#sherlock bbc

A/N - I absolutely HATE my inability to write small chapters. This is twice as big as it was meant to be. I don’t even know how. *throws up hands* ANYWAY - the amount of fluff in this thing is practically illegal. But hey, the song dictates it’s gotta be, so I’ve got some excuse!

Let us know what you think! I have no idea what Phoebz’s next song is, or where the story’s going to go, so to be honest I’m theorising as well!

And in the blink of a crinkling eye

I’m sinking, our fingers entwined

Cheeks pink in the twinkling lights

Tell me about the first time you saw me

It’s true, swear, scout’s honour,

You knew what you wanted

You already know, babe

I feel like laughing

I’m high from smoking your jokes all damn night

The brink of a wrinkle in time

Bittersweet sixteen suddenly

Cause I feel so high school every time I look at you

But look at you

- So High School by Taylor Swift

“So you’re…together.” 

The scepticism in John’s voice would almost be offensive. Almost. But you don’t know why he’s so surprised. Weirder things have happened. Like, for example, the fact that Sherlock Holmes is alive to be in a relationship with at all. At least you’re not clinging to a headstone and declaring you’re in a relationship with a dead man.

“Dating,” John clarifies, just in case it wasn’t clear. “Dating.”

“Yeah.”

“You’ve moved in with him already.” He looks around at the lounge of 221b. It’s like Sherlock has never been away; dust intact and Union Jack cushion plumped up just so.

“Yeah.”

Sherlock sits in his armchair, one knee crossed over the other, hands steepled to his mouth, and just watches.

John nods a few times, standing by the door. There’s a bruise on his forehead. He looks decades younger without the moustache. (God, the moustache. It had been the worst thing you’d ever seen. Without shape or form, it had resembled a wire brush in the throes of a midlife crisis. Not unlike John himself, when you really thought about it.)

Then his head snaps up, eyes focusing on you. You know the expression. It’s the ‘I had bad days’ army-doctor expression.

“Did you know.”

“...Sorry?” You clasp your hands in front of you, fidgeting with your sleeve.

“Did you know. That that bloody git-” He stabs a finger over at Sherlock - “wasn’t dead.”

For a man who was trapped inside a lit bonfire fourteen hours ago, he’s very mentally agile. Definitely not in shock or anything like that. You probe the inside of your mouth and then wince. You can feel Sherlock’s eyes on you, like a physical touch, and your fingers curl deeper into the soft wool of your cuffs.

But before you can answer, John barrels on. (It doesn’t take a genius to deduce that he’s still pissed off with Sherlock. Who has had a busy morning of it already; before you came downstairs, you’d heard his parents, and then John had walked in. His parents don’t know you’re here, and that’s probably for the best.)

“Because Mycroft knew, and Molly Hooper knew, and apparently about four hundred tramps knew, so-”

“Not four hundred,” Sherlock scoffs from the depths of his chair. You wonder if his nose is fully recovered from the bashing John gave it the other day. “Only twenty-six. At most.”

John rolls his eyes acidly. “As if there’s any difference.”

“Three hundred and seventy-four tramps’ difference, to be precise.”

John takes a short sharp step towards him. “Look, you-”

You move in between them. “John.” Sherlock will not be getting beaten up, not on your watch. “John.”

He takes a deep breath, holds it, and then nods. “Right. Yeah. So? Did you know?”

You think about it. On the one hand - yes, you were close with Sherlock before, but if you say no, then that means in the past week you’ve started dating and moved in with a man you thought dead.

But then you remember the cold brush of stone under the pads of your fingers. Your grief, drowning in it, not knowing if there was any way out - you couldn’t see a way out. You had been suffocating, pulled under and turned in so many directions.

You don’t want to say yes, I knew. It turns your pain into good acting, and belittles everyone else’s misery.

“No,” you say quietly. “I didn’t know. Not until the other day, when Sherlock found me moping in a bar.”

John nods, grunts, accepts it. You still feel blue eyes, burning through your side.

It only occurs to you later that he’s not surprised enough. Sherlock Holmes is dating someone. Surely that’s enough to make anyone require smelling-salts. But no.

****

“Oh good, you’re in!”

You’re already standing, having heard Sherlock’s footsteps thundering up the stairs, almost faster than the speed of sound. Faster, at least, than one of those little bumper-cars at fairgrounds. He billows into the room with a flare of his coat, hair utterly dishevelled, scarf in his hand, and his eyes wild. If it weren’t for the smirk playing around his mouth, you’d think the world had ended.

“What’s going on?” you demand. He strides over and uncrosses your arms for you. Perhaps you had wanted them crossed, you think churlishly, and immediately put your hands on your hips instead.

