S. Diana Nimm

February brought an unusual amount of snow, which led to a heretofore unprecedented amount of cozy, holed-up-in-the-flat, fireside sex. John still went to the clinic every day that he was able, but he kept much shorter hours, preferring to make the walk to and from the surgery in daylight. Of course, John could always be relied upon to make a housecall, even if the journey would otherwise be hazardous to himself, but Sherlock had the benefit of his warm presence in the flat far more often than usual. And on days when neither of them had been called to any sort of work, they slept late, lounged about in their pajamas until noon, read the newspaper together, lazily sucked one another off on the sofa, and bickered about what to have for supper before going to bed at an unreasonably early hour so that they would have time to shag into the wee hours and do it all again the next day. 

All in all, it was glorious.

And, much to Sherlock’s delight, crime had not necessarily taken a holiday. A few times a week, Gregson would slog through the snow to 221B with a few sheafs of paper bearing the meagre evidence his police farce (as Sherlock privately referred to them) had been able to gather. In the month of February alone, Sherlock solved three murders (all rated under a six), eight burglaries, two cases of arson, and even one kidnapping. It was altogether a very satisfying month in more ways than one.

The cream on top of the whole jam roly-poly (a treat John was an expert in making) that was February was that Sherlock noticed connections between several of the crimes. The first murderer had, himself, been the victim of the second murder ‒ a sloppy assassination executed by a man called James Roman who refused to speak in his own defense. Two of the burglaries had been in the same street near River Court in South Bank, which seemed too coincidental to truly be a coincidence. And finally, the kidnapper had in his possession a business card for Open Doors Building Company. That was when Sherlock gasped and clapped his hands together and began pacing circles about the flat.

*-*

Their breathing escalated in tandem, as though they had been running rather than staring silently at one another for a long, quiet moment. But in a way, they had. They had been running with and around and from one another for months, neither one quite prepared to come to a halt and say what needed saying. The running was over ‒ for now, anyway. No doubt they would soon be flying down the pavement again in hot pursuit of some criminal or another.

But for the moment, they were still. 

John finally blinked as though waking and managed to get his key in the lock of the door to 221B. Sherlock followed him in and they were silent as they removed their coats, dropped them on the pegs by the door, and made their way into the sitting room. Turning toward Sherlock, John braced himself for an unbearable measure of awkwardness. What now? We just… start living together? I make supper and Sherlock forgets to eat it and we go back to sharing a room?

That all sounded rather wonderful, actually.

When John looked up and met Sherlock’s eye, he decided that supper would have to wait. There was a distinct gleam which darkened his otherworldly gaze and the corner of his mouth was pulling slowly up into a smile. John felt his own cheek lifting and soon they were both grinning at each other like a pair of cats who had gotten the cream.

Finally, John breathed out, “Oh, fuck it all,” and grasped Sherlock by the lapels. He crushed their lips together and could not help the sigh that poured into Sherlock’s mouth. Instantly, Sherlock’s arms were around his waist, pulling him close, and John revelled in the feeling of their warm bodies pressed together after far too long. 

*-*

Things were mostly quiet, though a general malaise hung over the flat, casting every thought and simple action with a tinge of grey. They reached a new sort of balance. Occasionally, while Sherlock was sitting in his chair, John would deliver a cup of tea with the smallest of touches to the back of his wrist. Or he would gently place his hands on Sherlock’s waist to move him aside as John passed close by in the kitchen. It seemed that he was less hesitant to be near to Sherlock, as he had been in weeks past. But the extra wrinkle between his brows did not go away.

He slept upstairs.

It was an odd sort of torture. No, not torture, because it was bearable. Sherlock could feel somehow that their new normal was less painful. He was less compelled to do something… rash. Dangerous. Harmful.

He had to focus. He had to put his mind to use.

“I need to speak with Moriarty.”

John started a little at Sherlock’s abrupt declaration, looking up from the newspaper in his hand. “Alright…” he said slowly, waiting for Sherlock to elaborate.

“Would you… come with me?” Going to Bart’s to try and find Moriarty would be the first activity either of them had proposed in the nine days since returning from the cemetery. Largely, they had remained in the flat, with the exception of John’s clinic shifts. Sherlock had papered the wall above their sofa with notes and sketches, trying to find the connection ‒ any connection ‒ between Moriarty’s time travel and his own. Down the center of the wall, he had tacked a wide red ribbon to divide the space into two sections. The area that was not consumed with notes on the mechanics of time travel was plastered with articles and newspaper etchings of the murders that had occurred since he’d come to this time. He was missing a connection there, too. But staring at the wall had produced no result, and so the time had come to try another tactic.

