#greg lestrade

A/N: this IS a really long chapter, but I’m not breaking it up, because I like it as the whirlwind that it is. Also - content warnings for violence, (fairly) non-graphic gore, and a lot of residual trauma.

Skies grew darker

Currents swept you out again

In silent screams, in wildest dreams

I never dreamed of this

This love is good

This love is bad

But you were still gone, gone, gone

In losing grip, on sinking ships

You showed up just in time

Your kiss, my cheek

I watched you leave

Your smile, my ghost

I fell to my knees

This love left a permanent mark

This love is glowing in the dark, oh, oh, oh

These hands had to let it go free and

This love came back to me.

- This Love

A clatter, a crash. A cymbals’ clash and thunder of footsteps. But he doesn’t touch you, doesn’t topple down the stairs and crush you, and yet you think he’s close enough to touch, he must be, except now he’s not because you keep walking away, each stair soft and sickeningly unsubstantial.

“No…”

Another stair. Almost halfway down.

“Come here!”

You pause, momentum halting, locking your gaze straight ahead on the wallpaper.

“Why should I?”

Your voice is steady. Surprisingly. You don’t look around. Looking around will be your undoing. Looking at him will make you want to stay. But you can’t.

“Because I did, when you asked me to.”

You turn, then. Look up at him. He’s breathing like he’s ran a race and lost; chest heaving, muscles coiled, teetering on the edge of the top stair.

A cold night, a breeze between your teeth, goosebumps on your arms and a bass beat vibrating through the gravel path. Two words thrown out carelessly that would change the course of your entire life.

A ring, aquamarine; two four-letter words etched into something more fragile than you’d ever realised.

You exhale, tilting your chin back. Some people know which way is forward and which is back. You envy them.

“So you do remember.”

“I remember - I remember.” Sherlock’s fingers curl by his sides. “I remember that. Our first meeting. I remember a lot. Not everything. But that. The wedding. Us.”

A motorbike roars past on the road outside.

“And…” He inhales, dips his chin to his chest; lifts a hand in a gesture somehow placatory and pleading, all at once. “I understand now. I understand why I fell in love with you.”

“That’s nice,” you say and begin to turn. Touching the banister feels like putting your fingertips through the flame of a candle.

“And - and I still am.”

“Still…what?”

Sherlock exhales sharply. “Falling in love with you. Again. Or more. It’s - No, again. Because I’m different now, or I was, but I…I don’t know how to do this, falling in love. But it’s happening anyway.”

You shake your head. You’re not meant to laugh. You do. It rings through the stairwell like a guffaw at a funeral.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” you say quietly. “You did it to Janine, and I suppose I thought I was something different, someone special. But I’m not, am I? I just worked it out. It’s the same old shit, manipulating. You’re twisting so many versions of the same two truths that I can’t tell which ones are the lies anymore. Can you even keep track of it?”

He’s silent.

“That’s not love, Sherlock. That’s not falling in love. That’s obsessive, possessive, unhealthy, fucked-up-as-shit behaviour. Maybe you did love me, I don’t know. But the you-that-loved-me did the same thing to Janine. Tricked her, manipulated her, lied to her, got her a ring, told her you saw a future with her. So I should’ve seen it all along.” You see it now, too clearly to understand why you were so deaf and blinkered before. “That’s as much as I matter to you, and I…I can’t stay for that.”

For a moment you just look at each other. His eyes are wide, blue and desperate above his pale face and taunt neck.

“Please. I need you. I need your help to save John.”

“Oh, John - it’s always about John, isn’t it-”

“NO!”

You almost fall backwards against the wall. Sherlock looks taken aback by his own roar. He reaches out, grips onto the top of the banister until the bones of his white knuckles are sharp and distorted.

“I can’t worry about John and save him, and also worry that something horrible is going to happen to you, too!”

You laugh again. This time it’s macabre, bitter against the tears in your throat. “No worries, Sherlock. It wouldn’t be the first time horrible stuff has happened to me just because I know you.”

Somewhat against your instruction, he stares at you with a perfect replica of genuine worry written all over his face, imprinted against his cheekbones. “What do you mean?”

“I mean because Eurus-” You stop and throw your hands up. Ah, letting go of the banister was a bad idea. You haven’t fallen, so you stay separated from the wood that Sherlock is also gripping onto, swaying on your own two feet. “It doesn’t matter! I don’t matter. You can’t manipulate your way into saving this situation, Sherlock, not this time.” You turn and step down onto the half-landing.

“Everything I told you in that bar was true-”

A third laugh. Except it’s not funny at all. “Oh, now, was it? Seems like things were or weren’t true depending on whether or not you want to pretend you remember-”

“I remember things!” Sherlock gesticulates wildly. “I remember wanting to hate you, on that first night we met. You were charming and beautiful and you cared enough about me, even though you didn’t know me, to spend your time with me. To make me want to stay. To make me want to keep talking to you. I hated it. I know I wanted to hate you for that. I wanted to hate Mary, too.”

You look at him.

“But I couldn’t. I think I - I wanted to hate you for a long time after that night, and I hated myself because I did not.”

You keep looking at him. He dips his head again, voice softening.

“I could never hate you.”

A fourth, tiny laugh bubbles out of you. “And I hate myself because I love you and I need to hate you. What a pair we are.”

There’s not a true silence, not in London. But there’s a silence between you, an insurmountable barrier.

You break it, only to reinforce it.

“You’re good at words, Sherlock, but it’s not going to, to work this time. I’m not deserting the rescue mission - John’s my friend. I just…I just can’t be a part of it with you.” You blink madly, past caring if he sees the tears. “I’m going to see Mycroft and Mary.”

You turn to leave, reaching out, trailing your fingertips around the curve of the banister.

“Please.”

It’s the rawest, the most desperate, you have ever heard him, voice so rough it takes away your ability to move, to walk on, to turn back.

“Please.” His voice is hoarse. “This is me begging. I don’t - I have never begged in my entire life. I am now. I am begging you not to walk through that door where anyone could hurt you. Stay here. Stay with me.”

You turn slowly, staring up at him. His lips are crooked, parted, like he’s desperately trying to find oxygen without taking more than his fair share.

“Hate me, I know I deserve it, I am aware I have treated you despicably. I know. But….” He shakes his head, his throat convulsing. “Hate me, but don’t go. Please.”

You breathe out.

****

Sherlock’s POV

She stares up at him. Speechless. Some part of him wonders if she ever noticed that she made him speechless, the night they first met, the words she first spoke. But most of him is realising that waiting for someone to make a decision is a physical agony that goes uncomprehended by most of humanity.

He hasn’t got words left. He only had a certain amount, and he used all of them. Simple words. Saying what he felt. John would have advised it and then been utterly shocked at the outcome. It is easy to ask someone you love to stay, when you realise the alternatives. It’s easy, Sherlock realises, to humiliate and debase yourself then. Because it’s not humiliation or debasement at all.

It is hard, so much harder, to wait for the reply, like pressing a finger to an open wound. A throbbing pain of rawness.

