughts that had been bubbling since the sun rose this morning. It all made perfect sense, there was no way John was lying straight to his face. Archie was very messy, resorting to peeing on the floor when he wasn’t taken out at the exact time he wanted to go. He also spent most of his day lounging around the flat lazily, and had a habit of staring at strangers with the biggest bug eyes he could muster.

“...I apologize, Watson.” He swallowed, the shame bubbling up again–for an entirely different reason this time–combining with an embarrassing amount of relief. “I.. assumed.’’ He added, that pit of shame creeping into his tone. It wasn’t often that he was wrong, even when his feelings became intertwined. He wasn’t one to make assumptions, either. In fact, he was known for doing the exact opposite of that.

He suddenly felt very on edge, very uncomfortable in the space around him, like he was being suffocated with crushing reality and confrontation. He was convinced John would expect some sort of extravagant apology or explanation for his unjustified reactions, attempting to formulate some sort of response while standing aimlessly in the middle of the living room.

Sherlock, however, was cut short by Mariana ambling into the room, snacks in tow as she stretched out along the couch. “Good?” She glanced between the two, an observant eye that obviously already knew the answer before she asked the question.

“Good.” John confirmed, and Sherlock noticed the small smile that now replaced his previous expression, the tension along his spine finally shriveling up as he sat next to the both of them.

She’d handled the shock with her usual grace, taking the fact that he was alive after all in stride and immediately focusing on the plan he had to catch Colonel Moran red-handed. The only sign of how affected she was had come as he was leaving. As he began to re-don his disguise, she’d walked towards him and placed a hand on his shoulder, thumb brushing absently where it rested against his arm.

“I’m glad to be able to see you again, Sherlock.” she’d murmured, before shocking him with a press of lips against his temple. She’d smirked a little at his expression, before letting go and stepping back. “Now for god’s sake, go tell the rest of your company and eat something with more than 30 calories to it, will you? I barely recognised you even without the disguise.”

He’d left the building feeling just a step lighter, and more determined than ever to see the two people who he’d missed above all else.

Mariana had been next. He’d debated how best to show himself to the others, unsure of what reception he’d receive and all-too aware that they may still be being monitored. In the end, he’d decided to maintain his disguise and approach Baker Street.

Mariana had been a little sceptical as she’d answered the door, but allowed him entry once he’d advised that Mr Mycroft Holmes had sent him to complete some routine checks of the building’s plug sockets.

The fact that he’d been able to finally introduce the others to his older brother a few months before everything happened had been incredibly lucky in hindsight. It had made it all the easier to maintain the facade of his passing whilst also ensuring John and Mariana had some level of protection – both financial through Sherlock’s ‘estate’ and physical in the form of discreet surveillance - in place.

He’d had to focus not to lose his persona the moment he stepped through the familiar entryway into 221A, and he caught sight of a very familiar bulldog. Archie had paused as he’d stepped through, before barking excitedly and clattering his way towards the door.

“Archie!” Mariana had exclaimed, grabbing hold of the dog before he was able to reach Sherlock, “Archie, no, behave! It’s just a man here to do some work, that’s all!”

She’d picked him up, carrying the bulldog – with some visible effort – through to her bedroom. “Sorry about that, he’s just a very friendly boy!” she’d called out, “I’ll move him out of the way for now. C’mon, good boy, let’s leave the nice engineer man to do his job, yeah?”

Sherlock had taken the opportunity to steady his breathing and study the living room, taking in the differences from before.

He’d spotted a new photograph on the wall that caused a swell of emotion in his chest. It was a selfie Mariana had taken of the three of them whilst enjoying a movie night together, around a month before the fateful trip to Switzerland. She was winking at the camera, whilst John and Sherlock were leaning against each other on the sofa behind her. John had fallen asleep against Sherlock’s chest, head tucked under the detective’s chin. Sherlock himself was looking down at the sleeping podcaster, a smile softening his features.

They’d looked so happy together.

Hopefully they’d be able to be happy again.

He’d kept the act up for a while, inspecting the sockets in the living room area, before asking Mariana if she had a torch he could borrow. “’Ain’t sure about the cables leading behind the shelving unit,” he’d explained in a put-on Cockney drawl, “could do with a quick look-over, and I’d rather not mess with your furniture.”

Mariana had turned to the cutlery draw in the kitchen – where she’d always stored odds and ends including a torch. Sherlock had used the few seconds’ time he’d bought himself to rip the wig and false teeth off, a flutter of nervous excitement rushing through him as he’d heard her return.

“I’ve only got this pocket-size one, will it-” she had looked up and frozen in place, eyes wide. He’d offered a sheepish grin.

“Hello again, Mariana.”

There’d been a long pause, before chaos broke out.

“Tu idiota!”

Cursing a storm in high-pitched Spanish, Mariana had drawn up to him and slapped his arm, hard. Barely a second later and she’d pulled him into a hug, sobbing fiercely. The cursing out continued, a slew of Spanish and English interrupted only by gulps of air.

Sherlock had done his best to follow what was being said. In the same breath she was calling him an idiot and that she couldn’t believe he’d do that to them, and then telling him how much she loved him, how grateful she was to see him again. Understanding her need to process things, and comforted by the pressure of the hug, Sherlock had simply held onto her quietly.

She’d calmed down after a few minutes, but showed no signs of letting go.

“...why?”

It had been one of his expected questions, but Sherlock had taken a long moment to decide on the answer. “I needed to, in order to keep everyone I cared about safe.” he’d settled on in the end, pulling back just enough for Mariana to see his face and know he was being honest.

She’d studied him for a moment, and he took the chance to do the same. The wrinkles at the corners of her eyes hadn’t changed much, but subtle lines had formed under her eyes and across her forehead. She’d had a few grey hairs appearing at her temples, and Sherlock had felt a rush of grief on the visible sign that time had passed without him.

“Are you OK?” she’d then asked, and he’d felt his eyes start to burn at the concern in her voice. He’d missed her dreadfully.

Swallowing hard, he’d nodded and offered a wobbly smile. “I will be, Mariana – now that I’m back in London again. Though it’s not quite over, hence my disguise. I can’t officially return just yet, there’s one more thing I need to do.”

Mariana had frowned, pulling further back and moving her hands to his shoulders. “What is it?”

“I’ll tell you everything, I promise – I’ll need your help, in fact. But there’s a lot to discuss, and not much time to do so. I’d prefer to let John know of my return before I explain it to you both. Is he upstairs?”

Something complicated had crossed Mariana’s face as he’d mentioned the podcaster, too fast for him to be able to interpret. “Ah, no – he’s, um, he’s actually at work right now. He’ll be home in an hour or so, though, if you’re OK to wait?”

He’d nodded – he had a few hours left before he had to make any moves with the plan in place, and had to wait for Mycroft to arrange for his replacement waxwork from Madame Tussauds to be delivered – and finally made his way upstairs, keen to take in his home once more and see what else had changed with his and John’s living space.

221B looked almost exactly as he’d remembered leaving it two years before. He’d half expected his things to have been packed away whilst he’d been considered ‘dead’ but they were all still in place. His microscope was still on one of the bookshelves, holding up his collection of encyclopedias and guidebooks. His model train engine – a gift from John – was still next to the television.

He wandered to his room, taking in the light layer of dust on his chest of drawers but the relatively fresh bedding on the bed. One of his pillows appeared to be missing. Deciding that he wanted to be more comfortable now he had the option, he’d stripped out of the disguise and pulled on his sweatpants and a long-sleeved shirt. Both were a little loose on him, indicative of the weight he’d lost, but they smelled comforting if a little stale. He frowned when he noticed the drawer that he’d kept his hoodies in was empty, but shrugged it off. Perhaps they’d been damaged somehow?

However, that theory was at least partly disproven when he returned to the living room. One of his favourite hoodies was resting over the arm of the sofa. Puzzled, but happy to see it regardless, he picked it up and pulled it on.