“Come on.”

“Are you high?”

He gives you an offended look, trying to usher you toward the doorway. You stay put. “Of course not.”

“Sherlock, you’re practically levitating off the ceiling.”

“It’s completely natural, I assure you. Come on. We’re going out.”

“Going where?”

“Anywhere. Anywhere!” Sherlock flourishes his arms. “Let’s have an adventure.” He rasps the last word in a pirate’s drawl.

You stare at him, unimpressed. You want to be unimpressed. You really want to be. But it’s like sticking an ice cube next to a steaming kettle. The more time that passes, the quicker your disapproval is melting into an urge to laugh. Sherlock’s giddiness is contagious.

“What happened? You fled out of here like a cat confronted with a rabies’ vaccine needle, and John-”

“John’s gone home. It’s all good now.” Sherlock does several ebullient hand gestures. “Found that missing train carriage, stopped the terrorist attack, saved parliament from being blown up. Kaboom.” He grins. “Mycroft will be offering me another knighthood. My plan is to deter him from making the offer by causing some trouble tonight. Right now, as a matter of fact.” He holds out his hand. “Come on?”

You look at his hand for a moment, knuckles slightly scraped, pale skin contrasting with the dark of his coat cuff. Which is slightly dusty. Then you put your hand in his, but you don’t move when he tries to tug you.

“And what the hell are you gonna do, go for a joyride?”

“Excellent idea.”

“Oh, yeah?” You can’t help yourself, your lips twitching. “C’mon and join the joyride…But you know, you don’t actually own a car. You’ll have to steal one.”

He gives you a considering look. You shake your head hastily, wincing. “Nope. Don’t be getting ideas. You’re not doing that. Just so you know.”

“Alright.” Sherlock tugs again on your hand. “We’ll go on foot. Come on. I don’t want to stay inside,” he adds. “It’s cold. Get your coat.”

He stands, watching as you pull your arms through your coat. He puts his scarf on again. You reach for your own one, wrapping it warmly around your neck.

“Where are we going?”

“Out. It’s down that way.”

You brush past him, shoes clattering on the stairs. “I meant…Once we’re outside, you know?”

“Anywhere.” Sherlock’s close behind you. “It’s a romantic date night.” Sarcasm seeps into his voice and you roll your eyes. Please don’t blush, you beg your internal organs.

“Do we have a destination?”

“Oh, please. Y/N.” He reaches past you to throw the front door wide open. A blast of cold night air blows into your face. “Live a little. It’s the journey that matters, not the destination.”

“Oh God. We’re going to die, aren’t we.”

****

You get takeaway hot chocolates. Sherlock had been considering the extravagant coffees, but you’d steered him away from that. It was nearly 10pm. There was no way he needed more caffeine in his system.

You’re not sure you’ve ever seen him like this before. Almost boyish, reckless. You know the glow that comes from realising things are okay - better than okay. Successful. Repaired. And his relationship with John is the most important relationship in his life. (“I can’t tell you what he said. I swore scout’s honour I wouldn’t. But I never knew he cared so much, Y/N.”)

He fixed it and saved London, all at once. Combined with the way that he’s different now, and the result is a wholly new side to Sherlock, a side that you’re finding addictive. This Sherlock would be far too easy to fall in love with.

You’re walking across Trafalgar Square, noise and lights all around you, when Sherlock says it.

“Truth or dare.”

You falter and glance up at him. He takes your empty cup and throws it in a nearby bin, and you shove your cold hands deep into your pockets.

“I’m scared to play this with you.”

“Pfft. It can’t be worse than Cluedo.”

“I don’t know. I might tap into hitherto-unknown levels of worse.” His eyes sparkle as he looks at you. You relent. “Fine. Truth.”

“Who do you find more attractive?”

You brace yourself - he’s going to make it embarrassing. It’ll be people from TV. It’ll be random people you hardly know. It’ll be based on deductions, and it’ll be accu-

“Me, or Mycroft?”

You splutter. “Excuse me?”

Sherlock pulls a face at you. “You heard.”

“That’s - What kind of question is that? Is that even a question?”

“It was grammatically structured to-”

“I mean, how can there be any doubt?”

He looks genuinely puzzled. You groan. “Sherlock. Mycroft is - Mycroft.”

“So I’m more attractive.”

There’s a lot more depth to it than this, but you nod. “Yeah.”

He nods back, apparently satisfied. “Good. I choose dare.”

You think back to whenever you last played this game. Years ago. You never imagined you’d be playing it with Sherlock Holmes while you’re on a late night stroll through London.