She exhales. Presses her lips together. Reaches up and flicks hair out of her eyes, blinking too fast.

“I’m going to check on Rosie,” she says numbly.

He leans over the banister and watches her descend, watches, bracing himself to simply vault over the rail and run out onto the street and stop her and beg again, on his knees this time, if she goes out the front door. But she rounds the corner and vanishes into Mrs Hudson’s flat, and Sherlock looks at the floor in the hallway and feels a rush of vertigo.

He inhales. It smells of old wood and a malingering scent of something too new from the direction of the flat, like fresh plasterboard. A sister he didn’t remember. Still couldn’t remember. He had no one’s word, yet, to believe about that except hers.

So he believed her.

Closing his eyes. Inhaling, exhaling, still leaning over, the banister digging into his midriff. He needs a cigarette.

It was necessary. Hurting someone’s feelings with a lie was far less important than  doing everything he could to save a life. John Watson’s life. And only a temporary lie. Soon enough he would remember everything.

He opens his eyes and lifts his arm, holds his hand out over the empty expanse of space, and watches it shake. Even if he tried, he couldn’t stop the involuntary movement, his emotions imprinting themselves on his physical body where they could unwittingly betray him to anyone.

Finding out Appledore had been a ruse had been a blow. From what he’d learnt about the man he’d kil - no. From what he’d learnt about Magnussen, he would have had information on Hwyl, on Norbury, on Respair. On this entire festering rot of an organization within an organization.

A gun in his hand. An explosion. A bullet he never laid eyes on. His strangled voice - raw over the sound of helicopter blades - the same timbre.

“Tell her she’s safe now.”

“I am begging you not to walk through that door where anyone could hurt you.”

“Enough,” Sherlock mutters sharply. He pulls his hand back and turns. Enough. There’s only a few hours left. Whatever Lady Smallwood had to offer, it wasn’t enough, or it might be inaccurate. London was bigger than he’d realised, and it was easier to hide one - admittedly, fairly small - kidnapped man amongst its alleys and tunnels than Sherlock had ever realised.

He turned and strode back into the flat. She would hear the creaking of his footsteps from downstairs. He picked up his fallen chair; sat down at his desk and remembered leaning against her, earlier in the day, when she’d held him without an apology or an explanation because she had believed things were a ‘normal’ for them again, a normal he had never experienced, a normal he now only remembered in piecemeal flashes.

It had been nice.

He poked his computer with one finger. The screen lit up, a glaring whiteness of colours.

Was Hwyl cleverer than Moriarty? Moriarty had made him jump from a roof to save the people he cared about. Hwyl simply took those people and held them like bulls’ eyes on a dartboard.

A code. Still, nobody knew what code.

Sherlock reached for his phone. Pressed on the last number he’d dialled.

“Billy? Yes. How many of your acquaintances are trustworthy? …What? No. I’ll need every pair of eyes you can get…”

When he hung up, it was raining. He heard the faint sound of Rosamund Watson below. The small blonde child that somehow had become a part of his orbit. Or had he become a part of her orbit? A satellite? Was she the sun that they all revolved around?

That’s primary school stuff, John Watson says to him, and he lets out a hollow laugh in the silence.

He dug the heels of his palms into his eyes. Yes, Hwyl was cleverer than Moriarty, and for a very simple reason.

He wasn’t playing a game.

And without a game, it wasn’t enjoyable. It was simply a form of torture without the frills.

****

It is seven minutes past eight PM when Mary phones. Sherlock has found out precisely nothing useful, and he thoroughly dislikes it. More than once he thinks about going to Mycroft’s office, seeing the floorplans and hearing Lady Smallwood’s information for himself. But that would mean leaving Rosie. Mrs Hudson.

Her.

So he stays put and wonders what will happen at nine o’clock. Mary is not a foolish woman. Having escaped death thus far, she is unlikely to put herself carelessly in danger’s way, especially not knowing if Hwyl is a man of his word and will leave John and Rosie unharmed. At its most cold and calculated, Mary can take Rosie and flee, leaving John to die, and at least their child will, most likely, live.

But John can’t die. Sherlock knows he would do anything to save John Watson, and so would the woman who married him.

Fifty-three minutes. It becomes fifty-two just as he answers.

“Mary.”

“I think we’ve found it.” Mary sounds breathless, like she’s half-jogging. Long corridors, the curse of a secret governmental building with poor budgeting and walls that aren’t soundproofed. “It’s a slim chance but it’s the one place that links where the old escape routes used to be and it was never redeveloped properly, and Mycroft looked at this really old archives’ file and saw-”

“Where.” He’s already standing. There’s a rustle. Her shirt or hair against the phone that is jammed between shoulder and ear.

“Battersea Power Station.”

“Call Lestrade,” he says. He grabs his scarf and pulls it on one-handed. Grabs his coat. “Take Scotland Yard officers if you must, but Mary - under no circumstances-”

“-take the MI5 agents, I know, I know-” Mary’s flat-out running now. “Already called Greg. And Mycroft’s coming as well.”

“I’ll see you there.” He hangs up, jams the phone into his coat pocket as he pulls it on. His blood is racing through his veins and he is entirely alive.

Save John Watson. Save John Watson.

-a flash of a blue shirt and Mary’s face, grainy through a laptop screen-

Save John Watson.

He thunders down the stairs, bursts into Mrs Hudson’s flat. His landlady is rising from the sofa, Rosie is sitting in a nest of cushions and some toy or other. And she is already coming forward, alarm on her face.

“What’s-”

“Mary’s got a location. Going to it now.”

“Sherlock, you’ll need the gun-”

“No, I won’t, Mrs Hudson, you keep it-”

“Are you sure dear?”

“Yes, perfectly sure, I’ll see you later-” He turns and strides out. Follow, follow, follow. He wants to say ‘come here’ again as though it’s sacred words, a code.

No need. She’s following him, grabs his arm and pulls him around to face her in the dark hallway. He turns with her momentum willingly.

“What location?” she demands urgently. “Is it safe? Are you going to-”

He stares at her for a long moment, aware that his mouth is open but he is entirely without words. In the end he simply takes a step forward and throws his arms around her, crushes their bodies together and kisses her, briefly, before burying his face against her head and digging his fingers into the material of her coat that she’s still wearing. Her arms are around his neck, her hand at the base of his neck, her grip matching his, giving as good as she gets.

And this, Sherlock Holmes realises, is why he loved her. There are a lot of reasons why and nowhere enough time to get into them but in this moment, he understands perfectly, the significance of a rose-gold ring, diamonds and aquamarine and two four-letter words and every single ounce of weight and meaning that they carried.

And this, Sherlock Holmes realises, is why he loves her.

****

Reader’s POV

You tilt your face away from his coat lapels. “What location?” you ask again, “Do they think John’s there? Is there enough time? Is-”

Sherlock pulls back, drops his arms and cradles your face. Looks at you, with an expression that isn’t wholly familiar, a blur between emotions (more, what I haven’t done) (I have never begged in my entire life. I am now) -

You feel the phantom tang of toothpaste, and you know it as he says it, as his grip tightens, impossibly gentle, the wild energy stilled to a church-like solemnity, and the three words tumble out gracelessly.