As it passed over his head, he felt his legs wobble at the scent that surrounded him. Laundry detergent – John’s typical brand of choice, the same one that Carol Watson used. There were hints of deodorant and the 2-in-1 that John used instead of separate shampoo and conditioner that blended in, combining into a smell that made Sherlock instantly think of the other man.

Of home.

God, he was home.

He took a few more deep breaths, processing and taking comfort in equal measure, before continuing to look around the living room. He made his way around, brushing his fingers against once-familiar pieces of furniture, acclimatising to them once more. The old but comfortable sofa, complete with soft cushions. The scuffed coffee table, with its mug stains from spilled cups of tea. The coat rack with its slightly uneven legs, causing it to wobble when someone stood on one of the floorboards by it.

He’d just made his way over to the window overlooking Baker Street when he heard the door downstairs open and the tread of feet making their way up the stairs. Sherlock froze in place, heart going into a staccato frenzy at the thought of seeing John again after so long apart. He bit his lip as the door opened.

John walked through, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he wasn’t alone. Sherlock watched as the other man stepped over to the coat rack, tugging off his coat and scarf and toeing off his shoes. The removal of the coat revealed that John was wearing the uniform for a local coffee shop – a black polo shirt with the shop’s logo emblazoned on the back, and black trousers to match.

Outerwear removed, the detective watched as John made his way to the kitchen, dropping his backpack on one of the chairs and depositing his keys into the bowl they were kept in. The podcaster sighed, before turning towards the living room – and meeting Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock hadn’t really known what expression he expected John to wear on seeing him. Whether the other man would look delighted to see him, furious at the perceived deception, or shocked at the sudden reappearance of his supposedly dead best friend. Following Mariana’s reaction, he’d been putting more weight against a similar reaction to hers.

What he hadn’t accounted for was the look of both horror and despair that overtook John’s face.

“Oh no,” John murmured, “god, not again.”

Sherlock frowned, baffled. What was this response?

“John? It’s me, Sherlock.” He paused, even more confused, as John shook his head.

Feeling concerned, he gentled his tone as if he were talking to someone in shock. “Are you alright? I know it’s a lot, Mariana made that very clear to me, but you're looking at me like you don't know who I am."

He flinched at the hysterical laugh the other man responded with. John shook his head, glancing away and swallowing heavily, before looking back.

“Oh, I know who you are.” he replied, sounding resigned, “But I thought you’d finally stopped haunting me. I thought I’d done enough to move on.”

Even more lost, Sherlock snorted. “’Haunting you’? What do you mean, haunting you?”

John’s head was shaking, hands raising to rub at his face. “No, not doing this Johnny boy. No talking to the ghost, you know they told you not to interact with it.” he muttered to himself, completely ignoring the question Sherlock had raised.

Somewhat exasperated, the detective groaned. “I’m not a ghost, Watson! Ghosts aren’t real!”

John’s eyes closed, expression pained. When he next spoke, his voice was quiet and tremulous.

“Neither are you.”

Sherlock had been more relieved than he could say that the podcast had continued after his supposed death. How awful would it have been, he’d thought many times in his mission, had his existence occurred in a time before the digital age? Before the likes of podcasts and social media, where the only way to know of a person’s well-being was direct contact?

He was blessed to have been born in the 90s, to be able to have a publicly-accessible way to know that his friends were alive. He’d created alternate accounts using a burner phone he’d purchased on his way across Europe, had followed John on every platform available, liked the Youtube channel sharing the episodes as they came out.

But that blessing had an attached curse, one that he wasn’t entirely sure made the cost worth it.

He hadn’t been sure what the other two would do, hadn’t been certain whether or not they would share the outcome of his final meeting with Professor Moriarty as he’d requested. They had, though, a few weeks after the previous adventure’s concluding episode had aired. John had called it “The Final Problem”.

Hearing John and Mariana’s devastation at his death had been unbearable. He’d known it was going to hurt, that he’d have to hear his two best friends cry, but nothing had prepared him for the way that Mariana had broken down in the outro informing the listeners of his death. For the way that John had sounded, quietly falling apart whilst pushing through the announcement. He’d sounded like a shell of his usual self, and it had broken Sherlock’s heart entirely to know that he was the cause.

He'd thought hearing John in that recording was the singularly most painful thing he'd ever experience.

It had nothing on now, where the doctor looked as drained of life as the apparition he believed Sherlock to be.

He took a long moment, taking in the way John drifted across to the kitchen, filling the kettle and switching it on. Sherlock scanned him, taking in the hair long overdue a trim, the way that the shirt of the uniform was a size smaller than John usually wore yet still appeared loose on him, the way his shoulders were slumped as if permanently weighed down. He took in the bags under the eyes, the too-pale skin, the light tremor in his hands as he grabbed a mug and made himself a cup of tea.

He was using Sherlock’s favourite mug, one with a schematic of a steam engine emblazoned across it. The shape of the mug had been perfect when Sherlock had seen it at a market – the handle just large enough to comfortably fit his hand through, without being over-large, and the thickness of the ceramic just enough to allow heat through without becoming unbearably hot. John had seen him admiring it, and had taken it out of his hands and paid for it immediately, citing a need to replace one of the older ones in the flat.

Sherlock had to fix things. Had to get John to realise it was really him, and not some fantasy phantom.

“I’m sorry I left, John.” he said, deciding to lead with an explanation, “I didn’t want to, but I had no choice – not if I was going to keep you and Mariana safe. The Spider – Moriarty – he had a back-up plan in place, one intended to force my hand. He had the rest of his web out there, waiting in the sidelines to take his place if he didn’t make it back and I did.”

The kettle came to a boil and clicked itself off. John lifted it, pouring the water into his – Sherlock’s – mug, and began to stir. He acted as though he hadn’t heard anything, but his shoulders had tensed slightly.

“I’ve been away these past few years, taking that web down. Country by country, strand by strand, I’ve worked to take them apart so that you’d both be safe. So that I could come home.”

Sherlock paused, taking a steadying breath as his felt his chest burn at the phrase. “If I’d left any sign that I was still alive, you and Mariana – alongside Mycroft, our friends, and your mother – would have been targeted. You’ve gone through so much, John – you’ve lost so much. Your father, Mary… I couldn’t let you lose Carol, or anyone else. And I couldn’t bear you being hurt. You or anyone else I love.

“But,” he took another breath, watching John throw the teabag away with visibly shakier hands before leaning against the kitchen table, “I hadn’t accounted to the fact that you’d be losing me. I left the voice note, hoping it would offer you some answers, and some comfort. And that you’d be OK with Mariana, and would be able to carry on.”

He cleared his throat, forcing himself to finish. “I knew you’d grieve, but I never realised the depths of grief you’d feel. I miscalculated, and for that I apologise. I cannot apologise for my actions keeping you safe, keeping you and Mariana protected, but I’m sorry for hurting you as much as I did. I’m sorry, John, and I’ve missed you endlessly.”

He watched John, wide-eyed and pleading for him to listen, to realise that he was really there. John stared back at him.

And then he started to cry.

He was quiet – barely making noise past the shuddery gasps for breath – but to Sherlock’s devastated heart John may as well have been wailing. It reminded him painfully of the months after Mary. Finding John awake at three in the morning, crying on the sofa with Mary’s musical box in his shaking hands.

The sight of it made all words vanish from his mind, replaced by the overpowering need to pull John close and comfort him, as he had done all those years ago. To wrap his arms around the shorter man, holding him tight as if his grip were the only thing keeping him together.

Sherlock took a step forward – but paused when John flinched, straightening up and backing away.

“Don’t!” John cried, “Don’t come any closer!”

Agony sliced through Sherlock like a blade. He was too late, and now John didn’t want him there. “John,” he croaked, “Please, I-”

The other man cut him off. “You always vanish when I get too close,” John blurted, “and I know you’re just a ghost, you aren’t real, but-”

His face crumpled, and he sobbed. “I don’t want you to go!”

Everything around them seemed to freeze. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure he was breathing.