“Oh, erm, sure,” John said. “Wasn’t he in Ireland?”

“The last I heard, yes,” Sherlock said, his words picking up speed. It was a relief for John to have agreed to go with him. “He was meant to be visiting family. But the only way to know if he’s back is to go and see. I don’t know where he lives ‒ Miss Hooper is the only person I can think of who might have any idea as to his location.”

“Alright. Let me just… get my coat.” John’s tone was one of surprise, as though he had absolutely not expected Sherlock to want his company with anything other than moping around the flat. But the doctor stood from his chair and slipped into his winter coat before looking at Sherlock expectantly.

And off they went.

*-*

Greg felt as though his mind had been squeezed through a garlic press. All of this was way beyond his ken, but Chris had the patience of a saint. Time travel and the paranormal had never interested Greg, so the jargon was all new to him. But if Chris was willing to take the time to walk him through the desert, Greg owed it to him and to Sherlock to make it to the Holy Land. As it were.

They had relocated their research to the Central Library of Imperial College, where Chris was a student. Thankfully, the library was open twenty-four hours, so even though they had passed into the wee hours and were closer to dawn than dusk, they had the luxury of a full-service library at their disposal. 

“Alright,” a heavy sigh preceded Chris’s arrival back at their table and he dropped a large atlas-style book down in front of Greg. “Maps of ley lines around the globe.”

“And ley lines are where weird stuff has happened,” Greg confirmed, trying to remember all that he had learned with Chris in the past day.

“Right. Points all over the world where supernatural events have occured, connected by straight lines across the map.” He flipped through the pages until he came to a map of London. “This is just a possible theory ‒ I don’t know if any of the points line up.” The map was crossed all over with red indicator lines and a few large red dots that formed triangles over the city. A few of the points were familiar to Greg, spots where stories of weird events had taken place.

“The first place is Tower Bridge,” Greg leaned in, cursing himself for having left his readers sitting on his desk back at the Yard, and examined the spot through squinted eyes. “The line doesn’t cross exactly through the tower where Sherlock fell, but one does go through the bridge itself.”

“And there are a few lines that surround the area,” Chris said encouragingly.

“How exact does it have to be?”

“I’m not sure,” he answered. “But I’m sure there’s some room to… wiggle. We’re talking about energy, not guided missiles. I’m sure there’s a possibility for a flow or even a pool.” Greg chewed his lip in thought. “Where else?”

“Gower Street,” Greg said, running his finger along the map. “Again, it’s between three lines.” He paused, thinking as hard as he was able.

“Has it only been those two places?” Chris pressed.

Greg sighed, feeling defeated. “So far. And they were ages apart, so it’s difficult to determine a pattern.”

“When were they?” Chris sat down across the table and gave an exhausted stretch, arms over his head, and cracked his back against his chair.

“Erm…” Greg flipped through the notebook he kept in his jacket pocket for making case notes on the fly. “Twenty-second September and twenty-first December.” They were both growing tired and Greg could almost feel the drowsiness wafting off of Chris. He fought a yawn as Chris leaned forward again.

“Wait…” Every thought and sentence came so slowly. “The equinox and the solstice?”

“The what?”

“Many civilizations celebrate festivals at the turning of the seasons.” Sitting up straighter, Chris grabbed a book and pulled it forward, flipping through until he came upon an illustration of planets and their movements. Apparently it was some sort of calendar. “The Celts have Lùnastal and Samhain ‒ the first days of fall and winter. Their calendar is a bit earlier than ours, but the idea is the same.”

Greg was definitely in over his head. “What idea?”

“That at certain times of the year, supernatural events are more likely to occur because of an imbalance in the forces of the universe.” If Chris weren’t so nice and helpful and obviously intelligent, Greg would swear he was a lunatic. “The earth is either closest or farthest from the sun in its revolution.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“No one really knows,” Chris admitted with a shrug. “The earth is made of magnets that are constantly pulling and pushing things. Maybe when the earth is more or less magnetized, something happens.” Jeez, it’s all so vague, Greg thought. “Maybe the veil between this plane and another is made thin. Or even torn.” Chris gave Greg a look that suggested he really didn’t know, but believed it all the same.

Why not?

*-*

He was right. He was always right eventually. And, Sherlock begrudgingly admitted to himself, he was right with John’s help.