“I love you.”

And then he’s through the door and it slams before a single drop of rain falls inside and he’s gone.

****

You move. Pull the door open and stand on the doorstep, merciless summer-evening rain pounding against your face, and you just see his flaring coat as he leaps into a taxi and it pulls away, its red tail-lights merging with all the other ones.

You stand there and reach for your phone and call Mycroft, numbed and stunned and alive and distanced and clearly, currently focused in a way that should be possible.

It doesn’t ring. No one picks up. Less than thirty seconds later you get a call from an unknown number. By this point your brain is enough in gear that you think, at least three times, what a stupid idiot Sherlock Holmes is to think he can leave me behind for this.

“This number is secure,” Mycroft says, but before you can say anything, there’s a click, a whir. Cold rain dots your jeans, pings off your waterproof coat and soaks into your skin. A robotic voice murmurs. Your fingers curl around the gun in your pocket.

“Battersea Power Station. Underground WW2 Governmental Bunkers. Currently disused.”

The line goes dead.

****

The taxi ride takes just over half-an-hour. You run down the pavements. It’s wild, an abandoned mess of graffiti and overgrown weeds and enormous rusty cranes, hiding in such plain sight that it is now a tourist attraction. You can’t get in, but not for nothing are you the girlfriend, ex-girlfriend, or whatever of Sherlock Holmes. The green fencing is loose in some places and without caring about the late stragglers scurrying home from work with their florid umbrellas, you kneel, knees to the wet pavement, and yank at the fencing with your fingers, working and wriggling it. When there’s a gap large enough to get your shoulders through, you shimmy and crawl. The ground, from this proximity, smells of dog piss and bad life choices.

You know the feeling.

Avoid an ant; it didn’t do anything to deserve a death, after all. Stand up, don’t dust yourself off; people are looking but no one’s openly called the police yet.

You set off across the ruined forecourt. Abandoned battered cars, wheels missing, windows cracked or smashed, rust seeping like mould. It’s easy to find the way in to the bunkers, if you look with Sherlock’s eyes.

The first place where there’s a hint of cleanliness. Too many flattened weeds. Headlights and streetlights bounce off the building, sending flares of rainy light and reflections everywhere. It’s getting dark, but you can still see well enough. A sandy area, too many footprints. A smudge, where something was dragged.

John.

You suppress the shiver. Follow the trail inside the empty shell of a warehouse.

The door is there. Steel, thick, too new, painted a red that’s meant to resemble rust and it would; it would fool anyone from a distance. It’s open. There’s steps leading down.

You walk over to it, extracting the gun, fiddling with your phone to activate the torch. Please let there be steps.

There are. You shield the torchlight with your hand. The stairs are thin, wrought metal, and uncomfortably steep. It smells of a scorching, burning-nothing scent and something unpleasant like vinegar that makes your tongue curl. Every now and then, your footsteps echo. The more you descend, the more unsteady the staircase feels, wobbling slightly when you step too much to the right or left of the staircase.

You glance back up. Just a tiny rectangle of dim light. Back down. This is deep.

It might not even be the right place. There’s hot prickles making your shirt cling to you. What if it’s wrong, what if this is something different, and nobody knows where you’re going, if Mycroft’s robotic phone thing was a blip, he pressed the wrong button or something, what if you get shot and you never see it coming, you shouldn’t be here, you didn’t even tell Mrs Hudson where exactly you were going-

What if it’s the wrong place-

A gunshot ricochets, bounces off something, someone yells, and there’s a sound like a thunderclap emanating from inside the earth, from your bones. A flavour of chaotic only Sherlock could conjure up.

Ah. Right place then.

****

For a moment you think you’ve stumbled into a Jane Austen novel. Down a short dark passage - cowering, unable to see much, scared to light up your location in case you get shot - and then a beam of golden light, and you turn left into the weirdest room you’ve ever seen.

Gritty ground becomes a red and golden carpet. It’s a big room, the size of a small church, and more than half of it is stuffed with furniture. Oval-shaped portraits on ‘walls’ lined with floral wallpaper. Curtains drawn shut over windows that can’t even be there. Red armchairs and soft plump cushions and a fireplace decorated with silver ornaments. A bronze lamp with a tasselled beige lampshade.

You look up and see a fucking chandelier, swinging gently in the momentum of the chaos.

Taking all this in takes less than a second. Then you see the rest of the chaos. It’s not pretty.

And John’s in a fishbowl.

The carpet gives way to a clinically cold, white concrete floor, chandeliers being replaced by harsh white strip-lighting. An enormous glass rectangle stands by a wall, plugged in, sealed entirely. There’s a centuries’ old clock with brass hands fastened to the wall above it. Just to its right is a digital clock.

On a countdown.

14.00

13.59

13.58

You tear your eyes away just as Mycroft jabs someone in the groin with his umbrella. There’s about six men in bulletproof vests, but none of them seem to be prepared. You grip onto the gun tighter. Some have helmets, some don’t; one of them is only wearing one shoe. Sherlock closes in on him, tries to punch him and receives a knee to the gut for his trouble. Greg is there, rugby-tackling someone else, they go rolling across the floor and you get a glimpse of Mary, who isn’t involved with the fighting. She’s dressed all in black, scrabbling desperately at the control panel to the right of John’s fishbowl.

This all happens too quickly and then someone spots you, a man with dark hair and a face that could cut through a saggy tomato, and he runs at you, realising you’re an easy opponent, and-

You try to raise the gun, he bats your arm away and twists it. You stagger forward a few steps, arm twisted behind you, desperately clutching onto the metal, hot between your fingertips, pain shoots like lances through your forearm up to your shoulder and you want to drop it, want to struggle free, want to scream-

And then you see Sherlock’s coat flaring as he falls backward, an enormous thug-like bear in a bulletproof vest bearing down on him and your finger shifts, across the gun, over the trigger, and curls, and squeezes, and the shot is fired behind you, down at the floor, ricochets off and into the insane drawing-room and you don’t think it hits anyone but your captor releases you in surprise anyway and you need to get away so you run straight into the fight.

Up to the glass cage, stopping with your chest heaving, and John looks at you, and you look at his hand.

Ohmygod.

He’s tied down on his knees, his left arm pulled out in front of him, his fingers forcibly splayed. Suctioned to the inside of the glass is a small thing that attaches to the end of his ring finger, holding it implacably in a position that is no more painful than everything else.

And just above, perhaps four inches away from his wedding ring, is a sharp sheet of raw metal, jagged edge, and it’s suspended by - your eyes flicker up, follow the path of steel cords holding it - through the glass, and to an hourglass, set in a pendulum like a clock, ticking sand slowly, wrong in every way because the sand is ticking upward, and you realise that when the bottom half is empty the hourglass will tilt, and the sheet of metal is so heavy and sharp that it’ll punch through John’s finger - bone, muscle, ring - in less than a second.