“I’m not ready for you to stop haunting me again, not yet. It’s been so long, and I’ve started forgetting details. I forgot how your voice sounded when you were trying not to laugh, Sherls. I’ve forgotten how your hair felt against my neck when we hugged.” John’s voice was panicky, an awful combination of fear and heartbreak that Sherlock never wanted to hear again in his life.

“I started buying the shower gel you preferred because I was starting to forget what you smelled like, but it’s not the same. I’ve worn your hoodies, I have one of your pillows on my bed because they smelled like you, and they were all I had left, but they don’t smell of you any more.“

Another sob tore through him, and the doctor wiped roughly at his face, trembling. “I can’t remember all the colours in your eyes, no matter how hard I try to. When I stopped seeing you six months ago my therapist was convinced it was a positive sign, that I was getting better, but it wasn’t. I feel worse. Because at least when you were haunting me you were here again and I could remember.

“I know it’s not healthy, Sherlock – you’d have been the first to tell me that if you were still here. But you’re not here. All I have is your ghost, and my mind making up all the things I’d want to hear you say because it’d mean that I hadn’t failed the man I loved.”

Sherlock’s heart-rate shot into overdrive.

“John…” he whispered, overcome with emotion.

“When you died, a part of me died too, Sherlock. You fell at those bloody falls, and I wasn’t there for you like I promised I would be. I swore to you I’d stay with you, that we’d face that man together, but I wasn’t there when you needed me. I didn’t even have the guts to tell you how I felt.”

John laughed bitterly, glaring at his clenched hands. “If I’d stayed, I could have helped. If I’d told you how I felt, maybe you could have found another way. Maybe you wouldn’t have left me behind. But you did. You died, not knowing just how much I adored you. Because I was a coward, and I failed you.

“I thought my punishment for that was you haunting me, but it wasn’t. The real punishment was having your spirit there, only to lose you all over again. I don’t know why you’re back. Maybe I’ve finally gone insane. But better insanity than silence.”

“You never failed me, John.”

Sherlock’s chest was a riot of emotion. Guilt, for the pain his absence had caused. Relief, that John was still here, and he’d made it back to him. But above all, love. Love for the broken man in front of him. His best friend, his conductor of light, his John. His John, who had felt the same way all this time.

He took another step forward. John shook his head wildly, keeping the distance. “Please, don’t,” he begged, “Don’t do this.”

Another certain step forwards. Another lurching step back.

“John, it’s OK.”

Step.

Step.

“Please, if you come any closer you’ll fade again. I’m not ready, Sherlock, please, I’m not ready for you to go.”

Step.

Step.

“I don’t want to lose you again, please.”

Step.

Step.

Thump.

“You won’t lose me. I promise.”

John was pressed back against the kitchen wall, unable to get any further away. As Sherlock took another step he watched his podcaster’s eyes squeeze closed, more tears streaking down the man’s face.

One final step, and he was close enough to touch. With an unsteady hand, he cupped John’s cheek gently in his palm. He heard John inhale sharply, the other man’s body tensing in shock and seemingly forgetting to breathe.

“Open your eyes, John.”

Trembling, John shook his head, eyes still tightly closed. More tears managed to escape, and he brushed them away with his thumb. His other hand reached out, taking John’s wrist and drawing it towards himself. He could feel the other man’s racing pulse, see his fingers twitching as if torn between getting away and reaching out.

He guided John’s hand the last few centimetres, until it made contact with his chest, right above his own beating heart. He shifted his grip, sliding up to push the hand further against his ribs, to reinforce the contact.

“I’m here.” he promised quietly, and watched as John’s eyes fluttered open and stared in shock at their hands.

John’s hand pressed even harder against him, and his gaze slowly lifted from Sherlock’s chest up to his face. As their eyes met, he watched as John took him in properly – flickering across his features, taking in the changes, before focusing on his eyes.

A gasp, and John’s eyes were flooding with tears once more. “You’re here.” he breathed, “you’re actually here.”

“I’m here.” Sherlock repeated back. “I’m here, and I’ve missed you, and...”

Trailing off, he tightened his grip around John’s hand, pulling it up to his lips. Leaning forward, and maintaining eye contact, Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss against his palm, before tilting it to hold against his cheek, a mirror to his own.

“...and I love you, too.” he finished, voice flooded with affection. He watched John’s eyes widen, stunned and hopeful all at once as he processed the words.

The next moment, John tugged him forwards into a crushing hug, arms wrapped desperately around him and hands gripping his hoodie like a lifeline.

“I love you, god, I love you!” John sobbed into his collarbone, pressing himself to tightly against the detective that it felt as though he were trying to merge their beings into one. “Sherlock- Sherls – love, I’ve missed you so much-”

Sherlock threw his arms around John in return, and when he next spoke he found he was doing so through his own tears. “I’ve missed you too, I never wanted to leave and I’m sorry for hurting you, for leaving you behind.”

He tilted his head, pressing his nose into John’s hair, lips against the other’s temple, “I’ll never do it again. I promise, I swear to you John Watson, I will never willingly leave your side again. Not for as long as you want me.”

He felt John’s hiccuping laugh as much as he heard it, and shuddered at the brush of lips against his neck.

“Hope you’re ready to keep that promise forever then, love. Because that’s how long it’ll be.”

Sherlock’s heart fluttered. “Then forever it is, my dear John.” he promised.

“It is a British Christmas-time theatrical performance based on a fairy tale, presented as a broad comedy with songs, slapstick, and audience participation. I believe John has been chosen as the male actor playing the ‘Dame’, a standard feature.”

“I know what panto is. And I know what a Dame is, thank you. But John… you look… terrible.”

“Hey! I’m supposed to look terrible. Well, terrible in the sense of it being a comedic holiday play. It’s supposed to be funny.”

“Annnnnnd not easily passing to the general public as female is funny, is it?”

“…Ok, maybe it’s dated and, well, now that I think about it, stupid.”

“As are so many things in your culture.”

“It’s a longstanding theatre tradition, perhaps evolving from the time when women weren’t allowed on the stage, bolstered by a more modern, but still dated, time when it wouldn’t have been appropriate for a female actor to play a rather undignified role requiring physical comedy. But it’s no different than being a drag queen. And so long as there aren’t transphobic or misogynistic jokes in the production, I don’t see any particular harm. So much of contemporary progressive culture and thought is about exploring the performativity and flexibility of gender. Panto’s subversion of gender is something to be celebrated, not shunned.”

“See? The gay man has my back.”

“And the trans woman thinks you look ridiculous.”

“I believe that looking ridiculous is part of the point—if not all of it.”

“Thanks, mate!”

“Wait. This is a Christmas thing, no? Why are you dressing up in October?”

“Stammo usually does it for the kids at the hospital, but he’s going to be visiting the new in-laws for Christmas, so he asked me if I could take over. I told him I can’t sing and he said ‘I know, and the musical numbers will be even better that way.’ It starts up in late November, and we need to rehearse. I don’t wear the full costume just yet, but I wanted to see how I looked.”

“I’m telling you, between this and your speech to the kids, the secondhand embarrassment might just kill me. Time to add burial insurance to the company plan.”

“Since you have some time before the dress rehearsal, you could always ask Langdale for help?”

“Not a bad idea, Sherls! Do you think they’d mind giving me some pointers?”

“I’ll c all them.”

***

“Good to see you again. Thank you for coming over on such short notice.” “Was just wrapping up rehearsal for a new number, no trouble at all. John! The library is closed. Today, we go from busted to dusted!”

“I…don’t know what any of that means, but…have at it!”

“How are you holding up?”

“I’m fine. Bit behind on the edit for next week’s episode, but I figure if I really focus—”

“No, I mean the Sydney Sweeneys. I brought a few different sizes with me. Without these, the girls will drop to the floor. It makes for a funny bit, but it’s also a tripping hazard.”

“Oh! I just shoved some vests inside another one that doesn’t quite fit me anymore.”

“Those will fall as soon as you get out of that chair. Try these on. Sherlock? Which? He was always better than me at sizing…”

“I’d say…46…G.”