Okay, whatever.

“Read your last text, in your most seductive voice.”

“Deductive?”

“No, seductive.”

He sighs, reaching for his phone. You pause under a bright orange streetlight while he clicks on a thread. “It’s to Mycroft.” He glances up at you briefly, and then takes a step closer and lowers his voice, his eyes locked on yours. “Piss off,” he murmurs. “I’m not going to the matinee. Do your duty.”

You tell your internal organs to shut the hell up and keep functioning like normal. “Not bad.”

He scoffs, and you carry on walking. “Truth or dare?”

“Dare.” You cross your fingers in your coat-pocket.

“I dare you to dare me, on your turn, to vandalise Scotland Yard.”

You gape at him. “That’s not how this game works.”

“There’s no rules.”

“Of course there’s rules. Why do you think nobody has ever been murdered or died during truth or dare? It’s because they had rules.”

“No, it’s because the murderer dared everyone else to keep it hushed.” Sherlock keeps walking. “Your turn. I choose dare.”

You groan. “I can’t believe I’m saying this. I…Uh. Does this make me an accomplice?”

“No. I coerced you. If that makes you feel better.”

“Not really. Okay. I dare you to-” You look around.

“Mycroft will be monitoring us,” he adds casually.

“Oh god. Can he lipread?”

Sherlock smirks.

You lean in close and hiss the words in a garbled jumble. “I dare you to vandalise Scotland Yard and if we get in trouble-”

“Oh, live a little.” Sherlock throws you a grin. “There’s a Waterstones. Just a moment.”

You follow him in and watch in disbelief as he buys a pack of Crayola crayons from the exhausted brunette cashier. He winks at you and tucks them inside his coat, and leads you back down the street. “Truth or dare?”

“Truth,” you decide.

“What’s something that reminds you of me?”

You look away for a moment. The street ahead is lined with cars, golden and white headlights, red tail-lights. There’s the rumble of a red double-decker bus.

Everything.

Everything reminds you of Sherlock Holmes, in one way or another. For all his cleverness, maybe he could never fathom just how central he is, to you. He’s in your head. Always.

“Chips,” you say. Then, because it’s truth or dare, and you take it very seriously, you shake your head. “No, I’m lying.”

“That’s my girl.” Sherlock tilts his head to you. “Go on.”

“Everything. Okay, okay, truth or dare?”

He seems confused. Please don’t ask for more information.

“...Truth,” he says slowly. “The options of possible dares are currently limited.”

You stop at a traffic light. Vehicles rumble past. Sherlock stands there, immoveable, straight, and with a somewhat calmer expression than he had, three-quarters of an hour ago. Inside, however, he’s probably still giddy. He’s like an overexcited puppy that needs a really long walk.

“Do you rea- think - you’re handsome?”

His eyes shoot to you. The light turns green and you cross. You wonder how nobody notices that the resurrected Hat Detective is in their midst.

“People seem to think so,” he says slowly. “Personal appearances are a superficial detail. The only useful and intriguing aspects are the ways in which people treat their appearances, or perceive themselves. Or others. I once deduced-”

“You’re dodging the question.”

“Turn left here.” He leads you up a smaller road lined with brightly-coloured restaurants. “No. I do not. Years of a painful adolescence left its mark on me. It is irrelevant.”

Something twists your heart a bit. “What do you think of my judgement?”

“Is this another-”

“No, this isn’t the game. We’ve paused it. Do you trust my judgement?”

“If you are about to attempt a-”

“Sherlock.”

“Yes,” he says begrudgingly. “Mostly. You make terrible choices involving ex-boyfriends and ex-landlords, but…yes.”

“Good. So.” You interlink your arm with his, pulling him a bit closer. “Want to know a secret? I think you’re good-looking. And I have judgement about that kind of thing.”

Sherlock’s lips quirk up. He refuses to acknowledge it. It’s okay, you didn’t expect him to. Your heart untwists itself, another warm glow spreading through you.

“Truth or dare?”

Your arms stay linked.

“Truth.”

“Would you rather find a million pounds, entirely and legally yours, or true love?”

“Wow, your questions are pretty deep.” Your mind is whirring, though.

Find true love? You’d never really loved your cheating ex. Sherlock’s arm is a strong presence against you, his steps synced with yours.

You’ve already found ‘true love’. You know you have. The last few days have taught you that, brought the lesson home and slapped you around the head with its brutal truths, in a way that two years and irrevokable grief hadn’t.

“Is it reciprocated?” you ask. Sherlock steers you down another road. “Otherwise I’ll take the cash. But if…” Your voice softens. “If I can be loved back, I’ll take the love.”