And then an arm locks around your throat from behind and you try to scream but can’t. You’re pulled backwards, lifted off the ground, and you kick, and fight, their other hand comes around, you try to bite them and it doesn’t work and you hear the gun clatter through ears filled with blood-

Stupid stupid stupid you could have shot whoever’s holding you-

Then they drop you and you try to scramble up, winded and unable to breathe but instead they’re on you, someone wearing a helmet, too heavy, and they smash your head back into the floor - stars erupt, it hurts, your teeth feel strangely wispy, trembling in your jaw - and more pressure at your throat, “No,” - arms up, clawing desperately, fingers sliding against a helmet’s visor, you can’t struggle - and more pressure against your windpipe- you’ll pass out,  you need air, just a bit of air, burning raw, and you try to fight, but it’s useless, and-

And then there’s not a heavy weight or a pressure on your windpipe. You’re gasping, choking, cracking your eyes open. There’s the glare of a strip-light right above you, tears streaming down your cheeks, but you see your attacker being flung against the wall and dark curls and dark coat flaring and your legs will give way, they do, the first time, you topple back to your knees, but then you’re up and staggering forward and Sherlock is still beating the absolute fuck out of the man, sinking punches into his abdomen, kneeing him, again and again, hauling him up and not letting him fall, and you see his face, and it’s terrifying. Terrifying because it isn’t the anger of a good man, or a man who cares, or a man who even particularly minds if he murders or not. It’s terrifying because it’s Sherlock, and he truly doesn’t care, and he lets the man crumple, pulls his helmet off and goes to kick him in the head and-

You grab his arm. “That’ll - k-k-ill him,” you rasp.

He’s breathing heavily, faster than you are. “I don’t care.”

“So all w-we need to do t-to defeat everyone is j-just have them thro-throttle me and then you can defeat t-them?”

Sherlock exhales, swiping his hair off his face. “Are you seriously making a j-”

Across the room, Mycroft slumps against the wall, between an oval portrait and a tapestry, holding his arm, and someone advances, holding a baton.

“Help Mary!” Sherlock shouts at you and runs over.

You turn to Mary. She’s given up on trying to free John using the monitors. You pick up the fallen man’s helmet and offer it to her, and she smashes it against the glass again and again, teeth gritted, but nothing happens.

“Need some help!” Greg yells, barrelling past with someone in a headlock. Mary turns to take her wrath out on his opponent instead, swinging the helmet into his back. The gun gets kicked across the floor. You grab it, lift it, and Mycroft staggers back, pulling the pistol out of his umbrella, and then a second later someone enormous - someone new - twice as tall as you and four times as wide and built of pure muscle - simply picks Sherlock up where he’s on the ground raining elbows down on Mycroft’s attacker, and throws him clear across half the room. He hits the concrete wall with a bang that slams through your entire body and then he’s sprawled on the ground, his coat open around him, hands at loose angles.

You’re frozen, unable to understand. He isn’t moving. Why isn’t he moving? Mary head-butts someone, knees them. Mycroft fires a shot at the enormous man. Your world has narrowed down to the man lying by the wall, in blues and whites and pale skin and unmoving stillness, and the red trickling from his mouth towards his coat collar.

And then you’re running, and dropping to your knees, and with the urgency racing through you you shouldn’t be stopping to carefully carefully put the gun down but you do and then you’re touching his face and staring in horror and talking, talking.

“Oh god - Sherlock - Sherlock, hey, wake up, goddammit, wake up, be okay, look at me, Sherlock-”

Someone’s shouting, a voice you don’t recognise in a language that you can’t fathom. Heartbeats become eternities, Sherlock’s fingers twitching. His eyelids flutter, a little more, and open, and he looks up at you blankly, mouth closing, leaving a trail of red curling down his chin.

Then he gives you a sort of smile, glacial eyes tired. “Do I know you?”

Cold spreads through the burning panic inside you, like petrol on a wildfire. Ohmygod-

And then he starts to laugh, deep wheezing laboured chuckles from right inside his chest, and you slump bonelessly.

“Ohmygod-”

He keeps laughing, putting a hand to his mouth tentatively and peering at the blood on his fingertips. “Your face.”

You want to throttle him. Not really, because now you know firsthand how unpleasant it is, but- “Not funny.”

He smirks, his tongue making shapes inside his cheek as he sits up gingerly. “A bit funny.”

“Are you alright? It’s bleeding-”

“Lost a tooth. Fine.” Sherlock lets out a groan. “I wasn’t expecting that. It was a bit humiliating. Do you mind-?”

You’re kneeling on his coat. You scramble backwards shakily, picking up the gun. “I was scared-”

“John will never let that one go,” Sherlock begins, standing. “Speaking of which - we’ve only got eight minutes left - What are you even doing here?”

You open your mouth-

“Stand down!”

And the imperative command is accompanied by the absurd, absurd sound of a fork tinkling against glass.

Everyone looks around.

The curtains that hid a not-window part, and you see a tunnel, lit with more strip-lighting, before they flutter into place again, a perfect backdrop for the man who has just emerged holding a sleek black gun.

Taller than you. Asian, golden glasses on a chain, dressed in a perfect business suit. He looks like a banker. Forties or fifties. A gelled comb-over.

A smile that was professionally shark-like.

“Thank you, Hercules,” he says in a New York accent, with a nod to the enormous man, who is currently frozen mid-step towards Greg. “No need to damage any more of them. I have what I want, after all.” And with that he looks past at you at Mary, who is standing alone by the glass cage, the battered helmet by her feet, her eyes wide.

Inside the cage, John is writhing desperately, unable to free himself; and shouting, words that get swallowed up by his imprisonment.

Sherlock takes a step forward past you and the man looks back at him.

“Gaman Hwyl, I presume.” Sherlock straightens his collar, his hair, pulls his coat shut over the red stains on his shirt.

“Sherlock Holmes.” Hwyl smiles, like an advert for a dentistry clinic. “What a moment. We finally meet! Interesting, I see you’re still protecting Mary Watson. The vow continues even posthumously, does it not? But then again, you would know all about how hard it is to stay dead.”

“What is your real name?” Mycroft asks, from the other side of the room.

Gaman doesn’t look at him. Keeps looking at Sherlock. “Aw. All those hours of looking through databases disappoint you? Couldn’t find my mugshot anywhere? I do work for the government, you’re not wrong, but-”

“Like Norbury, you were never important enough to get the credit you felt you deserved.” Sherlock’s voice has knives in it.

“Not quite. I aspired for better things.” Gaman tilts his head. “Am I the only one? No. Vivian was an extraordinary woman, but she always set her sights too low. How does it feel, Mary Watson,” he adds, “to know that if your friend Gabrielle had not re-established contact with you, I would never have tracked you down?”

“You bastard,” Mary spits.