“You’ll want to sacrifice a pillow. Anything else would be uncomfortable.”

“I bet Stammo has actual prosthetics. He’s a plastic surgeon. I could ask him for one when we get closer to showtime.”

“This will feel better. We aren’t fishing, but we do want them to stay up.”

“I...don’t know what that means either.”

“I’ll go get my big poofy one that your dog destroyed.”

“Now put this all over your face and wipe it off with these.”

“I can shave this off.”

“Some directors like that look, but most don’t. We’ll wait and see what they think of a moustache. Just, don’t subject the kiddies to the one you had the last time you were in costume.”

“The last time I was in…? Oh. Oh, I had nearly forgotten all about that one. Thanks. Thanks a lot. You saw that, did you?”

“Along with all the residents of London who still watch the news. Fortunately, that isn’t too many people at the moment. Didn’t last long before they turned the cameras off, though.”

“You recognised me?”

“Not really. Hadn’t met you yet. But I did recognise Sherlito Musclini and so I made four. Saw you had crossed over to twunk, Sherls.”

“Thank you.”

“Well earned. Now… Let’s see. You actually do need to match your foundation or it will just look sloppy, not funny. We don’t want a bar queen.”

“John will always be a bar queen to me. Here you go. Pillow fluff. Courtesy of a hyperactive bulldog.”

“Ok. Stuff these in your brassiere while I figure out what shade you need. Not this. Definitely not this.”

“Ooh, I like this one!”

“That’s a good match for you. Take some. John here is being stubborn.”

“Sorry.”

“Nope. Nope. Maybe this will… We have a shade! Now it will be busy backstage, so you need to learn how to do this yourself. Put it on the sponge and dab it to blend it in. If they want you to shave you’ll need an orange color corrector. Opposite blue on the wheel so it knocks out the stubble. Try it just in case. Dab. Blend out. Dabbling, not smearing. That’s it! Wetting the shadow makes it last longer. Here. Wiggle the brush and move it up.”

“Oops.”

“The world’s fiercest raccoon! It takes practice. Cream cleanser. Wipe it off. Try again. I’d offer you false ones but they were stolen.”

“Stolen?”

“Stolen. We had someone break into the green room last night and they made away with a few props, some makeup, and a costume that was lying around.”

“What exactly was taken?”

“A tuxedo. Stage makeup—setting powder, some foundation, a bag of the lashes. And props for a dance number some kings were working on.”

“What kind of props?”

“Cane. Top hat. Tuxedo. Boots with spats. Pocketwatch. They just took whatever was lying around backstage. Was all repurchased this morning by our stage manager—the show must go on—but the lashes were still on backorder.”

“Replaced with the same items?”

“Ordered from a local distributor, so they were all the exact same things. Oh, except for the pocketwatch. That one was a bit different, but I only noticed because I was wiping it down to put it away—no prints but mine on that so don’t go arresting me. The new one has black hands and the old one had dark blue ones.”

“And they are golden? The new one and the stolen one?”

“Right.”

“We must head to the dressing rooms! There may still be vital clues! No, John, no time! Chop-chop! The game is afoot!”

***

They’d been called away from London, on a kidnapping case. One Tommy Winthrop, 28, begging them to come help find his fiancée, Evie Slater, 26, last seen 54 hours earlier, when she left to visit a friend and never came back. The only clue? One wilted red rose, stuffed in their mailbox. No security footage. But for the flower, it was as if she’d simply vanished into thin air.

Sherlock had immediately been interested in the mystery and, with the ticking clock of a missing persons case, they quickly packed their bags and took the first available train. Just the two of them, as Mariana was both busy and feeling slightly under the weather.

“Calling this one The Adventure of the Wilted Rose,” John had announced on the train. “Unless something more interesting comes up. But. I mean. A wilted rose, left behind like a… a… calling card? Yeah, that’s perfect for a title. Do you think it was a calling card? Hm? Any theories forming in that big brain of yours?”

Sherlock looked out the train window.

“Not enough information.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure, but. What do you think? About the rose. Mm? Was it.. A calling card? A warning? A… reason?”

“A reason?” Sherlock asked.

“Well, yeah, cause… Well, red rose, that’s for, like, romantic love usually, right?”

“So I’ve heard…”

“Yeah. And. I’m thinking… A jilted lover. Tommy said they just got engaged two weeks ago, right? Well, maybe some guy - or, or girl, you know - from Evie’s past heard about the engagement and… They felt like… She… belonged with them, not with Tommy.”

Sherlock stared at him with interest and shining eyes, leaning a bit over the train’s table, towards him.

“So, uh,” John continued. “Red rose for romantic feelings, wilted because the love…” He realised something. “Is…" This did not sound good for Evie. “Dead.“

"Brilliant, Watson,” Sherlock exclaimed, loud enough to earn them some curious looks. “Truly, excellent.”

“You think so?” John asked, feeling his face flush.

“Absolutely. It’s a very good theory. Of course, just a theory, as we do not yet possess enough facts. But you provided us with a place to start.”

John wondered if Sherlock truly had not thought about that possibility. He didn’t ask. He was pretty sure he must have thought about it too, and if Sherlock confirmed it, he would feel less proud of himself. 

So he just shot his friend a smile before adding,

“Yeah… But.. Actually, I’ve just realised. The fact that it’s wilted.”

“Yes?“

"Not a good sign. For Evie.”

“No, indeed.” Sherlock tapped his fingers to the table. “We must hurry, once we get there. If she is still alive, I suspect whoever took her will not keep her that way for long.”

They didn’t know how right he was. They were still in the train when they got the news: Evie Slater had been found dead in a bin, close to her home. Her throat had been slit.

Their kidnapping case had just turned into a murder case.

As for the wilted rose…

“Dehydrated?“

”Severely dehydrated", John said. “Whoever took her must’ve not given her water at all. No food either, but…”

“Lack of water kills faster.”

“Yeah… Especially in the summer. Her kidneys had already failed. If the kidnapper had waited a bit longer…”

The mysterious wilted rose had turned out to be less a symbol of dead romance and more a reminder that living beings died without access to water.

They still investigated the jilted lover avenue. No luck. They tried to find out if Evie had pissed off some hardcore environmentalist group. Nothing. No enemies at all.

The second day was coming to an end. They were back in their hotel room. It was late. John was already in his pyjamas, lying on his bed, when Sherlock sat up as if he’d just made an amazing discovery, and announced he needed to go check something.

“Right now?” John asked. “Can’t it wait till morning?”

“The sooner the better!” Sherlock said, and hurried to put his shoes on.

“Yeah… I’ll just…” He started slowly pushing himself off the bed.

Sherlock looked at him with a mixture of pity and concern.

“It’s alright, Watson,” he said after a few seconds. “I’ll go on my own. I only need to check one thing.”

“Are you sure?” John asked.

“Yes. I shall take Mini Mike with me. You rest.”

John let himself fall back on the mattress. 

“Alright. Be back soon.”

“Mm, no promises,” Sherlock said, and closed the door behind him. 

20 seconds of blissful silence later, John started feeling guilty for letting Sherlock go off on his own, at night, investigating something connected to a murder case.

He took his phone and typed out a text:

Be careful, alright?

He looked at it. For some reason, it felt too sincere. 

Maybe he just didn’t want Sherlock to know he was feeling guilty. Or maybe he didn’t want him to think he was actually worried. He wasn’t, after all. Nothing more than a slight unease.

He added another sentence, to make the text into something less serious. A joke.

Be careful, alright? I’m not coming after you if you get kidnapped too :))

He sent it, and after a few seconds Sherlock replied with a thumbs up.

He felt better, after that. Still, he decided to either wait up for him, or check in if he wasn’t back in an hour.

He set an alarm, just in case he fell asleep.

He did fall asleep.

He did not hear the alarm.

***

The call ended.

John tried not to panic.

It’s alright. It’s alright, he’ll just go to the reception desk and ask if anyone saw his friend.

He put his shoes on, took the mic and opened the door.