He doesn’t answer.

“What about you?”

More silence. He clears his throat.

“I have no use for either. I’ll take the…love.” His lip curls.

You laugh awkwardly. “Okay.”

“Truth. Once we’re in the park, we can branch into dares.”

“Do you have a bucket list? Or like, does it not count anymore, because you already, you know-”

“Died? Been there, done that.”

“Yeah.”

“Nope. Never had one to start with.”

“Really?” You watch him. “Nothing you ever wanted to do?”

“If I wanted to do something, I would’ve done it.”

You smile into the soft folds of your scarf, hugging his arm to you for a moment. “You’re an admirable man, Sherlock Holmes.”

He snorts. “You’re going to pick truth. I can tell.”

“I hate that you’re right. But you are.”

“I heard John ask his girlfriend this question once,” he begins. “It’s tedious. Who would you prefer to have…” His nose wrinkles. “Narrate your life.”

“David Attenborough, obviously.” The speed with which you say this seems to take him by surprise. He opens his mouth, but just then, you hear the infectious sound of live music. Both your heads turn.

In the square outside Charing Cross station, three boys and a girl have set up their impromptu concert. They’re good. Surprisingly, somewhat deafeningly, good. Most of the travellers coming in and out of the station are sparing them at least two glances - (a rarity, from the majority of hardcore Londoners you know). There’s a group of girls jumping up and down, arms around each other, and a pair of couples sweeping around in crazy little dances.

“Come on,” Sherlock says, and then he’s taking your hand and dragging you headfirst towards them.

“Whoa, wait up!” Your breath crystallizes on the air. You barely hear yourself, and he certainly does a good job of pretending he doesn’t. Sherlock pulls you into the centre, just to the left of the young girls, their faces plastered in thick make-up, and looks at you.

The giddiness is back in his eyes. It’s aliveness. The pure joy of drawing breath. You know words for it, but you don’t need them because the dictionary definition is Sherlock himself. The little band end the song and start another one, one that you recognise, and Sherlock proffers his hand to you.

And you take it. You briefly wonder if it’s cold enough to be icy, and if anyone official thought to grit or salt this area, and then the girl starts singing. She’s no Whitney Houston, but her voice is strong. And Sherlock is dancing with you. Or you’re dancing with him.

Maybe the universe is crazy. This can’t actually be happening.

There’s a boy I know, he’s the one I dream of

Looks into my eyes, takes me to the clouds above, mm-hmm

This is not ballroom dancing. This is wild and infectious and just…carefree. You can’t help it. You’re laughing now, at the sheer ludicrousness. Things like this don’t happen when Sherlock Holmes isn’t here. When he isn’t here, you’re stumbling in and out of abusive situations and crying over your dead pet. But when he’s here, you’re dancing in the street, and you don’t care that anyone can see. Because nobody else cares.

Said there’s no mistaking, what I’m feeling is really love

Ooh, tell me, how will I know?

(Don’t trust your feelings)

How will I know?

(Love can be deceiving)

He twirls you out. The couple nearest to you are at arms’ length and spinning. They’re probably still teenagers.

Tonight, Sherlock seems to think he’s one, too. You stifle a gasping laugh as he attempts the same manoeuvre.

Maybe Larsson killed you and this is some mad afterlife.

I’m asking you what you know about these things

How will I know if he’s thinking of me?

He twirls you under his arm again. Everything is dizzy and blurring and you’re pulling in lungfuls of cold air that turn to scorching hot inside your lungs, and you’re laughing like an idiot.

Falling in love is so bittersweet

This love is strong, why do I feel weak

If he loves me, if he loves me not

If he loves me, ooh, if he loves me not

Hey, if he loves me, if he loves me not

Oh, how will I know?

****

“Let’s detour down here,” Sherlock says, some ten minutes later.

“Oh God.” You recognise this road.

He gives you a grin. “Turn away if you don’t want to be an alibi.”

The front of Scotland Yard is quiet. Sherlock breaks out his Crayola crayons, chooses the luridly pink one, and steps up to the pressure-washed walls.

This is a historical, important building, you think, slightly hysterically, watching as the man you’re very-probably-definitely-absolutely in love with signs his name, in pink crayon, on the wall. He drops the crayon, and it splits in half.

Nobody runs out to arrest him.

“Littering.” There’s satisfaction in his voice.

“Fingerprints?”

He shrugs. Takes your hand. His fingers are chalky.

With his free hand, as you walk away, he flips his fingers up at the building and winks at you.

****

“What’s the dumbest thing you’ve ever done to get someone’s attention?”