“Quite a legitimate child, actually. I was born a full week after the nine-month anniversary of my parents’ marriage.” Gaman smiles. “Seriously, though. I knew Ajay was dead, I thought I knew for certain that you were, too. If Gabrielle had stayed away from you, I would have killed her and turned my thoughts away from AGRA forever. Instead…here we are.” He spares a glance for the old wrought-iron clock. “Six minutes left. However, the terms of our conditions have changed.”

“What?” Mary says sharply. “No. That’s-”

“You weren’t supposed to drag Sherlock Holmes into this,” Gaman says gently, with a chiding little tut-tut. “Now he’ll be after me. I can’t kill Mycroft Holmes. My plans would fall apart, then. But I do know how to silence you,” he adds with an apologetic smile. Mycroft stares back at him.

Your heart is racing. This can’t be what you think-

“Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. It’s truly unfortunate. I should have offered you tea first, isn’t that how you British people do it?” Gaman raises his gun and points it at Sherlock.

“You’d better not do this, mate.” Greg’s voice is grim.

“I’m afraid I must. Reasons a detective couldn’t understand. You like to save the world, you police bobbies, don’t you?” Gaman shakes his head regretfully. “Well, people like me like to run it.”

Sherlock raises his hands slowly.

“Mr Hwyl.” Mycroft takes a step forward and is immediately blocked by a man with only one ear. “Do not act rashly. There may be other ways out of-”

“Bargaining away the government for your brother’s life?” Gaman sneers. “That’s real love.” His eyes flicker to you, and back to Sherlock, and he pulls the trigger, and this time Mary is too far away to save him, and then you’re moving.

Crashing into him, and forwards and sideways and backwards, a paradox - Sherlock was always a paradox - and the echoes of a gunshot ricochet, your momentum carries you sideways, rolling again and again and you grip onto him and all you know is don’t let go, don’t let go, and red hot pain sears through you, a tangle of limbs and elbow striking a hipbone and agony and hair in your eyes and a brush of a mouth on your forehead and then the movement tumbles into a halted, graceless heap and Sherlock is underneath, blinking up at you wildly, gripping your shoulders.

“Are you shot? Did he shoot you? Talk. To. Me.”

You’re shaking. When did that start? His hands are roaming across you frantically, checking for wounds, and you stare numbly. “Are you alright?” he demands, grabbing your face. “Talk to me!”

You breathe out.

There’s warm blood, sticky, trickling down the inside of your jeans, behind your knee. Sherlock’s palms are hot, pressing against your jaw.

You breathe in.

“What am I even doing here?”

“What? What do you mean?” There’s an edge of hysteria in his voice. The world narrows, shrinks down to him, and only him, because you saved his life, or you both died together, but either way you’re here and he’s looking at you.

“No. That’s…that’s what you said.” You nod, mostly to yourself. “It’s because…I never said it back.”

I love you.

Sherlock blinks for a moment. In your periphery, you see his hand flap. “Pfft, don’t worry. Tthink you said it first, anyway.”

You give him a faint smile and roll off, turning over, palms on the soft carpet, just in time to see Mycroft grab Gaman by the tailored lapels and slam him back against the wall. The spectacles go flying.

“Ohh,” Sherlock says with mild interest. “Physically protective older brother. Haven’t seen that in years.”

Gaman clearly isn’t able to fight. He squirms under Mycroft’s relentless attack. Hercules takes a step across the room.

You scramble to your feet, blood upending itself in your head.

****

Sherlock’s POV

“What are-” Sherlock’s sluggish words die. She picks up the lamp, the force yanking the plug from a socket in the floor, and hurls it. It bounces off the back of Hercules’ head. Doesn’t down him, but does make him stop. She whirls, and Sherlock flinches backward and scrambles to his feet in disbelief because now she’s grabbed a chair, and thrown that too, straight at Hercules, who roars in confusion and starts for her. She looks around for her next weapon and Sherlock readies himself for another fight-

Until he sees her heft up a spindly little coffee table. A polka-dot coaster slides to the floor. She throws the table at Hercules, a wild swing right at his face, and he staggers backwards, and she stands there, hair dishevelled, battered, red marks across her throat, panting, and Sherlock suddenly understood completely why people ever wanted to get married.

The ring is in his pocket. He touches it, cool and serene amongst the blood-red chaos. She breathes out, a tendril of hair caught in the corner of her mouth. He takes a step forward, joints bending, the movement is strangely familiar. Had he practised? Never mind, he closes his bloodstained fingers around the ring and prepares to sink to one knee-

Twenty black-clad agents and police officers flood the room. Two of them grab Hercules, pulls him away, and Sherlock hears the clink of handcuffs.

Not now, he thinks, followed immediately by it’s over, and then-

John.

He turns. Only three and a half minutes left. An agent, black hair, Anthea - runs over to Mary’s side. Inspects the monitor. There’s shouts, police jargon and-

And Sherlock never sees it coming.

Gaman is stronger than he looks. They fall backward, and Sherlock’s head hits the ground. They’re off the carpet now. It’s an impact with concrete. Gaman’s face is warped and twisted, just inches away, eye swollen from Mycroft’s punches; Sherlock fights, but Gaman has all the strength and  all the madness of a lost man - slamming his head against the ground again and again, until he sees stars, it feels a bit like drowning-

Then he pauses and Sherlock writhes, tries to bring his hands up, but Gaman’s arm is back, and he sees the glint of a silver knife. Kabar. Military-standard. An American company.  New York…

And then he’s pulled away and Sherlock’s lying on the ground, staring up at the ceiling. Unstabbed. He assumes.

Her face comes into his peripheral vision. “Sherlock? Sherlock!”

“Fine,” he mutters. “Jack-”

She’s cradling his head. “Jack?”

“I mean - John-” He stares up at her. “I need - The time-”

His ankle’s broken. Or sprained. Feels broken. He tries to sit up, but she doesn’t let him.

“Stay there, you’re - your head is bleeding and-”

Dimly, it registers that some of the black-clad MI5 agents are turning in disbelief on Gaman’s henchmen. Colleagues they trusted, or something. He tilts his head back and to the side and sees that the glass cage has retracted, vanished or shrunk or something-

But John’s finger is still outstretched. He’s still tied in place. Anthea is frantically doing things on the monitor. There’s thirty seconds left. Sweat pours down John’s face as Mary wrestles with his restraints.

Ten seconds. The strip-lighting flashes red, white, red, white. Lestrade runs over.

Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock-

Play the game, Sherlock!

Soldiers.

Five seconds.

Mary puts her hand over John’s.

John speaks through clenched teeth. “Mary. Mary, do not do this. Mary-”

The hourglass tilts.

A flash. A movement.

The sheet of metal comes down, jagged and unstoppable. Sherlock sees it, hears it, too clearly. The blood, bright red, the middle finger hitting the ground. Lestrade yanks John out and Mary falls backward, and then she’s kneeling, tucking her hand into the opposite armpit, gasping, and  John falls to his knees in front of her, his wedding ring glinting as he grabs her face and kisses her.

****

Two weeks later

He finds her in the kitchen. It’s a warm day. Someone - perhaps her, perhaps Mrs Hudson - has flung the windows right open. A crosswind flutters through the flat, coolly pleasant. She’s sitting at the table. There’s a radio playing a song in the corner. A song he remembers, now. Something Mary likes.