His blood froze. The feeling of dread in his chest rose, choking him.

Right outside, on the doormat, someone had left a single wilted rose.

He tried to breathe in, but felt he wasn’t getting enough air.

His hands shook as he grabbed his phone. He called Lestrade.

She did pick up, after only two rings. There was a lot of noise on the other end. People talking to each other. A crowd.

“What is it?” she asked.

He opened his mouth to talk.

He couldn’t. He felt like he was going to burst into tears if he did.

“Alright. Watson?”

For a moment, he felt slightly flattered that she had saved his number.

He nodded, not realising that it didn’t help.

“Did something happen to Sherlock?”

He took a big breath, squeezed his eyes, willed himself to calm down.

“Yeah,“ he managed to say. "He- He’s been kidnapped.”

She immediately made her way out of the noisy room and asked for more details. He told her everything he knew, and she told him she’s getting in her car and she’ll be there as soon as possible.

After they hung up, John stayed in the same spot, still shaking from the adrenaline.

Lestrade was coming. That was good.

But he had to do something, too. He had to try to investigate, gather clues at least. He couldn’t just sit around, waiting for Lestrade to arrive.

Every minute mattered.

***

*216 minutes later*

He didn’t know if it was luck, or a stroke of pure genius on his part, or adrenaline and the fear of losing his best friend working miracles. But his little investigation had been fruitful, and the clues he’d uncovered - though, mostly circumstantial - led him to believe that Evie must have been held in an abandoned theatre. And if Evie was, then Sherlock must be there, too.

He called Lestrade to tell her his suspicion. She didn’t seem too convinced, but admitted it was a possibility.

“But don’t do anything until I get there. Alright?”

John didn’t answer.

“Watson. I’ll be there in an hour.”

“Every minute counts.”

“I know,” she answered, at first placating, then, after having a moment to think about it, irritated. “I know! Who do you think I am?”

“Sorry…"

She sighed, seemingly deciding he wasn’t in his right mind.

“I know you’re worried. I’m worried too.”

A pause.

“I’m getting off the phone with you and calling the local police to let them know about your suspicion. Alright?”

“Yeah.“

“Alright.” She paused, again. “We’re still in the first 24 hours. The first victim was killed on the third day. Wasn’t she?”

“Yeah. Very early on the third day, but… Yeah.”

“You see why I’m reminding you this.”

As if he could forget.

But he did know what she meant.

“He’s probably still alive.”

“And will be for a while,” Lestrade added. “Just… Don’t do anything stupid, Watson.”

“Alright…" he half-heartedly agreed.

They ended the call.

One hour. Or however long the local police took, if they decided his suspicion was worth their time.

One hour.

She was right. He’d been gone for 13 hours. If the killer just wanted to get rid of him, he’d likely have done it already. If he was sticking to the same m.o. as in Evie’s case, then they had time.

Nothing guaranteed, of course. The killer could simply… Change his mind. Kill him earlier.

And even if he didn’t… He withheld water from his first victim. 

Past 24 hours of not drinking water… Heatstroke. Organ failure. Seizures.

He couldn’t let Sherlock go through that.

13 hours since he last saw him. 14 hours if he waited for Lestrade. 

But what if it took longer? What if they had to wait for a warrant?

What if he was wrong, and he wasn’t being held there? 

He couldn’t lose precious time waiting around.

John looked up at the old, imposing building.

He was already there, after all.

He had the gun Sherlock brought along. The one John always refused to use. He had water, and his first aid kit.

He’ll just… See if there’s a way in.

***

“I’m in!” he whispered for the listeners before he realised, if there was a deranged kidnapper slash killer around, he should probably be very, very quiet. 

He’ll just do some voice-over narration, if he decided to publish this case.

That is, if he - or anyone - managed to save Sherlock.

He shuddered.

Oh god.

Don’t think about it.

He’ll be fine. He’ll be alright. He’s Sherlock.

He can’t die like this.

He walked along the dusty, ruined corridors, gun out. He checked every little room he came across. If he were to hide in such a big building, for any reason, he’d choose a very small room.

He came to the stairs and climbed up, thinking he might find something in one of the changing rooms.

Nothing.

Just eerie silence. 

Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe he wasn’t here.

He tried to drive the thought away.

It was a huge building. And given the clues he’d uncovered, it would make sense for the kidnapper to bring his victims here. And being held hostage wasn’t a particularly loud activity, especially after 13 hours, after you’d grown tired of screaming for help and even if you did still want to scream, your throat wouldn’t let you.

He felt a lump in his own throat. 

Poor Sherlock. He must be so scared. 

He must know people are looking for him, at least. 

But neither he nor John knew if those people would manage to find him. And if they did find him, to get him to safety. 

What if they couldn’t?

What if Sherlock was alive right now, and they were both thinking about the same thing, and yet… And yet, from Sherlock’s perspective, nothing will happen. He’ll wait, and he’ll wait, and he’ll hope someone’s coming, better late than never, and he’ll keep hoping until he passed out from dehydration and then… Nothing.

John felt tears forming in his eyes.

No. No, no, no. No, that couldn’t happen.

He blinked them away.

He checked the last of the changing rooms, then made his way to a longer corridor. Something about it gave John the impression that he’d reached the part of the building the general public was meant to see.

He opened a door, and it became apparent he had found one of the balconies. Definitely not a good place to hide a kidnapping victim, but he entered, just to look around at the seats, the ornate walls, the beautiful but decrepit stage…

He gasped.

Right there, on the stage… On the fucking stage, tied to one of the two poles, near the very back…

“Sherlock?“ he asked before thinking better of it.

He listened, to see if his unwise question resulted in either the killer making a move, or the poor bastard tied up to the pole looking up at him.

Neither happened.

He hurried closer to the edge of the balcony, and… Yeah. His mouth was tied, obscuring part of his face, and his head was hanging, as if he was unconscious. But it was definitely Sherlock.

He froze for a second, shocked that he actually found him, and paralysed by the realisation that to get to him, he must take his eyes off him again.

It was still quiet. The killer might not be there. Or he could be in the stalls, below the balcony, or in the wings. Such a big, open space. Plenty of room to hide.

He needed to move. 

He didn’t want to take his eyes off Sherlock. He felt as if he was abandoning him.

For a moment, he was grateful the detective didn’t notice him. 

If John felt like he was abandoning him, what would a dizzy, scared Sherlock think?

Alright, he thought, not willing to make noise again. I’m coming to you. Hold on, Sherls.

He hurried out, back to the corridor, and found the nearest set of stairs that would take him down. His heart pounded. What if he was only gone for a few seconds, but when he got to the stage, Sherlock will have somehow disappeared?

He entered through the stalls, looked at the mass of chairs for any sign of the killer, then turned to the stage, to Sherlock.

To Sherlock, now awake, and a 40-something-year-old man pulling his friend’s head back by the hair and pressing a knife to his throat.

“Yeaah, I was there,” he said. “Good thing you decided to announce your presence. Gave me time to move.”

John straightened his arms to better aim at him, kicking himself for not being quieter.

"Let him go. Now.”

“No, I don’t think so,” the man said. “You’re interrupting. Put the gun down.”

John didn’t.

He tried to think of something clever, to persuade the man to let his friend go, or at least lower the knife.

Shit. Maybe he should have waited for Lestrade.

The man moved to hide more of his body behind Sherlock. The knife moved too, scraping Sherlock’s neck.

“No, please-” John begged, and instinctively moved to take a step forward.

“One more step!” the man roared.

John willed himself to freeze.

“Alright.”

“One more step and I slit his throat.”

“Alright, I’m not moving. Sorry.”

“And put that gun down.”

John considered his options.

He couldn’t really shoot the man. Besides the moral aspect of it - which wasn’t bothering him too much at the moment - he very likely physically couldn’t do it. The only part of the man he could clearly see was his face, and his face was only a few centimetres from Sherlock’s. If he tried to shoot and missed - which was a real possibility due to the distance and his not having shot a gun in years - he might either shoot his best friend in the face, killing him instantly, or lead the man to actually slit Sherlock’s throat. Killing him instantly.