“Here it is,” he said without trying to hide the smugness in his voice. Sherlock flicked the bank record in John’s direction and he took it without looking up. John had been behaving strangely. For the past fourteen hours, ever since he had awoken so suddenly from his accidental nap on the couch, John had barely made eye-contact with Sherlock. He had been curt and quick to anger and his brow had gained an extra furrow. Odd, Sherlock thought, glancing at the other man from the corner of his eye. Perhaps it has something to do with the obviously erotic dream he was having. Sherlock had the presence of mind to pretend to be deep inside his Mind Palace when John went up to his own bedroom, presumably to take care of his obvious erection and sleep some more. Sherlock fastidiously ignored the pang in his chest at the thought of John alone upstairs.

“So Janus Enterprises is completely false,” John’s voice pulled Sherlock out of his thoughts. Blinking rapidly as he came back to the present, Sherlock listened as John continued to think aloud. “It looks as if it didn’t even exist until about a month ago.” Papers were shifted and stacked as John confirmed the theory for himself.

“Yes, in my time it’s referred to as a shell corporation,” he confirmed. “It only exists on paper ‒ no employees, no office ‒ used only to move money from one person or enterprise to another without any direct contact between the two. The name Janus should have been a dead giveaway, honestly.”

“Roman god with two faces,” came John’s nonplussed reply. Sherlock drew his head back in wonderment.

“Quite right.” A constant surprise. “God of beginnings, endings, and transitions. Appropriate, given that it seems that Mr. St. Clair is moving on to a new life in America.” John nodded and continued to sift through the paperwork in front of them.

“About a year ago, St. Clair lost most of his money in what seems to be a railroad scheme and had to mortgage the family home in Essex.” He paused and looked down at the papers in confusion. “But how did Janus Enterprises come into it? He didn’t start it up, did he?”

“I suppose that’s when our friend Brook got involved,” Sherlock said. “The fireman said it was Brook who paid him to move the dead body and ‒” he paused for dramatic effect as he reached across the table to grab an official-looking packet of papers, “Brook is on the list of founding members of Janus Enterprises.” He plopped the business formation paperwork in front of John with a satisfied grin.”

“So… what? People need crime doing and they drop a line to Brook to see if he’s available?”

“So it would seem.”

“A consulting criminal.” John finally met Sherlock’s eye with a wry expression.

“The only one in the world.”

*-*

John’s eyes flew open with the sudden, intense feeling that he was being watched. He hissed in a sharp breath and held back his instinctively curled fist. “Sherlock,” he said with a stressed huff. “What in God’s name‒”

“John,” Sherlock breathed out softly. He was unbearably close, leaning over John where he had apparently fallen asleep on the sofa. The bright blue-green of his eyes was dancing with some emotion John was reluctant to name. It was too much. He was too close. He smelled too good.

“Sherlock, I think you need some rest,” he said lamely. “You’re not thinking clearly.”

“But that’s just it.” His voice was still little more than a whisper and the long fingers of his right hand splayed out over John’s chest, rising and falling with his rapid breath. “I thought you were clouding my mind ‒ distracting me, keeping me from the Work.” Sherlock swallowed, licked his lips, closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, minuscule tears rimmed his unearthly gaze. “As it would turn out, I can’t think without you.”

John swallowed thickly. Sherlock looked absolutely shattered, clearly unable to handle the notion of a clouded mind. And, John acknowledged hesitantly, he looked sad. He looked like he missed John. 

“God, Sherlock, I…” John started, his heart absolutely breaking at the sight before him.

“Don’t,” he cut John off. “Just… I need you.” His voice was so plaintiff and John felt a rush through his chest, a burning need to protect and be near so powerful that he wasn’t surprised to feel the backs of his own eyes prickling. He barely had time to nod before Sherlock was crushing his mouth in a desperate kiss, pulling the breath from his lungs as though all either of them needed to live was the other.

Sherlock climbed onto the sofa, his legs sliding to either side of John’s hips and his hands holding on to John’s face for dear life. God, but he had missed this. The solid weight of Sherlock on top of him, the feel of his ungodly mouth against his own, the breathy moans that slipped between their frantic lips. It was glorious and John resolved to never let Sherlock be such an idiot again.

*-*

"D'you think there's any way to get in touch with him?" Greg's right leg was jumping with anxious energy. "I mean, to send a message backward?"

"To be perfectly frank, Detective Inspector, I can't see how," Mycroft replied, his fingers drumming against the surface of his desk as he thought. Greg sighed in frustration. There had to be some way, hadn’t there?

“Well, I mean,” he started, “an open door goes both ways, dunnit? If he can go back, then he must be able to come forward. And if he can go back, why not you or me?”

“You are speaking of travelling backward in time?” Mycroft raised a patronizing eyebrow.