Sometimes I think that it’s better

To never ask why…

She senses him in the doorway and looks up, smiling. As she does. Sherlock studies her for a moment, marvelling at the new space between them. It is gentle and patient, and not things he deserves.

In thirteen days, far too much has happened. Alternatively, one could say that far too little had happened. They had reattached Mary’s finger - it had been a clean separation, and the metal had been high-quality. She was living with John again. Before, Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to understand it. John had been furious. Rightly so, but how could he change his mind again and decide that he could, after everything, reconcile with Mary?

Easily. Sherlock sees it now. Too easily.

Her smile has faded. Naturally. She’s still looking at him, waiting for him to say something. Fair enough, he’s simply staring at her. He can’t find words. The words he wants to say mean an end of the truce. A truce where they slept in different rooms, and didn’t ask questions. She touches his hand, and he kisses her cheek when she goes in - or comes back. Because she comes back, and Sherlock can’t quite forget the fear he’d felt, watching her walk through the door. The kiss is like a debt, or a gift, or something similar. If he gives her one before she leaves, she has to bring it back, so he can reclaim it.

It’s something he would have thought as a child. Mycroft would make fun of him. So would John. They would both understand.

“Hey,” she says. Then stops.

He feels himself smile. Just a little bit. “Hey.”

It isn’t a word he normally says. As a greeting, it lacks any real depth. Which makes it occasionally extremely useful.

****

Nine months earlier

Her eyes open slowly. Sherlock doesn’t dare to get his hopes up. This has happened four times in the last two hours alone. As Mycroft would say, tedious, and as John would say, give her time. Both statements are true, existing in and around each other.

Sherlock thinks of a different word. Please.

Please, come here.

This time they open, and stay open. She gazes at him. He stares back, just far away enough that she’s still in perfect focus. Any closer and he’d be gazing, cross-eyed and blurry.

“Sh- Sh’lock?” Her eyes scrunch up in confusion. She looks around at the white bedsheets, the beeping of monitors. “Are-”

“You’re fine,” Sherlock says quietly. “You’re fine now, I promise. Everything’s fine. Do you know what happened?”

She shakes her head, or tries to. Hair sprawls limply across her pillow. “N-no, I’m…Why am I in hospital?”

Sherlock hesitates. “It’s-”

“At least I didn’t die.”

It startles a laugh out of him. A TV screen, her, the panic, he couldn’t think - “Yes. No. At least there’s that.”

“I’m too pretty to die.”

Another laugh. “Fishing for compliments inside your hospital bed.”

“Which feels like a fucking strait-jacket…” She struggles with her arms. “They hurt. My wrists-”

His jaw clenches. He remembers the red marks, rope-burn. “Yes. Here.” He releases the edge of the bedsheet, helps her free her arms and raise them. She inspects them dubiously.

“What the hell happened?”

“I’ll tell you after the nurse has been. Should be in, oh, about thirty seconds. Otherwise they’ll tell me off for exciting you and order me out.”

He means it as a joke, whatever pathetic attempt it is, but her eyes widen. “Fuck, don’t go.”

“I won’t,” he says immediately, his voice sharpening. “I won’t.”

“I really don’t want to be left here.”

“I’ll stay.” Forever, he adds. A hospital bed is a strange place to build an arcadian paradise, but with her, it’d be possible. Without her-

Well, without her, nothing would be possible. He knows that too clearly now, thanks to Eurus.

“Was it…” She pauses. They hear a nurse approaching. A nurse and a doctor, talking, sensible shoes squeaking in the corridor. “How long was I out?” she changes track instead.

“About five hours. Two in the hospital.”

She looks at him. At his shirt-collar. He tries to look down at himself. Unsuccessfully. He hadn’t changed clothing before coming here. Is there blood all over him? Probably.

“You look like crap, by the way.”

He snorts. “Yes, well, I hijacked a boat, sailed to an island, was transported to the burnt ruins of my childhood home; all sorts of things happened. It’s a very exciting story. I’m sure you can’t wait.”

She frowns. “Sounds more like torture.”

He studies his knees. “It was,” he admits quietly.

She puts her hand over his. He wants to put his fingers to her pulse, feel her heartbeat. Her skin is too chafed and raw. He settles for squeezing her fingers, instead, thumb over her third finger.

“I love you.”

He can hear the smile in her voice. Looks up so he can see it. “That’s meant to be my line-”

The doctor and nurse walk in.

“-but, I love you, too.”

****

But just because it burns doesn’t mean you’re gonna die

You’ve gotta get up and try, try, try…

The chorus of the music pulls Sherlock back from his memory. He takes a deep breath and offers her a winning smile.

“Fancy a walk?”

****

Reader’s POV

It’s warm enough that you don’t need a coat or jumper. You walk in step with him, even though his coat swirls impressively with every second step, his hands tucked into his pockets.

Almost two weeks later, and this is the most dangerous thing, ironically, that you’re doing. Going out for a walk means having a purpose. The whole point of the past two weeks is that there wasn’t a purpose - not unless you count Mary being able to feed Rosie breakfast, and John looking at her like she was the only person in the world when he thought she wouldn’t notice, and Mrs Hudson bringing Sherlock ginger-nut biscuits.

Amnesia is a forbidden topic. Come here. Don’t go. This is me begging. You’re staying, but for your sanity, there are some things you can’t talk about. There’s a few different versions of Sherlock - the one who loved you; the one who hated you; the one who begged you; the one who almost killed a man for you; the one walking by your side now, as unreachable as he is, right there, within reach.

You walk to Hyde Park, wending through the late afternoon traffic and pedestrians. There’s entire groups of tourists. At least one person clocks Sherlock. Maybe they recognise him, even without the hat. Or maybe they’re simply caught up in his awestriking demeanour. You get it. Jaw, eyes set firmly ahead of him, hair, swishy coat.

Like a dream come true, or a song in the shape of a person, or a movie compressed into one man.

Once you’re inside the park, footsteps crunching on gravel, Sherlock glances at you. “Maximillian Croft.”

“I’m sorry?”

“That was his name. Gaman Hwyl. His actual name.”

“Wow.”

“Yes, well, you’re talking to a man called Sherlock Holmes.”

“Am I? Ohmygod, I didn’t ever realise.”

He rolls his eyes, and you pretend, for his sake, that you didn’t see his lips ticking up at the corner. “He was a part of the American government, as Gabrielle and Mary thought, but not on the spreadsheet Mycroft provided. And he didn’t have a photo on any official websites.” Sherlock pauses, smiling ironically. “But he did have LinkedIn.”

You laugh, snapping your fingers. “Damn, he was right there all along…”

He laughs too. “We - trusted associates of Mycroft’s, in Estonia, rather - found Gabrielle. Told her she’s safe now-”

You wait. He doesn’t carry on. “What is it?”

He shakes his head. “Just remembering the last time I said that.”

Something tightens inside you. Memories. “Which was…?”