Put down the gun? Couldn’t do that either. This was his only bargaining chip, the only way he could keep himself at least slightly in control of the situation. What if he put it down and the man just killed Sherlock, right then and there? Right in front of him. How could he live with himself if that happened?

Only one option, then.

“Can’t do that, sorry. What don’t we just… Talk. A bit.”

The man sighed, clearly annoyed.

“I-I don’t. Wanna talk.”

“What do you want, then?”

“I want… You… To go away. So I don’t have to dispose of your friend earlier than I have to.”

“Alright…" John said. “You’re right, you know? He is my friend. He’s my best friend, actually. His name is Sherlock. But I call him Sherls sometimes. And I’m John.”

“I know.”

John blinked. 

He did not expect that.

“H-how do you know?”

“I’ve done my research, didn’t I? After I caught this one. You have a podcast. I listened.”

Shit. Ok. He not only knew their names, but had heard a few episodes too. And he still seemed willing to kill Sherlock.

John didn’t know how to continue.

“Um. Alright… What’s your name?”

The man sighed, or rather groaned in frustration.  But he did answer.

“Peter.”

“Ok. Ok. Listen, Peter. I’d really like to-” A lump in his throat cut off his voice. He breathed in, and continued. “-go home. With him. Alive and well. So… I’d really appreciate if you would… Just… Let him go. Please?”

That wasn’t gonna work, was it.

“That’s not gonna work,” Peter said.

Yeah, it would’ve been too good, wouldn’t it?

John decided to change tactics.

“Alright, well what do you wanna do? Cause I’m not leaving. I’m not putting my gun down. You’re not gonna get to… Peacefully complete your… Ritual, or whatever it was.”

“It’s research.”

“Yeah, well, you’re not getting that back. So, we could stay here and talk. Which. I- I don’t think you’d like. Or you-” he hesitated saying the next part aloud “-could kill him now, and then I immediately kill you. And nobody wins. Or. You could just.. Let him go.”

“Yeah, I already said that’s not happening.”

“You could run away,” John said. “I won’t follow.”

Peter seemed surprised by John’s words. He seemed to consider that plan.

“I’m serious,” John said, and hated that he had no secret plan to actually capture Peter if he made a run for it. He could probably try to catch him, but he wasn’t very confident in his running abilities. And what if Peter still had the knife, and saw that John was going back on his word, and circled back to stab Sherlock, who would still be immobilised? He knew who the killer was now. He could just tell the police. And they would catch him. “I’ll stay with Sherlock. To untie him. You could escape.”

Of course, the best case scenario was the local police, who should have heard from Lestrade by now, waiting for Peter outside the building. But they weren’t that quick, and they wouldn’t know to look out for Peter anyway.

“What do you say?” John asked.

For a few seconds, it seemed like it was gonna work.

Then Peter said,

“Yeah, but you’ll tell the police who I am…”

“I won’t,” John lied.

“You’re lying. I mean, I’m not judging you, it’s… Your civic duty and whatnot. But… Yeah, no. If I’m going to jail I might as well finish what I started.”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

“Peter, do you have anyone you love? Parents, sib-”

“Yeah, yeah. I- I’m not gonna… Change my mind just cause you love him. Yeah? The girl… Had… Family too. I know… That stuff…”

Alright. That won’t work, then. Another approach.

“Peter,“ John said, aiming his gun better. "Listen to me. If you kill him. I will kill you. I’m not joking.”

“Yeahh…” Peter said. “But… I told you, I’ve done some research. And I… Just… I don’t think you’re gonna shoot me. Doctor Watson.”

“Yeah? Well, I don’t think you understand what I would do for Sherlock. Fi-”

Peter laughed. It echoed in the empty theatre.

John’s brows furrowed in confusion. He didn’t seem to be pretending. He was actually laughing.

“Final warning,” he shouted, trying to cover the sound of laughter. “Let him go. Now." 

He prayed it would work. He really didn’t wanna risk shooting at them from that distance.

The man let out a final wheeze, then stopped laughing.

"You know what? You’ve convinced me, actually.”

John felt a tiny bit of tension melt from his shoulders. Still, he kept his gun trained on the killer.

“I don’t need to see him… Fade away, too. Yeah. Saw the girl, already.”

John breathed a bit easier.

“I mean,” the man said and glanced at Sherlock’s terrified face before looking back at John. “This might actually be more interesting.”

What?

John saw the knife turn just a little - a better angle for cutting a throat. The beginning of a movement, from the left to the right.

“No!!” he screamed, and pulled the trigger.

He closed his eyes, fearing, in the moment after pulling the trigger, that he might not have hit the intended target.

He heard a muffled yelp, followed by the knife clattering to the floor, then a body falling down.

He opened his eyes.

Peter was on the floor. Sherlock was clearly alive, panting, with his head still tilted back and his kidnapper’s blood on his face.

And at the very left of his neck…

“Shit,” John said, and hurried towards the stage, praying the man didn’t have time to cut too deep. “Let me see. Let me see.” He got to the stage just as Sherlock opened his eyes and made an attempt to straighten his head. “No, stay like that! Don’t move.”

Two more steps, and…

“Let me see,” he whispered, and inspected the small cut on Sherlock’s neck. It was bleeding, but not profusely. John dropped to his knees and rummaged in his backpack for the first aid kit. He picked some gauze and pressed it to Sherlock’s injury for a few seconds. He grabbed his phone, turned on the flashlight, and looked again.

It wasn’t deep. Just a small cut that was only bleeding like it was because of the location. Now, with the flashlight, John could see another, very superficial scrape along the middle of the neck. Most likely received when the kidnapper adjusted his position. That one wasn’t even bleeding. Just a bit red. 

He’d been extremely lucky.

“You’re ok,” he told Sherlock, and finally looked at his face.

He’d been crying. He still was.

“Sherlock…”

He raised his hand to touch his face, but Sherlock flinched away.

Alright. Fair enough. He’d just been through something horrible, maybe he should have warned him.

He quickly covered the injury on his neck with another piece of gauze, then turned his attention back to Sherlock’s face.

“I’m untying you,” he said, and quickly removed the bandana covering his mouth. His face fell when Sherlock opened his mouth to reveal he’d also been gagged with some sort of rag.

“Jesus Christ…” he whispered. He pulled it out, carefully, then threw it on the floor.

Sherlock immediately turned his head to look at Peter’s body, lying on the stage floor in a puddle of blood. The kidnapper’s face was… Well. It was barely recognisable.

“Look at me, Sherls.”

Sherlock did. His eyes were wide, and still terrified. They looked at John like they couldn’t believe what they just saw. Like they didn’t even recognise John. Like John was… A danger.

He couldn’t… He couldn’t be scared of John, could he? Yes, he did just kill someone. And the bullet came dangerously close to Sherlock. And he could have very well killed Sherlock himself. But… Surely, his friend understood that he had to, right? Peter was moving the knife. He was about to kill Sherlock. So he had to shoot him. Surely, Sherlock understood.

And him flinching away from John was just a coincidence.

“Can you talk?”

Sherlock opened his mouth. He couldn’t get any words out, so he closed it and tried to swallow.

John expected this. After hours without water, and having to hold that rag in his mouth… His mouth and throat were probably too dry to speak.

“Hold on,” John said, and pulled a bottle of water out of the backpack. He brought it to Sherlock’s lips. “Just a sip, yeah? We don’t wanna… Overwhelm your body.”

Sherlock did take one sip. Then, he immediately tried to speak again.

“Ba-“ He swallowed again. Coughed. "Bath…”

“Bathroom?“ John guessed.

"Mhm.”

“Right. Yeah. Shit. Ok, hold on.”

He moved to the back of the pole and started untying the rope holding Sherlock’s body pressed to it. The bindings seemed rather tight. Once they were loose, blood would return to the parts that were now more or less numb and… Well. 

Ouch.

Wait.