Sherlock hums thoughtfully. You’re strolling, slower now, down the road towards St James’ Park. “Mycroft would have a file.”

“But we don’t have time to go ask him. I want to know now.”

“Once walked into John’s bedroom when he was having a tete-a-tete with a girlfriend, wearing my bedsheet.”

You press your hand over your mouth. “Why?”

“They broke up that day. Something about ‘clearly being flatmates with benefits’,” Sherlock muses. “John wasn’t her type, it would never have lasted. Mary’s a much better option.”

“But why?”

“Oh. Bored. He was being tedious. There were cases. He was supposed to update his blog that day. Readers like consistent updates, you know. They don’t care if he was,” Sherlock flicked quote-marks sarcastically, “’having personal time with someone important to him’. Pfft.”

“Huh. Okay. Truth.”

“If you could stop time for one year…” Sherlock glances at you. “What would you do?”

“Why are your questions so philosophical?”

“I’m not tiresomely predictable. Answer.”

“I don’t know. Truly, I don’t.”

“Hmm. Fine. Dare.”

You think back to your past times playing this. “Read the last three texts you sent.”

“Seductively?”

“No, normally.”

Sherlock gets out his phone as you walk, the pace dropping to a meander. “To Mycroft - you heard that one. To John: yes, yes, death threats, I heard. Scout’s honour, remember? And to Molly - thank you.” He puts his phone away. A tabby cat scurries out from under a parked car and up to a door, vanishing through a cat-flap.

“Okay. Dare.”

“Steal a helicopter. One of MI5’s military helicopters. I know where they’re kept.”

You blink at him. “How? No, that’s impossible.” You start laughing. “No! I can’t even fly helicopters.”

Sherlock grins. “It was worth a try.”

“Do you want me to be arrested?”

“Nah. That would ruin the evening. Truth.”

“Hmm. Okay. Have you ever regifted something that someone gave you? And if you mention any of my gifts, I swear to God I’m going to karate-chop you.”

“Countless pairs of cufflinks gifted to me by Scotland Yard. Mycroft usually gets those. My father, sometimes.”

“You should’ve drawn some on the building.”

“Yes, I should’ve. Truth or dare?”

“Dare. I’m feeling reckless.”

“Hmm.” A barely-perceptible, indescribably-evil smirk passes over his face. He stops in the centre of the pavement; looks around. Trepidation crawls ominously through your belly.

“Lie down and act like a fish out of water.”

Well…it’s not the worst possible dare. There’s nobody nearby walking. You take a deep breath. The pavement isn’t that dirty. That’s what you’ll tell yourself, anyway.

You sit down and throw your legs out, your head touching the ancient concrete gingerly. Sherlock seems impossibly tall from this angle. You take a deep breath (of water), and then open your mouth wide and gasp desperately at the useless air. Your arms come up at the elbows, flapping like fish fins. You struggle and writhe like a dying fish for a good few seconds before going limp and slumping back against the pavement. You keep your eyes open, staring up at the inky sky.

Sherlock is laughing so hard he’s almost completely silent. He offers you a hand, and you scramble up.

“Remind me to ask Mycroft for the footage tomorrow.”

“Don’t you dare.” You shove him.

He shoves you back, lightly. “John would appreciate it.”

“Ohmygod.” You push him. “No. Don’t you dare.” You glance around. “There’s not even CCTV. Is there?”

“Yes. There is.”

“Where?”

“Nope. I’m not helping you into a path of vandalism.”

Your mouth drops open. “That’s rich, coming from you.”

He snorts. “I’ll take a dare, thanks.”

“Like it’s your coffee order…” You look around for inspiration. “Got it. Argue with a lamppost. Argue like you mean it.”

Sherlock takes a bracing breath, flips his coat collar up, and turns on the nearest lamppost with an expression like a brewing, Belstaffed thundercloud.

“You’re clearly looking for more meaning to life than you currently have. You were installed here a good five years ago, and you’ve been rooted in place ever since, haven’t you? Wanting attention, never getting it. Too scared to step out of your comfortable little shell and live life. You crave maintenance days, but in this economy? They’re few and far between. The world passes you by, and you-” Sherlock’s lip curls. A man walks past, bug-eyed with suspicious terror. “You think you’re destined for something greater. But do you want to know the truth?” He leans in, eyes blazing with hatred.

“You’re just a lamppost.”

He brushes off his lapels and turns to you.

You’re dead. You’re almost dead. You literally cannot draw in enough breath to stay upright. Sherlock’s laughing too, taking your arm and leading you over to the park gate.