“After I shot Magnussen. I said it to John, about Mary. Could barely hear myself over the helicopters.” Sherlock exhales. “Turned out a bit inaccurate, anyway.”

“Or just delayed,” you say quietly. “Maybe we’re okay now.”

“Hmm. Maybe. It’s a nice thought.” Sherlock sighs, then points at a dark brown bench. “Shall we?”

You sit within a hands’ length from each other. He crosses one knee over the other. You sit and stare at the yellowing grass.

“How are you not boiling in that coat?” Your arms are bare and it feels too hot, stuck in one place under the blazing sunshine. There’s a family picnicking, way across the lawns.

“Habit.” Sherlock takes a deep breath. You look at him.

“The case I was doing, when I was injured.”

Your heart starts to race. “Yeah?”

A bird chirps from inside a bush. Sherlock looks back at you.

“I was searching for Mary.”

You stare. “What? Sorry, what.”

“The DVDs.” He gesticulates. “The videos she made and sent. Oh, it was clever. The same background, same top, hairstyle, same time of day, same weather outside, even made the pixels the same - she did her best to make it identical, to look like they were both filmed together.”

You frown. “Wasn’t it?”

“No.” Sherlock interlaces his hands over his knee, unlaces them, fidgets. “I rewatched them. And I realised…Something I hadn’t noticed at the time.”

“What?”

“The clock. There was a clock in the background. First time, it was seven o’clock - evening, judging by the shadows. Second time, it was eight o’clock.”

You gape at him.

“The one thing she missed,” Sherlock says. “Or maybe,” he adds, with a hint of pride in his voice, “she intended us to find it.Hoped that I’d notice it.  Anyway.”

You look down at your shoes. There’s a little ladybird crawling along the ground. You obligingly move your left foot. “But then…She sent the second video after Sherrinford.”

“Yes.”

“She said she had no idea about Sherrinford and Eurus and everything that happened.”

“She may have known that something had happened. Or perhaps she always intended to send a second video. A pick-me-up, as it were.”

“Maybe,” you mutter sullenly. “Or it was just another fib.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “Anyway. That was my case. I didn’t want to tell anyone - not you, not anyone - just in case I was wrong. Couldn’t get your hopes up like that. I heard rumours about a woman seen going into Nestle Towers - derelict block of flats near-”

“Croydon.” You remember the first phone call from the hospital.

“Yes.”

You take a moment to absorb that.

“She had been there,” Sherlock adds. “But she had moved camp the day before I investigated.”

You turn, frowning. “Hang on….You were attacked, weren’t you?” He looks sheepish. “Your face was all beaten up, it was a disaster. Like…” You have to resist the urge to throw your hands up. It’s too melodramatic for a Thursday afternoon in Hyde Park. “How did you even get amnesia?”

“Oh, that,” Sherlock says, trying for a casual that gets him nowhere. “A beam dislodged. The whole place was fairly unstable - especially the top floor. Got hit on the head up there, buried in some rubble when I tried to get down, the beam hit me on the ground floor.”

You stare at him. “You are joking.”

“Nope.”

“That’s…”

Sherlock arches an eyebrow.

“Really anticlimactic,” you finish, drooping a bit.

He chuckles. “Sorry to disappoint.”

“It’s not that, it’s just, you know? I was expecting something dramatic, some…ten-against-one showdown, some ninjas springing from the ceiling and like, a spiky ball on a chain hitting you in the bonce and…” You sigh, facing forward again and sulking. “It’s fine.”

After a moment, you suddenly realise what this means. When you look back at him, he’s already waiting, studying your face.

“This means…” You hesitate. “You’ve got all your memories back then.”

“Yes. I have.” He swallows. “I have had, for a while. All of them. I don’t think there’s any gaps. My Mind Palace is…restored. But I was - well. I was scared to tell you.”

You give him a small smile. “I feel like we’ve been here before…”

He lowers his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“I get why you did it. I mean, I understand. It just…” You rub your collarbone unconsciously. “It hurt.”

“I shouldn’t have done it. I knew that.” Sherlock’s shoes fidget on the gravel. “The difference is that I - me, now - Sherlock A, the Sherlock you knew - would never have done that to you. Sherlock B - him - didn’t care. All for the greater good, as Uncle Rudy used to say.”

“And what Sherlock are you now?”

“Sherlock A-slash-B, I suppose. Or Sherlock C.”

“Both those sound like really bad Ikea sofa names. You should be Sherlock X.” You do a little jazzy dance-move. “At least that’s kind of cool-sounding.”

“I sound like a rapper. A bad one,” Sherlock grumbles.

You laugh.

From your peripheral vision, there’s a movement. A rustle. You turn just in time to see the aquamarine glistening under the sky, like a tiny ocean contained into a world of rose-gold and diamond stars.

Sherlock gestures to the ring with his other hand. “Been carrying it around with me.”

“Like…like a talisman?” Your throat is dry. And tight.

He gives you a crooked smile. “Yes. Ever since I - well, Sherlock B - found it.”

You let out a slightly hysterical laugh. “What if you’d lost it?”

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t.”

Just like I wouldn’t lose you.

He takes a deep breath. “This isn’t the proposal, by the way.”

“Oh, no?”

“No, it’ll have to be somewhere more interesting.” Sherlock looks around. “A park in desperate need of rain doesn’t quite do it.”

“Behind the clockface of Big Ben.”

He looks away too quickly. You want to laugh, call it out, but instead you’re just waiting, waiting.

“Nearly proposed down beneath Battersea power station,” he adds. “You threw a lamp.”

“At Hulk?”

“Hercules.”

“Hulk. I mean, Hercules wasn’t his real name.” Another giggle bubbles out of you. “Really? I threw that lamp and you-”

“Was almost on one knee, yes.” Sherlock’s voice is wry. “But it wouldn’t have been a very perfect moment.”

“It has to be perfect?”

“Yes.”

You nod. “Okay.”

“Of course,” he adds, “there’s a question involved, and an answer, or so I gather, from my limited experiences.”

“There is. Normally.”

He looks at you, and you smile. That seems to be enough answer, because he looks down at the ring again. You look around just in case there’s any people who spot something so expensive and decide to try their luck and steal it.

“I never understood why John wanted to marry Mary,” he says, slowly, almost to himself. “Not even when they were at the altar. They lived together, shared their life, had everything already. Why did they need a legal farce like marriage to cement it? Utterly ridiculous.”

“I remember you saying something similar during your best man’s speech.”

Sherlock nods.

“I guess that was just hours before we met,” you add wryly.

“Yes.” Sherlock exhales. “And - I had the ring, hidden, since just after Sherrinford.  Eurus’s games were torture, but they weren’t without their useful instructions. And insights. However. Y/N.”

“Mm?”

He meets your eyes head-on, like a challenge, a dare. “I loved you enough to fall in love with you, twice. Twice over, as different versions of myself. That isn’t…I didn’t know how to love. Didn’t believe in romantic entanglements - neither version of me. But I - Sherlock B, in my amnesiac state - loathed the idea of it. Of being held answerable to another person. Being responsible for any part of their emotional state. I hated it, even knowing we must have had sex. Finding out that we were…together…was…”

You remember the texts he’d scrolled through. “A bombshell?” you suggest quietly.