John checked Sherlock’s hands, to make sure the rope around his wrists had not acted as a tourniquet and cut off the entire blood supply. If it had, the limb would be long dead now, and untying it would mean allowing the dead blood to flow to the rest of Sherlock’s body, which would NOT be a good idea at all.

But fortunately, Sherlock’s hands looked fine. He touched one of his fingers.

“Can you feel this?”

“Yeah.”

“What am I touching?”

“Finger.”

“Alright.”

He inspected the ropes around his wrists closer. Yes, they were tight, and his poor friend’s hands were red where they had rubbed together, but the bindings weren’t tight enough to cut off all blood flow. Thank god.

“Alright, I’m untying you now. Just had to check something.”

He untied Sherlock’s wrists, then checked his legs too.

They were fine, too, so he untied them.

Sherlock was already groaning and grinding his teeth as the feeling returned to his body.

John got up, to see if he could help. He wasn’t sure how long Sherlock could remain upright, given the combination of feeling returning to his body, having sat upright for hours and possible muscle spasms from both that and dehydration. So he touched his shoulder, to try to steady him.

Sherlock flinched.

He didn’t pull away or anything, but it was enough.

One time was a coincidence. Two times, paired with the way he had looked at him…

Yeah. John had managed to make his best friend afraid of him. Hadn’t he.

Well, in that case, this was going to suck for Sherlock, because he clearly couldn’t walk on his own and there was nobody but John around to help.

“Can you move?” he asked, more as a courtesy. He knew the answer already.

Sherlock tried to take a step and almost came crashing to the ground. 

John caught him.

“Right. Don’t worry, it’ll come back to you. Let’s find a bathroom, yeah?”

They moved too slow together, so John left him on one of the chairs while he ran out of the room, to locate the nearest toilet. It was, fortunately, just outside the stalls, so John returned to Sherlock quickly enough.

When he got to him, Sherlock had his eyes fixed on Peter’s body.

“You killed him…” he said, and sounded like he still couldn’t quite believe it.

John felt his shoulders sag in defeat. That settled it, then. It wasn’t his imagination. He wasn’t making this up. Sherlock really was upset with him. 

“Yeah,” John admitted. “Well. I had to, didn’t I?”

Sherlock looked away, as if rejecting John’s argument.

He supposed he was right to. It didn’t have to be like that. If only he’d waited for backup. If only he’d been smart enough to know how to persuade Peter to let Sherlock go… But he wasn’t. He had to kill someone, and endanger his best friend.

He was right to be mad at him, of course. But it still stung.

“Come on,” John said. “I found a bathroom.”

He helped him hobble to the bathroom and left him there to do his business. He hurried back to the stage to retrieve his backpack and the water.

“Sherlock!” he shouted when he got back. “I’m leaving you the water bottle next to the door, yeah? You can… Take it and drink some water, alright? Just… Slowly. Ok?”

No answer for a few seconds.

“Did you hear me?” John asked, already fearing that Sherlock had passed out or something, and who knows if he locked the door or not-

“Yes! Thank you!”

Alright. John calmed down. Good. He was ok. Everything would be ok.

He’ll… Try to explain himself to Sherlock, later. When the waters calmed down. He’ll tell him he tried to reason with Peter, and… And perhaps, if the roles were reversed this wouldn’t have happened. Perhaps Sherlock would have been able to save John without killing anyone. But John couldn’t. He messed up by not waiting for Lestrade. He messed up by announcing his presence. He messed up trying to negotiate with Peter and could have very well messed up his shot and become the cause of Sherlock’s death.

That’s what he was, wasn’t he? A mess-up. Sherlock should have expected this by now.

At least he’d managed to rescue his friend. That was the most important thing.

John pulled his phone out of his pocket.

“I’m gonna call Lestrade and tell her you’re ok, yeah?”

“Lestrade?”

“Yeah! She was coming to help!” John replied, then winced as he realised that he gave Sherlock the perfect reason to be even more disappointed in him. He hadn’t known he was supposed to wait for Lestrade, but decided to investigate the theatre on his own. 

He certainly could deduce it now.

“I see…” Sherlock’s voice came, quieter than before.

Yeah, John thought. Of course you see.

He called Lestrade.

“Half an hour, Watson,” she answered.

“Yeah, so, I didn’t wait.”

He heard her sigh, and could almost see her closing her eyes and pinching the bridge of her nose.

“He’s ok. I- I mean-”

“You found him?”

She sounded impressed. John’s mouth curled into a small smile, if only for a second.

“Yeah. He’s a bit injured, and.. Dehydrated and stiff and he should really eat something. But. He’s safe now.” Something occurred to John. “Unless the kidnapper had an accomplice or something, but I don’t think-”

“Was the kidnapper with him?”

“Yeah. He’s uh… He’s. Dead. Now.”

“How?”

“I… Had to… Shoot him.”

A long silence.

“He was gonna kill Sherlock,” John added.

“Yeah… You know you’re gonna have to give a statement. At the station.”

“I know.”

“Alright.” Another long silence, followed by a relieved exhale. “How injured did you mean?”

John explained it in more detail. She went quiet for a while, possibly with the realisation that Sherlock really had been that close to dying. John wondered if she blamed him too, for being the reason Peter even considered killing Sherlock that early. He didn’t ask, of course. He was sure that would result in her telling him outright just how stupid he was. And he really didn’t want that.

She instructed him to call 999 and tell them what happened, and assured him that, if Sherlock had to go to the hospital while John was questioned, she would go with Sherlock, so he wouldn’t be alone.

“That’s great,” John said, thinking that Sherlock would probably prefer that too. “Thank you.”

They hung up. John called 999 and told them what had happened.

Sherlock got out while John was still on the phone. He had washed the blood off his face, and was now sitting down next to the bathroom door, holding the water bottle and taking small sips every ten seconds or so.

John hung up the phone. He looked at Sherlock. He had made himself so small. Knees drawn up to his chest. Holding on to the water bottle like a child would hold on to a toy. His hair was a mess, even though he had clearly tried to smooth it out in the bathroom. He was even shaking a little bit. Breathing very controlled.

All of the sudden, all the fear and stress John had been feeling since he found the wilted rose, and the immense relief of seeing Sherlock alive and safe hit him with such intensity that he immediately teared up. His body screamed at him, begged him to run to Sherlock and hug him, hold him close and pet his hair and tell him, ‘I’m so glad you’re alright, Sherlock, you don’t know how scared I was, how relieved I am, how much I love you, how absolutely broken I would have been if you died’. 

John bit his lip, and told himself he can’t, he can’t invade Sherlock’s space, Sherlock didn’t feel comfortable, didn’t feel safe with him at the moment, he couldn’t make Sherlock uncomfortable just so he could feel better.

He tried to refrain from bursting into tears, but he couldn’t keep them at bay for long. The fear, the relief, the shame of messing up and the way his heart clenched because he couldn’t even hug his friend… He gasped, once, and covered his mouth as his tears fell. He turned around, so that Sherlock wouldn’t see him, or maybe so he wouldn’t see Sherlock. Probably the latter. Sherlock wasn’t looking at him anyway. He hadn’t looked at him once since he’d left the bathroom.

He forced himself to calm down in record time, wiped his tears away, and sat down on the floor, opposite Sherlock. He looked at the detective for a while, telling himself that if Sherlock looked back at him he would attempt to at least apologise, if not talk about it.

But Sherlock seemed to avoid his gaze even more than before. So John looked away too. 

They sat alone, in tense silence, for around ten minutes, until the police and ambulance arrived.

***

It was early evening when John returned to their hotel room. He unlocked the door with his key card, knowing that Sherlock must already be inside. Lestrade had texted him as soon as Sherlock was given the ok from the hospital. He knew he must’ve arrived at the hotel almost two hours before John.

He opened the door and saw the light was on. Sherlock was on his bed. He was texting someone, or maybe just writing something down, but he stopped as soon as John entered the room. He greeted him with a stiff “Hello.”

“Hi,” John said, and sat on his own bed. Sherlock was still avoiding looking at him, of course. “How you feelin’?”