“Don’t give me that look, we’ve already come to the bizarre conclusion that that’s exactly what Sherlock’s done.” Greg shifted in the slick leather chair, trying to regain some of the authority he usually carried as a D.I. of New Scotland Yard. This pompous bugger wasn't going to condescend to him. Not when the man’s own brother was stuck almost two-hundred years in the past. “What are you doing to get him back, exactly?”

Mycroft heaved a put-upon sigh before saying, “Believe you me, Detective Insp‒”

“Greg,” he interrupted. That put the self-important prig off his game. Mycroft sat back in his chair and regarded Greg with an expression of irritated surprise. “Just… put all that Detective Inspector business away, alright? Greg will do.”

It seemed to take Mycroft some effort to start again. He pursed his lips and took a long breath through his nose before finally continuing. “Believe you me, Greg, I have some of the best minds in the world parsing through this predicament and they have made no progress. Scientists, philosophers, engineers, anyone you can imagine might have some input has been consulted and we have gotten no closer to finding my brother than to discovering another universe.” Something tingled in the back of Greg’s mind at that and a thought occurred to him.

“You haven’t been asking the right people,” he said in a low tone.

“Excuse me?” Incredulity claimed Mycroft’s face and Greg was secretly a little satisfied. He’d thought of something this smarmy bastard hadn’t.

“I said,” he stood from his chair and made for the door, “that you haven’t been asking the right people.”

*-*

“What in God’s name‒”

“Don’t make me repeat myself, John. It’s quite tedious,” Sherlock interrupted, rising smoothly to his feet and pressing the envelope into John’s hand. “A visitor ‒ though that is perhaps too kind a word. Someone came into the flat, uninvited, while we were out and left this note.”

Still furious at Sherlock’s forcibly-calm tone, haughty even in the face of near-death, John snatched the letter from the other man’s grasp. He chewed his lip, breathing heavily, trying to reel in his anger and trying not to rip the note into shreds. This is Sherlock in a nutshell, he told himself bitterly. Cold. Detached. Focussed only on the work. No sense getting worked up about it. John turned the letter over to examine it more closely and paused in confusion. Across the front of the envelope was drawn a simple smiling face, two dots and a curved smile surrounded by a slightly-lopsided circle. It made John’s skin crawl.

John stared down at the slim, scratching penmanship for nearly a minute before his ire abated enough for him to actually read. “‘Mister Holmes’,” he recited as Sherlock turned toward the window, shattered glass crunching under his shoes, “‘Allow me first to congratulate you on your immeasurable abilities as a detective.’ Well, that’s kind, isn’t it?” The sarcasm was dripping from John’s tone. “‘Second, if you will permit me, I will offer a challenge ‒ an opportunity to display the full range of your abilities.’” John’s face fell as he re-read this last bit. Looking up, he saw that Sherlock was apparently unmoved by this. “A challenge?”

“A case.”

“What case?”

“That case.” Sherlock nodded almost imperceptibly across the street at the blown-out refuse of the building. 

*-*

John hadn’t expressly told him to leave, so Sherlock stayed. After all, he had no where else to go. For a few hours, Sherlock stalked around the flat, stomping to and fro as he thought furiously about his situation ‒ their situation. Obviously, there was nothing for it but to move forward. He had known this was going to happen all along ‒ it was inevitable. They couldn’t be together forever. Eventually Sherlock would have to go back to his own time and John would stay here and that would be that. Better to have it out now and make a clean break. If that’s what this was.

He had to talk to Moriarty. Grabbing his coat from the peg by the door, Sherlock flew from the flat and dashed out onto the street, not even entirely sure that he locked the door behind himself. He must have taken a cab because he arrived at Bart’s far too quickly to have walked, though so submerged was he in his own thoughts that days might have passed without his notice. It had happened before, when on a particularly good case or a particularly good high. God, what wouldn’t I give… Nearly leaping from the carriage with a shake of his head, Sherlock flew across the pavement and through the doors of the hospital. Down the corridors he went, nearly blind with his racing thoughts, until he burst into the morgue with a loud clatter.

“Mister Holmes!” Miss Hooper cried out and thankfully dropped the scalpel in her grasp before clutching her hand to her bosom in fright. “What on Earth‒”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock cut across. “I need to speak to him. Where is he?”

“What?” she gasped out, rather stupidly, Sherlock thought. He had been very plain, if abrupt.

“Moriarty!” he shouted and Miss Hooper flinched. “Where is he?”

“He-he’s gone,” stuttered the terrified mortician. Cold terror shot through Sherlock’s spine like a jolt of ice water.

“Gone?” Gone back? To his own time? Gone where? Gone when?

*-*