“An explosion,” he agrees. “And the me that you first met wanted to hate you, too, you know. He was a bit more amenable to love and relationships by then, but not much. I always wanted to hate you. I wasn’t supposed to love you. I had to train myself to allow it. That it was…alright, to care so much about one person.”

You swallow back tears, a sob; white and blue and gold shimmering into one blur. “Yeah.”

“But it was easy,” Sherlock adds softly. “Because it was you. And learning how to love you always came back to me. It wasn’t always good. It was bad. It was…difficult. But I fell in love with you twice. I could spend an eternity falling in love with you.”

You blink rapidly, exhaling. “Please don’t, though. Because twice was exhausting enough.”

He lets out a surprised, rough laugh. “You told me to come here. I would spend my life doing that.”

You nod. It’s no good, you have to wipe harshly at your eyes. “You…you asked me to stay.”

“Yes. I did.”

“And I didn’t give you a proper reply.”

“We-ell…”

You reach out and put your hand over his, warm metal and warmer skin under your curling fingers. Several meanings; all the same ending.

“I will.”

AND HERE WE ARE AT THE ENDING. OHMYGOD.

This was meant to be two chapters! Or three! But here we are. It wasn’t meant to have PLOT! But…

Huge huge thanks to Phoebz!!!!!! For the brilliant ideas, the absolute unhinged fun of torturing Sherlock, and song lyrics sent at 1am (*frowns at you*). I would never have written this fic without your prompt, and it would never have been so long or good without your ideas and sketches and general co-author-y amazingness!

There will be one more chapter, but it’s just going to be a song-lyrics-story thing and there’s no actual writing, and I don’t know when that’ll be.

Anyway!!! let us know if you enjoyed Been Waiting For You Ever Since (You’ve Been Gone) [wow it really is a long title isn’t it…]. Which chapter was your favourite? Did you like the ending? Did you get all the song-lyrics easter eggs?

The fire was crackling in the quiet room. Greg turned his half-empty glass of scotch. It wasn't his first one and it would not be his last. He wasn't quite sure how he ended up in Mycroft's study. Private study at his house. Mycroft had invited him over.

It wasn't that he was unhappy about it. Greg had not expected the other man to invite him over to celebrate the end of Greg's marriage. Yes, it was something to celebrate... kinda.

Greg was now free from the woman who thought cheating was alright as long as she didn't get caught and if she got caught would blame it on Greg's inability to satisfy her.

A tiny part of Greg though was yearning for closeness. He was missing the gentleness and care he had received from his now-ex-wife at the beginning of their marriage, before everything went downhill.

A sigh left Greg's lips, directing Mycroft's attention towards him. Mycroft had made himself comfortable in his chair, eyes only half open when he stared at the other man.

"A penny for your thought?" he said quietly before raising his glass towards his lips. Greg gently swirled his own glass, not rushing with an answer.

"My marriage... the shitshow of the divorce..." Greg confessed after a moment. "... and what I will do now as a free man."

A warm, deep hum left Mycroft's lips.

"Yes, the freedom of being alone."

Greg's lips twitched and a light grin spread on his lips without wanting to.

"Speaking from experience?" Greg chuckled. Mycroft's eyes drifted towards the fire.

"I have to confess, I have never had anything else. Not that I haven't had the chance to experience certain things..." Mycroft heaved a sigh as he pressed two fingers against the bridge of his nose. "... but I wouldn't say, I had the pleasure of having someone close, feeling the gentleness from them–the love."

Slowly, Greg nodded, his throat tight as he let Mycroft's words sink in.

"Is that something you wish for?" As soon as those words left Greg's lips, he wanted to push them back in. How stupid of him. Greg closed his eyes for a moment and a breath trembled out of him.

"All my life, I only ever knew work. It never occurred to me that such a foolish thing as romantic feelings would ever become relevant to me." Mycroft stopped for a moment as he cleared his throat. "But now, years later, I have to admit, that I have been utterly wrong."

Slowly, Greg opened his eyes again, finding stormy eyes already looking at him. Mycroft swallowed visibly but then continued. "The older I get the more it seems that my hopeless heart yearns for... love."

Greg's heart stopped for only one beat before it began to jump strongly in his chest. His cheeks began to warm before he had even said the next words out loud.

"And have you–do you..." he cleared his throat. "...is there someone you have your heart set on?"

Mycroft blinked once, twice. Then the tiniest smile spread on his lips. A sad smile.

"Yes."

"But?" Greg asked, heart feeling heavy in his chest at Mycroft's sight.

"Well... he was not available," Mycroft explained slowly. "And I would never risk ruining his relationship just because my desires were too strong."

A low chuckle escaped Greg's lips.

"I suppose we are not that different in that aspect."

Mycroft's eyebrows furrowed and his lips parted as if to say something. Greg's heart began to beat faster against his chest once more. "I have always been faithful in my marriage even as I was starting to fall for someone else." For a moment neither of them said another word and Greg took a long sip from his glass, afraid he had said too much.

"Does your divorce change anything?"

"It changes everything," Greg mumbled against his glass, slowly meeting Mycroft's eyes. "As long as he feels the same."

Mycroft's brows furrowed ever so slightly but there was a spark in his eyes that Greg had never seen before. Mycroft's back straightened and he placed his glass on the side table, his eyes followed. He took a long deep breath.

"I have to be honest with you," he mumbled not meeting Greg's eyes.

Greg could only hum, unsure where this would lead.

"I knew it."

"Knew that?" Greg asked, his voice slightly uneven. Was this Mycroft's way to tell him that he knew of Greg's feelings?

Mycroft cleared his throat.

"I knew about her cheating."

Greg sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. Then a soft chuckle left his lips.

"Why am I even surprised?" he asked. "Of course, you would know about it."

Mycroft blinked once, twice.

"You are not angry with me?"

"No, I'm not. But why..." A sigh escaped him. "Why haven't you told me earlier?" The other men huffed quietly and shoom his head.

"I didn't want to ruin your relationship. You seemed happy."

Slowly, a gentle smile spread on Greg's lips and he leaned forward. Closing the distance between them.

"The relationship was already ruined by her actions. It was my fault for holding so desperately onto this failing marriage," he explained, carefully placing his hand on Mycroft's knee. "And if you had told me earlier, I would have... if I'm wrong this will be embarrassing but... I would have had the chance to already kiss you."

Finally, Mycroft's eyes met Greg's again.

"Kiss me?" he asked, his voice slightly pitched. Greg's smile began to falter.

"Yes?"

"You meant me? I am the one you were falling for?"

"Yes," Greg breathed. For a moment, Mycroft only stared at Greg. Then slightly trembling fingers intertwined with Greg's.

"I should have risked it," Mycroft whispered. "Telling the truth sooner. Maybe we would have had that so much sooner."