“Alright,” Sherlock said. “Thank you.”

Tense, awkward silence again. John eyed the remote, thinking that it would be easier to just turn on the telly and try to pretend everything was fine. But it wasn’t. And he couldn’t stand his best friend not wanting to even look at him. They needed to have a talk. He just… Didn’t know how to start.

“Um…”

A small silence, as John was trying to gather his words. Then…

“I’m sorry, John,” Sherlock said as if someone forcibly pushed the words out of him.

For a moment, John wasn’t sure what Sherlock could possibly be apologising about. Then he realised.

“No,” he answered, “No, it’s ok. I-I mean I get it. You… Need your space. I understand.”

Sherlock raised his head, and looked at him for the first time in hours.

“What?” 

They stared at each other, with mirrored expressions of confusion on their faces.

“What- What do you mean ‘what’?”

“I am expressing confusion at your response.”

“Yeah, I know- Why- W- You- Wait, why were you apologising?”

Sherlock looked down again, avoiding John’s eyes. He clasped his hands together, as he usually did when trying to calm his nerves.

“Because I made you kill someone.”

For a few seconds, they were both silent. Sherlock was still looking down. John was trying to understand what the hell was going on. Two floors above them, some kids were arguing with their parents. John and Sherlock’s room was so quiet, they could hear them pretty well.

“You didn’t make me kill him,” John finally said. “What do you even mean?”

“You… Told me to be back soon, and take care. And- I did try to take care, but I underestimated the danger I would be in. I put you in the exact situation you warned me not to put you in. You even said you would not come after me if I-”

“Oh my god. Sherlock. Don’t… Don’t you dare finish that sentence. You have to know I was joking.”

Sherlock smiled the tiniest smile.

“I know. But… I still inconvenienced you.”

“Sherlock…”

“And you had to come after me. And you had to kill someone. To save me. So… I’m sorry. Please, John, forgive me. I- I know it doesn’t work that fast but I-” John numbly noticed that Sherlock was tearing up. “I can’t have you be mad at me, or, you can be mad but please don’t be distant. Not now. John. Please.”

John just stared at him. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, the pieces were clicking together, and he was slowly realising what had actually been going on.

“I’m not mad…” was the only thing that he managed to say.

“Then why-” Sherlock was breathing very controlled again. Trying his best to stay calm. Not to cry. “I- I thought… No. After it became clear that I couldn’t get myself out of there… I… I trusted you to find me. Even if you said you wouldn’t come for me, I knew it was a joke, and you would… Try to find me. If not on your own, then with Gwen’s help. But… The hours passed. And I was afraid.”

John’s heart clenched.

“Sherlock…”

“I was afraid. And. In pain. And I… seriously considered the possibility that I might die there. And… And then you found me! And you tried to negotiate, and when that didn’t work, you… You killed someone. To save me. And- I don’t want to insult your skills, Watson, but you were quite far away, and I didn’t think you could hit him from that distance. And- And you did. And- After all that. As you were untying me, I thought… Everything will be alright now. Because John is here. And-” Sherlock blinked, and two tears rolled down his cheeks. “And I thought you would hug me, I thought, you would be happy to see me and you would tell me, ‘I’m so glad you’re alright, Sherlock’. But you didn’t.”

“Sherlock, of course I’m glad you’re alright-”

“You just… You helped me, yes. But you kept your distance.”

John stared as Sherlock wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. 

Had he really misunderstood so badly?

“I… I thought you were scared of me.”

“Why would I be scared of you?” 

“Well. I mean. I killed someone.”

“To save my life.”

“Yeah, but… I thought…” He considered explaining that he failed to bring backup, that he announced his presence, that he failed to convince Peter to give up, but those had more to do with disappointing Sherlock than scaring him. “Well. Why did you flinch, then?”

For a moment, Sherlock did actually look disappointed.

“Watson. You are a doctor. And you have PTSD. Do you honestly think that was in reaction to you?”

“Well… Not at first, but…” But two times? And it wasn’t just that. “And. You were looking… I mean, you looked at… Peter’s body. And then at me. And you looked like. Like you didn’t even know who I was anymore.”

“Of course I knew who you were!”

“Yeah, no, I don’t mean- I mean like you didn’t… Like you couldn’t believe what I’d just done.”

“Yes!” Sherlock said. “I was amazed that you managed to do it! Both because you were far away, and he was very close to me, and… Because… You have often refused to use our gun, even on known murderers.”

“Mate, it was either that or he slit your-” John stopped abruptly, not wanting to finish the sentence.

They were both silent for a moment.

The last puzzle pieces finally clicked in John’s head, and he had the complete picture.

“You… You didn’t want me to.. Give you space.”

Sherlock looked down and shook his head vigorously.

“You… avoided looking at me because… You thought… You thought I was mad at you.”

Sherlock nodded, then looked back up.

“Are you really not?”

“Sherls…” John reached out a hand, and his friend took it. “I’m. Not even a little bit mad at you. I’m just… So damn relieved that you’re alright. And…”

And now that he understood what had happened. That Sherlock hadn’t been scared of him. Or disappointed. Just… In understandable distress after being kidnapped and almost dying. 

He’d needed John to be there for him, to comfort him. And John had done his best to keep his distance.

“God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry.”

He opened his arms to invite a hug and Sherlock more or less pounced on him, wrapping his long arms around him and burying his face in his shoulder. John returned the gesture, holding his friend as close as he’d wanted to in the theatre.

“Does that mean you forgive me?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded. “Oh. That’s good.”

Neither broke the hug, and after a few seconds, John realised his friend was trying to control his breathing, again. Which probably meant that he was trying to keep himself from crying.

Hm.

He didn’t know what happened in the few hours they were apart, after the local police and an ambulance had arrived at the old, abandoned theatre. But John supposed his friend didn’t have time to have a proper cry about what happened, and especially about what could have happened.

It might do him good. To let it all out, as they said.

But he couldn’t exactly tell him that. Could he?

It was Sherlock. He probably could.

Still. He decided on a more subtle approach.

He stroked Sherlock’s back, trying to get him to relax. He told him,

“It’s ok… It’s alright, mate.”

His hand moved up, to stroke Sherlock’s hair, too. His head was warm under his palm. He was warm.

John squeezed his eyes, trying not to think of how easily he could have lost him.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, for both their sakes.

Sherlock let out a quiet sob. Then another. John let his palm rest on the back of Sherlock’s neck, and his friend adjusted his arms to hold on better.

He was crying in earnest now.

John let him.

He whispered “It’s ok,” every now and then.

After a while, he started itching to call him something, some pet name that would condense his affection for him into one single word.

Something like sweetheart. Or darling. Or love.

But he couldn’t. He didn’t want to be too much, and anyway, the first two didn’t really feel like his words. Maybe he’d used sweetheart many years ago, with an ex. But so much time had passed. And darling. That was too Carol Watson.

And love… He did sometimes call people love. It wasn’t as weird. He could get away with calling him that, just this once. Special occasion and all.

Still. He probably shouldn’t.

His friend kept crying.

“It’s alright, Sherlock,” he whispered. 

Oh, but he couldn’t keep it in. Buddy and mate and his name just weren’t cutting it anymore.

“It’s alright, my love.”

Ok. Yeah. Didn’t really plan for that ‘my’ to get in there.

Sherlock definitely noticed, and was so taken aback that he immediately went from crying his eyes out to little more than sniffling.

“It’s ok,” John added, trying to pretend he didn’t even notice what he’d said. 

Sherlock didn’t say anything. He took another half a minute to completely stop crying, then slowly extracted himself out of John’s arms. 

He sniffed.

“I think… I might have needed that. Thank you, John.”

“Of course,” he answered. “Anytime. Just-” He chuckled, to try to ease the atmosphere, “-maybe next time without the kidnapping and almost getting murdered?”

“Yes!” Sherlock laughed once, and pointed at him, like he usually did when he got a joke he didn’t expect to get. “Indeed!”