“Ohmygod. Ohmygod. You - I just - We are-”

“Did you see the man?”

“His face-”

And then you’re both in paroxysms of laughter again. Sherlock prances ahead into the park with a flare of his coat, and you watch him, the laughter stilling. Your entire body is warm, like you’ve been suffused with tea or dunked in a hot bath. It’s like being in high school again, laughing over shit, except better. Much better.

But it’s all so transient, isn’t it? Looking at something you don’t have, something you’re pretending to hold. Like you’re posing with your hands around a shadow.

If you could stop time for a year…what would you do?

You know the answer now.

I’d live in this moment, this night, forever.

****

Flashback

You’ve only been cohabiting 221b for a few hours, and yet here you are, having the Relationship Talk.

And yet, you’re not even dating.

“We’ll pretend we’re in a fully committed relationship,” Sherlock says, gesturing around the lounge, to where some of your objects are lying, like the finishing touches in a film-set. “Some PDA will be required. Just about as much as Mary and John do; I estimate less. I am not known to be an affectionate man. Too much…feelings…would be cause for more suspicion and scrutiny.”

You nod, hugging the Union Jack cushion to you. You need something to hold onto right now. Too much has happened in the past week. And maybe now things are taking a turn for the better, maybe you’ll be okay, but you can’t be sure yet.

And you’re still scared. You’d never thought Larsson was threatening, but now…

You can still feel the phantom metal against your neck. Burning the money, ash on your fingertips, clogging up your lungs until it was all you could breathe; the thick tang coating the back of your throat. That gun, following you mercilessly, unwaveringly, just a finger’s movement away from a pulled trigger.

You’d believed you would die, just like Nibbles. Your poor, poor, beloved Nibbles.

You swallow harshly. You can’t start crying.

Sherlock’s watching your face closely.

You’re never going back there, you remind yourself. You took everything you wanted. You’re here with Sherlock. You’re going to be okay. Larsson won’t come after you if you’re in 221b and he thinks Sherlock’s in love with you. He’d have to have a death-wish.

Sherlock leans forward. His voice is quiet, like an attempt at gentleness, at consideration. It works.

“Why didn’t you tell the police?”

You swallow again. “I - it was…I don’t know.”

“If not the normal idiots - Why didn’t you tell Ganidu?”

That shocks you out of your almost-crying-breakdown. “Who?”

Sherlock makes an impatient noise. “Ganidu? Lestrade. You know.”

You stare at him for a bit. “Greg.”

“Yes, yes, whatever.”

“Because…well…” You shake your head. “He had me destroy all the evidence. He said he had camera footage of me destroying my apartment that he, you know, owns. If I tried to tell anyone, he’d say I’d lost my marbles. I’d more than likely end up arrested or get shoved into a psychiatric ward.”

“Hmm.” There’s a tightness around Sherlock’s jaw. “I see.”

“That night was horrible.” You study your hands. “I…And my ex, as well. I mean, he was always shit, but…I really needed someone that night.”

“Terribly impolite of the Serbian torturers to hold me captive. If only Mycroft had been a bit more prompt, I could have been back in London by then.”

You look at him. “Serbian torturers?”

He nods curtly.

The same time that you were screaming and furious and blinded by your grief and pain, a physical force destroying your flat, Sherlock had been tortured. You take a deep breath. There’s a strange, fragile, beautiful, terrible synchrony in it.

Against all the odds, you’re here now.

****

“There’s only a London tonight because I saved it,” Sherlock declares flamboyantly, leading you down a half-lit path into the park. He points up at the luminous face of Big Ben, towering above the bare trees and the smaller buildings. “Mycroft could never have solved it.”

“You’re so cocky.”

“Oh, pfft. I deserve to be.”

You can’t help but smile. “Maybe you’ve earned your free pass this time.”

“Excellent. Truth or dare?”

“Dare?”

Sherlock looks around. There’s a group of people - colleagues coming home from a few after-work drinks, maybe - walking down the gravel path towards you. “Say yes,” he says quickly. “Very loud. And then let me pick you up.”

You gape at him. He arches an eyebrow. “I dare-”

You embrace your inner British-soap-opera-actress - which is basically non-existent - and clap both hands to your mouth. “Yes,” you say, trying for a choked-with-tears voice, and then, as the people get closer, you nod frantically. “Yes!”

One or two of them look over, just as Sherlock, a decidedly fake and weirdly overenthusiastic grin plastered over his face - it makes him look like an otter with attachment issues - slips both his arms under yours and lifts you up, half-twirling you.

The people have to go single-file to get past you. As per the strict social code of Londoners, they don’t look at you, except for the last one; a man still in his suit, with apple-red cheeks and a gentle expression. He catches your eye, and then Sherlock’s, and offers you a small smile. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock says. You grip onto his arms, weirdly light-headed, as they walk off.

“I can’t believe we just did that.”

Sherlock turns you around and you carry on walking. “Most people, when confronted with other people’s public bliss or happiness, feel uncomfortable, jealous, or simply oblivious. I choose truth.”

“Ooh. Okay. Let me think.” But there’s one question you’ve been wanting to ask since the beginning, and now you decide to just go for it. You just faked a proposal-acceptance with the man you’re fake-dating who you also happen to be in love with who was also dead for two years and now you’re out on a late-night walk around London because he’s in high spirits from having just saved Parliament from turning into some ashy golden fragments. There’s no normal in this situation.

“What did you think of me, when you first saw me?”

“Sleep-deprived and thus inept.” It rolls off Sherlock’s tongue with casual quickness.

“Excuse me?”

“You were about to get on the wrong train.”

“I know that. I was there.” You look at him, suddenly curious. “Why did you tell me? I mean…”

“I’m not given to random acts of kindness towards strangers, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

His lips quirk up. “You tell me.”

You think about it. The state he’d been in, holding a harpoon, covered from head to toe in blood…

“You wanted to scare me and see what my face would be like,” you realise, shaking your head. “Ohmygod, Sherlock.”

He’s smirking now.

“That’s it, isn’t it?”

“Yep.”

“I cannot believe…You are such a troublemaker.”

“You were not worthy of a proper deduction until you chose to sit in my train carriage.”

“And then what did you think?”

Sherlock’s eyes flash to yours briefly. He’s still smirking. “Interesting. Somewhat intriguing. A basic specimen of humankind-”

“Oh wow, thanks-”

“But bearable. Which is more than most people can say about themselves.”

“I’ll take the compliment.”

You walk along for a bit, arms linked again.

“Truth or dare?”

“Dare,” you decide. “How bad can it be?”

“Is that a counter-dare?”

Your eyes widen. “Please, no. Don’t take it seriously. Just pretend I never even said it.”

“Too late. Let me tickle you for one minute.”

“Oh God.”

His eyes glint. He drops your arm and stops, turning to face you. “Do you accept my dare?”

“I want to run away screaming.”

“That’s the next dare.”

You wonder if he ever did this, ever felt like this, when he was a kid. You think he probably didn’t. You wonder if he ever did anything like this with John, and you already know the answer.

“Can I tickle you back?”

Sherlock scoffs. “You can try.”

And then he’s swooped in, pulls your arms forward and pins them against you. His other hand searches for whatever pieces of you aren’t protected by your coat; wriggling under your scarf, cold fingertips skimming across your neck. You’re already laughing even before he tries anything because God this is so ridiculous and you squirm and try not to scream and accidentally inhale a mouthful of his scarf and he’s laughing as well and neither of you thought to set a timer, so it’s probably less than a minute but it does feel like all eternity by the time he finally pulls back.

You’re weak with laughter, rubbing at your eyes. “Remind me never to do that with you again.”

Sherlock straightens his coat, ruffles up his hair a bit, and gestures for you to walk on. “I’ll choose truth, I think, just in case you attempt retaliation.”

“Spoilsport. Okay. I have a deep question.” It’s hard to talk, you’re slightly hoarse. “A really deep question. It will change your view of the world forever.”

“Hmm.”

“It’s a question people crave the answers to. John, Mrs Hudson, Greg.”

“Who?”

“For goodness’ sake. Here it is. How many people have you dated? And who were they?”

Sherlock looks at you. “Really?”

“Yeah. Go on, I’m curious. Tell the truth.”

“One.”

Your heart and stomach do something strange, but you can’t quite figure out what it is. “Ohh, okay. Who was-”

“You.”

Your mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. A boy cycles past, enormous headphones in place of his helmet.

“I don’t count,” you say at last.

Sherlock frowns. “Why not?”

“Because it’s…not-”

“Real? Semantics. To the rest of the world, it is.”

Your heart is hammering inside your ribs now. You don’t know why. “Okay,” you say, suddenly quiet. “Okay.” The full force of everything threatens to come down on you, like a hailstorm after fireworks. You shove it away. “I choose dare, for some reason.”

Sherlock’s watching you. Like he wants to say something, but decides against it. “Call Mycroft and howl like a wolf.”

“Oh no.”

But you’re already reaching for your phone. Mycroft - since he is the British government and deserves some kind of anonymity - is marked only by an icicle emoji in your phone.

You dial. Sherlock leans over to check you’re really calling him. You turn it on speaker and press a finger to your lips.

It dials a few times before Mycroft answers.

“Yes? I must confess to finding your frivolous jaunt with my little brother rather tireso-”

You pull in a deep lungful of the cold night air and embrace your inner wolf. “Awooo-WOOO-awooo-OOOOOO-awwwwOOO-”

Sherlock staggers back a few steps. There’s no moon, but there is the glowing face of Big Ben. You direct your howl at it, head tilted back, phone held up to the corner of your mouth.

Finally you stop. You’re quite impressed with your lung capacity.

There’s silence. Just the crackling silence of a shocked British Government.

Sherlock mimes hanging up. Laughter explodes out of you the moment the call ends. “Ohmygod. Ohmygod I cannot believe I just did that. I feel so sorry for anyone in the park who just had to - Ohmygod I-”

Sherlock laughs too, suddenly, loudly, gleefully. You’re still trying to suppress your own snorts as you shove your phone away.

When you look up, his hand is outstretched. “Shall we?” he says. There’s no music this time, and no other witnesses, apart from perhaps some sleeping squirrels. Your shoes crunch on the gravel, cheeks pink from the cold. You remember he said, years ago, that he loved dancing, that he never had the chance to do it. You wonder if he’d enjoy ice-skating. You wonder why you never danced with him before this.

Without any music it’s a mad careless jig. He twirls you, and perhaps the dizziness gives you clarity. It shouldn’t be such a surprise, but it hits you with an immensity like a physical blow.

You love him. It’s not even that you’re in love with him. You just…love him.

His smile fades as if he can hear you; settles into something more solemn, still warm. He pulls you closer, coming to a halt with his forehead resting against yours.

You close your eyes and breathe out slowly. You can’t really believe that only last week you were alone and sad and mad and scared.

“What are you thinking?” Sherlock murmurs. When you open your eyes, you see the glint of the nearest street-lamp, pulling out golden tints in his irises.

“I was so angry and alone,” you say, honestly. “Before you came back, I was so…I didn’t know what to do. And now you’re back. You came back, and you’re helping me. You’ve been through such absolute shit, and yet you still want to help me, you still care enough.”

He swallows. You hear it. You almost feel it. He seems about to move away and, without thinking, you reach up and entangle your cold hands over the back of his neck, keeping him there. “And now you’re back,” you say. “And…”

His voice is only quiet. Where, before, he would have said it harshly, in a tone of ridicule, now he only says it quietly.

“I am not a hero, Y/N. Don’t make me into your hero. You will be disappointed.”

You’re too close to really give him the full force of your narrowed, disapproving glare. “What do you think of when you think of heroes, Sherlock? Buff guys in capes and tight underwear?”

He scoffs a bit. You smile. “They’re not real.”

“Obviously.”

“Heroes are…They don’t have to be heroic. Or chivalrous. Or good, 100% of the time. They don’t even have to always be brave.”

He doesn’t say anything. You’re still standing there, caught in the moment. To anyone else, you would look like enamoured lovers.

“What I’m trying to say is…You make me happy. I haven’t been happy, not for ages. But tonight...”

His hands shift, resting on your waist now, a light pressure over your coat.

“All I’ve felt, tonight, with you? Just…joy.”

You don’t really see him smile. It’s too brief. You feel it, somehow.

“And…” Your voice drops. “When you were gone. You were in my head. I used to argue with you, all the time. You’d deduce my ex, and you told me all sorts of shit, and sometimes the you-in-my-head could even make me laugh. And then…when Larsson - When he-”

His grasp tightens, pulling you a step closer. Your fingers bury themselves deeper into his curls.

“When he had the gun to me…You told me it’d be okay.”

“Yes. It will be.”

Unbidden, an image of your beloved pet flashes through your mind. You tense.

“What is it?”

“I’m sure he killed Nibbles. Poor Nibbles.” You take a steadying breath.

“When I made the initial offer to punch someone, I meant your spineless ex-boyfriend. I am equally happy to punch the landlord.”

“Just hold his arms behind his back while I sucker-punch the shit out of him.”

“Of course.”

You stay in the moment for a bit longer. Just breathing. Inhale, exhale, in sync, his breath ghosting over your face. You can feel his heartbeat through the pads of your fingers. The world continues around you, the traffic and noise, the never-ending cacophony of London.

“And now,” Sherlock says at last. “We can leave out of one gate and walk to Buckingham Palace, or go the other way and get the best chips in London. Which will it be?”

“Royalty or chips?” You make a swaying weighing-scales motion. “Ohh, I can’t choose…”